“What?”

“You heard me. If you win, you go. If I win, you’ll marry me,” he repeats, firmer this time. “We’ll have a small ceremony, move into the house I bought for us—before you decided to be an insolent little bitch and broke up with me—and live there as a couple, as we should. And we’ll have children, to inherit my name, my legacy.”

He’s insane. There is no way he means this, is there? You hesitate before saying anything, staring at him, trying to read his face. But all you see there is… that he means it. He’s set on this.

You’ll have to try to find your way out of this somehow.

“Well, that’s hardly fair, is it?” You question, crossing your arms over your chest, hiding the shaking of your hands. “You know the complex better than I do. How would I be able to hide?”

“I’m sure you’ll manage.”

“But what about the rules?”

“Anything goes. Except killing, of course.”

The more he talks, the more you realize there’s no way out of this. You will have to play.

And yet you hesitate. He’s made it clear he can’t let you go, so even if you win, what’s stopping him from keeping you anyway? What’s stopping the Council from having you quietly disposed of the moment you’re no longer under Titus’ control? In the official games, Le Bail’s rules are absolute. Unbreakable. People explode for breaking them. But this? This is unofficial. There’s no contract, no supernatural enforcement, no consequences for going back on his word.

All you have is his word.

You almost ask. You can feel the question sitting right there —his word, and what it’s actually worth—but you swallow it back down. What would be the point? If he says yes, you have no way of knowing if he means it. If he says no…

Well. You’d rather not find out what comes after no.

So instead you just look at him for a moment, and then nod.

“Fine,” you say. “I’ll play.”

He was gracious enough —if that word can even apply to him— to give you some kind of head start. He let you leave the mansion before he did, which is technically the bare minimum, but in these circumstances is practically generous.

Your headstart is seven minutes. Seven.

You force yourself to think fast, clear and precise, which actually takes a lot of effort when you know your crazy ex boyfriend is literally hunting you down.

The thing about his family’s complex—you think as your feet start moving— is that it’s huge. It has a casino resort, the golf course, stylish lobbies, the kitchen, the laundry room and a gazillion other rooms you’re probably unaware of. The downside? Titus is aware of all of them. And he has eyes and ears everywhere. You can’t assume he’ll play fairly, not when it comes to you and the risk of losing you. The property will be crawling with employees that could, and probably would, report back to him on sight.

So, you choose the most even terrain you could think of under duress.

The forest.

You run straight to it, trying not to be unsettled by how unfamiliar it feels.

Sure, in the two years you were with Titus, you’ve been in the forest a few times, but it was never alone, always with him. Once it was to get to know the terrain when you started dating, the second is when he taught you how to shoot; once he’d revealed enough about his family for you to understand that your life was always at risk simply by being with him. And oh, there was a third time too, but that one was to fuck.

You try not to think much about the latter, instead, you try to focus on the first visit, the tour, trying to recall whatever useful information he’d given about the forest that you can possibly remember right now.

And as it turns out, you can’t remember shit. Not under all this pressure, not when you know he’s following you.

So you run deep into the woods, with no sense of direction or idea about the depths of it, you just run and run, trying to find somewhere with enough coverage to stop and think of something. Of a strategy to win.

Coming up with a strategy is difficult though. You could always just hide, and stay alert for any noises or signs that he’s close by, but then what? You run and confirm that you’re there by making a whole lot of fucking noise in a forest that feels like it’s holding its breath on purpose? You’ve seen that man in action before, he’s strong and unnervingly fast. And you know he’s got stamina. So you stand no chance against him. Not to mention, you have no fucking clue what time it is, and he said you’d win at sunrise. Which is… a lot of time.

Fuck.

The forest swallows you whole.

You find a cluster of trees dense enough to crouch behind, pressing your back against the bark and forcing yourself to go still. To stop breathing so loud. Your heart is doing its best to get you caught, hammering so hard you’re half convinced he could hear it from across the property.

But there’s nothing. Just the wind moving through branches somewhere above you, and the sound of your own pulse.

A minute passes. Maybe two. You don’t know for sure, it’s impossible.

You start to think, stupidly, desperately, that maybe you’re better at this than you thought. Maybe he went to the casino first. Maybe he assumed you’d go somewhere familiar, somewhere with walls and doors, with many rooms and the illusion of safety. Maybe for once in your life, you’ve managed to surprise Titus Danforth.

You almost smile.

“You always did like your trees. Especially when I fucked you against them.”

His voice comes from directly behind you. Not approaching, but already there, already close enough that you could reach back and touch him, and your stomach fucking drops. It was like he’d been standing there the whole time, patient and unhurried, just waiting for you to finish thinking.

You scramble to your feet and spin around. He looks completely unbothered. No sweat, no urgency. He looks like a man who went for a leisurely evening walk and happened to find you along the way.

“How-” you start.

“I know you,” he says simply, like that explains everything.

And the worst part is… it does.

You run.

It’s stupid, you know it is. You just mentally calculated your chances and came out in red numbers, you are aware that this is senseless and just prolonging what has always been inevitable. And yet you still try.

You hear him scoff, it echoes with how quiet these woods are, and then his steps begin.

You’ve never felt like this in your life. You had no idea you could even run like this. It’s probably the adrenaline. Your body, ironically, can’t tell the difference between being chased by a wolf and being chased by Titus. Being chased to death or being chased to marriage. There’s probably not a big difference there, to be fair.

Your lungs start to burn before you expect them to.

You push through it. You push through the branches catching on your clothes and the uneven ground trying to twist your ankles and the darkness that’s settling between the trees faster than you’d like.

You can hear him. That’s the worst part. He’s not silent and he’s not trying to be. His footsteps are steady and unhurried, like a metronome, like someone on a morning jog.

Your legs are already protesting, paired with a sharp stitch blooming under your ribs. To be honest… you don’t work out, not really. The only cardio you’ve ever gotten, the only thing that’s ever left you this breathless and aching, is Titus. Nights spent riding him until your thighs shook, mornings bent over whatever surface he wanted, afternoons where he’d fuck you slow and deep just because he could. Your body knows exertion, sure, but it knows it in the shape of him, not this. Not sprinting blind through roots and dirt like prey.

You change direction sharply, cutting left between two trees. Maybe if you’re unpredictable enough, maybe if you zigzag, double back, make it complicated-

His footsteps don’t falter behind you, there is not even a moment of hesitation in his steps, you’re not even making him make an effort or work for it.

The thought makes something cold shoot down your spine. You run faster.

You break into a small clearing and for one stupid, desperate second you think —this is it, this is where you lose him, and then…

…Then your foot catches a fucking root and you stumble, catching yourself on your hands, scrambling back up before you’ve even fully registered falling. Your palms sting. You don’t stop.

Behind you, almost conversationally: “You’re going in circles.”

You don’t answer, because you don’t want to, but also because you don't have the breath for it right now. God, you hate him.

You hate that he’s right. You’ve completely lost all sense of direction out here, the trees all look the same no matter which way you turn, and the sky above has shifted from dark blue to almost black, swallowing any hope of figuring out where the hell you are. You can’t tell north from south anymore, everything blurring together in the growing dark.

You cut right this time, then right again, mind racing toward the perimeter. If you can just find the edge of the forest, hit the fence, spot anything that gives you a landmark, then maybe you’ll have something solid to go by. But he’s closer now, you can hear his breath, steady and way too near. You hadn’t even noticed him gaining ground, but somehow he’s right there behind you.

The impact comes from the left without warning.

He doesn’t just grab you, he takes you down in one clean, decisive motion, and you hit the forest floor hard with him over you. One of his hands braces so he doesn’t crush you completely, which somehow makes the whole thing worse, that little bit of consideration cutting sharper than if he’d just slammed you flat. The breath gets knocked right out of you, and for a second the world narrows to nothing but darkness, his solid weight pressing you into the dirt, and the smell of him, unfairly familiar, wrapping around you like it has every right to be there.

You recover fast though, twisting and fighting with everything you’ve got, managing to get one hand free so you can shove hard against his chest. Titus lets you push, just enough to give you that flicker of thinking you might actually be winning for once. Just enough.

Then he shifts his full weight and you go absolutely nowhere. He’s stronger and heavier than you, pinning you so completely against the forest floor that all your struggling turns useless. He’s looking down at you with that expression you’ve seen a hundred times before, patient, certain, almost warm. and his breathing stays completely even. Not even winded. It’s so fucking unfair. He’s older than you; how the hell is he in this much better shape?

“Get off me,” you manage to gasp out.

He doesn’t. Instead he tilts his head slightly, like he’s actually considering it as a real option before dismissing the idea entirely.

“You did well,” he says instead, voice quiet. “Longer than I expected.”

“Don’t.” You twist again, uselessly, but his hand catches your wrist and pins it gently but completely beside your head. “Don’t patronize me.”

“I’m not.” And the infuriating part is he sounds like he genuinely means it. “I’m actually impressed, baby.”

You go dead still. Not because you’ve given up—you’ve got way too much goddamn pride for that—but because your brain is spinning, scrambling to find the one mistake he’s bound to make eventually. He’s already onto you though. His eyes track every little twitch of your pupils, reading you with that same effortless, irritating fluency he’s always had.

The clearing around you has gone completely silent except for the ragged sound of your own lungs working overtime.

He’s crowding you now, his weight a heavy, solid heat that presses you deeper into the dirt and leaves. You can feel the direct pressure of his fingers locked around your wrist and the way he’s staring at you like you’re the only thing in this godforsaken woods worth paying attention to.

You need to say something sharp. You had a line ready, something bitchy and mean that would actually sting, but the thought gets swallowed whole the second he moves.

He doesn’t hesitate. He just takes what he wants.

His mouth slams into yours with slow, heavy hunger, lips forcing yours apart and eclaiming something that’s always belonged to him. When his tongue slides in it’s a deep, wet drag that sends a hot liquid weight straight down to your crotch. You let out a noise you immediately want to choke back, it’s half moan, half pathetic whimper, as he tilts his head for a better angle, sucking on your tongue before slicking back into your mouth in a way that’s just fucking filthy.

Your free hand scrambles for his jacket, knuckles turning white as you bunch the fabric tight. You can’t even tell if you’re trying to shove him off or drag him closer anymore, but your body isn’t listening to your brain. It arches up into him anyway, chasing the heat of his chest and the rough scrape of his stubble against your chin. When your teeth accidentally snag his bottom lip he lets out this low, vibrating groan that you feel rumble all the way through your own chest.

He pulls back just a fraction, lips wet and swollen, hot breath mingling with yours. His thumb strokes slow over the inside of your wrist, right where your pulse is hammering out the truth he already knows.

“Still want to run?” he asks.

The bastard is smiling. Not pissed, not even serious, he’s having the time of his life. You should’ve known he’d get off on the chase like this.

“Yes,” you snap.

And you mean it. Mostly.

Then you reach up, fist your hand in his hair, and haul him back down.

He goes willingly, of course he does, the man is horny by nature. This time the kiss sinks slower, deeper into the spit and heat. You slide your hands up his chest, fingers hooking into his collar as you feel him shift, settling his weight more comfortably between your legs. He’s getting distracted, his iron grip on your wrist loosens, just a tiny bit.

There it is.

You let your hand drift lower, low enough to make his breathing hitch against your mouth. He makes this thick, needy sound in the back of his throat that tells you his focus is exactly where you want it now. You shift your leg in a slow, deliberate tilt of your hip that looks like you’re just trying to get his cock flush against you.

He falls for it.

Your palm slides over his stomach and presses hard against the thick, rigid line of his cock straining through his pants. He’s already fucking wrecked for you, throbbing and hot under your hand. You rub him slow, giving him a squeeze that makes his hips jerk forward into your touch. The groan he lets out is raw and guttural, vibrating straight into your mouth as he loses himself in the kiss, his tongue licking deep and messy against yours, teeth catching your lip in a sharp tug. You can feel him pulsing against your palm, thickening even more as you stroke him through the cloth like you’re finally giving him the reward he thinks he earned for catching you. His breath stutters against your lips, his tongue moving in ways that are pure filth.

He thinks he’s finally broken you.

That’s when you plant your foot flat against his hip and shove with everything you’ve got.

It’s not a clean move by any means—it’s pure desperate leverage—but it’s enough to break his hold and create one beautiful, stumbling second of space. You’re on your feet before he can even blink, already bolting back into the treeline.

Behind you, you hear him grunt as he hits the dirt.

And then you hear him laugh. A private, delighted sound, like you’ve just done something genuinely charming instead of kicking him while he was down.

You run harder, but you’re still breathless, mind distracted by how fucking good he kisses and the way he groaned and how quick he’d gotten so hard for you. Turns out your little strategy to distract him had backfired and distracted you instead.

You make it maybe forty feet. And that’s being generous, giving yourself way too much credit.

The arm that wraps around you comes from nowhere, thick and absolutely immovable, and suddenly your feet aren’t touching the ground anymore. He hoists you up like you weigh nothing, pulling your back tight against his chest while your legs kick uselessly at open air. He doesn’t squeeze, and he’s careful not to hurt you. He just holds you there, completely secure, one arm locked around your middle as you writhe and swear and accomplish absolutely fucking nothing.

He’s breathing harder now. Finally. But it sounds less like exertion and more like pure satisfaction, like relief.

“There,” he says close to your ear, almost fond. “All done. I won.”

After that ordeal, Titus brought you back to the mansion. Once there, he personally escorted you to your shared room, as if you didn’t know the way already. Though you can’t blame him for keeping you close, not after what happened today.

You shower. The water comes out murky with dirt at first, so you wash your hair and your body as many times as it’s necessary until it’s all clear, until you cease to perceive the scent of dirt and sweat and his cologne all over you.

By the time you exit the shower, the sun has fully gone down, and you find a white gown delicately hung by the door. It’s so beautiful. And it’s a shame; because it truly is. It’s exactly your taste, in a style you adore, a fabric you seek often in formal dresses. It's perfect for you.

He’d gone to those lengths, of having a dress made specifically for you. But then again, he’s known for going to lengths.

You do your hair the way you always do, it’s all muscle memory by now, all with such ease that it requires no effort for you to look good.

Then you slip the gown on. And it’s… bittersweet. In the two years you were with Titus (or have been, are you back together? Who the fuck knows), the thought of marriage did cross your mind. You won’t sit here and pretend to be an innocent bystander. You know what he’s like. You know the things people like him do—and let’s not even go that far— the shit he has done. You know he has many irredeemable qualities. So you won’t sit here and pretend to be a victim. You stayed, longer than you should’ve, sure, but you had stayed.

Marriage had come to mind before, but you’d never allowed yourself to think too much about it. You were scared, still are, about what it would mean to marry into his family, his world. Starting with the fucking initiation. All it takes is pulling the wrong card before everyone is on a game to hunt you to death.

You shiver.

So seeing yourself in this dress is… bittersweet. You had, at some point in time, longed to marry him, even with all his issues and his bullshit. But you knew, deep down, that it’s also something you should fear. Something no one should want.

And yet, here you are.

A knock on the door makes you jump slightly in your place. You take a breath to steady yourself before doing anything.

“Yes?”

“Are you ready?”

“Almost.”

Well, you might as well have said ‘yes’, because he unlatched the door as if you’d said it.

The moment his eyes land on you, he stills completely. His gaze moves over you slowly, unhurried, like he has all the time in the world, though tonight he does; he won. It drags from the hem of the dress upward, taking its sweet time, and when those eyes finally meet yours there’s something in them that makes your stomach do a slow, unwelcome flip you’d really rather it didn’t.

You’ve seen Titus Danforth unmoved by things that would fuck other men up completely. You’ve watched him stay unbothered in rooms full of people trying to intimidate him, composed in situations that had no right to feel calm. And yet here he is, standing in the doorway of your bathroom, looking at you like you’ve just undone something deep inside him that he didn’t expect to feel tonight.

He clears his throat. Looks away for exactly one second, then his eyes are back on you, heavier than before.

“You look beautiful.”

And the worst part is that he means it. You can tell there’s no sick angle, no calculated game in the words. Just Titus being completely sincere, genuinely undone by a dress he picked out himself. It’s exasperating how real he can be sometimes, how he can drop the armor and just say shit like that without any ulterior motive.

“Thank you,” you say, and you mean it too, because what else is there left to say at this point?

There’s a brief stretch of silence where it’s obvious both of you want to say something more but neither of you does. This whole situation is so fucking complicated. You broke up with him this morning, and now here you are, gowned up, about to marry him. Not without a fight, but still. It makes you wonder if you ever had any real backbone at all. If you even wanted to break up with him in the first place, or if some part of you had been waiting for him to refuse to let go.

“This isn’t how I imagined it,” you finally manage to say, the words coming out quieter than you expected. “I imagined something huge, something that would probably annoy me because you know absolutely everyone that matters and I don’t, and you’d keep getting pulled aside for all those meaningful conversations. Then I’d get mad and you’d call me immature because we were already married and you’d never go anywhere without me. I imagined music, pretty scenery, flowers everywhere…the whole thing.”

He looks down at his shoes for a second. It’s brief, very brief, but you catch it. Then he adjusts his cuffs, because yes, he’s all suited up and unfairly handsome, much to your dismay.

“It’s not what I imagined either,” he agrees gruffly. “This isn’t how I had planned things to go.”

You can already feel the ‘but’ coming.

“But you left me no choice.”

Of that, you’re painfully aware. You probably threw a massive wrench into all his carefully laid plans. The breakup had been such a sudden decision, dropped right in the middle of one of the good periods between you two. You really had been in a solid place before you sprang it on him. If anything, you’re still surprised by how calmly he took it. You’d been terrified for those few seconds before the words left your mouth, half expecting him to snap, but he hadn’t. Nothing thrown at the walls, no cruel words thrown back, besides the ones you’d already said to start the conversation, anyway.

But now you understand why he stayed so calm. He wasn’t going to lose you, no matter what you said. He’d already bought the house. He’d had the dress tailored and made perfectly for you. He’d turned the whole thing into a game he knew he could win. He knew you weren’t actually going anywhere.

The attempt at breaking up had really disrupted his plans, though.

“It’s time,” he says, and extends his hand to you.

You look at it for a second. Open and waiting, like this is the most natural thing in the world, like you’re just heading out to some nice dinner instead of signing your life over. You take it anyway.

His fingers close around yours immediately, warm and sure, and he leads you out of the room without another word. The mansion is unnervingly quiet around you. Your heels click against the floor, and you focus on that sound, nothing else. Just that steady rhythm instead of letting your mind spiral about where you’re going and what happens when you get there.

The room he brings you to is small. Candlelit. There’s a man already waiting: the lawyer, or someone who passes for one in this world, standing with papers and a pen, his expression suggesting he’s done far stranger things than this. Titus is probably paying him a fortune for the discretion.

It’s just the three of you. No music. No flowers. The complete opposite of everything you’d imagined.

Titus positions himself in front of you and turns to face you fully. For a moment you just look at each other, the air thick between you.

The lawyer clears his throat and begins.

“Do you,” he says, looking at Titus, “take her to be your lawfully wedded wife, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, for as long as you both shall live?”

“I do,” Titus says. No hesitation. Not even a fraction of one.

Then the lawyer turns to you.

“And do you take him to be your lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, for as long as you both shall live?”

And there it is.

You think about this morning, standing in front of him with your heart in your throat, saying the words that were supposed to end everything. You think about the forest, those seven minutes, the way he found you like he’d never even needed to look. You think about the dress hanging by the door—perfectly your taste, perfectly your size—bought long before you ever said a word about leaving. You think about the fact that even now, standing here, some traitorous part of you doesn’t entirely feel like a victim.

The lawyer waits. Titus waits. His eyes stay locked on yours, steady and certain, because he already knows what you’ll say. He knows you.

You take a breath.

“I do.”

Your voice comes out steadier than you feel, which surprises you considering your heart feels like it’s trying to leap straight out of your chest.

“The rings,” the lawyer says.

And of course there are rings, because this is Titus and he’s thought of everything, has been thinking of everything for god knows how long. His ring slides onto your finger with an ease that feels almost rehearsed. You slide his onto his finger, your hands only shaking a little.

“The license,” the lawyer says next, producing the papers and setting them on the small table beside him with a pen.

You sign your name. You watch the ink dry for exactly one second. There’s something about seeing it there, your name, your handwriting, now permanent, that makes the whole thing feel more real than anything else tonight. More real than the dress, more real than the vows. This is the part that can’t be undone.

Titus signs beneath you, quick and certain, then straightens up.

“I now pronounce you husband and wife.” The lawyer says it like a closing argument, the matter finalized, binding. “You may kiss the bride.”

Titus closes the gap between you, and suddenly the air in the room feels way too thin. He reaches up, his thumb dragging slow and heavy across your cheekbone, like he’s giving you every second to realize exactly what he’s about to do. His eyes drop to your lips for a quick flicker before locking back onto yours.

Then he’s on you.

It’s nothing like that panicked, adrenaline-soaked mess in the forest. This is different, slower, more deliberate. He’s taking his time, his mouth moving against yours with a focused hunger that makes your knees go embarrassingly weak right there in the candlelit room. His hand cups your jaw, holding you steady like you’re something he actually wants to keep intact, while his other arm hooks around your waist and hauls you that last inch forward until there’s no space left between you.

The kiss doesn’t just happen, it grinds and lingers, thick and heavy, delicious in a way that has absolutely nothing to do with the lawyer still standing three feet away. This is just Titus finally getting his hands on something he’s wanted for a long goddamn time, and he’s not rushing any second of it. You hear him catch a sharp, ragged breath through his nose, the sound barely held together as he deepens the kiss, tongue sliding slow and sure against yours.

When he eventually pulls away, his eyes are blown out and dark, heavy with everything he’s not saying. His thumb is still tracing slow patterns across your skin, and he’s staring at you like you’re completely his now.

Which, technically, you are. Legally and irrevocably.

“Hello, Mrs. Danforth,” he says, his voice a low vibration meant only for you, the words sinking straight under your skin.

And despite the total shitshow your life has become, despite how much you should hate him for all of this, something in your chest does something it really, really shouldn’t. It fucking flutters.

The lawyer gathers his papers with quiet efficiency, offers a curt nod that feels more like a final seal on a contract than any kind of congratulations, and slips out of the candlelit room without another word, leaving the two of you alone in the heavy silence.

Titus doesn’t move away. His hand stays cradling your jaw, thumb stroking slow, lazy circles against your flushed cheek as he looks down at you with those dark, unreadable eyes. The title he just gave you—Mrs. Danforth—still hangs in the air between you, heavy and permanent.

“You’re shaking,” he observes quietly, voice low and rough around the edges.

“I’m not,” you lie, even as your fingers twitch where they rest against his chest, betraying you completely.

A small, knowing smile curves his lips. He leans in closer, brushing his mouth against the shell of your ear, breath warm as he murmurs, “Liar.”

Before you can even get a retort out he’s scooping you up again, effortless, carrying you down the quiet hallway toward the master suite. Your heels are dangling stupid off your toes, one slips free and you don’t even care where it lands. The white gown pools and tangles around you, heavy silk whispering against your skin. You don’t fight. There’s no point anymore. The game’s over, you lost bad, and some treacherous, stupid part of you is already humming low and hot with what’s coming next, buzzing under your skin like electricity you can’t shut off.

He kicks the bedroom door shut behind him with his foot, the bang echoing a little, and sets you down on the edge of that massive bed. The room’s dim, just one lamp throwing soft light and moonlight sneaking through the heavy curtains, making everything feel hushed and secret. Titus stands over you, shrugging out of his jacket and tossing it aside without looking. His fingers work the cuffs of his shirt open real slow, deliberate, eyes never leaving yours. That stare pins you.

“Take the dress off. Slowly.”

It’s not a request, it’s an order.

You hesitate, just long enough that he notices, the corner of his mouth twitching, and reach behind you for the zipper. The sound of it sliding down feels obscenely loud in the quiet, like it’s giving everything away. The fabric slips from your shoulders and pools at your waist, leaving you in nothing but that delicate white lace lingerie they gave you for tonight. His gaze drags over you shameless, slow, possessive, hungry, lingering on the way your nipples pebble tight against the thin lace, the dip of your waist, the curve of your hips.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs, the word rough, scraped raw with want. He steps closer, cups your face in both hands and tilts your head up. “My wife. Finally.”

That word shoots through you, part fear, part something way more dangerous that makes your stomach flip and your thighs press together without thinking. You open your mouth to say something—probably stupid, something to grab back even a sliver of control—but he kisses you before you can. This kiss is different, deeper, slower, filthier than the one in the ceremony room. More like the forest one but hungrier. His tongue slides against yours with lazy confidence, tasting, claiming, sucking on your tongue like he’s trying to devour every last protest, every doubt, every bit of resistance you’ve got left.

He pushes you back onto the bed until you’re lying beneath him, the gown still tangled around your hips like it doesn’t want to let go. His body covers yours, solid, warm, overwhelming in the best worst way. One of his knees nudges your thighs apart as he settles between them, grinding the thick heavy line of his cock against your clothed core with these deliberate rolling presses that make your breath hitch. You gasp into his mouth, hips twitching up involuntarily as heat floods between your legs, fast and embarrassing.

“Already so wet for me,” he teases against your lips, voice dark with amusement. “Even after trying to run from me all night. Your cunt knows who it belongs to, doesn’t it?”

“Fuck you,” you breathe, but there’s no real heat in it anymore. Not really. Your body’s already betraying you completely, aching for more of that friction, that pressure.

He chuckles, low and filthy right by your ear. “That’s the plan, baby. Until you can’t remember why you ever thought you could leave.”

His mouth trails down your neck, sucking and biting just hard enough to leave faint marks that’ll bloom tomorrow like proof. He peels the rest of the dress off you with practiced hands, tossing it aside like it’s nothing more than wrapping paper on a gift he’s been dying to unwrap for years. The lingerie follows; bra unhooked and discarded, lace panties dragged down your legs slowly. You catch the way his pupils blow wide when he notices how the crotch of your panties is stuck to your pussy, soaked through because of how wet you already are.

When you’re completely bare beneath him he sits back on his heels for a second and just looks, drinking in every inch like he can’t get enough. His hands follow, palming your breasts roughly, thumbs circling and pinching your nipples until they tighten into aching sensitive peaks. He leans down and takes one into his mouth, tongue swirling hot and wet, teeth grazing and tugging while his fingers pinch and roll the other. You arch off the bed with a broken moan, fingers threading through his silver curls and pulling hard, harder than you mean to.

“Titus, fuck—”

“Shh.” He releases your nipple with a wet pop and kisses his way down your stomach, spreading your thighs wider with his broad shoulders. “I’ve waited long enough for this, lemme taste you.”

He doesn’t tease for long. His mouth is on you in the next breath, hot and relentless. His tongue drags through your slick folds with one slow savoring lick from entrance to clit, then circles the swollen bud with firm knowing pressure. You cry out, hips jerking against his face, but his strong hands pin you down, broad shoulders holding your thighs open, keeping you exactly where he wants. He eats you as hungrily as he did the very first time, that never changes. Messy, greedy, groaning against your cunt like your taste is the only thing that’s ever satisfied him. Two thick fingers push inside you without warning, curling hard against that spongy spot that makes stars burst behind your eyes while his tongue flicks and sucks your clit with those obscene slick sounds.

You come hard and fast, thighs trembling around him, a sharp broken cry tearing from your throat as pleasure crashes through you in relentless waves. He doesn’t stop to give you some reprieve, of course he doesn’t. Keeps licking and sucking through the aftershocks, fingers pumping steadily, drawing it out until you’re whimpering, oversensitive, pushing weakly at his head.

“Too much-ah, Titus—”

He pulls back just enough to look up at you, lips and chin shiny with your arousal, eyes dark and satisfied. “Not nearly enough.” He crawls back up your body, shedding the rest of his clothes as he goes. His cock springs free finally, heavy, thick, flushed dark and already leaking precum at the tip, as it rests hot and heavy against your thigh.

“Look at me.”

You do. His eyes lock onto yours as he lines himself up and pushes in, he always loved eye contact while he slides in, and fuck, it is pretty hot. The stretch burns in the best way, filling you completely until he bottoms out, balls-deep inside your clenching heat. You both groan, the sound raw and filthy. For a moment he just stays there, forehead pressed to yours, breathing hard, letting you feel every throbbing inch of him. You’re thankful for the pause—you always needed some time adjusting to his cock. It’s huge. That, and because you’re still incredibly sensitive after the previous orgasm.

“Fuck… so tight. You feel like you were made for my cock,” he rasps, and it’s such a delicious tone you have to hold back from clenching around him right then. “My wife’s greedy tight cunt sucking me in like it missed me.”

Then he starts to move.

It’s not gentle. Which is also a contradiction to how you imagined your wedding night with him as his wife, but you’re not complaining, how could you? His hips snap forward in deep punishing strokes that rock the expensive bed beneath you, the wet slap of skin on skin filling the room along with your ragged moans and whimpers, mixed with his groans. Each thrust drags against every sensitive nerve inside you, the thick vein on the underside of his cock feels so good dragging along your walls, the head kissing your cervix with every brutal plunge. He fucks you like he’s trying to fuck the memory of your breakup right out of your body.

It’s working. God, it’s working too well.

His left hand grips your hip hard enough to bruise, the golden ring on his finger digging into your plush skin, a blunt reminder that he’s not your boyfriend anymore—he’s your husband now. He pulls your hips up so he can go even deeper while his other hand braces beside your head, driving into you harder, faster, angling those strong hips to hit that spot that makes you see white. You wrap your legs around his waist, nails digging into his back and shoulders, urging him deeper even as you gasp his name like it’s both a curse and a prayer.

“Say it,” he demands, voice rough against your ear, hips never slowing. “Say you’re my wife. Say you’ll always be mine.”

You shake your head, stubborn even now, biting your lip to hold back the words. But he angles just right and slams in harder, grinding against your clit with every thrust, making your back arch off the bed with a keening whine.

“Say it,” he repeats, punctuating each word with a brutal wet thrust. “Tell me who you belong to, Mrs. Danforth.”

“I’m-fuck- I’m your wife,” you finally choke out, the words breaking on a moan as another orgasm builds fast and vicious under his relentless pace. “I’m yours- oh god—”

“Good girl.” He reaches between you to rub tight rough circles over your swollen ultra-sensitive clit, pushing you over the edge again. You come with a sob, clenching around his thick cock so hard it drags a guttural groan from his throat, your walls fluttering and milking him as the waves rip through you.

He doesn’t slow down. Fucks you through it, hips stuttering only when his own orgasm starts to hit. With a low broken sound—a whimper, for your ears only—he buries himself as deep as he can and comes hard, pulsing inside you, filling you with hot thick spurts of cum that make your toes curl and your mind go blissfully blank. You feel every twitch, every rope as he empties himself, marking you from the inside.

For a long moment the only sound is your shared ragged breathing. Titus collapses half on top of you but careful not to crush you completely, his face buried in the crook of your neck. His lips brush your pulse point in something almost tender while his cock twitches inside you, still half-hard, like he’s not quite done claiming you yet.

But he’s far from finished.

After a few minutes he lifts his head, eyes heavy-lidded and dark with lingering lust. He brushes a strand of sweaty hair from your forehead, then pulls out slowly. A thick trail of his cum leaks from your swollen pussy right away. The sight seems to please him immensely.

“Round two,” he murmurs, voice husky. “On your hands and knees. I want to watch my cum drip out of you while I fuck it back in.”

He flips you over with ease, pulling your hips up so your ass is raised high, chest and face pressed to the sheets. His hands spread your cheeks and he groans at the messy sight of his release coating your folds. Without warning he pushes two fingers inside you, scooping up his cum and pushing it deeper, making you whimper at the overstimulation.

“Look at this sloppy cunt,” he says, voice thick with filthy appreciation. “Already full of me and still greedy for more?”

He replaces his fingers with his cock in one smooth thrust, burying himself to the hilt again. This time he fucks you harder, one hand fisted in your hair to arch your back, the other slapping your ass with sharp stinging smacks that make you clench around him. The angle is deeper, more punishing, his balls slapping wetly against your clit with every snap of his hips.

You come again, screaming into the sheets, and he follows soon after, flooding you with another load until it’s leaking down your thighs.

He doesn’t let you rest for long.

By the time the sky begins to lighten outside the windows, you’re a trembling, cum-soaked mess, your limbs weak, voice hoarse from moaning, every inch of you marked and claimed. Titus pulls you into his arms one last time, spooning behind you with his cock still nestled inside you, softening but refusing to leave your heat.

“Sleep, Mrs. Danforth,” he murmurs against your neck, pressing a surprisingly soft kiss there. “You’re mine now. And I’m nowhere near done with you. We’re going to see our new house later today.”

You should hate the way that promise makes fresh heat coil low in your belly, but you don’t hate it. And yeah, you feel stupid, like you’re betraying the version of you that was set on breaking up with him yesterday, but you can’t hate this. Hate him. The break up had never been out of lack of love, if anything it had been the opposite what drove you away, it had been knowing the lengths he’s willing to go to for you and being afraid of the responsibility of having his heart in your hand.

With a sigh, you press back against him, letting exhaustion and that dangerous, ruined satisfaction pull you under.

By the time you finally escaped into the ambulance bay, the Pitt had descended into the fog that made everyone vaguely mean and snappy to each other. 

A car had decided to plow through the front of a convenience store three blocks away just before noon, which somehow evolved into a gas leak, a grease fire from the kitchen next door, multiple smoke inhalations, and one man who’d managed to impale his own hand on a display rack while trying to “help.” The Pitt had been drowning ever since with no floaties in sight. Stretchers lined the hallways, Robby was barking orders over the chaos, and a med student was getting publicly destroyed for contaminating a sterile field. 

Your entire body ached with exhaustion, and it wasn’t even 2:30 yet. Your scrub top clung uncomfortably to your back, your ponytail was halfway falling out, and the iced coffee you’d brought six hours ago had long since melted into a watery disappointment sitting untouched at the nurses’ station under Dana’s watchful eye. 

You only stepped outside because you needed thirty seconds where nobody was actively bleeding near you. 

The bay smelled faintly like smoke and gasoline, engines rumbling low beneath the distant screams of sirens out in the city. Paramedics moved around in practiced patterns, unloading equipment while firefighters lingered near one of the firetrucks parked crookedly next to an ambulance. You barely paid attention at first, too busy rubbing at the ache gathering behind your eyes. 

You had started to walk back toward the Pitt but stopped entirely when you saw him; well—the back of him anyway with his broad shoulders and dark, soaked curls resting against his nape. Even if you couldn’t see his face, he somehow was able to stand out in a crowd even surrounded by firefighters in full turnout gear. One hand braced against the side of the engine while he spoke to someone beside him, his jacket stretched over his shoulders. 

No matter what, you’d always be able to spot Jack Abbot in a crowd. 

Your eyes dragged slowly over his newfound bright yellow firefighting gear, the reflective stripes glinting. The heavy boots and radio clipped to his chest had you pausing and staring for a solid three seconds, mind trying to process how exactly the man had apparently gone from night shift attending and SWAT medic to volunteer firefighter without mentioning it to anyone. 

But more importantly, mentioning it to you. 

Actually, when you thought about it, knowing Jack, the change tracked perfectly. The man already had a self-sacrificial streak a mile wide. Of course he’d look at one incredibly dangerous side quest and think You know what would make my life even better? Fire. 

A deeply offended laugh escaped your lips, and without thinking too hard about it, you started moving toward him. 

“Seriously, Abbot?” you called out over the noise of the bay. “You take one shift off and suddenly you’re fighting convivence store fires now?” 

The man beside him glanced over first, obviously confused, but Jack turned more slowly, still halfway shrugging out of his jacket as you continued your approach. 

“No, because SWAT clearly wasn’t stressful enough for you,” you continued, tired enough that the words just kept coming. “You looked at armed standoffs and thought, wow, my life is missing a little spontaneous combustion.” 

By the time you reached them, the stranger standing beside him was openly staring at you in amusement. Meanwhile, Jack had gone very still. 

That should have been your first warning. 

But against all self-preservation, you planted your hands on your hips and kept going. “Do you know how insane it is that this is how I’m finding out? I had to see you standing next to a fire engine like some kind of hot, emotionally unstable calendar shoot—” 

Jack finally turned fully toward you, and your brain stopped functioning completely.

Because the man in front of you was not Jack Abbot. 

In your defense, he was close enough to knock the air from your lungs for a second. He had the same dark, hazel eyes, the same rough kind of handsomeness that looked better the more exhausted and grimed up they got. They even had the same intimidating build that made people move out of their way without a second glance. 

But somehow, this man looked older that Jack, more self-assured in a way that only grew as he looked deeply entertained by your humiliation already unfolding in real time. The silence stretched until the firefighter next to him snorted loudly into his fist. 

Your stomach dropped straight through the floor. 

“I’m flattered you think I’m hot.” The not-Jack’s mouth twitched slightly. “But is it a bad time to mention my name’s not Jack?” 

Heat flooded your face so fast it physically hurt. “No,” you breathed, horrified out of your mind. “No, no, no.” 

Now the firefighter beside him was fully laughing, turning away entirely as though witnessing your embarrassment firsthand had become too much for him to handle. 

You covered your face with both hands. “I need someone to hit me with an ambulance immediately.” 

“That feels awfully dramatic,” the man said. 

Your eyes found him through the slats of your fingers. “You have my attending’s face.” 

“I’m starting to gather that.” 

“You even stand like him,” you accused, voice muffled by your palms. “Which is apparently enough for me to lose all critical thinking skills.” 

He laughed softly, low and rough enough to make the situation somehow worse. “Well,” he said, “in fairness, you seemed pretty confident.” 

You lowered your hands just enough to glare at him. “Because I really thought my friend had secretly joined the fire department.” 

The stranger folded his arms across his chest, turnout jacket hanging loosely from one hand while he studied you with open amusement. “So this Jack guy—he always gets yelled at like this by you?” 

“Only when he does something stupid.” 

“I’m starting to think I should meet him.” 

You shook your head, hands finally dropping back to your sides. “You abso-fucking-lutely should not. I think seeing both of you in the same room might kill me instantly.” 

He grinned wildly, quick but devastatingly effective enough it sent tingles up your spine.

Great. Fantastic. Love that for you. One Jack Abbot was hard enough to not stare at as is; having them both in the same room would actually cause a spontaneous combustion of your body. 

You sighed heavily, dragging a hand down your face. “Okay. Wonderful. I’m gonna go crawl into oncoming traffic now if you don’t mind.” 

Before you could make your great escape, he stuck out his hand toward you. “Captain Brett Richards.” 

You looked at it suspiciously for a second before taking it. His grip was warm, firm, and rough with callouses in all the right places. You gave over your name reluctantly, still unable to fully look him in the face without feeling embarrassed all over again. 

Unfortunately for you, he spoke again, timber all deep and ragged. “For the record, I was gonna let you keep going.” 

Your eyes snapped to his hazel ones. “What?” 

“I wanted to see how long it took you before you noticed.” 

“You are a bad person, Brett Richards.” 

“I’m a curious person. There’s a difference.” 

“You stood there and listened to me accuse you of having a hero complex.” 

“Seemed important to you.” 

“I’ve been publicly humiliated!” 

“Just humiliated between me and my friend. I don’t think that counts as the public.” 

You pointed at him accusingly. “You’re creepy.” 

“What?” 

“The tone you’re doing right now.” 

Brett blinked. “What tone?” 

“The exact same tone he uses when he thinks I’m being ridiculous.” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

“You sound exactly like him too.” 

Now he looked offended. “I do not.” 

“You absolutely do. You’re even doing the whole arms cross and puffing out your chest while simultaneously stretching your neck to look taller.” 

The other firefighter chimed in. “Honestly, Brett? She’s kinda right.” 

Brett looked over, absolute betrayal on his face. “Whose side are you on?” 

“Definitely not yours.” 

You laughed loudly, fatigue finally cracking enough to let something lighter through. At the same moment, your phone buzzed in your scrub pocket. You pulled it out, eyes widening at the incoming message. 

Jack:  Running late. Scene turned into a disaster. Save me a trauma room before some other resident does something stupid. 

“I bet you two text the same,” you grumbled, shoving your phone back into your pocket before looking back up at him. 

He laughed outright at that, shoulders shaking slightly. “Sounds like you know this man intimately. Do you possibly have a type? Or do you grumble at every silver fox in your area.” 

You glared at him as best you could. “I don’t have a type. Do not make this my problem.” 

“Feels like your problem already.” 

“Oh, we absolutely aren’t doing this today.” Still, a smile grew on your face before you started backing toward the ambulance bay doors again. “I’m leaving before this gets more psychologically damaging.” 

Brett called after you easily, “Tell Jack Abbot I’m apparently his hotter firefighter version!” 

You stepped dead in your tracks and slowly turned around. “. . .You know what?” you said thoughtfully. “I actually think saying that out loud near him might start a physical fight.” 

Brett’s grin widened. “Now I definitely want to meet him.” 

_______________________

The worst shifts always seem to end quietly and not anywhere close to peaceful. The Pitt, you liked to think, was incapable of achieving peace. Even now, close to midnight (almost five hours after your shift “officially ended”), you left behind blaring monitors, patients in needed of doctors, and exhausted coworkers who had just started to trade sarcastic insults at the station just to stay awake. But compared to the disaster the evening had started, the hospital had tasted almost manageable to where you believed they had everything handled. 

Your feet dragged as you stepped out through the ambulance bay doors, the night air cool against the lingering heat trapped beneath your scrub jacket. The city smelled faintly damp from rain earlier in the evening, asphalt still dark under the lights. 

You leaned against the brick wall beside the entrance for a second, closing your eyes briefly. 

Today had been brutal in the particular way only emergency medicine could manage. There had been too many patients, too many families crying in the halls, too many moments where things almost went wrong before somebody caught it at the last second. You’d spent more than twelve hours keeping yourself stitched together with caffeine and momentum, and now that things finally slowed down enough, your brain had apparently decided to stop all regular functions, effective immediately. 

Which was probably why, when you spotted a familiar figure standing near one of the patrol cars parked on the other side of the street, the pieces fell into place, your brain beaming Oh, Jack just left too? 

Jack stood with his back partially toward you, shoulders slumped slightly beneath a dark jacket while one hand rested against the roof of the cruiser. His head tilted down toward the coffee in his hand, dark curls shadowed in the lack of street lights. 

You didn’t even think before walking toward the warm, familiar build that held the same tired posture Jack adopted after a nasty shift, almost preparing his body to show up the next day anyway. 

“Please tell me,” you called out tiredly, “that your shift was somehow worse than mine so I can feel better about my life choices.” 

Jack glanced over at the sound of your voice, but you kept talking before fully seeing his face. 

“Because if I have to hear one more over pompous med student stay the words ‘technically speaking,’ I’m actually going to commit a felony.” 

A low huff of amusement answered you. “Long night?” 

“Long life is more like it,” you corrected, finally stepping slow enough to see him properly. 

You froze when he fully turned, because the universe apparently had a personal vendetta against you for probably your past life’s sins. Because once again, the man standing in front of you was not Jack Abbot. Yes, he was close enough to make your stomach drop for a second. His eyes glinted with the same sadness Jack’s did. He even had the same rough exhaustion written lines around his mouth. However, this man looked like someone who absorbed the weight of things instead of fighting against them. 

Also, now that he was turned to you, his officer badge and uniform stuck out like a sore thumb. 

And unlike Brett earlier in the week, this stranger didn’t look quite as amused by your mistake. He just looked tired. 

You stopped short of the cruiser, horror crawling slowly up your spine. “Oh.” 

He blinked once before taking a slow sip of coffee. “Bad start to the conversation?” 

“Fuck me; I did it again,” you muttered to yourself. 

“Again?” 

You covered your face briefly with one hand, humiliation already blatant on your face. “There’s apparently two other guys walking around Pittsburgh with your exact face.” 

“Well, that sound concerning.” 

“I’m very concerned for my mental status.” 

The corner of his mouth twitched, subtle enough you almost missed it. 

You let out a defeated sigh, face turned toward the sky, before gesturing vaguely toward him. “You are not Jack Abbot.” 

“Nope.” 

“Perfect.”

“You wanna try my name instead?” There wasn’t even a hint of annoyance in his voice. If anything, he sounded mildly curious about the situation unfolding in front of him. 

You laughed weakly, hands lightly tapping your thighs. “Honestly, I think I should just stop talking to strangers forever.” 

“You always this extreme when mistaking people for another?” 

“Only when I keep finding multiple emotionally exhausted men who all look exactly like my attending.” 

That earned you a slightly more noticeable smile as he pushed away from the patrol car, holding out one hand toward you. “Sammy Bryant.” 

You shook it, still staring at him in disbelief. “I’m sorry, Officer Bryant, but this is all still genuinely ridiculous to me.” 

Sammy glanced down at your hospital badge as you gave him your name. “You work inside?” 

“Unfortunately.”

“Late shift?” 

You shook your head. “You could say that. I started at seven this morning.” 

His eyebrows lifted. “And you’re still standing?” 

“Barely.” You looked down at your body. “I think my soul high tailed it out of there around hour nine and never came back.” 

A soft laugh escaped him, quieter than Brett’s hand been, but still holding the same warmth that made you feel comfortable. 

You mentally made a decision before leaning back against his patrol car beside him, rubbing at your eyes with one hand. For a moment, neither of you spoke and just listened to the faint noises of the night. 

Sammy took another sip of coffee before nodding toward the hospital. “Was it busy today?” 

A long, shuddering breath whistled through your lips. “One trauma after another. Half the city apparently decided today was a great day to make terrible healthcare decisions.” 

“Sounds about right.” 

“And one student almost gave a patient the wrong dosage because he was trying to impress our boss.” 

Sammy grimaced, lips curling up. “How reassuring.” 

“We caught it before it happened, but still.” Your hair moved slowly across your forehead as you shook your head tiredly. “At some point though you just start wondering if everyone should stop touching things altogether or find some patience before they kill someone.” 

He hummed softly in agreement, hazel eyes drifting toward the street. “You probably already know, but that feeling really doesn’t ever go away.” 

You glanced over at him, taking in his face properly. Like your Jack, Sammy seemed to carry the same heaviness about him, like emergency services hadn’t been kind to either of them. 

“How long have you been on the force?” you asked quietly, taking his uniform details in as your eyes roamed. 

“Twelve years.” 

“Explains your expression.” 

At least he didn’t sound offended when he asked, “What expression?” 

“The one that says humanity was a big mistake.” 

He chuckled lowly. “Yeah,” he admitted. “You nailed that one perfectly.” 

A faint smile hooked onto your lips before your head tipped back against the cruiser window behind you. “Jack has that look too.” 

Sammy looked over. “The guy I apparently share a face with?” 

“Yep.” You looked down at your hands, fingers picking at the skin around your nails. “Him and this firefighter named Richards.” 

“What does Jack do?” 

“He’s the night shift attending, and he volunteers as a SWAT medic during his free days.”

Sammy nodded along, understanding settling across his face as he listened. “That tracks.” 

“You say that like you know him.” 

“Don’t need to.” He shrugged. “You can tell what kind of person someone is by the jobs they stay in too long.” 

For a second, you watched him quietly beneath the moonlight, struck again by how strange this whole thing felt. It wasn’t because he looked like Jack—though that continued to be deeply unsettling—but because talking to him felt easy in the same dangerous way talking to Jack always did; honesty dripping from their mouths the more tired they got. 

Similarly, Sammy studied you for a moment before speaking again. “Are you okay?” 

His question caught you off guard. Again, that genuine earnestness they both seemed to have bled through even if Sammy had only met you moments ago. 

Your eyes traveled back down to your hands for a second before a half laugh bubbled softly under your breath. “You ever have one of those days where you think maybe everyone should stop needing things from you for like . . . twenty-four hours?” 

“Yeah,” Sammy answered. “More than once. My ex-wife used to call me all the time, and I just begged for break.” 

It was now your turn to wince. “Logically, I know it’s a terrible mindset to have as someone working in healthcare, but after the fifth screaming family member and the third guy trying to leave with an IV still in his arm, I’m starting to reconsider my commitment to helping people.” 

“You’re tired,” he said simply. 

“I think cranky is a better term for what I’m feeling right now.” 

“You’re human.” 

You glanced back up at him. “You know, you’re both annoyingly and suspiciously good at this whole peptalk thing.” 

“Me and Jack?” 

“Yeah. You have this calm voice thing. It’s irritating.” 

Sammy smirked into his coffee cup. “Maybe you just trust guys who look too tired for life.” 

“Maybe I need therapy.” 

“That too.” 

You laughed a bit harder at that than the joke deserved, but exhaustion always made you a bit slaphappy. Once the sound subsided, the two of you fell back into a comfortable silence. Sammy stayed leaned beside the cruiser, quiet in a way that didn’t feel awkward, and you realized that the comfortableness was probably the strangest part of the whole ordeal. 

As a senior resident, most people demanded every ounce of energy from you. Conversation. Reassurance. Attention. They picked it all apart until a hollow shell of yourself went home to recharge for another day. But standing here with him felt easy in the same way standing beside Jack did after a nightmare shift. There wasn’t pressure to perform, zero expectation to be cheerful, just silent understanding between two people trying to survive difficult jobs. 

Sammy finally glanced toward you again. “Whoever this Jack guy is,” he said casually, “he must be worth confusing strangers over.” 

“That’s still up for debate.” 

“But you still like him.” 

You opened your mouth to argue before realizing you had no real defense against that, and Sammy absolutely noticed. A knowing sort of amusement flashed briefly across his face before he looked back out toward the street and the Pitt again, giving you an out without pressing further. 

You sighed dramatically. “Unfortunately I do. He’s annoyingly competent.” 

“Dangerous trait to have.” 

And he does this thing where he acts like indifferent while actively solving all the problems.” 

“Real terrible guy.” 

You rolled your eyes fondly. “He’s just the worst.” 

Sammy laughed quietly, and you smiled before finally pushing away from the cruiser. 

“I should probably head to my car before somebody sees I’m still here and decides they need me to pull a double.” 

His eyebrows rose. “Probably.” 

“It was nice to meet you, Sammy.” 

“Likewise.”

As you started in the direction of the parking lot, Sammy lifted his coffee slightly in farewell. 

“And hey,” he called out after a few steps. 

You paused and turned back toward him with a raised eyebrow. 

“If you run into another one of us,” he said dryly, “maybe lead with the name first!” 

Your laugh echoed across the bay as you flipped him the bird to which his boisterous laughter also joined in with yours all the way to the parking lot. 

_______________________

By the fifth twelve-hour shift in a row, the Pitt stopped feeling real. 

Time blurred through patient rooms. Daylight disappeared without warning. Meals became whatever you could hork down before another trauma alarm went off. Entire conversations slipped from your memory the second someone started coding. By three in the afternoon, the Pitt finally settled into a lapping wave instead of a tsunami, something easier to wade through instead of drown in. 

You’d be done in four hours. 

That’s all you could think as you found yourself wandering the full surprisingly empty area near radiology with a vending machine coffee clenched in one hand and your pager clipped crookedly to your scrub pants after catching another consult. 

The coffee tasted burnt enough to qualify as chemical warfare. 

You drank it down anyway. 

Your shoulders ached as you rounded the corner toward the quieter hallway leading to imagine, gravity pulled extra heavily at your limbs. Most of the overhead lights had dimmed this far from the trauma bays, leaving the corridor washed in soft blue-gray shadows only broken by the occasional flicker of a light lucky enough to have had its bulbs changed recently. 

That was when you spotted Jack sitting alone against the wall near the windows. 

Your steps slowed automatically. 

Even half-curled into one of the uncomfortable chairs that had been brought in from check-in, you found the familiar dark curls along his forehead and broad shoulders hunched beneath a black sweatshirt. His long legs stretched out in front of him while his hands rested loosely clasped together between his knees.

Your mind should have caught up by now that there was a 95 percent chance that the Jack in front of you was not actually Jack. The past two times, the odds had been against you. Even as you approached, you honestly weren’t sure if he actually was Jack. 

But his Jack-Abbot shape and Jack-Abbot demeanor mixed with your weighted exhaustion overrode every caution light fast enough you continued to walk steadily towards him. 

“You know handoff’s not for another four hours, right?” you asked tiredly. “Or are you here early again to save the day?” 

Jack’s neck twisted as he looked up at you, and for one brief second, your brain short-circuited again. 

Three and oh. 

You found yourself truly wondering if you had the most absurd luck in finding the men who shared unsettling similarities (hazel eyes, rugged kind of handsomeness, a stillness that carried respect that could command a room) or if you were just unfortunately a Jack-Abbot-doppelganger magnet. 

In this instance, you wished for neither because this one looked sad. 

Where Jack’s exhaustion usually kept him sharp and tightly wound, this stranger looked just as weighed down as you felt. His expression stayed completely unreadable as he stared at you, hazel eyes fixed so intently on your face that you had stopped walking altogether. 

You paused in front of him. “Oh no,” you whispered. “I did it again.” 

The man continued staring at you silently, and you stared back. After a beat, he slowly tilted his head just slightly to one side in a movement so subtle it almost felt animal-like. Your stomach dropped. 

“I’m going to take a wild guess and say you’re name isn’t Jack.” 

Still, he said nothing; such a stark difference from Brett’s flirty amusement and Sammy’s conversational abilities. He just watched you. 

You laughed weakly into the silence. “Okay, statistically this is getting insane.” 

He blinked once before his gaze dropped briefly to the coffee in your hand before lifting back to your face. “Is that good?” 

His voice was the thing to catch you off guard. Where Jack could bark orders quicker than he could blink, this man spoke slowly, careful with his words like he though each one over before letting it leave his mouth. 

A startled exhale flew from your mouth. “No. But, I think I’m legally dead at this point, so what I put in my body really doesn’t matter.” 

Another long pause settled in the space between you, and he didn’t seem bothered at all by it. If anything, he seemed pretty comfortable inside it unlike everyone else you knew (including yourself). 

You shifted your weight awkwardly. “Sorry. Again. I thought you were someone else.”

He methodically nodded once, already having figured that part out. “The same someone else?” 

“Damn, there’s enough resemblance now that people are starting to notice patterns.” You glanced toward an empty chair beside him before looking into his eyes with uncertainty. “Can I sit, or will I disturb the quiet zen you have going on back here?” 

Another pause. 

“You can sit.” 

You lowered yourself carefully into the chair beside him, fatigue instantly sinking deeper into your bones the second you stopped moving. The burnt-gas-tasting coffee warmed your palms while the quiet hallway stretched around you, distant hospital noises muffled enough to sound almost unreal this far away from the Pitt. 

Beside you, the stranger sat perfectly still like he was scared to breach an invisible wall of containment. After a few moments, you began to noticed the differences between him and Jack. He avoided looking directly at the lights. His fingers slowly rubbed against each other every few seconds like he needed the repetitive motion to stay grounded. He kept a careful distance between himself and you. 

“Are you waiting on somebody?” you asked gently. 

His eyes shifted toward you, intense enough that it almost felt like physical pressure. 

“My brother,” he answered after a second. “He got hurt.” 

 Concern softened through your exhaustion. “Is he okay?” 

He gave another small shrug. “He’s alive.” 

His words may have been flat, but you could sense the ache badly enough that you heard it anyway. 

You nodded. “That’s usually a good start around here. Can’t do much on a dead guy.”

A small almost-smile curled his lip. 

You took a small sip of your coffee and grimaced before the liquid even reached your throat. “Holy fuck that’s terrible.” 

His eyes looked down at the cup. 

“How can anyone call this coffee when it tastes like somebody filtered dirty water through cigarette ash,” you informed him. 

He stared at you for a half second longer than most people would have before asking unexpectedly, “Why are you still drinking it?” 

You giggled softly. “Because I still have a few patients to get through before handoffs.” 

“Oh.” 

“Yeah. I feel the same way.” 

A silence settled again, soft and comfortable where you found yourself glancing sideways at him occasionally while you sat there. Up close, the resemblance to Jack somehow became even more unfair. However, you guessed this is how Jack looked around 10 years ago with brownish-red hair and fewer wrinkles. But yet, the same feeling that both men carried too much responsibility around like extra weight strapped to their shoulders pulled at your heartstrings. 

Also, where Jack’s emotions tended to sit close to the surface—irritation, protectiveness, frustration—this man kept everything buried so deeply you almost wondered if he realized that his expressions gave him away at all. Because despite how blank his face stayed while he either stared at the floor or stared at you, his eyes were devastatingly easy to read. 

Lonely, your brain supplied. 

You tore your eyes away. “So,” you said quietly after a while, “do you have a name, or should I keep mentally referring to you as Not Jack the Third?” 

He pursed his lips. “Andrew.” 

No nickname. 

Not even a last name. 

Just Andrew. 

You smiled faintly. “Well, Andrew, for what it’s worth, you’re significantly less judgmental about mistaken identity than the last two.” 

“The last two?” 

“Long story.” 

He nodded once like that answer satisfied him completely. Another few minutes passed quietly before your pager suddenly buzzed against your hip hard enough to make you jump. Andrew’s eyes tracked the movement carefully. 

“Do you need to go help people?” 

“Yep. Part of the job’s charm.” 

“You’re tired.” 

“There’s no rest for the wicked.” Your head tilted. “Or me for that matter.” 

He looked at you again with that same strange, steady focus. “You should sleep more.” 

“You sound like Jack.” 

Andrew tilted his head slightly. “Is that good?” 

“Yeah,” you answered softly. “It’s very good.” 

His gaze lingered on your face for another long moment before he finally looked away first. You stood slowly from the chair, adjusting your pager against your waistband. 

“I should go save the hospital from itself,” you muttered sarcastically. 

Andrew nodded once. Then, just before you turned away completely, his voice stopped you again. “You looked happier when you talked about him . . . your Jack.” 

You blinked before slowly looking back at him. Andrew sat exactly where you’d left him, hands loosely clasped together, sad eyes fixed on you under the dim hallway lights. He wasn’t flirting or trying to charm you; he was just stating something he’d noticed. His honesty hit harder than it probably should have. 

You smiled warmly back at him. “Have a good rest of your day, Andrew.” 

His gaze followed you all the way down the hallway until you disappeared around the corner and back into the Pitt. 

_______________________

By now, you should have known better. 

Key words: should have. 

Three separate incidents should have been enough to teach your brain not to immediately trust broad shoulders and tired hazel eyes in low lighting, and yet apparently your never-ending exhaustion had burned away whatever survival instincts you normally possessed. At this point, the universe seemed committed to producing endless variations of the same emotionally damaged man just to see how many times you’d embarrassed yourself before learning. 

Unfortunately, tonight really wasn’t helping your judgment. 

Rain hammered steadily against your windshield as you pulled into the near-empty parking garage attached to the hospital, the concrete levels echoing faintly with the sound of tires and distant thunder. Your night shift was supposed to start soon, give or take an hour, but a last-minute emergency surgery had called you in early just in case Jack was held up or if the rain got too much for you to drive safely in. 

All you wanted was to get inside, get your Dunkin from Shen, and live through this shift so that your following two days off were nothing but pure paradise. 

Instead, you killed the engine and sat there for a second staring blankly through the rain-streaked windshield while tiredness settled heavy behind your eyes. 

The parking garage was mostly empty this late at night. Lights buzzed overhead, washing the concrete levels in pale gray while rainwater dripped steadily from the ceiling near the ramps. Somewhere farther down the row, a radio played faintly form another parked car. 

You grabbed your bag from the passenger seat with a tired sigh before climbing out into the cold damp air. The moment you were at full height, you spotted Jack leaning against one of the concrete support pillars a few rows over. You froze, hand still gripping your car door. 

At this point, his face shouldn’t have been as shocking as it was, your stomach dropping every single time you got to lay eyes on him and his salt-and-pepper curls and sexy build partially hidden under a dark jacket while one hand rested causally in his pocket. 

The faintest hint of This is probably another horrifyingly convincing copy of him. And honestly, who even knew anymore. 

Jack glanced up at you as you started to walk; your footsteps echoed slightly. His face was partially shadowed by the buzzing lights. And before your brain could fully catch up, your own mouth betrayed you first. 

Et tu, Brute?

“If you turn out to be another stranger, I’m actually gonna lose my mind.” 

Jack’s eyebrows lifted slightly before the corner of his mouth curled into something that looked far too pleased. 

“Well now,” he drawled, voice salted with a southern accent that instantly threw you off balance, “that ain’t usually how good-looking women start conversations with me.” 

You stopped short, because absolutely nothing about that voice sounded like Jack or confident Brett or sweet Sammy or quiet Andrew. This one was different with something slick underneath his drawl like he found the entire interaction entertaining before it had even properly started. 

“Oh no,” you muttered under your breath, arms wrapping around your middle to somehow protect you from his eyes. 

The now stranger pushed off the pillar slowly, watching you with open amusement as he stepped fully into the lights. And unfortunately, the resemblance to Jack got worse the closer he got. Same face shape? Check. Same hazel eyes? Check (but his sent the wrong kind of chill up your spine). 

However, unlike the others, this man looked at you like he already knew exactly how attractive he was, and that automatically made him the worst one to be around. 

You narrowed your eyes suspiciously. “Gotta take a wild guess and say your name isn’t Jack Abbot.” 

A wild grin slowly spread across his face. “No, ma’am but sounds like I oughta thank him for the introduction.” 

You actually groaned aloud. “I cannot keep doing this.”  

“Doin’ what?” 

“Finding men who all have the same face.” 

“That so?”

“Yes, and frankly it’s getting psychologically damaging.” 

The stranger laughed softly, low and self-satisfied enough to make your skin prickle slightly. The same quiet internal warning that told you when patients were about to become aggressive before security even notices was sending a tingle up your arms. 

You shifted your bag higher on your shoulder. “Okay. Great. Nice meeting you, mysterious parking garage man, but I’m gonna go before this gets more embarrassing for me.” 

“Funny,” he said casually, “seems like you started this conversation pretty confident.” 

You paused. “That was before you spoke.” 

His grin widened somehow. “Little disappointed?” 

“Concerned, actually. Very concerned.” 

He laughed again, stepping away from the pillar entirely. “Damn, darlin’. You always this mean to strangers?”  

The nickname landed wrong in your chest. Just the way he said it felt off. It wasn’t flirty, it was possessive, almost like he’d skipped straight past normal conversation and decided familiarity for himself. It all felt wrong; he felt wrong. Caution slowly sharpened under your exhaustion. 

Still, you forced a polite smile. “Only the ones lurking dramatically in a hospital parking garage.” 

He pouted, bottom lip jutted out dramatically. “You hurt my feelings a little.” 

“You’ll survive.” 

“Oh, I think I will.” His hazel eyes trailed up and down your body while he spoke. 

Your stomach tightened faintly. This man felt dangerous in a way that had nothing to do with physical violence and everything to do with manipulation. Every work out of his mouth seemed like he’d already calculated it before he said it. The others had felt human and even awkward at times, but they had been grounded below it all. 

This one, you understood a bit too late, was that he’d realized you were uncomfortable almost immediately and was enjoying watching you squirm under eyes that normally made you feel safe. 

He tilted his head slightly, eyes moving over your face with unsettling ease. “So this Jack guy,” he said conversationally, “boyfriend?” 

You sneered. “That’s none of your business.” 

“Mhm.” 

“Do you ask invasive questions to every woman you meet in parking garages?”

“Only the pretty little ones.” 

You physically recoiled a little. “Ew.” 

Somehow that only amused him more. “Do you always look this suspicious, or am I special?” 

“You’re definitely something.” 

Another slow grin spread across his face, but his eyes stayed sharp and watchful. You took a small step backward instinctively, and his gaze dropped to the movement. The awful feeling that he noticed everything tightened your chest. 

“You got a name?” he asked. 

Normally, under any other circumstance, you would’ve answered immediately. But something stopped you this time. The hesitation must have shown on your face because sick amusement flashed across his face and morphed into a look of interest. 

“Smart girl,” he murmured. 

Your spine stiffened. 

The man straightened slightly before offering you a lazy, sleazy half-smile. “Terry. Terry McCandless.” 

You nodded once carefully. “Okay . . . Terry. I’m gonna leave now.” 

“Before tellin’ me yours?” 

“Yes.” 

His eyebrows lifted slightly at your blunt answer before he laughed under his breath, shaking his head like you’d surprised him. “Well,” he drawled, “now I’m definitely curious.” 

You started backing slowly toward the Pitt, grip tightening around your bag’s strap. Terry noticed that too. For one long second, neither of you spoke. Rain echoed heavily through the garage, the entire level suddenly feeling far too empty. Terry tilted his head slightly again, studying you with blatant interest. 

“You know,” he said casually, “most women would’ve already left.” 

You forced a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Most women probably have better instincts than I do.” 

“Mm.” His gaze lingered on you another second too long, so unlike how Andrew had watched you with a quiet curiosity. Here, Terry looked at you like he was hungry. “I don’t think that’s true.” 

Suddenly, you understood with startling clarity exactly how dangerous his personality could become with the wrong person. 

You took another step backward. “Goodnight, Terry.” 

He smiled again, easy and handsome and entirely untrustworthy. “Night, darlin’.” 

You didn’t breathe properly again until you got through the doors leading to the Pitt. And even then, as you walked down the hall and took a glance back toward the concrete pillar where he’d been standing, Terry was watching you the whole time.

_______________________

You hated when Robby voluntold you to attend hospital fundraising events. 

The Pitt survived on donations almost as much as caffeine and trauma surgeons with superiority complexes. New equipment, expanded programs, research grants: all of it depended on wealthy people occasionally deciding to feel generous for tax purposes. However, that didn’t mean you wanted to spend your Friday night pretending to enjoy lukewarm champagne while hospital executives paraded donors around like show dogs ranked somewhere below “paperwork” and slightly above “food poisoning” on your list of favorite activities. 

The ballroom glittered obnoxiously around you, gold light reflecting off crystal chandeliers while a string quartet played softly near the stage. Doctors mingled through clusters of wealthy sponsors in expensive dresses and tailored tuxedos, all perfectly polished smiles and practiced networking. 

Meanwhile, you stood near the bar in horrifically high heel that you knew were actively trying to murder your feet and wondered if you could fake your own death before dessert was served. 

“You look positively thrilled to be here,” a familiar, deep voice sounded behind you, causing you to sigh in desperate relief. 

Without even turning around, you lifted your champagne flute toward him. “Jack, I swear if you’re actually not you and just another man with your face, I’m walking directly off the roof of this hotel.”  

“Well now I’m interested.” 

Your stomached dropped as you turned around slowly. 

At this point, it honestly felt biblical like a divine comedy staring you as the leading role. 

The resemblance hit just as hard as the others had: same hazel eyes, same shoulder width, same cutting-edge jawline, same good looks that apparently existed in endless horrifying variations across Pittsburgh. But where Brett had been charming and Sammy had been grounding and Andrew had carried that quiet sadness around him like a shadow and Terry had been intensely creepy, this man looked completely insane. 

Sure, he exuded a I’m probably the wealthiest mother fucker in this room attitude. His black tuxedo was tailored perfectly across his shoulders, curls styled to perfection away from his face, large ring-adorned hands holding a crystal whiskey glass. He was rich, polished, and handsome enough that half the women in the ballroom had probably already given him bedroom eyes twice. 

But there was something deeply unwell behind the hazel glint. 

He smiled slowly. “How many of us are there?” 

You stared at him in exhausted belief. “Enough that I’m considering neurological testing.”

“How funny it is that you’ve met them all.” 

“I wouldn’t say funny. One of your little clones in a parking garage looked like he might actually kill me to swing a jury.” 

Instead of reacting like a normal human being—wincing or flashing sympathy—the man had the audacity to laugh a rich, warm, delighted sound that absolutely did not match the deeply unsettling energy radiating off of him. 

“Oh, I already like you,” he announced. 

You took a cautious sip of champagne. “Somehow that made me less comfortable instead of more.” 

“I get that a lot.” 

You hummed. “Yes, I’m sure you do.” 

He stepped closer easily, like your personal space was more of a suggestion than a rule. “And what exactly did this Jackdo to earn so such a reaction?” 

“His face apparently exists just to humiliate me in public.” 

“Do you seek his face out often?” 

“Seems like it’s seeking me out more.” 

“Ah. One of those situations.” 

Your eyes narrowed questionably. “You say that like you know what I mean.” 

“I know what obsession looks like, little dove.” Before you could respond, he extended his whiskey glass slightly toward you in a mock toast. “Titus Danforth.” 

Oh. 

Oh no. 

For the first time, you actually recognized the same; not personally, obviously, but the Danforth family practically owned half the city at this point. Generational wealth that seems sketchy with endless political influence and charities where people pretended billionaires cared about humanity because they funded pediatric wings occasionally. 

You straightened your shoulders and mused over his name in your mouth. “You’re that Danforth.” 

His grin widened. “Now, don’t sound too accusatory, or I might think you have a deep resentment towards me already.” 

“Who’s to say I haven’t always had a deep resentment.” 

“Good.” He took another sip from his glass without breaking eye contact. “Most people here are too scared to insult me directly.” 

“And that doesn’t concern you?” 

“It mostly entertains me.” 

You glanced toward the ballroom crowd again, briefly trying to find Robby and considering escape routes. However, Titus seemed to carry Terry’s unnaturally uncanny ability to notice things like that. 

“Relax,” he drawled lazily. “You look like I’m planning to sacrifice you to Satan or something.” 

A chill ran up your spine. “Are you?” 

He looked down at you over his nose. “I’m still deciding on that.” 

You blinked at hi, slowly. “I’m sorry. What?” 

Titus looked downright delighted by being one the receiving end of your scrunched up face. “Oh, come on. You’re at a billionaire fundraiser. You have to know at least half these people are one blood ritual away from immortality.” 

A look of horror washed over your face as your blood ran cold. He stared back, visibly trying not to laugh. 

“You’re joking,” you finally decided on with a small, uncomfortable laugh. 

“That’s the fun part.” He tilted his head slightly. “You really can never tell.” 

Oh, absolutely not. 

Every single alarm bell in your body started ringing simultaneously in a way that hadn’t happened yet. See, Terry hadn’t felt as dangerous as he was calculated and manipulative. Titus felt like mad chaos draped in designer fabric, like someone had handed a deeply unstable man unlimited money and simply hoped for the best. 

“You have the exact same face as someone I trust,” you informed him cautiously, “and you’re doing irreparable damage the longer this conversation continues.” 

“How will you ever recover?” 

“Hopefully the moment we go our separate ways.” 

Titus laughed softly again before gesturing out toward the ballroom. “So, what’s your role here? Underpaid attending? Morally exhausted nurse? One of those residents constantly on the verge of collapse?” 

“You guessed all of those so confidently it’s a bit concerning.” 

“I donate to hospitals constantly, and I’ve watched enough caffeine addictions develop in real time to identify the species.” 

Despite yourself, a small giggle escaped, to which Titus noticed instantly. And the look on his face afterward morphed into something even more dangerous. 

“So you are capable of laughing,” he murmured. “You look less miserable when you do that.” 

The words hit unexpectedly hard because Andrew had said almost the exact same thing days earlier. However, when Andrew said it, it sounded like he did out of a deep concern, but when Titus said it, it sounded like you were a small bug under a microscope. Apparently, this entire cursed lineup shared one collective personality trait, and it was psychoanalyzing you against your will. 

You pointed at him. “No. You don’t get to do that.” 

His eyebrows lifted innocently. “Do what?” 

“You are not allowed to suddenly become emotionally observant when you were just talking about devil sacrifice thirty seconds ago.” 

“Is it a sin to be attentive?” 

“It’s a sin to act like you care when obviously I’m merely just a game to you.” 

Titus grinned into his glass. “Oh, I definitely like you.” 

Before you could spit back another insult, another man suddenly appeared beside you with the kind of smooth interruption that felt almost rehearsed. You silently thanked everything that could hear you when the familiar height towered over you. 

“There’s my favorite resident,” Robby announced as he took your right side. 

You glanced over at him and tried not to melt at the sight of his navy suit that looked slightly less expensive than Titus’s but worn with significantly more exhaustion in the way Robby existed in. His expression softened as he looked down at you. You could have hugged him on sight. 

Robby’s brown eyes, normally filled with kindness, bore fiery into Titus’s. “You don’t mind if I borrow her for a moment, do you? I think one of our department heads was looking into speaking to us on behalf of our emergency department.” 

His lie was painfully obvious but deeply appreciated on your side. You started stepping away before Titus could start another conversation about ritual sacrifice, however, the sound of his voice made you pause and look back just as Titus was pulling out a sleek black checkbook from inside his tuxedo jacket. 

Double oh no. 

He scribbled something quickly before tearing the check free and holding it out toward you between two fingers. “For your hospital.” 

You stared down at the number and tried not to faint on the spot. 

“Titus—” 

“What?” He looked genuinely amused now. “You people keep fixing rich idiots after yacht accidents. Consider it gratitude.” 

“That is way too much money.” 

“Probably.”

“You cannot casually hand people checks equivalent to a small lakeside house in Italy.” 

“Sure I can.” His lips twitched into a smirk. “Watch me.” 

You hesitated before slowly taking in. 

Robby clanged at the amount over your shoulder and physically winced. “Holy fuck. Gloria’s going to be floored.” 

Titus lifted his glass again with a lazy smile. “See? Devil worship pays well.” 

You backed away after that. “Okay. I’m going to leave before you buy me a cursed mansion that makes me blow up or something.”

“How did you know that was next on my list?” 

“It seemed very on brand.” 

Thankfully, Robby took the break in conversation to steer you safely toward the other side of the ballroom, champagne still in one hand and a horrifyingly large Danforth charity check in the other. 

Once the gap was large enough, Robby leaned down enough to whisper, “Tell me I’m not seeing things, and that he didn’t look exactly like Jack.” 

You let out a large, exasperated sigh. “Robby, you have no idea.” 

_______________________

At this point, you genuinely believed the universe was mocking you. There was no other sane explanation for the past few weeks. 

One doppelgänger had been weird coincidence territory. Two had been unsettling. Three had crossed into psychological combat. Four had nearly gotten you murdered in a parking lot. And the fifth had tried to recruit you into what might’ve been a satanic cult before handing you a charity donation large enough to make a hospital board cry (Gloria did indeed faint as well). 

You were simply done. 

Officially. Completely. Done. 

Which was exactly why, when you stepped out of the hospital just after sunrise (the result of a last-minute night-shift swap) and spotted a familiar figure leaning against the hood of a dark truck across the street, your immediate reaction wasn’t relief but unequivocal annoyance. 

The city still looked half-asleep around you, pale morning light stretching across damp pavement while your exhausted coworkers shuffled toward their cars clutching coffee cups like lifelines. Your overnight shift had run disastrously long, leaving you tired enough that your thoughts felt wrapped in cotton. The added lack of a Jack Abbot didn’t do well to settle any wants of seeing the man again with your own two eyes. 

And standing there beneath the weak gold light of sunrise was yet another salt and pepper-curly-haired man with nice shoulders and light hazel eyes. 

Unbelievable.

You didn’t even break stride this time. 

“Nope,” you called out while crossing the sidewalk. “Absolutely not. I’m not doing this again. You can’t pay me enough.” 

The Jack-a-like straightened at the sound of your voice. 

You pointed at him warningly before he could speak. “I don’t care if you’re emotionally repressed, weirdly observant, secretly corrupt, or involved in a ritual sacrifice. I’m done talking to Jack Abbot doppelgangers.” 

A long silence followed before he said one word. 

“What?” 

You frowned at his voice and the way it felt familiar in your ears. None of the others had ever quite managed to get Jack’s timber down correctly. Your steps slowed, and the man pushed away from the truck fully now, confusion pulling at his features while dark circles sat heavily beneath his eyes like he hadn’t slept in days. 

Your chest tightened achingly so, because that—that was Jack Abbot, actually Jack Abbot. 

Your Jack. 

For one horrible second, your brain refused to process it properly. After weeks of running into twisted reflections of him everywhere, seeing the real thing suddenly felt almost unreal itself. It made you suspicious. 

You scoffed at him. “Okay. Which one are you?” 

Jack stared at you with somehow even more confusion, your name coming out oddly through his lips. “Excuse me?” 

“The firefighter was flirty. The cop was emotionally stable. The quiet one stared at me like a sad shelter dog in one of those ASPCA commercials. The southern one was definitely corrupt. And the rich one threatened me with devil worship.” You pointed accusingly at him. “So what’s your thing, and please make it quick because I obviously need more than six hours of sleep.” 

Jack stared at you in complete silence. 

“. . . You met a rich version of me?” 

“You have no idea how bad this has gotten.” 

“Sweetheart, what are you talking about?” 

The utter bewilderment in his face finally settled something inside you, because none of the others had ever looked at you like that. 

Brett had looked entertained. 

Sammy had looked understanding. 

Adnrew had looked curious and quietly lonely. 

Terry had looked scheming. 

Titus had looked delighted with a new play thing. 

But Jack? 

Jack looked at you like he’d been waiting long enough out here for you to start getting worried, like seeing you finally emerge from the Pitt had made him relax just enough. Suddenly, it all clicked at once. 

“Oh.” 

Jack’s brow furrowed deeper. “What?” 

“You’re actually him.” 

“Yeah?” He sounded almost offended. “Who else would I be?” 

A helpless laugh escaped you before you could stop it as you visibly deflated, exhaustion and pure relief tangling together so suddenly it made your eyes sting. 

Jack took a step closer, your name falling from his chest. “Hey. You okay?” 

His immediate instinct to take care of you was what did it. It wasn’t his face or his voice or his tired eyes or broad shoulders or any of the things that the other had shared. His concern for your wellbeing that had seemingly been stitched directly into his bloodstream no matter how tired he got. Your throat tightened unexpectedly. 

Jack’s expression softened as he moved closer. “What happened?” 

“You happened,” you informed him weakly. 

“That really didn’t explain anything.” 

“It does in my head.” 

“Which is terrifying.” 

You laughed again softly, rubbing tiredly at your face before looking back up at him. Now that the real Jack stood in front of you, the differences felt almost embarrassingly obvious. Brett had been warm but too easygoing; Sammy had been grounding in a way that felt comforting but oddly distant; Andrew had carried gentleness around him so openly it hurt to look at; Terry had weaponized familiarity until it felt dangerous; and Titus had turned charm into performance art. 

But above all, Jack felt safe. 

Even as he was standing there exhausted and grumpy in front of you sleep-deprived with yesterday’s hoodie thrown over a wrinkled scrub top, something about him always made your world quiet enough to where it felt manageable, like you could get anything done without worrying about the next moment. 

You stared at him for a long moment before realizing he was still waiting for an explanation. So, unfortunately, your exhausted brain chose honest-to-God honesty. 

“You know what the worst part was?” you asked softly. 

Jack crossed his arms in front of his chest. “I’m scared to answer that.” 

“They all looked like you.” You voice quieted slightly. “But none of them were you.” You glanced away, trying to organize thoughts that had apparently been building for weeks now. “Brett was nice. Sammy was . . . easy to talk to. Andrew was sweet in this sad kind of way. Even the crazy rich one was weirdly funny.” You huffed out a tired laugh. “And every single time I kept thinking maybe that was why my brain kept confusing them for you.” 

He stayed quiet. 

“But each time, they failed horribly at being Jack Abbot for longer than a two-sentence introduction.” You looked back up at him with glassy eyes. “Because all they had was just your face. They didn’t have the way you make everything feel less awful when you walk into a room. They didn’t have the way you pay attention to people even when you pretend that you’re annoyed. They didn’t have the way I never have to wonder if I’m safe with you.” 

Jack looked caught off guard. 

“I kept meeting all these parallel versions of you,” you continued softly, exhaustion making everything spill easier than normal, “and every time something still felt missing.” Your mouth twitched faintly. “Turns out it was just . . . you.” 

He kept quiet for a long moment as the morning traffic hummed somewhere down the street while patients and employees alike trickled from the Pitt’s doors. You bit your bottom lip, waiting with anticipation for him to say something.  

Finally, very quietly, he spit out, “You compared me to a satanic billionaire before saying all that.” 

A tired giggled burst out so suddenly it nearly doubled you over. “You can’t believe how thankful I am that it’s actually you this time.” 

Jack shook his head slowly, but you caught the way his mouth softened slightly. “C’mere.” 

The words barely left his mouth before he was reaching for you, hand gripping your forearm lightly before pulling you forward against his chest with the kind of familiarity that made your entire body finally relax for the first time in days. 

That was another difference too. 

None of the others had ever felt like home. 

You buried your face against his chest with a tired groan. “If another man with your face talks to me this week, I’m filing a police report.” 

Jack’s chest shook slightly beneath your cheek. “Again me?” 

“Wouldn’t be entirely you,” you mumbled. “Just your face.” 

A quiet laugh rumbled through him before his hand settled against the back of your head. 

“C’mon,” he murmured. “I’m taking you home before you start hallucinating more versions of me.” 

You tilted your head back just enough to look up at him. “You promise you’re the real one?”

Jack stared down at you for one long second. 

“Did any of them kiss you?” 

A blooming warmth covered your face. “What?” 

“The firefighter,” he said evenly. “The cop. Satan guy.” His jaw tightened. “Did any of them kiss you?” 

“No,” you admitted quietly. “Wouldn’t let them either because they weren’t you.” 

His hand slid gently against your jaw before he kissed you like he’d been thinking about it the entire conversation. His lips felt warm; the kiss careful and tired in the same way you both were but all the same steady. 

When he finally pulled back slightly, your forehead resting against his, nose brushing along the skin right under his eye, you smiled weakly. 

“Okay,” you said softly out of breath. “Yeah. Definitely the real one.” 

Jack laughed quietly against your mouth. “Are you 100 percent sure?” 

You pretended to think for a second before shaking your head. “Nope. Gotta kiss you again just to be sure.” 

He smirked before pulling you back into another soft kiss. 

Oh, yeah. This was the real one. 

"Are you enjoying yourself?" he asks.

It's his family who are hosting the party afterall. He has to be a good host. He can feel his twin sister, Ursula's, eyes on him. What is he doing?

You smile shyly at him and nod your head.

"Of course, Mr Danforth. Thank you so much for inviting me. I know you were friends with my parents," you say.

"I'm sorry for your loss," Titus responds.

He's not. He'll get to see a lot more of you now that you have to attend the ceremonies.

"Is this your first Midsummer ceremony?" he asks.

You pause before quirking your lips, "Ceremony?"

Titus chuckles to himself. Oh your parents really did not clue you in on anything. His eyes scan your outfit, pretty dress and heels. You look good enough to eat...but it doesn't really work for the hunt that is about to take place.

A midsummer sacrifice is due. Sometimes that is delivered right to the altar, a throat sliced and the blood drawn in seconds. But the Danforths like the drama of a chase through the woods. The sacrifice is never going to escape. But the adrenaline is worth it. But there's no way you can chase through the forest in the outfit you're wearing.

"Did your parents not explain?" Titus queries with a cock of his head. His tone more mocking than sweet.

You shake your head but before the older man in front of you can explain a horn sounds out. You jump, your hand reaching out for the Danforth heir.

Titus preens when you grip him for stability. Oh, his precious lamb. He'll take care of you.

Ursula's voice trills out, "Come along, Titus."

"Where are we going?" you ask as you follow him like a lost puppy.

Titus doesn't want to ruin your innocence. But this is the reality of this life, the life you were born into. He wants to offer to allow you to stay in the Lodge. However, he can hear his sister remind him that all families must take part in the festivities.

"Out to the woods," he simply gruffs out.

You try to keep up with him. You've been watching him for years. He's so handsome, so off-limits. But his strides are longer than yours and you're wearing heels. You thought you were just attending a party. But you're traipsing out into the chilly Midsummer air and out to the woods. And you gasp when you see a figure in front of you. A man bound on his knees and blindfolded.

"What is this?" you breathe, almost to yourself.

You flinch when you see the way Titus' face lights up at the sight before him. Another horn sounds and the bound man's blindfold is pulled off. In a split second he takes off running.

You grip Titus' arm, as he is only person who has spoken to you all night.

"What's going on?" you desperately beg.

He looks at you with a softness now, "Oh my little lamb, the hunt. You must know about our traditions?"

You simply shake your head as another horn goes off. These stupid horns!

"You have to catch him, little lamb."

And with that, Titus stomps off into the forest. You look around as everyone else takes off. There is no way you're doing this. You turn on your heels and start to rush back to the Lodge. But a man in robes stops you.

"Ma'am, it is in your contract that you must take part in the hunt. You are the head of your family, the only person able to represent your lineage. If you don't do this, well, Mr Le Bail won't be happy," the man says as he clutches a huge leatherbound book to his chest.

"Who is Mr Le Bail?" you ask with huge eyes.

The man gives you a look that you can only describe as pity.

"Run...that way," he simply says pointing towards the forest. "Or it won't just be one sacrifice tonight."

You whimper before you do as he says. Your heart is racing and you can feel tears prick your eyes. You have no intention of killing anyone if that's what the robed man is suggesting. But you don't want to die either. So you take your chances in the woods. Until you come face to face with the, well, sacrifice.

"You're not gonna kill me, bitch," he snarls as he lunges at you.

You fall onto the leaf-covered ground with the strange man on top of you. Oh God, he's going to kill you. You're going to die. You scream out as his body becomes even heavier on you and something wet and hot is seeping over you. Your eyes open to see the full moon overhead, illuminating another figure. Titus is standing there, his warhammer dug deep into the back of the man who's entire weight is now on you.

Titus kicks the body off you, allowing you to scramble to your feet. Your white dress stained with blood. Titus feels the stir of his cock in his pants at the sight before him. His beautiful sacrificial lamb.

"Thank you," you gasp, rushing into his arms.

He wraps his thick arms around you, kissing the top of your head. Oh his precious girl. He isn't going to let anything bad happen to you. The fact you don't flinch when his lips press to your hair just emboldens him.

He breathes your name after a moment and you look up at him.

"You're not a hunter, sweet girl," he tells you, smoothing down your hair. And you shake your head as tears finally roll down your cheeks.

"You know there's a way to exclude you from the hunts. But...But it's quite the step."

You look at him, doe-eyed and willing.

"If you married someone from the families here tonight, you would be a member of their family. And you wouldn't have to hunt or attend Mr La Bail's ceremonies," he says, as he stroke the tears away from your cheek.

"Marry?" you echo.

Titus coos and nods his head, "Yes, little lamb. Marriage is the only way. Join a new family."

"Who would marry me, Mr Danforth?" you ask, your voice still shaky.

He chuckles, "Well, I'm sure there are so many options for you. But there is only one correct family to join. The Danforths are the most powerful. We hold the High Seat of the Council. Become a Danforth, rule the world, little lamb."

He can feel you shiver against him. The idea of the power going straight through your body.

"Marry you?" you ask then.

He nods his head in return. He knows he's much older than you. He knows that a beauty like you deserves a proper proposal. But he's wanted you since he saw you, and he has the opportunity now.

"When?" you continue.

"Well everyone is here tonight. I could make you a blushing bride right now," he all but growls as his grip on you tightens.

You whimper at the intensity of it all. You should run. You should push him away. This is crazy. You just watched him kill a man. And now he wants to marry you. You don't even know this man. You've only met him a handful of times.

But you don't do any of that. Instead, you let Titus draw you towards him. Let him press his lips against yours, gasp out at the taste of him. Titus growls out in response. He walks you back, pressing your back against the rough bark of a tree. He's all but rutting against you in the forest, blood still hot on your dress.

It takes all of his strength to pull away from you. This is not how he's going to take you for the first time. No. No. He can wait until his ring is heavy on your hand.

And the best part of the wedding is that you won't have to play some stupid game. No. You're already a follower of Mr La Bail. You will just be Titus'.

He takes your hand and walks you back towards the Lodge, finding the man in the robes. Titus simply calls him The Lawyer. You're whisked upstairs and you are bathed in lavender water. Your hair fixed, as is your tear-ruined makeup. Your white dress is replaced with a lavish black one. And you meet Titus underground in front of a bloodstained altar. You don't comment on this. You're too caught up in the idea of being his wife.

While Titus has watched you year after year, you have been just as enthralled with him. Your father tutted about what a strange family the Danforths were. Made salacious comments about why the twins never married. But you saw Titus. Saw how handsome he was. How, well, needy he was. And you wanted to give everything to him.

And with two words, rings placed on fingers and another searing kiss you shed your old skin and became a Danforth. Mrs Danforth. The wife of the most powerful man in the world. Although you weren't aware of that. Your parents truly had shielded you from the realities of the deals they had made. Even though you were a grown woman.

Ursula had cornered her twin brother earlier, scolding him for turning the night into his twisted plan. How could he marry a girl he didn't even know? She spat the word girl, letting him know she was unhappy with the obvious age gap between the two of you. But Titus would not be cowed by his sister. Not when he was finally getting the one thing that he wanted.

You.

Being a Danforth came with traditions and Titus had grown to love keeping traditions alive. So after he was allowed to kiss his bride, he had one thought in mind - consummating the marriage.

He carries you across the threshold of his bedroom in the Lodge. You giggle at how easily he hauls you into his arms. He places you back down on your feet and circles you like a wolf circling its prey.

"You look like a vision," he tells you as he comes back again to stand in front of you.

The black dress isn't what you envisioned for your wedding day but none of the night has been what you planned. You didn't intend to walk out of the party with a husband. But Titus had bewitched you. You weren't sure you could say no to him ever.

"But the dress really needs to come off," he says with a tut.

You move your hands to start to undo the ties at the front of the corset but he swats you away. Instead he pulls a knife from under his jacket and presses the tip under your chin. Your lip quivers as you look at him. Surely he didn't do all of this just to kill you?

You try not to think about the heat that is blossoming in your stomach at his action.

He hums as he meets your eyes before dragging the knife down your throat, not hard enough to cut you but enough for you to feel it. The cool metal drags over your chest and the swell of your breast. You whimper when he strengthens his force on the knife when it meets the fabric of the dress and with one sharp movement, the dress is cut from you. He pushes it off until you're standing in your undergarments.

This elicits a low, satisfied hum from your new husband.

"Pretty lamb," he growls, cupping the back of your head and crashing your lips together.

He walks you back until the back of your legs hit the plush blanket covering his bed. And with one swift movement, you're on the bed with Titus hovering over you.

His kisses are becoming more desperate, more sloppy. His tongue is exploring every inch of your mouth, and drool is rolling down your chin. And your core is on fire. He chuckles when he feels your hips rock upwards in desperation.

"Needy baby," he growls, kissing you once more. "Has anyone ever had you before?"

You shake your head. Your parents had drilled into your head the importance of finding the one. That and one too many Disney movies. While you'd dated in the past, everyone had been a dud. And this knowledge fills Titus with pure glee. He could click his heels together!

His hands move to massage your breasts over your lacy bra. He lets out contented little grunts as he teases your nipples before impatience takes over him and he rips the fabric from your body. One thing you'll learn about your new husband is that he doesn't like to wait. And he's waited so long for you.

He wants to ram his aching cock inside you but he knows that you're such a delicate thing. You wouldn't like that. Not at first. But you'll get used to taking him whenever he pleases. But not for your first time. No, he spends an embarassingly longtime sucking at your tits, leaving marks all over your skin. You can feel your arousal completely soak through your panties. Your thighs are soaked now.

"All for me?" he asks as he pulls your panties down your legs.

He would tear them off but this way he gets to inspect your pretty little pussy better.

"Spread for me, baby," he says giving your thigh a sharp slap before you open your legs.

"Good. Keep them like that. Good girl," he tells you as he steps off the bed to undress himself.

While he was impatient to get you naked, there is no rush in his undressing. He takes every item off slowly, folding them and putting them to the side. Until he's standing there in all his glory. You need to touch him, drag your nails over his freckled skin. But he tuts when you start to move.

"Be a good girl," he says giving your pussy a smack.

You should be embarrassed by the wet sound that echoes through the room. But you can't bring yourself to be. You just whine, keeping your legs spread for him. He smirks at you, like the big bad wolf that he is and hooks your legs over his sunkissed shoulders.

He places kisses over your stomach and thighs before diving into your cunt. And Titus eats you like a man starved. He sticks his tongue inside you before suckling at your clit before dragging his tongue over your aching folds. He repeats these movements until you're squirming under him. His thick hands grip your thighs, holding you against him.

"Cum for me, pretty girl," he demands.

And, as if on command, you do. Soaking his face, the silver of his stubble glistening with your release.

"Oh my little lamb, you taste utterly sinful."

Your eyes don't leave his weeping cock. He's huge - thick and long. You're not sure he's going to fit. But Titus has no doubt as he crawls back up your body. See, he knows that you're made for him. And he's not wasting any more time. He presses the blunt head of his cock against your opening. Even this feels like heaven...

He dips his head into the crook of your neck before he slowly, inch by torturous inch, presses inside you. You whimper and whine, squirming under him. He gives your ass a smack, a warning to stop moving. And finally he bottoms out.

"So fucking tight. The most perfect pussy. All for me," he tells you.

You both watch each other, chests heaving for a moment before he finally starts thrusting. Titus is not a patient man and he can feel your body's resistance to his movements. But he can't go slow like this forever. His hands tighten on your hips as he pulls them upwards so he can go deeper before he rocks his hips harder...faster...

Your screams of pleasure bounce off the walls as he takes what he needs from you. There's a burning sensation, the feeling of being pulled apart for the first time. But it is overwhelmed by how good this feels. Every pull of his cock sends shivers down your spine. And soon your eyes are rolling back in your head as you reach your second orgasm of the night. And it won't be your last.

No, Titus has plans for you.

The way your already tight pussy clenches around him as you cum forces him to stop. He physically can't move. It's enough to have him seeing stars. But not yet.

He pulls out of you, flipping you onto your stomach.

"Hands and knees, princess," he growls in your ear.

And you do just as he says. He gives you enough time to find your balance before he's driving into you again. The sound of skin hitting skin fills the room, the wetness of your cunt echoes around the walls and it's joined by your cries of pleasure and his low grunts as he drills into you. His rough hand snakes around and grips your neck. Pulling your back up against his chest.

A third orgasm overwhelms you making your vision go bleary as your whole body shakes. This time when your pussy clamps down on Titus he has no choice but to follow you over the edge. He fills you with ropes of cum. You didn't know someone could cum that much.

He lets you fall onto the bed, but he's not going to let his seed go to waste. No. When he pulls his cock out of you, he replaces it with two fingers.

"Need you to give me an heir, little lamb. Think I can fuck a baby into you tonight?" he growls in your ear.

All you can do is nod. Already fucked out. But you know that Titus' night has just begun.

"What a pretty fuckin' pussy you have," he tells you as he lazily pumps his fingers in and out of you.

He can feel the familiar quiver of your walls. Your fourth orgasm is fast approaching. He feels it as he breathes, "And all I had to do to get it was kill your useless fuckin' parents."

His words send your world upside down. He tells you as you're cumming. What a cruel, cruel man. He's killed your parents to get to you. And you've signed your life away to him.

"Oh pretty girl," he says pulling his fingers out and offering you them to suck. "Don't look so horrified, we both know that deep down you knew."

You open your mouth and let him press his fingers inside. You suck them clean as your eyes meet his. Did you? Did you know this man murdered your only family so he could marry you? Did it matter as you lay completely fucked out in his bed?

You were the most powerful woman in the world... Could you hate him for giving you that?

Titus watches as the gears shift in your head.

"Pretty girl. Smart girl. Precious girl," he breathes, kissing over your skin. "You stay by my side and you'll never want for anything again. Or you join your parents...What do you say?"

You look at him then. It's not much of a choice...but even if it were you had made it when you gripped his arm in the woods all those hours ago. You could never say no to Titus. So you just pull him down for a kiss. And you can feel how he smirks against your lips.

"Now, you should get used to this room because you're not leaving until I get you fuckin' pregnant," he snarls.

a/n: thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed!

taglist: @sweetashhh @orangecheescakeleftover @elenamoncadaibarra @joelmillrenthusiast @abbotaes

Ursula Danforth slaps one perfectly manicured hand across her twin brother’s cheek. He doesn’t even flinch; he’d been expecting worse. “You’re so selfish. Stupid and useless like a child. Knocking up a sugar baby, of all things.”

Father paces across the large sitting room with a clenched jaw. Eventually, he stops in front of his son. “How dare you do this to us? Right before the most important hunt of this family’s life, too. I can’t believe you’d be so irresponsible.”

Ursula sneers, “I believe it. This is what happens when a spoiled brat grows up. Poor baby Titus always has to have everything exactly how he wants. Probably never bothered with condoms because ‘it just doesn’t feel as good, sweetheart.’”

“Don’t be so crass, Ursula,” Father spits in her direction before returning to his son. “I assume you’ve communicated that abortion isn’t an option.”

“Of course,” Titus replies, keeping it curt to avoid a verbal lashing. Or a physical one, given the tension thick in the opulent room full of blades and guns. Father demanded the conversation be moved to the innermost room of the estate when Titus told them in front of a few members of staff. This sort of thing is best discussed in private, even with the most discreet staff money can buy.

The abortion discussion had gone better than expected, considering you told him you’d be keeping it before he could even get to the ‘my family would sedate you through delivery and then discard you before they let you abort a Danforth’ thing. He’d given you a line about supporting you however you needed in order to stall you while he discussed what to do with his family. Ultimately, your fate wasn’t his decision but a collective decision for the betterment of the Danforth name.

But Titus does, admittedly, dislike the idea of abandoning you. Despite your lack of status, money, or power, he feels an…affection for you. Similar to the affection one might have for an injured bird. He’d been raised to put creatures like that out of their misery, but your only brokenness was being part of the masses. That could be improved upon. So, to advocate for you, Titus swallows hard and offers, “This may not be a bad thing. Our family needs an heir, after all.”

“Not under circumstances like this,” Ursula scoffs. “You should marry advantageously. Within the seven families, at least. How could you even think-”

Father raises his right hand.

Silence falls.

“You may be right, Titus. We’re long overdue for a new generation of Danforths and neither of you seem particularly close to finding anything akin to a real relationship. Your mother would be horrified.” Father drapes himself in his authentic Jacobean austere velvet armchair in the corner, beneath a grand window he’s spent hours and hours ruminating out of through the years, especially since his wife died. Without looking at his son, he asks, “This…girl of yours: Is she good stock?”

Titus considers that. He imagines how very lovely you look obediently presenting yourself for him on the hotel beds where he’s taken you multiple times a week for the last six months, gazing up at him with reverent eyes and an innocent sort of expression that doesn’t necessarily match your occupation of choice. “I’d say so. She’s young. Pretty.”

Ursula rolls her eyes. “Of course.”

Father gives her a lethal gaze. “Don’t interrupt. This is important.” His eyes turn back to his son and he asks, “Her personality?”

“Sweet,” he answers right away. That’s the first word that comes to his mind. It’s the thing he likes most about you; you’re so, so far from everyone he knows. Kind and tentative and eager to find reasons to smile. The kind of girl who brakes for pigeons. After a moment of thinking, he relents, “A bit stupid, at times, but charming. Docile. I’ve never seen her disagree with someone.”

That seems to please Father. He doesn’t like women who fight back, even his own daughter at times. He probes further, “Does she have any family?”

“She’s estranged from her parents. No siblings.”

“Good. How about education?”

“She’s getting a master’s degree.”

“In what?”

“I don’t know,” he replies with a chuckle. “Something with books, maybe. I’m not usually with her for the stimulating conversation, Father.”

“Don’t be vulgar. Does she have a criminal history? Any connections in our world?”

“No. I vetted her thoroughly before selecting her as a…companion.”

“Boring. But that could be useful in its own way.” Father thinks it over as he watches the gardeners outside tending to the hedge maze across the pond. Winter is beginning to melt off the extensive grounds and they’re preparing for the glory of spring blooms. For vibrant fresh blood, too, in the coming months with the vernal equinox and other traditional celebrations fast approaching. He asks the final question, the only one that matters: “Could she be a Danforth? Or will we have to be rid of her once the baby is born?”

Titus thinks of your laugh, your ease, your total lack of darkness. It’ll be difficult to balance the reality of his world with you, but he’s intrigued by the challenge. With a steady voice, he admits perhaps the deepest secret of this whole situation: “I’d like to keep her.”

The tension eases at that. Keeping up appearances will be best. And if there’s one thing the Danforth family does well it’s keeping up appearances.

With the first smile of the day, Father stands, embraces Titus, and announces, “We can make this work, son. We will.”

Titus stiffens at the rare show of affection, trying not to reveal that he’s pleased with the decision. That would only show a chink in his armor. He would’ve handled the other option, keeping you in the dungeon as a toy of sorts until the birth, but it’ll be better for everyone if he has a wife and his child a mother instead of a nanny. “Thank you, Father.”

“She’s going to have to move in,” Ursula tsks as she, too, gives her brother a short but earnest embrace. “We can’t take risks with the baby.”

Father adds, “And there will have to be a wedding, of course. With all the families invited.”

“A wedding?” Titus gripes, “Isn’t it enough to just-”

“No,” Father interrupts. His fingernails dig into his own palms. “Just because you started this improperly doesn’t mean you’ll continue it that way. In two months’ time, before she starts showing, we’ll have a wedding.”

“Everyone will know it’s a shotgun wedding,” Ursula points out. “Even the most asinine of our associates can manage basic addition and subtraction.”

“That’s irrelevant,” Father insists. “It’s the 21st century. The baby will be born with its mother sharing the Danforth name. Nothing else matters.” He levels his gaze at Titus. “Go and tell her. I expect to see her moving in here before the weekend’s up.”

“Yes, Father,” Titus agrees, already taking his phone from his pocket to dial you. Before leaving the room, he takes a deep breath and says once more, “Thank you. I won’t disappoint you.”

Father gives him a wink. The thought of the first baby born to the Danforth family in four decades lifts everyone’s spirits. It’ll be a good change. “Careful, or you’ll make us think you like the girl.”

He expects you to make a fuss about it. Fully prepares himself to have to drug you, tie you up, kidnap you, and make it clear you don’t actually have a choice in the matter, as distasteful as that would be to him. At the very least, he anticipates resistance. For it to take more than one brunch. Modern women want careers, don’t they? It’s part of why he’s always sworn off girlfriends and dating in the standard sense. Ever since it became relatively acceptable for the elite, he’s strongly preferred paying for the company of simple, complication-free women procured by the family lawyers. He doesn’t want a girlfriend. He wants…a pet. A well-trained companion. Something reliable and reliant. A pretty, obedient creature to recline on the couch who makes no demands and listens with rapt attention to his every order.

So he’s pleased beyond belief at your reaction to his offer, outlined to you at your favorite chichi breakfast place in one of the nicer hotels downtown.

You gaze up at him over your streaming mug and ask bluntly, “What’s the catch?”

“There isn’t one,” he lies. Smooth as butter. “I want to take care of you and the baby and I have the means to do so.”

“You’d already be doing that just by paying me at the rate you already do. With my job and your payments, I can afford a comfortable life,” you point out. “But you want me to marry you. Move in with you. So I have to assume there are rules. Catches.” You take a sip of the caffeine-free tea he’d ordered for you, savoring the spicy and citrusy notes. The ginger helps soothe your stomach. “Look, you’re obviously very wealthy. And I know you’re not rich because of something…normal, if you don’t mind the word.”

Titus snickers, “Not at all. Go on.”

“Before you made us exclusive, I’d been with a lot of secretive, rich men,” you explain slowly, “but you don’t seem like most of them.”

The waitress approaches your table. Titus rattles off quickly, clearly annoyed at the intrusion, “We’ll both do the three-course menu. I’ll have the foie gras torchon with prosciutto and figs, the filet mignon as rare as you’ll serve it, and the caviar trio in lieu of dessert.”

The order doesn’t surprise you after countless meals spent together. His food is always expensive and tastes of life cut short.

The waitress gives you a warm smile. “And for you, darling?”

“Don’t call her that,” Titus says, curt and emotionless. “She’ll have the yogurt parfait with the pistachio granola, lobster eggs Benedict, and the baked apple strudel.” Then he gives you a glance that borders on affectionate. “And I’m guessing she’d also like the gelato flight after.”

“You spoil me,” you lilt with batting eyelashes. Then you tell the waitress, “And a ginger ale, if you don’t mind. Thank you.”

As she disappears, Titus’ typically flat expression transforms into one of concern, which you haven’t seen on him often. He observes, “Ginger ale. Ginger tea. Morning sickness?”

You sigh and confirm, “That’s been the theme of week seven.”

“Seven weeks,” he muses, sounding almost wistful. “Does that mean you’ll have your first ultrasound soon?”

“Monday morning,” you tell him with a tentative smile. “You can come, if you want.”

“I will. Definitely.” Titus sits up straighter and adjusts the sleeves of his charcoal-gray button-down, a nervous habit since his custom-tailored clothes always fit perfectly on his chiseled body. “You were asking about rules. Saying I don’t seem like most men.”

“Right, yes.” You touch his hand across the table and he lets you. Titus never asks for affection, but you know he craves it. Deeply. Otherwise he would never have sought you out in the first place. Sex is cheap; companionship is priceless. While rubbing the back of his hand with your thumb, you muse aloud, “You don’t brag about your money, which means you’ve always had it. It’s just a part of you; you’ve never been without it. Your schedule has too much freedom to be a doctor, you don’t dress like a lawyer, you’re too private to be a CEO or anything you’d want to peacock about, and you’re not annoying.”

He smirks at your analysis. “What does that rule out?”

“Tech bro. Anyone who works in blockchain or AI.”

“Smart girl,” he praises with a short chuckle. “What’s your theory, then?”

“Something dark and secretive,” you tease, clearly joking with the low, spooky voice like a Halloween recording you put on. He doesn’t react like it’s a joke, though. So, more seriously, you say, “Maybe private security? Something with weapons; I know you try to be subtle, but I’ve always seen your carrying a gun.” That pleases him; you’ve already noticed his danger and didn’t flinch away. “I doubt it’s really illegal, like drugs, because you’re so clean about everything. I mean, my main point of contact the first three months was your lawyer,” you remind him with a laugh. Then you lean forward and continue, “Regardless, I can tell you have the kind of life where you’re not just going to marry and whisk away the first girl you knock up without some rules.”

Sounding amused, he sips his expensive cocktail and teases, “I can’t just want to be an honest man for the mother of my child?”

“You can, sure. But that’s not you.”

“You’re right about that,” he concedes after a moment. With a deep breath, he sits back in his chair and tells you, “I wouldn’t call them ‘rules’ so much as, perhaps, guidelines. Expectations. I won’t force anything on you. And I won’t abandon you if you go against them.”

That’s a patent lie, but he doesn’t think you’ll defy him, so he keeps it to himself.

You cross your arms over your chest. “Let’s get down to it, then, because I can imagine worse fates for this baby and me than having a rich, handsome daddy to take care of us. But I want to know what I’m getting into.”

“Very sensible. I can appreciate that.” The first round of food arrives and he gestures for you to dig in while he begins, “Your first priority would be growing a healthy pregnancy, of course. Go to all of your doctor’s appointments, follow their recommendations to the letter. You’d quit your job. Continue your classes if you’d like, but you’ll need to cut out any unnecessary stress. You’d move into the family estate; you can decorate and rearrange our building however you’d like as the lady of the house. I don’t care about things like that.”

“What do you mean by ‘the family estate’?” You give him a teasing raised eyebrow; you’re the only person he allows to look at him like that. “You live with mommy and daddy?”

“My father lives in the primary mansion on the grounds, yes. Mother is dead. There are a lot of different outbuildings along the property; it goes on forever. I don’t even know how many acres anymore; the lawyers buy up adjacent properties whenever they go for sale. We’d be in my private house, which is further back on the estate.”

“Like a guest house?”

“An eight-bedroom guest house, but yes.” Without giving you much time to process that, Titus goes on, “You’d have some social responsibilities as my wife. My mother’s passed now, so you’d be the official host when our family holds events, which we do often. You’d just have to look pretty, though, which you’re phenomenal at already.” As your cheeks warm, he assures you, “We have a whole team to handle the planning side if you aren’t interested in those sorts of things.”

You give a timid smile. “I like planning and hosting parties. It’d be nice to have some occasions to show off all the fancy dresses you’ve bought me.”

That makes him smile. Really smile. Like he can see you slotting into his life. “Good. Great. Well, you can have as much or as little involvement in our social circles as you’d like as long as you’re willing to put on one of those dresses and sit next to me adoringly when needed.”

“So far, that fits my resume to a tee.”

“And, in that vein, there are certain standards of dress and, let’s say, etiquette, for lack of a better word, that my sister can help you with getting used to.”

“You have a sister?”

“Yes. Ursula.” He toys with his fork, hovering it over the decadent spread. “I suppose we still have a lot to learn about each other.”

“I’m an open book,” you retort with a cheeky smile. “You’re the one with the secrets. I don’t even know your last name.”

“Danforth,” he says quietly. Like it’s a secret. Maybe it is. “Titus Victor Danforth.”

“Very stately name.” You wrinkle your nose a bit. “Does our baby have to have a name like that? It’s hard to imagine calling a newborn Titus Victor.”

“We’ll agree on a name like any other couple,” he chuckles. “But, for the record, I have family with much worse names than Titus.”

“Like Ursula,” you joke, earning a conspiratorial snort. You nod and drink some more of your tea as you consider everything thus far. “So I have to learn to sit pretty and do tricks. Got it. What else?”

His voice darkens and so do his hazel eyes. “The most important thing is that you’ll allow me to keep you safe and protect you. Against anyone and anything. By any means necessary.”

Your own voice drops to a whisper. “You say that like I’ll be in danger.”

“Sometimes you will be.”

Not taking it all too seriously, you check. “But you’ll always protect me? And our baby?”

He puffs up his chest and insists seriously, “With my life.”

No matter who or what tries to get in my way.

You narrow your eyes at him. “And you’ll take care of everything financially?”

“Yes.” Zero hesitation. “Always.”

You don’t doubt he can keep that promise, at least. When you take on sugar clients, you make sure to have proof of funds before agreeing to any arrangements. Titus passed that test with flying colors; you’re sure there’s incalculable wealth behind the many, many zeroes you’ve already seen. He’s always driving around in tinted luxury cars, wearing suits by $10,000-a-piece designers, handing over heavy black cards for quadruple digit dinner dates with no dobut on whether they’ll clear.

With a tiny smile, you press, “And you’ll marry me?”

“As soon as possible.”

“Can I have a real wedding?”

“Here I was thinking I’d have to convince you of that,” he laughs. Something unfamiliar is knocking around pleasantly in his ribs. “Our wedding would be very, ah, socially significant. You’ll be impressed by the guest list, I’m sure.”

“Give me a teaser.”

“Let’s just say if a bomb were dropped on it, the world’s economy would collapse.”

“Yeah, alright,” you giggle. He’s looking forward to the day you realize he’s telling the truth on that matter. “So I’d be a wife. Hm, okay.” You jokingly tap your chin and squint like you’re really thinking hard about it. “Does that mean I’ll have to cook for you?”

“Not if you don’t want to.”

“How about cleaning? Laundry? I hate doing laundry.”

“That’ll all be handled.”

“So we’ll have…servants?”

Titus can’t help but notice the way you’re already saying ‘we.’ He doesn’t mind the sound of it; you’re right where he wants you. Needs you. “We prefer to call them staff, but yes, we do.”

Curiosity piqued, you press, “How many?”

He starts running through the mental rolodex; the estate’s goings-ons don’t interest him much, so they’re at the periphery of his mind. “Full-time, on-site staff? We have three chefs – one in each house’s kitchen, of course – and an estate manager who oversees a handful of groundskeepers, gardeners, and housekeepers. There’s an incredibly effective security team. Part-time? Lawyers on retainer, naturally. And we have connections for anything you’d want. Ursula has her tennis coach and her pet pool boy. Father has his favorite mixologist and, ah, massage therapist. I’ve got my golf caddy as well. Each of us has our own driver, but you’d probably share mine a while. That’s a high-trust position; I’d want to personally hire yours for the safety of the baby. You’d also have your own personal assistant to help with whatever you need day-to-day. And you’ll be in charge of hiring out any childcare support you want, when the time comes. Nannies, tutors, those sorts of things.”

“Wow.” Your fork is stuck mid-air. “So you and your family are…rich rich.”

His lips curl up slightly. It’s nice to be around someone who isn’t used to snapping their fingers and having whatever they want in moments. Charming. “That would be a fair assessment, yes.”

Titus notices a selfish, almost cute little shimmer lighting up your eyes as you ask, “So I can have whatever I want?”

He cocks his head to the side and considers that. What it might mean to someone who didn’t grow up in the world he did. “Within reason.”

Your eyes narrow. “How about a car? Like a really ridiculous one – a neon yellow Lamborghini?”

Almost offended at the idea, he scoffs, “A car? Of course you can have a car. I thought you were going to say something ridiculous like an elephant.”

You pout and cross your arms playfully over your chest. “So you’re saying I couldn’t have an elephant if I really, really wanted one?”

Feeling indulgent beneath your delight, he sighs dramatically, “I suppose I could reopen and repurpose the stables for the mother of my child.”

“The stables?”

“My mother loved horses. We were raised on dressage but never really took to it. When she died, my sister and I-” let those wretched horses free and hunted them with arrows “-decided not to keep up the responsibility.”

“Could I have a horse?”

He almost winces at the memory of countless on-site animals becoming casualties in the family games, intentional or otherwise. Still, because it’s important, he relents, “If you want, sure. I don’t see the appeal, but you’ll have whatever hobbies make you happy and keep you occupied.” 

“Don’t worry; I hate horses. Just curious.” You can tell he’s amused by your version of an interrogation, so you go on, “Will you still take me on dates?”

That puzzles him. Do you like these dates with him? He’s always assumed you just see him as a paycheck, which he doesn’t mind, but the idea of a real relationship does tantalize him to a certain extent. So he says, “If you’d like that. I do enjoy your company, after all.”

“And sex whenever I want?”

A laugh punches out of him. They’re rare from Titus, so it makes you grin, too, for a second. He rolls his eyes and nods. “Of course; that’s one of my favorite parts of your company.”

“Good. I wouldn’t want to give that up with you, considering the, ah, quality.”

Blush tinges the apples of his cheeks and you know better than to point it out. Titus has never been shy about his sexual prowess, but he also grew up in a family where it’s not acceptable to talk about those things over brunch. Titus clears his throat and checks, “What else do you want to know to decide?”

“To recap, I’ll be fed and housed and safe and spoiled beyond my wildest dreams?”

He nods, pleased. “Exactly.”

You bite your lower lip and ask, “But what if something happens to you? I’d be giving up all my independence and relying on you. I don’t want the baby’s security depending on whether or not you’re around for us.”

He doesn’t assure you that nothing will happen to him the way you’d anticipated. Instead, he admires your practicality. You can tell his life is dangerous, but you aren’t flinching. “You’ll be written quite handsomely into the family estate. Above my sister, actually, since you’ll be the mother of an heir. That’s permanent, even in the event of death or divorce.”

“An heir?” You almost choke on your food. “You’re not royalty, are you?”

He laughs, “Not in the sense you’re thinking of, certainly.”

Softer and more seriously as you consider the implications of everything said so far, you touch your lower abdomen and ask him, “Will our baby be safe?”

“Safer than you’ve ever been in your life here in the ‘real world,’” he says with actual sarcastic finger quotes. Then he squeezes your hand, meets your eyes with a new kind of warmth in his, and affirms, “I swear that nothing will ever harm our children.”

You smirk and tease, “Didn’t realize we had more than one on the way.”

He shrugs modestly. “I always liked having a sister.”

“And I always wished I had siblings.”

“Sounds like you agree.”

You let out a sharp laugh, the ridiculousness of the conversation hitting you at once. This is the kind of arrangement people agree to in the dark romances you read when you’re ovulating and here you are actually considering it for the rest of your life. After a minute of eating and thinking, you tell him, “I just have one more question.”

“Anything.”

“Will you love me, Titus?”

He takes his time thinking about the answer, which you appreciate. He isn’t just going to tell you what he thinks you want to hear. Honesty is more attractive to you than his silvering curls or glass jawline, though those definitely do it for you. Always have.

You’ve wasted a lot of time on men who lied to you, who strung you along, who took advantage of your lack of security. As strange as it may be, the thought of someone being very clear about their expectations and giving you everything in return has an appeal after all of that. You’d never have to worry about the things that currently absorb 90% of your time again.

You’ve finished your dish by the time Titus collects his response. Slowly and carefully, he lifts your hand to his lips and kisses each finger; you can’t stop the fluttering of your heart in response. Titus murmurs, “You may have to teach me how, bunny.” Gradually, he meets your eyes and offers, “If it matters, in the time we’ve known each other, I’ve already grown quite-” he struggles to find the word; you wonder if he’s ever been given ones for this variety of feelings “-fond of you. Which is unusual for me.”

A smile blooms over your lips. Relief punches Titus in the gut and he’s not so sure why. You take your hand from his and press it gingerly to his silver-scruffed cheek. “Fondness will do.”

“Are you sure about this?” Your best friend, Natalie, asks for the fiftieth time as you finish packing your suitcase. Titus had arranged for professional packers, movers, and cleaners for your entire apartment over the weekend, so all you had to do was pack for a long weekend. “It just seems a little fast to me.”

You shrug and try to brush it off, “I’ve known him for six months already.”

She balks, “As a client.”

“Well, unplanned babies tend to rush relationships,” you cut back. “It’s not like he’s a murderer or something; he’s just a rich guy who needs company. Plus, look at these pictures he sent me.”

You unlock your phone and toss it to her where she’s rifling through your closet, taking her turn to pick over it since you’re going to be switching to maternity clothes soon enough and, it seems, designer after that. Natalie scrolls through the grand Danforth estate and her mouth slowly falls open the same way yours did when Titus showed you. Water features both natural and man-made, meticulously maintained flower gardens, a hedge maze, marble sculptures around the grounds. Not to mention the interior. He’d only sent pictures of his residence on the property, which was styled minimalistically compared to the opulence elsewhere, but you could already imagine outfitting it exactly how you want.

Natalie scoffs, “Are you serious? I didn’t even know places like this still exist. Are you sure this isn’t all, like, a catfishing scheme and he’s just going to lure you into the woods and keep you chained up in a cabin or something?”

You roll your eyes and tell her, “After he made the offer, he showed me everything on his iPad. Titles, holdings, all the legal stuff. I guess his great-great-times-a-million grandparents built half the trade infrastructure in America and then used the money for real estate and investments and now they just have mega money. He told me that there are a lot of families like his that have old money managed by lawyers that’s just accruing more and more money by being in banks.”

She raises a curious eyebrow. “So he doesn’t have to work?” 

“Sort of.” You try to explain to the best of your understanding, paraphrasing from the spiel Titus gave that you admittedly kind of zoned out during, “Since his dad retired, he’s got a seat on the board of basically every company in the country, so he has a lot of meetings and travels a lot.”

Natalie changes into one of your dresses and inspects herself approvingly in the mirror. “Does that mean your baby is gonna have to be a boring businessman?”

“Or boring businesswoman,” you laugh. “This one’ll be the oldest, so they’ll have responsibilities, yeah.”

“The oldest?” Her eyebrows go up again. “You and gramps are having more than one?”

“He’s not that old,” you start, a bit more exasperated now, “and he’s going to be my husband. If I want more kids, who else would I have them with?”

“Jesus, you’re really serious about this, aren’t you?”

“You’re here pilfering my closet, aren’t you?” The intercom buzzes by the door and you tell her, “Finish up; that’s my ride.”

“Is that him? Mr. Moneybags?”

You peek out the window and see the dark-tinted black Rolls-Royce idling in front of the door. The white-gloved, black-capped chauffeur who’s driven you around a handful of times before stands by the passenger side with his hands linked in front of himself. You mutter, “No, it’s his driver.”

“His driver? Damn.” Natalie takes the things she wants off their hangers and starts to walk you out. “When do I get to meet this guy, anyway?”

The two of you take the stairs together and you suggest, “At the wedding, I guess. Two months or so.”

Natalie scoffs and shakes her head. “Two months to plan a bachelorette party for a pregnant bride.” She squeezes you into a tight, warm hug. “It’s a challenge, but I’m up to it.”

“I know you are,” you giggle. “I can have the driver drop you off somewhere, if you want. I’m sure Titus wouldn’t mind.”

“No, thanks; I’ve got a job interview right up the street.”

Natalie insists on bringing your suitcase down the stairs, setting it on the stoop and scampering away before she has to ‘pretend to be fancy in front of one of your servants.’ As she disappears around the nearest corner, you wave and smile at the driver, hopping off the raised entry to meet him by the road. “Hi, Chip, thanks for coming to get me.”

“Good morning,” he says warmly. He hefts your luggage easily into the trunk and assures, “It’s no trouble at all, Mrs. Danforth.” At your curious look, he explains before you can question, “Master Danforth instructed all the household staff to refer to you with your new title so you get used to hearing it.”

You raise your eyebrows. “Master Danforth?”

Chip cracks a rare conspiratorial smile. “The usual title for the eldest son while his father is still alive. His father is Sir Danforth, but I’m sure you’ll call him Father like Titus and Ursula do.” He opens up the back door for you and assures, “It’s a lot to get used to, but you can ask any of the staff for help with anything.”

You slide onto the smooth leather, lowering the partition between the driver and the back, which Titus never does. As the car leaves the city and starts the winding path into the countryside, you glance at Chip and pose, “I’ve wanted to ask before, but now that I’m gonna be family I think I’m allowed to know: How much do the Danforths pay you?”

Surprised by your frankness, he just laughs, “More than enough.”

“C’mon, you can tell me,” you lilt like you’re doing a heist together. “I can dig it up anyway; Titus says I get free rein of the whole property.”

“Really?” Chip  chuckles under his breath. “You must be awfully special to him.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Not even Miss Danforth has full access to the entire estate. Their father mainly stays in the front house these days, too,” he explains, “so Titus must think highly of you to allow you unsupervised access.”

You joke, “Or he’s lying to make me feel safe and thinks I won’t meddle.”

Chip glances at you in the rear view mirror, no joking in his expression. “That’s also a possibility.”

You chew on that for a second and then press, “That doesn’t mean you get out of answering me, by the way. If I’m marrying into a family where the staff are underpaid, then-”

Chip almost wheezes out a laugh, caught off guard by the assumption. “I suppose I shouldn’t let you think that about your future husband.” He takes a long breath and explains, “Discretion is expensive. Security is expensive. And loyalty is priceless. I’ve worked for this family since Titus started high school and needed his own driver. Most of the staff have been with the Danforths for a decade or more. I’m sure the hiring process for your personal employees will be rigorous – background checks, security clearances. My starting salary was $80,000. By year ten, that had doubled. I’ve never had to ask for a raise; my salary just gets silently adjusted at the start of the year. Especially since Titus took over the family’s management, their generosity has been staggering. If you include all the above and beyond benefits – he pays for my daughter’s private school tuition outright, covered every penny when my wife went through chemo a few years back – and the bonuses, it has to be about a quarter million by now.”

You let out a low whistle. “Jesus.”

“Security all makes twice that,” he goes on as he pulls the car off the main road through a massive automated iron gate. Your skin prickles at the knowledge of getting closer. The view is shrouded by thick trees, making the whole estate feel hidden. “Trust me: You’re surrounded by the most loyal, discreet staff in the world.”

You huff out half a laugh. “Should that make me less nervous?”

“Nothing to be nervous about,” he lies lightly.

As the car finally breaks through the trees, the magnificent grounds come into view and the air leaves your lungs. You press your forehead to the glass to get a better view of the property. At the base of the grand front house with its storied old stone and hand-carved Grecian details being devoured by brilliant green ivy, you see the unmistakable shape of Titus in one of his usual charcoal gray suits, strong and broad in a soldier’s stance. He’s waiting at the bottom of a staircase which opens onto a large half-circle drive that reminds you of something out of The Princess Diaries. A man you recognize as a member of his security detail flanks him; you’ve only spotted him at the periphery before, lingering at the entrances of the restaurants Titus takes you to or waiting in the lobby of hotels. He makes a point of being unnoticeable, but you make a point of rarely letting your guard down.

You hear the gate shutting behind you, a thud instead of a click. Deep. Final.

Stopping the car a few feet from Titus, Chip slides out, opens your door, and smiles earnestly. “Welcome home, Mrs. Danforth.”

The moment you’re out of the car, Titus is lifting his arm for you to slip into, which you do.

“Hello, darling.” Titus loops his hand around your lower back and pulls you close enough to smell his brisk, masculine aftershave. He plants a chaste, claiming kiss to your forehead and then holds your chin between his thumb and forefinger. “How are you feeling?”

“Good. Nervous,” you tell him sheepishly. Before he can jump on that, though, you add, “Nausea hasn’t been too bad today.”

He nods slowly, examining your expression carefully. “I’m glad. Let me know if that changes; you can have whatever you want whenever you want now that you’re here.”

“I’m still waiting on my elephant,” you reply lightly, leaning up onto your toes to kiss him.

He hadn’t been planning to let you kiss him in front of any staff, but he’s pathologically unable to resist you when you look so soft and so ready to submit to his plans for you. Your wide eyes are longing for reassurance, for steadiness, for him to produce the scaffolding of your new life together. When you step back down, he cradles your face and teases, “All in due time, princess.”

Then Titus gestures for his bodyguard to step forward. Up close, you can see pockmark scars over all the skin visible around his dark sunglasses and black-on-black suit. There’s also a feathery brown bruise on his jaw and you can’t help but wonder if he got it in the line of fire, so to speak. Titus introduces, “Smith, my personal security detail, will be yours while I hire a new one.”

You cut him a sideways look. “You don’t need your own security detail in the meantime?”

He gives you a cocky, handsome smirk in return. God, he’s devastatingly beautiful when he’s like that. The ruler of his domain. “I can handle myself, bunny.”

You needle, “Then why have one in the first place?”

“I like to be underestimated,” he replies easily. Not wanting to let you dwell on the implications of that, Titus continues, “Smith will check any and every room before you go into it and then remain stationed by the nearest door. He’ll also do some personal training with you on the family security protocols to make sure you’re prepared.”

You swallow hard and nod, extending your hand toward the bodyguard. “Good to meet you.”

Smith glances at Titus, who nods briefly. Only then does the security guard shake your hand – once, firm, quick. More scars over his knuckles. “It’s an honor, ma’am.”

You gesture between them with a suspiciously pointed finger. “What was that?”

A smirk flickers on Titus’ mouth. You’re too observant for your own good and he hates how much he likes it. So he explains honestly, “Nobody is allowed to touch you without my permission.”

You narrow your eyes. “And if I give them my own permission?”

You can’t.

My word is law.

A chill goes down your spine at the possessive darkness in his eyes. You might have your own security guard now, but there’s a level of safety above that, one that only comes from being under the protective wing of Titus’ unyielding power.

Titus chews on his response a moment and then amends, “Male staff are not allowed to touch you unless it’s an emergency.”

You tsk and tease, “Jealous, jealous.”

“You really shouldn’t talk to me like that,” he admonishes, but you know it’s more of a contradictory plea. Titus craves being challenged as much as he hates it. He can’t tolerate it in business or from family in case it’s perceived as weakness, so he yearns for it from you, the one person who has no desire to actually challenge him. With a shake of his head, Titus dismisses Chip and then says, “I’ll give you a tour of the central grounds and our home. Then I have to go out on business for the afternoon before dinner with my sister and Father in the main house. In the meantime you can get settled and play.”

You laugh, “Play?”

“Whatever it is you want to do to entertain yourself,” he replies with a hand wave and a shrug. “Explore the grounds, interrogate the staff, snoop around all the places you shouldn’t.”

You offer a small conspiratorial smile. “Sounds good to me.”

Then Titus does something new and unexpected: He threads his fingers through yours. You get the sense that he’s practicing behaving like a normal, convincing couple. But you still notice that his palm is slightly clammy. Nervous. Titus Danforth gets nervous about holding a pretty girl’s hand for the first time. Cute.

For half an hour, he guides you around the few acres of land that sit between the three main houses, which are in a U formation. There’s a hedge maze that he warns you not to go into unless you have a few hours to kill, a drone to map it out from above, or a helicopter on standby. Then a tennis court (“you can page our trainer from the gate”) and a pool that’s half inside and half outside (“heated, of course, with a hot tub attached”). At the center of it all sits a series of fountains with emotive sculptures captured in such vibrance you’d believe they come alive at night.

“The tableau of Artemis and Actaeon,” Titus explains as he points out the features – a beautiful nude woman in a righteous stance with a bow raised, a muscular stag fleeing, a hoard of gnashing dogs tight on its heels. “Actaeon wandered away from his companions and found the virgin goddess Artemis bathing when she didn’t want to be seen. To punish him for breaking the boundary between the mortal and the divine, she turned him into a deer and sent his own dogs after him.”

You study the series of sculptures, water running down features like blood, and ask softly, “And your family liked that story enough for this whole water tribute thing?”

Titus chuckles and explains, “Artemis is sort of the Danforth version of a patron saint.” His hand drags slowly, pointedly down the center of your back until you shiver. “Goddess of the hunt. She’s a good omen for the family.”

“Goddess of the hunt,” you repeat curiously. “Interesting.”

He raises an eyebrow and starts to lead you toward the second largest house on the left side of the property. “Is it?”

You snicker and match step with him. “Most families go for, y’know, saints of unity, love, that sort of stuff.”

“She’s also the patron and protector of women and children,” Titus adds on the walk through the rose garden that leads to your new home. “And she chooses when to bring wellness or illness. She’s a good woman to have in your corner.”

You give him a coy sideways glance and muse, “I’ll try not to piss off her statue, as then. I want to stay on the good side of anyone who’s going to protect me and TJ.”

“TJ?”

“Oh, yeah, the baby,” you giggle far too adorably to be allowed on the deathly quiet Danforth Estate. “I’ve been calling him Titus Jr. in my head to try to get used to all of this.”

Something you haven’t seen before glitters in his eyes at the comment. “You think it’ll be a boy?”

“It’s too early for me to even think it’s real,” you reply with a soft laugh. “I can’t believe we’re going to actually hear the heartbeat on Monday.”

“I can’t wait.” He gives your hip a little squeeze that feels much more relationship-y than he usually gets. Then he gestures proudly at a large swath of empty land. “Welcome to the final stop of our tour before the house.”

“It’s, um, lovely,” you offer as you gaze at the undeveloped ground, parts of it divided up with unintelligible spray paint marks. “I’ve always wanted a half acre of empty space. My dream.”

“It’s going to be a space for the children,” he explains with something close to softness in his voice. Like he’s scared you’ll reject the sweet idea from a man you know mostly to be harsh, biting. “I thought…Well, I thought it might be nice for them to have a playground, a splash pad, those sorts of things. The property isn’t very child-friendly; there hasn’t been a baby here in more than forty years now. Time to change that.”

Your heart grows about three sizes at the thought. Titus isn’t just inviting you into his life; he’s carving out space for your shared future. “If you didn’t have anything to play with here at home, what did you and Ursula do for fun as kids?”

“We didn’t have fun,” he almost scoffs. You can tell the memories behind the sound are painful but far away, like reaching through a broken chain link fence. If he pulls back, the pain will become real. “My parents were-” Titus searches for the right word a while before deciding on one that’s close enough“-severe. Dour, often. They thought children should be trained and disciplined, not raised. Father thinks the idea of cherishing a child is the same as spoiling them.”

You shrug and give his hand an affirming squeeze. “I guess they got what they wanted; you’re successful, clearly. Driven, strong, powerful.”

“But not fulfilled,” he murmurs, only loud enough for you to hear. He wouldn’t want the staff knowing his feelings. He takes his hand and rubs your back almost absently, like a nervous habit. With a sideways glance, he labors out, “I think being a parent should be about giving your children more than you got. But I got everything. Always. So what can I give to my children, who will have more than they’ll ever need?”

“A space to play,” you finish for him. You lean up on your toes and plant a kiss on his scruff, unable to conceal the smile that comes at Titus talking about fatherhood so softly. “You’re going to be a great dad.”

He blinks hard a few times. His organs feel like they’re in the wrong order, but it’s not unpleasant. Winding his fingers with yours once more, he almost smiles. “You really think so?”

“Wouldn’t have agreed to all of this-” you gesture to the ridiculous property all around “-if I didn’t. I’d kind of figured being the softie would be my job, but I’m happy to share the load.”

Titus downright pouts. “I am not a softie.”

You nod toward the grass and lilt, “The evidence to the contrary is pretty compelling, sweet pea.”

“That’s too far,” he sighs, suppressing a laugh, “even for you, my little terror.”

As you approach Titus’ house – your house – Smith steps out in front and opens up the ornate wooden door. There’s a golden, roaring lion’s head knocker that clicks slightly as the door swings open to reveal the marble foyer. No amount of pictures Titus texted you could do the place justice. Every detail is strikingly opulent from the golden chandeliers and Italian marble checkerboard floors to the sheer embroidered curtains and high ceilings.

The only thing you don’t love is, well, Titus’s taste. You wrinkle your nose as he shows you through the sitting room and dining room. “You really like black and gray, don’t you?”

He watches you inspect his living space. It’s been a very, very long time since he’s had a woman here. At home. “They match everything. It’s easy.”

“I guess,” you mutter, running your hand over a black leather couch that’s smooth and cool beneath your fingers. You point out, “It’s a little cold for a family. I can’t really imagine a baby toddling around, can you?”

“No,” he replies honestly, “but that’s why I have you. I’d like you to change it all so it’s…warmer. Hire a designer or pick out everything for yourself, whatever makes you happiest.”

As your eyes rove along the under-decorated hallway toward the living wing, already imagining how you might redesign the space, you ask him, “And how would I do that? Will you give me a check or something?”

Titus rolls his eyes and laughs. “A check would imply a budget and supervision; I don’t want any part in it unless you truly think my input would be valuable.”

“That’s hot,” you laugh. “More men should act like that.”

He hums, amused, and then reaches into his jacket, removes a sleek wallet, and hands you a heavy black card. The Black Card, you realize as you stare down at the centurion engraved on dark steel. “That card is yours for whatever you like. You’re already an authorized user on the account; I had the legal team take care of that. It auto-pays every month and I won’t even look at it, so I better not catch you overthinking your spending habits.”

“Ooh la la,” you say, taking the card from him and turning it over in your hand. You’re more than familiar with money, even his money, but it’s never been yours to spend however and whenever you want. No budget, no restrictions, no instructions. It feels almost like getting your first car; that shitbox meant freedom. Your eyes go to his and you ask, “What’s the limit?”

Opening up one of several bedroom doors, he tells you like it isn’t even interesting, “It’s NPSL.” You swallow hard. No Preset Spending Limit. Before leading you inside, he turns around and gives you a mischievous smile. “In fact, there’s a minimum. To maintain our status with the company, you’ll need to spend $350,000 a year on that card.” He smirks at your open-mouthed shock and muses, all cocky and coy, and touches the tip of your nose affectionately. “Can you do that for me, princess?”

“Are you joking?”

“I don’t joke often.”

You balk, “What would I even spend that kind of money on?”

He laughs out loud. “Ursula could spend that much in an hour; I’m sure you’ll find something. For example, where have you always wanted to buy jewelry from?”

You bite your lower lip and reply, “Tiffany.”

“Right, of course. I got you those earrings for Christmas,” he remembers fondly, especially fond of the mind-numbing orgasm you’d ridden out of him wearing nothing but said diamond earrings. “Any time you want, you can take your cute little ass downtown to the shop and get everything else from that collection. Better yet,” he goes on, taking his phone from his pocket and sending a few texts, “I’ll get an appointment for you at their flagship in New York and you can use your fun new card on some first-class tickets for you and a friend and buy out the damn store just to show off.” Before you can roll your eyes and scoff out a response, he presses his index finger to your lips, kisses your forehead, and coos, “You’re filthy rotten rich now, kitten, you’ll have to discover ways to act like it. Now, may I continue my tour?”

You give him a giggly mock salute. “Yes, sir.”

He debates jumping on it but bites his tongue, trying to keep a modicum of self-control with his regular staff lingering nearby. So he takes a breath and leads you through the open door into a vast, relatively blank bedroom, leaving Smith stationed outside. He tells you, “Until we’re married, you’ll stay here in one of the guest rooms. Anything else would be inappropriate.”

You nudge him with your hip, a little too confident. “Inappropriate like all the kinky premarital sex we’ve already had?”

In response, Titus grabs you hard by the waist, flipping you around and pushing you against the nearest wall, hand behind your head. There’s a caution to his touch, though, and it steals your breath away. He’s certain not to be too rough with you. He cups your face in one large hand and studies your features intently. Your eyes widen as you look up into his stoic hazels, finding something dark and unreadable in them.

And then he kisses you. Deep, serious, claiming. Your knees go weak as he presses the curve of your spine, pulling you as close as possible to his body. It feels like a warning more than an act of affection. When he pulls back, he gently touches the tip of your nose with his pointer finger, drawing out a smile, and tuts, “You’re going to have to learn not to talk like that in front of others. It’s bad form.”

“No sex jokes in front of the posh folk,” you tease with a serious nod. “Got it.”

“Good girl.”

“You shouldn’t call me that if you want me to behave.” With embarrassingly warm butterflies taking flight in your stomach, you push out your lower lip and give him your best puppy dog eyes. “I really have to sleep alone?” You wrap your arms around the back of his neck, leaning your weight on him. “In an unfamiliar place?” You drag your lips up his rough neck and suck his sensitive skin, smiling to yourself when he draws in a sharp and wanting hiss. “With my big strong fiancé all the way across the house?”

Titus gives a low chuckle, looking at you like a puzzle. He traces his finger up your neck and along your jaw until he reaches your chin, tilting it upward. He turns your face from side to side, examining you, and you shiver from the intensity. His lip twitches at the corner. “Would you really prefer to sleep in bed with me? Why?”

You take his hand in yours and guide it down to your hip. His other hand instinctively follows and they roam around to your ass, which you arch out to be more enticing. He follows by squeezing your flesh and grunting softly under his breath. You ruck your hands up beneath his shirt and rake your fingernails over his abs until you feel him tremble ever so slightly. On your toes, you whisper against his ear, “I get cold at night.”

Titus sucks in a sharp breath when you take his earlobe between your teeth and nibble ever so slightly. He leans his head back and groans, “Mmm. You’re too powerful for your own good.”

“Just powerful enough.” Then you nibble your lower lip, avert your eyes, and add bashfully, “And I might need you.”

His brows furrow in genuine confusion. “Need me? For what?”

You shrug and try not to sound too vulnerable. “I mean, I’m pregnant. What if I wake up and something’s wrong?”

Titus sets his jaw, considering that. He brushes his thumb over your cheek and studies one of the many emotions he doesn’t have much experience with: Worry. Lowering his voice, he assures you, “Nothing’s going to go wrong. Not if I can help it.”

With a sad little smile, you reply, “Money can buy a lot of things, but it can’t stop me from being scared of complications. Or worse. I don’t want to have to wonder where you are if I wake up afraid.”

At that, he nods solemnly, takes your hand, and starts leading you to the opposite wing of the house. He may not experience anxieties like that, but he understands that his job is to quell yours. “Come on, then; I’ll show you our bedroom. Don’t tell Father; he wouldn’t understand.”

Your eyes narrow. “Will you get in trouble if he finds out?”

“Yes,” he says with a dark humor in his tone and a glint in his eyes. “He’d put me in time out and take away all my favorite toys.” He’d have one hour to hunt me while I remain unarmed. Titus presses a kiss to the center of your forehead. “Don’t worry, bunny; I can handle myself. Handling you is what I’m worried about.”

As he pushes open a set of opulent double doors, you poke his firm shoulder and protest, “I’m a perfect angel.”

“Precisely my concern.” As you step into the suite, he raises a silent hand to stop Smith from following. Closing the doors, Titus strides to where you’re admiring the space, wide eyes greedy over the California king, the floor-to-ceiling windows with grand velvet curtains, the massive his and hers closets. “I know it’s plain right now; I don’t have much of an eye for taste – except in women, of course.”

You smack him lightly on the arm. “Flatterer.”

His deeply ingrained instincts urge him to flip your arm around, pin it behind your back, twist you into submission. But then you smile at him and it’s so warm and open and trusting and earnest that he almost smiles back. “Only for you.”

“I’m sure that’s not true.” You traipse into the adjoining bathroom suite and gawk at the oversized soaking tub, practically its own pool with jets and a head rest, and add, “I get the impression you have to flatter a lot of people in your world.”

“They have to flatter me,” he corrects. You feel his hand on your back and catch sight of him watching you in the large mirror above the double vanity sinks. His first finger trails up your spine and he smiles when you shiver. “And soon they’ll have to flatter you, too.”

“If they have to suck up to you, and you have to suck up to me,” you muse, turning around into his arms, “does that make me the boss of the whole world?”

Titus cradles your face in one hand. His expression is completely and totally confident as he tells you, “I spent the first thirty years of my life watching my mother snap her fingers-” he punctuates it with a click of his own “-and get whatever she wanted from whoever she was speaking to. She commanded attention, power, money. Everyone listened when she spoke. She was the only woman – person – my father ever acquiesced to or listened to. Nobody on earth has more power than Mrs. Danforth,” he finishes, pressing a kiss to your forehead, “and very soon that will be you.”

For a second, you’re breathless, taking in the intensity simmering in his eyes. Then you avert your gaze a second, swallow hard, and look back at him with your usual mischief. “Mommy issues much?”

Rolling his eyes dramatically, Titus swats your ass and laughs, “Father is going to hate you.”

With a raised eyebrow, you needle him, “You say that like it might actually be a good thing.”

Titus confirms, “Being hated by my father is always a badge of honor. He can’t stand me.” Then he takes your hand, leads you back to the bedroom, and sits you down on the ottoman at the foot of the bed. “Now, I have to leave for some business before I introduce you to the family tonight, but I do have one thing I need to give you in the meantime.”

“A welcome home gift?”

“Something like that,” he replies, walking over to his bedside table and removing a black velvet box. He kneels in front of you, your legs on either side of his shoulders, and your heart starts to pound. As he opens it to reveal the ridiculous ring inside, he begins, “Now, bunny, if you want a proper proposal with a string quartet or a sunset on the beach, I’ll do that, but for-”

“Titus, shut up,” you whisper. “Is this…for me?”

Your eyes are glued to the ring. You’ve never seen anything like it. Clearly it’s an antique piece; the metalwork and stones have been meticulously maintained and show a high level of craftsmanship. The large center diamond is black – an almost surreal color, both drawing light in and flinging it out, seeming at once opaque and transparent from different angles – and surrounded by a halo of small pearls and diamonds set in fine platinum. It’s not eye-catching so much as jaw-dropping.

Your heartbeat thuds and whooshes in your ears as Titus removes the ring from the box and takes your left hand in his. You splay your fingers to give him better access.

“My great grandfather had it made for his wife and my mother held onto it for me to give to mine, not that she believed I’d ever find one. It won’t be the most expensive piece in your collection, but it’s the most precious and rare to our family name.” Titus slides it onto your finger and then kisses the skin just above it, his lips softer than you’ve ever felt. He holds your hand in his and urges.  “I never want to see you without it.”

“I should take it off to shower and sleep,” you point out absently, still staring at the ring. You flick your eyes up to his. “And I assume you’d still like to see me those times.”

“I’m going to have to start punishing you for all this flirting, you know.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Is that a promise?”

He shakes his head and lets out a sharp, amused breath. “Oh, you’re in for it now.”

In the next breath, Titus smirks and lifts you easily, tossing you up onto the bed. As you shriek out a laugh, the plush fabric and thick mattress catch you like a cartoon cloud. Titus pounces on you like a panther while you’re still getting your bearings, hiking your skirt up around your waist and yanking your panties down hard enough to rip the elastic. You don’t complain; for every pair of your underwear he’s ruined, Titus has always gifted you five more from nicer shops.

His fingers circle your clit hard and fast, working you up frantically, and you know exactly what his game is. It’s one he plays often and well. You’ve got no choice but to enjoy the expert way he touches you, months of knowing how to get you off and bring you down painstakingly memorized.

Then, as you expect, the very moment your walls start to clamp down, Titus stops all touch and slaps your clit hard. The sting rockets up your spine and you gasp. Your thighs shake and he laughs at your mewling.

Before you can even start to think , he pulls his shirt off, casts it aside, and crawls onto the bed next to you. Then his middle two fingers are on your clit again and his lips lock onto yours and you’re moaning and whining and hoping, hoping, hoping he won’t-

He slaps your clit once more and you nearly knee him with the force of your body’s reaction. He stills your leg with a smirk and coos, “Careful, princess, you’ll pull a muscle. Can’t have that.”

You challenge him with narrow eyes. “Then how about you pin me down and fuck me so I don’t squirm?”

“So goddamn greedy,” he huffs. “You’re lucky I’m in a good mood today.”

“I wonder whose fault that is.”

You watch, mouth watering, as he takes off his belt and slacks. You even notice the brief hesitation as the leather belt runs over his fingers; you’ve been known to beg for a whipping with it on more than one occasion. But he’s being gentle with you – for Titus, at least. He returns to you on the bed with a wolfish gaze, spreading your legs apart and admiring you for long enough to make your breath hitch. When you feel the tip of his swollen cock nudging at your entrance, it’s with a toe-curling gentility that makes your body sensitive.

Titus always thrusts into you agonizingly slow, no matter how worked up either of you are. He savors the little flutters and twitches that come with filling your pretty cunt millimeter by breathless millimeter. Once he’s seated inside of you, feeling the way your hips instinctively roll back into his and how your cunt is clamping onto him like it needs reassurance, Titus presses his thumb to your lower lip and orders, “Beg.”

And even though you’re having to actively hold back from squirming and moaning, you know he loves the chase, so you grip his curls tight and reply, “Why should I?”

“God, you fucking brat.” He spits on your face and you lick it off your lips, never dropping his eyes that trace your movements. “If you won’t beg for what you want, then I expect you to stay there and take whatever I give you.”

Your eyes widen in a mix of lust and fear, right on the primal line that Titus so loves to play with. One of his hands goes down to cover your mouth. There’s a millisecond where his eyes flick up to yours, asking permission, and it’s gone as soon as you give an imperceptible nod. When you and Titus fuck, your minds run parallel to one another; the same temptations and ideas call both your attention.

Once his salty, heavy palm is clamping your mouth shut, Titus fucks you like he needs. Your pleasure becomes entirely secondary to him; he only touches your clit because it amuses him to watch you squirm and kick and writhe, unable to speak or moan or do much of anything besides take it.

When he hikes your legs higher, working you into a full mating press that lets him fuck you hard and deep, your eyes roll back and your moans turn into squeaks. His thumb continues its strumming on your clit as you start to shake from pleasure. He purrs, “There we go.”

And then he cums.

Unannounced, unplanned, unrepentant. He pulls out and gives your thigh an affectionate pat.

You grab his hand and wail, “No, no, no no no nonono! Titus!”

He lifts your fingers to his lips and kisses each one softly, “Didn’t I say this was a punishment? You have to learn to behave yourself.”

You lean back, raise your arms above your head so that your tits are on beautiful display, and look up at him like an innocent, needy puppy. After a beat of charged silence where his eyes ravish your body, you say the one word you’re always careful to withhold from him until the right moment: “Please.”

Above the bed like a god, Titus gazes down at you, panting and disheveled and leaking his cum. He tsks and sighs, “How am I supposed to punish you when you take me so well?” Then he drops to his knees, hooks his arms beneath your legs, and tugs you to the end of the bed as if you weigh nothing. “When you’ve done everything I’ve asked without complaint?” He slides two fingers into your sopping cunt, curling them toward himself and grinning when you arch your back and whine out in pleasure. He nips your inner thighs with his teeth and rests his free hand on your lower abdomen, over your womb. Leaning toward your wrecked pussy, he murmurs at last, “When you’re carrying my child? I couldn’t possibly deny you.”

And he descends on your swollen, aching clit. The taste of his own cum mixed with your juices drives him wild. The taste of his ownership. After all the edging, you’re mere moments from tumbling over the precipice.

He doesn’t make you wait any longer.

He growls into your cunt as you spasm around his fingers, the orgasm burning up your spine and boiling beneath your cheeks. Your back arches and he refuses to let you stop cumming, keeping his tongue just as firm and fast as you punch into overstimulation. It’s so good it borders on painful and that’s what he loves the most. The moment when you cry out his name and try to push his shoulders back because it’s just too much and only he can finally release you.

Your chest heaves as you collapse back onto the bed. Titus slowly withdraws his fingers from your pussy and licks them clean, drunk on the taste of the two of you becoming one. You can’t talk or think as you rest the back of your hand on your forehead to cool it down. After a few moments of breathing, you smirk up at him and tease, “I knew you’d cave, you big softie.”

He kneels over you again. “I assure you it was completely selfish; making you cum strokes my ego.”

“Mhmm. Whatever you say.”

Titus tuts out a chuckle and checks his watch before swearing under his breath. After a searing kiss that gives you the sense he wants nothing more than to start a second round, Titus sighs, “Three hours as my live-in trophy wife and you’re already making me late.”

You nip his collarbone. “Bite me.”

“Don’t tempt me.” He holds your chin and orders gently, “Ask Chip to take you downtown. Designer district. Buy an outfit that makes you feel perfect and be home in time for dinner at six.”

At 5:58, Titus knocks on the door of his own home with a bouquet of white roses. He can already imagine you rolling your eyes at his display before Smith opens up the door on your behalf. Titus is pleased to see that you let him open it without argument, already beginning to accept having others watch out for you.

You step into the moonlight and Titus hands off the flowers to Smith, who falls back behind you. For a moment, Titus is at a loss for words. You’ve always made a point of dressing up and looking beautiful for him; that’s a part of your arrangement, a part of the business of being a professional sugar baby. He’s even paid for you to get plenty of lovely pieces to add to your wardrobe.

But this?

You’ve spent the handful of hours since he left (and attended several excruciating meetings) pampering yourself into a state more akin to divinity than humanity. He may not have the eye for fashion that his sister does, but he can easily identify the trappings of a woman feeling confident about herself: Freshly French-tipped nails, sleek high heels with a thin strap around your ankle, makeup subtle and feminine. The burgundy halter dress hugs your curves, the silk crepe just structured enough to be formal but swinging enough to be sweet and flirty.

He wants to devour you.

And when he kisses you hello, he makes it obvious, dipping you far backwards and gripping your hip like it owes him money. He can feel the designer quality of the dress, soft as butter, under his fingertips. Then he rakes his hands up your thighs and growls against your ears, “I’m not going to be able to keep my hands off you in the one situation where I absolutely have to.”

You give him a modest twirl and ask, “You really like it?”

 With his hand on your lower back, Titus guides you toward the main house and purrs, sounding both proud and possessive, “You look perfectly at home in luxury, kitten.”

You try to quell your nerves as you walk up the marble steps to the back entrance of the home, where Smith opens the large glass doors to usher you both inside. Unlike Titus’ – and your, you have to keep reminding yourself – house, the main house is opulently designed, drenched in old-school grandeur. Everything is antique, hundreds of years old, in dark woods and rich silks. It’s more like walking through a museum than a home.

When Titus brings you into the grand dining room, you can see just how well his father and sister match the decor. Thin, severe, expensive. His sister is drop-dead gorgeous in a very ‘90s leading lady way while his father has the sort of face and demeanor usually reserved for stereotypical evil wizards or vampire counts. Titus has to push you into their eyeline when you find yourself shrinking beneath their stares.

Mr. Danforth and Ursula both stand to greet you but don’t move otherwise. Titus takes a deep breath and announces, “Father, Ursula, I’d like to introduce the future Mrs. Danforth.”

Father offers you his hand first, but you’re clearly not supposed to shake it, so you just present your own. He lifts your hand to his lips and kisses your skin softly. “How lovely to finally make your acquaintance. My son has sung your praises extensively.”

“That’s very sweet.” You bite your tongue despite how easy it would be to tease Titus because you know for a fact he never would’ve mentioned you to them at all if it weren’t for the baby. You stick with a polite albeit slightly stiff, “Mr. Danforth, it’s an honor to meet you.”

Titus’ gentle, affirmative pat to your arm almost makes you laugh – the situation is too weird for words – but you still hold back. It’s a truly herculean effort not to point out how otherworldly this whole thing is. You haven’t exactly met people who just reek of power and status, their presence so effortlessly commanding that you want to laugh so you don’t cry or hide.

Then it’s Ursula’s turn with you. She doesn’t shake hands, doesn’t hug, doesn’t even speak for a solid thirty seconds. You can feel Ursula’s eyes on every inch of you, dissecting and analyizing. It’s like she’s trying to see through your skin or maybe telepathically peel it off your bones. You’re holding your breath until she finally says, “You’re very pretty.”

“Thank you.” Swallowing hard, you force a wobbly smile and tell her, “You look stunning, exactly like I expected from how your brother talks about your fashion sense.”

She waves her hand dismissively. “Please; Titus wouldn’t know fashion sense if I smacked him over the head with it. And I’ve tried.” Before you can try to come up with any possible response, she gestures to your dress and asks, “Where is this little number from? It looks appropriately expensive for the occasion. A gift from our Titus, I assume?”

“Um, yes, he sent me shopping today.”

She gives you a pitying sort of smile and squeezes your forearm in a way that feels truly predatory. “He’s always so generous with his playthings.”

Titus clears his throat. “Ursula.”

“I’m just teasing,” she laughs without any humor. Then her narrowed eyes return to you. “Really, though, where did you find a dress like this in our dingy little city?”

You smooth out the fabric and tell her, “It’s, um, it’s Yves Saint Laurent.”

“Looks like something I would wear.”

You try on a soft, self-deprecating laugh. “I told Chip to take me somewhere you would shop.”

“Maybe I’ll go and pick one up in my size,” she muses, still scanning your body for every flaw, which you’re suddenly painfully aware of, coming up with brand new insecurities every second her focus moves. “I’d ask to borrow it, but yours would drown me.”

Titus cuts her off sharply, “That’s enough.”

She pouts at her brother. “Don’t be so sensitive, ducky; I’m sure she can-”

“No.” You’ve never heard Titus’ voice as stone cold and commanding as when he tells her, an order and a punishment, “Never speak down to her. Never.”

Ursula rolls her eyes and plops herself dramatically in one of the oversized dining chairs. She pouts and says, “Fatherhood is already making you so boring. Now I’m going to have to weaponize her against you so I have someone to complain with about how boring you are. Sigh.”

And dinner goes just about like that.

Mr. Danforth unabashedly interrogates you about your life, your family, your history. Ursula critiques your answers. Titus snaps at them both when they push too far. You just try to hold onto your fork and sneak bites of decadent food in between the family bickering. You can tell there’s a kind of affection entirely foreign to you in the way they jab and dodge each other’s barbs. The way rich people talk to each other – all subtext and speed – is surreal to listen to. Eyes rolled about memories in St. Barts and arguments over clients in Aspen; it’s like they’re speaking a different language from the one you learned growing up.

By the time you’ve finished pretending to like flan because you’re terrified of being rude, they seem to have hashed out all their regular arguments, everyone beyond ready to leave the rest alone. Titus can tell you’re getting overwhelmed by their equally intense presences fighting for dominance, so he slides his hand protectively onto your knee and announces, “I think we’ve kept my fiancée awake late enough, haven’t we?”

Ursula pouts, leaning across the table and snatching your left hand into hers for examination. “You already gave her mother’s ring and I missed the grand proposal? How tragically unromantic.”

Father sighs, “They’re doing things a touch out of order, darling.”

“I wouldn’t want an extravagant proposal anyway,” you manage to squeak out. “A nice private moment between the two of us was perfect.”

“Ah, so she’s the one making you boring,” Ursula laughs. Then she lowers her gaze and adds, “If you don’t like extravagance, you may be marrying into the wrong family. Your wedding guest list is already 250 people long.”

“I’m definitely looking forward to all of it,” you assure as you desperately try not to sound either meek or ungrateful, “but Titus is being kind enough to ease me into the waters. Trust me: The beautiful estate and stunning, personal ring made as much of a statement as any proposal.”

Father smirks at you with a pleased satisfaction that seems to surprise Titus and his sister. “What a diplomatic response. My daughter will be lucky to learn from your decorum.”

As Titus stifles a laugh, Ursula stands up dramatically from the table and reminds him, “I’m literally a diplomat, Father. Try telling the people of Monaco that I’m anything but diplomatic when I personally broke ground on the country’s latest arts center.”

“That was for optics,” Titus cuts back, adding under this breath, “unlike my work in Geneva.”

Ursula brandishes her knife like she might really use it on him, making you gasp gently under your breath, and that’s when Father officially clears his throat and stands with a curt, “I think that’s enough family time for one night.”

“I completely agree,” Titus replies, rolling his shoulders before he stands up. After pulling your chair out and guiding you to your feet, he says, “We’ll see you both at the Governor’s Ball on Saturday.” 

Titus shakes his father’s hand at the end of dinner and, once again, you have to remind yourself not to tease him. Thankfully, it’s a surgical extraction from there and Titus has you walking back toward your house in no time.

After Titus dismisses Smith for the night and arms the extensive home security system, he meets you in the primary bathroom, where you’re unclasping your jewelry and examining yourself in the mirror. Titus must’ve had someone on staff put away your things because your bedtime skincare routine is laid out on the countertop. Before reaching for any of it, you bite your lip and ask Titus, “Be honest: Did I do okay?”

He comes up behind you, slipping his strong arms around your waist. “You did great. I’m only sorry Ursula was so very-” he struggles to find the right word “-Ursula.”

“I expected worse,” you tell him with half a smile. “I didn’t expect you to stand up for me, though. To your sister.”

“Ursula is the family the universe gave me. She’s my best friend and my closest confidant – and she’s a nightmare. A hellion.” Titus kisses your forehead and gently touches your stomach. “You’re the family I’m choosing. That means you come first, button. I’m not going to have my children watch their father sit idly by while their mother is insulted. I’m practicing setting a good example.”

You stand up on your toes and kiss him on the cheek. “Thank you.”

Titus runs his hands up your spine and fiddles with the halter tie at the back of your neck. “Now let’s get you out of this very lovely dress so you can sleep. Do you need a back rub? Some ginger tea?”

You raise an eyebrow as you slowly take out your cleanser and reusable cotton rounds. “Are those real offers or are you teasing me?”

“Real offers. From either a masseuse I can have here in fifteen minutes and our chef or from me personally.” He tugs the dress down your body, guides you to step out of it, and discards it in the bathroom hamper like you didn’t pay $3,200 for it a few hours ago. “No funny business, just relaxation and rest, especially well earned after spending a few hours with my family.”

“I could probably tolerate a foot rub before bed,” you giggle as he kisses across the tops of your shoulders.

“Go on, then.” He strips off his own shirt and makes quick work of his belt and slacks, too. Looking deliciously sturdy in just his black boxer briefs, he leans against the bathroom doorframe and says. “Finish getting un-ready and come lie down with me, princess. I’ll make sure to get you nice and relaxed before bed.”

“You want me to do my whole bedtime routine topless?”

“I’ll grab you something from your closet,” he offers, frowning a little because he admittedly does like the idea of watching you traipsing around with your tits out. When he returns with a tank top and silky shorts, he notices you still haven’t started taking off your full face of makeup. Too knowingly, he strolls into the bathroom with the pajamas and asks, all low and teasing, “Are you nervous to take off your makeup in front of me?”

You toy with the damp cloth, studying him in the mirror, and admit, “A little. And not just the makeup.”

He crosses his arms over his chest and laughs, “I’ve seen you naked, kitty.”

You scoff, “Naked and made up with at minimum highlighter and mascara. Or in very manicured outfits.”

He offers, “I’ve also seen you in pajamas before.”

“Lingerie,” you correct. “You don’t really think I sleep in slutty little negligees and teddies, do you?”

“A man can dream.”

“Well, if you hadn’t noticed, typically you rip those off me, fuck me unconscious, and then leave before my actual bedtime routine,” you reply, poking him in his hard chest. As you tug on the tank top and shorts, you go on, “I usually wake up around midnight, get room service on your tab, and sleep in my ugly sweats since you never spend the night.”

Clearly amused by the whole thing, he presses, “Are you worried I’ll rescind my proposal to the mother of my child because you aren’t a model in your sleep?”

“I don’t know!” You huff and glare at him, knowing full well you’re being hormonally dramatic now. “This is all very new to me, Titus. I have to wear a four-figure dress to dinner and go to the fucking Governor’s Ball, I guess, but I still have to be me at bedtime? All while figuring out how to be your fiancée and not just your sugar baby? It’s weird.”

Titus closes the space between you, each step stern and confident. He takes the makeup removal pad and cleanser from you, gently lathers the cloth, and starts to work it over your face without saying a word. Titus says the most when he's silent. Right away, you melt beneath his touch. His totally sturdy gaze. Quietly, he relents, “It’s a lot. I know that. You don’t have to come to the big social events right away; we can start smaller than the fucking Governor’s Ball.” He smiles when you crack one of your own. “If you aren’t ready to jump right into being my wife, there are plenty of other bedrooms you can stay in and have your own space.”

“I don’t want my own space,” you whisper back. “I’m just scared of taking up too much of yours, I guess. Or not fitting into your life the way you expect. Of being Mrs. Danforth correctly. Not looking expensive enough or beautiful enough or-”

“Quiet now,” he interrupts, words harsh and clear but tone nothing but warm. “Do you know what I want from Mrs. Danforth?” Titus finishes wiping your face of its mask and then examines your products and selects your moisturizer. He massages it into your face and neck with fingers so tender you could cry. When he’s finished, he holds your face in one large hand and murmurs, “I want you to sit by my side and sleep in my arms. You. We have the rest of our lives to work out the details.”

For the first time, you feel the real you slip out in front of Titus. No flirting, no pushing, no hiding. All you can manage to whisper is, “Thank you.”

He gives you a soft kiss and then goes on, quiet but urgent. “As for worrying about your appearance, you have never been lovelier to me than you are right now,” leading you to the bed and sitting you down with your feet in his lap, he finishes, “because you’re mine. And that’s the most perfect thing you can be.”