Such is Life.

“I don’t gather flowers.” Roman grumbles, and his mother pets his hair affectionately.

“Of course not, darling. It’s just for the story.”

Roman huffs, wriggling on his mother’s lap. A boy of eleven and a little short for his age, Roman would rather die than admit that he still crawls into his mother’s bed most nights, when the wind howls against the window panes and the candles have burned too low to see anything past the shadows.

“One morning, the prince happened upon a caravan of travelers in a colorful wagon. He stopped, enthralled by the flurry of tinny music and loud, strange singing. An old woman beckoned him forward, and what do you think the prince did?"

“He got into the wagon,” Roman whispers, feeling dread pool low in his stomach.

“He forgot his mother and his father and his castle on the hill, and he climbed into the wagon. The travelers set upon him at once, ripping the gleaming gold from his fingers and tearing the fine fabric of his coat. The young prince was thrown this way and that, battered and bruised by these wolves masquerading as peasants.”

“But he escapes, doesn’t he mama?” Roman asks in a small, shaking voice.

Olivia Godfrey clicks her tongue, pressing her lips to the top of his head as she pinches a fat chunk of his thigh between her thumb and forefinger until the boy squeals. “With his life, only just. The prince returns to his castle in rags, and the games keeper sets the hounds upon him, thinking the boy a beggar.”

Roman swallows, blinking through the tears as his mother’s nails dig purple crescents into his flesh. “Until he is saved by the queen.”

Olivia releases his skin, eyeing the purpling bruise with satisfaction. “The queen sees through his rags and the terrible injuries inflicted upon him, for she is his truest love in all the world. She orders the dogs away and nurses the prince back to health.”

Roman hums, wrapping his arms tighter around his mother’s throat. She is not an overly affectionate woman, save for these midnight embraces when she’ll whisper fairytales into his ear.

“What do we learn from the story, darling?” Olivia murmurs against Roman’s soft, chestnut locks.

“That a gypsy is a gypsy is a gypsy.” Roman says.

“They will steal the rings from your fingers and the love right out of your heart,” Olivia whispers, clinking the cool circles of metal on her fingers against the warm nape of Roman’s neck until he shivers. “And what’s the other lesson?”

Roman swallows hard. “That the queen is his truest love in all the world.”

Olivia kisses his hair again, her arms encircling his waist as she draws him closer against the cage of her ribs. “That’s right, my darling. You and I.”

You look up at the mansion, counting the flickering panes of glass in the white stone façade. Thirteen across, to Roman’s bedroom window. You pray he’ll look out, just once, just long enough to raise his hand and give you a tiny fraction of the farewell that’s been stolen from you. You cannot know that Roman is on the other side of the mansion, locked behind the iron door of his mother’s chambers. You cannot know that he will find your room empty tomorrow and search every inch of Leordeni for you.

Your eyes burn with tears as the governess pushes you into the waiting carriage and climbs in after, and you blink against the salt as the driver cracks his whip against the horses and the carriage takes off down the hill, swaying under the weight of your trunks in the back.

“There’s no use crying about it now,” the governess says with tight lips. “The young boyar wishes for you to be sent away, so away you must go.”

“He wouldn’t.” You whisper

The woman looks down at the folds of your skirt against the velvet upholstery, and you press your thighs together. “This is no place for a woman.” She says evenly. “You’ll come to see this as a blessing, in time.”

The flyer is still clutched in your sweaty palm as you look up at the Godfrey Mansion. You’d turn around and forget the whole thing, but your cab is already most of the way down the drive and you spent your last ten bucks getting here, anyway. There’s a flicker of movement in an upstairs window, and you suck in a breath and march up the steps to the front door even as your heart pounds and your legs turn to jello. This has to be a joke. You hope it’s a joke, because Roman Godfrey has a reputation for making weird, unsettling things happen and you’re not at all interested in becoming a story whispered around school.

You unfold the flyer in your hand as you rap your fist against the wood, reading the words printed on the paper. FEMALE MODEL WANTED FOR PRIVATE LIFE DRAWING. GENEROUS COMPENSATION PROVIDED

You’d text the number on the bottom with a picture of your body, as requested. It had felt a little bit weird to do it, but you were clothed at least. You were aware that life drawing usually meant nudity, but it wouldn’t be terrible if it was for an art class. Clinical, even. You could put your airpods in and zone out with an audiobook or something.

The front door opens, and any hope that Olivia Godfrey was running a secret women’s art group melts out of you as you take in the imposing figure of Roman Godfrey leaning against the doorframe. “Yeah?”

“Uh.” You blink, holding out the flyer. Roman’s eyes narrow as he glances at the damp paper in your hand.

“What’s that?”

You frown. “You can’t read?”

You regret the words immediately, you regret them as they’re coming out, but you’re nervous and that always makes you a little defensive.

Roman’s lips curl up into a smirk. “Yeah, I can. Better than you apparently. Message said noon.”

Your mouth twists to the side. “It’s only ten after. My cab was late.”

Roman nods as though this information means anything to him, though he’s just pleased you showed up. It had been a fucking nightmare, sifting through endless conversations and selfies of boring strangers, waiting for you to take the bait. Worth it now though, with you shaking on his front step and looking as deliciously vulnerable as he’d imagined you would.

“Well you better come in then, or we’ll lose the light.”

That sounds like an artist thing to say, but your heart remains lodged firmly in your throat as you follow him into the house and hear the creaking of the door shutting behind you.

“This way.” Roman calls impatiently, and you realise he’s already half way up the stairs. You hesitate at the bottom, and he huffs something rude under his breath as he stomps back down to your side. “What’s wrong?”

“I… am I really here for life drawing?”

Roman’s smirk sharpens. “Sure.” He leans in, his breath ghosting too close to your mouth. “What else would we possibly be doing?” Your face floods, flushing crimson so quickly it makes you dizzy, and Roman’s smirk softens as he steps back. “You’re kinda jumpy, you know that?”

You nod, and his smile softens even further, turning dangerously disarming as he offers you his hand. And you kinda watch from outside of your own body as you take it, lacing your fingers with his and letting him tug you gently up the enormous winding staircase.

Roman’s bedroom is both completely unexpected and entirely predictable. He has an enormous bed, because of course he does, with silk black sheets and a mirror on the ceiling above. You feel your blush deepen as you think about what you would look like sprawled out in those sheets, watching yourself get fucked by Roman Godfrey. It’s not something you thought about much, but sometimes, sure. Every girl in Hemlock Grove and a good portion of the boys had thought about it at some point.

There’s an assortment of colourful rags pinned to the front of a bar cart, and it’s only when you get a little closer you realise they’re bras. Conquests. You have to look away to stop your face from spontaneously combusting. You can feel his eyes on you, watching you as you examine his space. You reach an easel, a well-used set of pencils laid out neatly on a table beside it. There’s a chair setup opposite, perfectly positioned to catch the best of the afternoon light through his window. “For me?” You ask, pointing to the seat.

Roman’s leaning against the door still, jaw set in a tight line, but he nods in confirmation and pushes off to join you by the window. “The light is best here. Best in the house.” As if he were trying to explain himself. As if he cared what you thought.

“And you want me to… take everything off?”

Roman swallows, his eyes raking down your body. “Only if you feel comfortable. I don’t…” He trails off, a faint pink dusting his high cheekbones, and you fight the absurd urge to reach out and touch his face. This wasn’t right. It wasn’t Roman. Apprehension prickles on the back of your neck again and you step away from him, taking a seat.

“Clothes on, then.” You swallow, looking everywhere but at him as he studies you. You don’t see the smirk curving on his mouth, have no idea of the challenge you’ve set him with your decision to stay covered up. You settle into the seat, looking out the window and not at Roman as your face comes level with his crotch. He watches you lean back into the chair, the way your skirt fans over the seat, and he sucks his bottom lip into his mouth. However fun it’s going to be peeling you out of your clothes, he can’t deny that there’s a beauty in the flow of fabric, the suggestion of your thighs beneath.

“Can I…?” He trails off, pointing to your skirt, and you nod like you have any idea at all what he’s talking about. Roman crouches in front of you, eyes raking over your body as his fingers reach for the hem of your skirt and drag it wide, smoothing a wrinkle from the fabric. “Yeah.” He hums. “That’s good.”

Your pulse thunders under your skin as he looks at you, and you swallow hard. Roman’s lips curl up into a smirk as he stands, brushing your hair back over your shoulder. He doesn’t ask permission this time, and your skin burns everywhere his fingers brush.

He crosses to his own seat, pulling a sketchpad off the easel and hooking his ankle over his knee to rest the pad against his calf. “Stay still.”

You nod, and he raises an eyebrow. “Still.”

You freeze yourself in place, and his smirk widens. “Good girl.”

Your body might be still, but you can do nothing about the way it reacts to hearing Roman Godfrey call you a good girl. Your cheeks burn and your clit throbs between your legs so strongly you have to press your thighs together.

Roman notices. He is drawing you, but only barely. Mostly he’s watching, the little shifts as your chest rises and falls with each breath, the parting of your lips and the quick dart of your tongue to wet them. So of course he sees the movement as you press your thighs together, and his cock twitches in response. He’d figured you might be into that, praise. A lot of girls were, sure, but there was something different about you.

Where other girls melted, you seemed to glow. When you were called on in class and gave the right answer, you’d glow at affirmation, even as your blood thundered so loud in your veins Roman was sure he could hear it clear across the classroom. Your face would flush so deeply it was almost concerning, and the sight of all that blood under your skin would get him fucking hard. Because you were a wallflower, you were shy, and you were going to be Roman’s. “You should draw like, professionally.” Ashley Valentine had said, at the sketch in his Math book. A girl at a desk, hunched shoulders and hair covering her face. You, without the pretty curve of your mouth and your deep, intelligent eyes. He’d shrugged and smirked and made an off-colour comment about exactly what he was a professional at, and Ashley had rolled her eyes and dropped it. But the idea had stuck. A way to legitimise his interest in you. Because slipping you a fifty and asking you to meet him in the parking lot wouldn’t have worked on you. Not on you. But hiring you as a model? Breaking the alternator in your car and then offering you exactly as much as you’d need to fix it? Yeah, that had worked.

“Is this…sorry.” You stammer. “Is this good?”

Roman tilts his head to the side, pressing the tip of his pencil against his bottom lip like he’s really considering it. Like he knows shit about art. “Sure.”

You squirm a little at the dismissive, flat tone. “I could… do better? I don’t know. If there’s a pose, or?” You trail off. You don’t know why it matters. But maybe you want to hear him call you a good girl again. At the sick throb between your legs, you press your lips together. Yeah, you want to hear Roman Godfrey call you a good girl again.

Roman hums, resting his sketchbook against the easel and uncrossing his legs. “I wanna try something.” You nod, eyes full of delicious apprehension as he steps in front of you and drops into a crouch. “You’re too nervous.”

“Sorry.” Your voice is barely a whisper, and Roman feels it in his cock.

“Don’t be. Just…” he reaches for your calf, pushing your legs apart, and you almost fight him on it. “Relax,” his voice is low and soothing, and you force yourself to loosen up as he pushes your legs apart and hitches the hem of your skirt up around your thighs. You feel the puff of air against you as Roman’s head dips between your legs, and you tilt your head back, eyes fixing on the ceiling. How had this happened?

You feel the tip of Roman’s nose graze against your inner thigh, and then his face reappears from under your skirt. His pupils are wide and there’s a faint pink blush on his cheeks. “You’re a classic.” He says. You’d think he was making fun of you if his face wasn’t so intensely sincere.

“A classic what?”

He smirks, and you tense as you feel his hands travel up the insides of your calves to rest on the meat of your thighs. “A classic beauty. Like something from the fuckin storybooks.”

You swallow, tensing the flesh of your thighs under his fingers. “That’s a weird thing to say.”

Roman hums. “I’m a weird guy.”

You don’t know whether to agree with that or not, so you say nothing, focusing on the brush of his fingertips against your sensitive skin. “What… uh,” you shake your head, hips lifting against his fingers as he ghosts them over the front of your underwear. “This isn’t how you draw someone.”

“You’re wet,” Roman whispers, prodding against the dampness over your swelling clit. “Anyone ever touched you before?”

You feel your cheeks burn with humiliation as you shake your head. “No I… no.” The last word comes out as a moan, and Romans fingers hone in on your clit, rubbing against it through your panties.

“A classic,” he sighs again, dipping his fingers just inside your underwear to brush through your folds.

You whimper, trying to pull back. “I don’t want-“

“Relax.” He says again, withdrawing his fingers just as quickly. He retreats to his chair, picking up his pencil and resting the sketchbook on his thighs.

You blink at him, feeling the pulse of arousal between your legs. Roman’s barely looking at you now, pencil flying over the page. His tongue pokes out the side of his mouth in concentration, and it’s disconcertingly cute. You’d wonder if you’d imagined the whole thing, if not for the fact that he keeps brushing his fingertips against his lip, and you can see the faint slick of your arousal still shining on them.

You’re lulled into a gentle trance by the sound of pencil scraping on paper and the soft in and out of Roman’s breathing. The room is warm, the dying sun heating your skin through the panes of his window, and you’re dangerously close to falling asleep when Roman drops his pencil to the floor with a clatter and tosses his sketchbook aside. “I wanna try something else.”

Your heartrate picks up immediately, the sudden, manic change in his disposition throwing you off. “What do you mean?”

“You ready to take your clothes off?” Roman asks, a mean delight dancing in his green eyes.

“I would prefer not to,” you mumble, swallowing around a lump of embarrassment.

“Would you… wear something else? Nothing weird.” Roman’s mouth curves into a conspiratory smile, and you feel a sense of dread as you nod your head in agreement. He crosses to an enormous closet, rummaging inside before pulling out a garment and twisting the hanger in his hand so the skirt twirls out.

Your mouth falls open as you look at the dress. Floor length, white silk with delicate embroidery covering the bodice. It looks expensive as hell. It looks like a fucking wedding dress. “Beautiful.” You mumble.

“Would you wear it? I’ve always wanted to draw it.”

You shrug, reaching for it with shaking hands. “I’m not sure it’ll fit.”

Roman scoffs. “It’ll fit.”

You chew your lip as your fingers brush over the fine fabric. “Can you wait outside?”

Roman smirks, but there’s something heated in his gaze as he watches you touch the dress. “I’ll turn around.”

Your eyes never leave his back as you undress quickly, feeling phantom eyes prickle against your skin as you strip down to your underwear and pull the dress over your head. It fits snugly, silk and boning moulding perfectly to the curves of your body as you adjust the bodice and let the skirts fall to the floor with a soft rustle. “I… you can turn around now, Roman.”

Roman does, slowly, his eyes dragging over every inch of you. His breath catches a little in his throat. You look so much better than he could have imagined. So much better than he’d pictured, when he’d stolen your sweater and a pair of your gym shorts and given them to his mother’s tailor with a vague but threatening demand. But nothing could have prepared him for how you look in it. “Good.” He says, the word choked out of his closing throat. His cock isn’t even hard, that’s how much he likes it. His heart aches, but his cock isn’t even hard.

“The chair, again?” You ask quietly, squirming under the intensity of the way he’s looking at you.

“Sure. For the, you know,” he trails off, gesturing with his hand.

“Light?” You supply, and he raises an eyebrow.

“Right.” He keeps his eyes fixed on you as you lower into the chair, smoothing the skirts out around you so the fabric falls smooth against the seat.

“Good?” You ask, fingers hovering over the arms of the chair. “Roman?”

He startles, shaking his head for a moment. “Good. Fuck, yeah. That’s good.” But he doesn’t move, his eyes travelling over your body with a dark, hungry look that makes your clit throb again.

“Roman,” you say again, softly. “Aren’t you going to… draw me?”

“Right,” he breathes, collecting his pencil from the floor and flipping his sketchbook to a clean page. “Hold still.”

As if you could do anything else, pinned under his unblinking stare. Roman’s gotten as far as drawing the shape of your skirt where it folds over the edge of the seat when he gives up the pretense of the whole operation. He tosses the sketchpad to the floor and it skitters away, under the bar. You flinch at the harsh sound of it thwacking against the floorboards, eyes going wide as Roman crosses the room and steps too close to you.

“What’s wrong?” Your voice shakes, and Roman has to close his eyes and absorb how scared you sound. Fucking classic.

He doesn’t answer, twirling the pencil between his long fingers before pressing the blunt end against your cheek. “You afraid of me?”

You swallow, blinking rapidly as Roman trails the wooden edge across your cheek and grazes against your bottom lip. “Yes.”

Roman’s cock does stir then, twitching heavily against the tightness of his boxers as you look up at him. Fuck, it’d feel good to trace the seam of your lips with the head of his cock and paint your mouth with his cum. You’d look so pretty like that. But he won’t do it, because you’re the art. He pushes the end of the pencil between your lips and your breath hitches at the feeling of it pressed to your tongue. You don’t suck on it, and Roman’s a little disappointed but he’s mostly delighted that he was right about you. You’re not a fucktoy. You’re not going to let him stick his cock in your mouth or your pussy or your ass or anything. You’re too fucking good for him. You’re above him. And he’s so into that it’s bordering on obsession.

He pulls the pencil out of your mouth and lifts it to his own lips, sucking the faint trace of your saliva from the wood before he sinks slowly to his knees and dips his hand beneath your skirt to run the wet tip of it up your inner thigh. “You just afraid of me?” He asks quietly, nudging the pencil over your clothed core just once before dragging it down the opposite thigh.

You let out a shaking breath, sinking your teeth into your bottom lip. “No.”

This pleases him too, Roman hums as he dips his head beneath your skirt and watches as he pushes the pencil against your folds, your pussy pressing around it as you shift and gasp. Without your eyes on him, he has to go by the sounds you’re making, and the deep, guttural moan you make when he presses his mouth to your clit has his cock throbbing.

“Roman,” you whimper. “Wait, you can’t-“ You break off with a whine as Roman’s tongue drags over the front of your underwear over and over again, soaking the fabric with his saliva and your arousal. He drags the pencil down lower, pressing it against your entrance through your panties, and you suck in a breath. “Don’t.”

Roman won’t, actually. Penetrating you would be a crime, it would be a desecration. Your taste fills his mouth, and Roman whines against you, fingers slipping into your underwear to pull it to the side. His eyes roll back as he finally flattens his tongue against the heat of your clit, licking long, rough stripes against your sensitive core.

You sob, mashing your knuckles against your mouth to stop yourself from crying out at the intense, overwhelming pleasure. Roman’s fingers spread you open, dipping to your entrance to circle the hole and collect your slick, but he doesn’t push inside you. He spreads your wetness over your clit, rolling the bud between his thumb and forefinger for a moment before suctioning his lips over it and sucking you firmly into his mouth, right against his teeth.

He pulls away so suddenly your hips chase his mouth, face reappearing from under your skirt. His lips are swollen and shining, and his eyes are so dark they’re almost black. “You’re a virgin, aren’t you?”

The answer should have been obvious, but Roman wants to hear you say it. His fingers circle your clit slowly, lazily, and your eyes roll back. “Yes. Yes, I’m a virgin.”

“Never been touched by anyone before.” He says softly, resting his chin on your knee. It’s jarring, to talk to him whilst his hand coaxes you towards the edge of an orgasm.

“Whose dress is this?”

Roman presses his lips to your knee. “Did you know Templar Knights weren’t allowed to marry?”

You blink at him, trying to reason through the fog in your mind to focus on what he’s saying.

“The… why?”

Roman smiles, sinking his teeth gently against your knee for a moment. “Purity. To focus on their holy mission. No wives, no weakness.”

You squirm against the maddening pressure of his fingers, feeling your arousal slick to soak into the seat and the dress. “Whose dress is this?”

“I’d have liked to be a knight. I think I’d have been good at it. Protecting fair maidens.” Roman’s face is wistful and a little childlike as he looks up at you. “Don’t you think?”

“I don’t know,” you whimper, grinding down against his hand. “I can’t… think.”

Roman sighs, his free hand wrapping around your calf and lifting your leg to drape it over the arm of the chair. He pulls his hand out of your underwear and sucks quickly on his fingers before hooking your other leg over the arm of the chair, spreading you wide. He leans back on his heels, staring at the soaked mess of your cunt as it sticks to your panties. White cotton with a tiny bow on the front. A fucking classic.

“You’d have made a good princess.” He says. “And I’d have protected you with my life, as your knight. Couldn’t have married you.” He hums, eyes flicking up to yours. “But I’d have taken care of you.”

“Roman,” you whisper. “Whose dress is this?”

Roman bites the corner of his lip like he’s fighting a smile. “You know whose. It fits you perfectly.”

You open your mouth, maybe to ask him what he means or maybe to beg him to let you walk out of here right now, but the words melt into a moan as he dips back under your skirt and drags his tongue from your hole up to your clit and back down again, pushing just inside you for a moment before flicking up to lap at your clit. “Fuck,” you squeak, and Roman’s teeth nip at your clit before he pulls away to tut.

“Princesses don’t have such foul fuckin mouths,” he chides, tapping sharply against your thigh. “Be a good girl for me.” He presses a kiss to your clit before sucking it back into his mouth, and you press your lips firmly together as your eyes roll back. You’re so exposed to him like this, unable to close your legs around his head or push him away, and Roman takes full advantage of the position. His mouth is everywhere, licking and sucking and kissing every soaked inch of your core until your thighs tremble.

“I’m gunna…” you break off, shame clogging your throat, and Roman pulls away to narrow his eyes at you.

“You’re gunna what, princess? You gunna cum for me?”

You nod, feeling your face flush, and Roman groans.

“A fucking classic. Jesus Christ.” He flicks his tongue against your clit in light, sharp flutters. “Cum for me. Wanna taste you.” He mumbles the words against you, but you feel them deep in your core as the tight winding of arousal snaps in your stomach and you cum with a sob, arousal slicking Roman’s face and soaking into the dress pooled under your ass.

Roman whines against you, lapping every last drop of your release into his mouth and swallowing greedily. You taste better than he’d imagined, too.

“Roman,” you whine, wriggling in your chair against the intense overstimulation as his tongue becomes almost painful against your sensitive core. “Please stop.”

He pulls away with a sigh, licking slowly over his lips as he remerges from under your skirt.

“You don’t like the way I take care of you, princess?” You push a steadying breath out through your lips. “I’m not… like this. I don’t wanna be one of your girls.”

Roman’s smile drops. “Never said you were. If you were one of my girls I’d have fucked you before we ever even got up here. This is… worship.” He pushes your skirt further up, bunching it around your waist so he can press his lips to your knee. “You’re different.”

You squirm away, but your legs are deadweights against the cutting in of the armrests. “Who says?”

Roman licks over your skin, the hot drag of his tongue making you clench around nothing. “I do. I’ve known for a while.”

“You’re supposed to be… drawing me.”

Roman makes an annoyed sound in the back of his throat and scrambles back for his sketchbook, dropping it into your lap. “I did.”

You open it on the half-finished sketch of you in the chair, and you feel your pulse quicken. Roman can draw, he hadn’t been making it up. You look pretty and almost… radiant in the sketch, looking at him with an expression of intense desire that you’re pretty sure your face isn’t capable of making outside of Roman Godfrey’s own mind. Your fingers tease the edge of the page, eyes flicking to his in a question, but he makes no move to stop you as you flip to the next page, and the next. All sketches of you. Not from today. You at school, you leaning against the railings outside while you wait for your friends. You in the bookstore, fingering the spines in the dark romance section where you’re not brave enough to make a purchase.

“What is this?” You ask quietly. Roman’s fingers are tracing small circles on your thigh as he watches you.

“You don’t like them?”

“I… they’re beautiful. I guess I don’t know why you’re doing it.”

“You do know.” His voice is almost petulant as he juts his bottom lip out, chin digging against the top of your thigh. “You’re different.”

“You don’t have to try this hard.” You say. “If you want a girl, you just… you’re Roman Godfrey.”

Roman sighs, withdrawing his hand and pushing up to a stand. “You don’t get it. Maybe it isn’t time.” He glances towards the window. “You should go, anyway. The suns setting.”

You peel the dress off as Roman rearranges his pencils in their neat tray. You don’t make him turn around, there doesn’t seem to be any point now he’s eaten you out and seen your most intimate part up close.

He watches you pull your own clothes on with his bottom lip drawn between his teeth, and then he walks you down to the front door in silence.

“New alternator’s four hundred. The extra will cover labour. If it doesn’t, call me.” He leans out of the door and runs his fingers over your mouth before hooking his thumb under your chin and tugging you close. “Even if it does, you should still call me.” He presses his lips to yours, feather light and jarringly tender, before pulling back and shutting the door in your face.

You turn on the steps, feeling delirious and bewildered, and descend the steps to wait for your Uber. It would be good to get your car fixed. And Roman was right; he’d paid you enough for the modelling that you could afford it. It’s only as you’re climbing into the backseat you realize he shouldn’t have even known your fucking alternator was broken, and a chill runs down your spine as you turn to look up at the solitary glow coming from his window.