I do not have to explain myself

His Chapter’s symbol.

The proud mark of Ultramar displayed over bare skin, with your shoulders naked, your thighs bare, and the curve of your backside visible every time you shifted your weight.

Cato stared.

For a second, the Commander of the Victrix Guard, Grand Duke of Talassar, hero of countless campaigns and scourge of Xenos horrors, stood completely silent.

Then his jaw tightened.

“You are aware,” he said, voice dangerously low, “that this is a battle barge.”

You glanced back over your shoulder, stirring something fragrant in the pan. Your eyes were bright with mischief.

“I had noticed, my lord.”

“You are aware that this vessel contains warriors of the Adeptus Astartes.”

“Yes.”

“And Serfs.”

“Naturally.”

“And Administratum officials.”

“Unfortunately.” Your voice had taken on a slight lilt of amusement, making him close his eyes, as though he prayed for patience.

“Then perhaps you can explain why you are standing in a galley half-dressed in the heraldry of Macragge.”

You turned then, and the apron shifted with you, the fabric dragging over your breasts in a way that made his gaze drop before he could stop himself. You saw that subtle movement and a smile bloomed on your lips as you watched what felt like fortress gate crack open.

“I am dressed, my lord,” you said sweetly. “I am wearing an apron.”

His eyes narrowed.

“That is not clothing.”

“It is if one is cooking.” You blinked, almost sincere in your demeanour.

“It is if one is cooking while wearing other garments beneath it.”

You tilted your head. “Well… there’s hardly a rule that states it absolutely must be so, my lord.”

A faint muscle in his cheek moved.

“You test me.” His voice was gravely as he took a step closed.

“Constantly.” You smiled sweetly as you took in the sight of the demigod of a man in front of you.

“You delight in it.”

“Shamelessly so!”

“You will be the death of my discipline.” His eyes bore into your very soul as he said it.

You turned back to the pan, humming as though that were a compliment. “I made you something from Talassar. Well, close enough. The ship stores did not have everything, because apparently battle barges are stocked for war and not romance, which feels like a tragic administrative oversight.”

He stepped fully inside. The doors sealed behind him with a soft hydraulic sigh.

The sound seemed to change the room.

You felt it in your skin before he touched you. The way the air grew heavier. The way his presence filled the galley. He was still in the dark bodyglove beneath his armor, the black fabric clinging to the immense architecture of him, his shoulders wide enough to make the chamber feel suddenly smaller. His beard shadowed the severe line of his jaw. The three scars across his face caught the lumen glow, pale marks against stern features that should have frightened you.

Yet, they never did.

You had tended those scars with cloth and salve. You had fastened seals on his armor. You had carried trays to his quarters after campaigns when he pretended he did not need food, rest, or gentleness. You had learned how to read his silences. You had learned when his anger was for enemies, when his irritation was for bureaucracy, and when his annoyance with you was only a thin, proud veil over something warmer.

Something hungry.

His gaze moved over you now, slow and possessive despite his restraint. From the bare line of your throat to the apron’s gold symbol. From your waist to your thighs. Then lower, where your feet were bare against the cool galley floor.

“You should not,” he said.

You lowered the heat beneath the pan.

“No?”

“No.”

You turned again, and this time you leaned your lower back against the counter, letting the apron fall between your thighs. “Should I take it off, then?”

Cato inhaled.

It was not a gasp. He was far too controlled for that. This was worse. A deep, measured breath through his nose, as though he had just caught your scent properly for the first time.

Your smile faltered into something softer, more real. Beneath the teasing, desire pulsed low in your belly.

“My lord,” you murmured, “the door is sealed.”

His eyes lifted to yours.

“And?”

“And no one comes here unless you summon them.”

His mouth tightened. “That is still no excuse for insolence.”

“No,” you agreed. “But it does make it easier.”

His expression darkened.

You were playing with fire, and you knew it. Worse, he knew you knew it. That was what drove him half-mad. The deliberate sweetness of your provocation. The innocence you could put on like silk while your body offered him every wicked answer, he had no business wanting from you.

He crossed the room with slow, controlled steps.

You held your ground until he stood before you, towering over you, close enough that you had to tip your head back to meet his gaze. He smelled of clean sweat, steel, and the faint sanctified oils used by the armourium. Beneath that, unmistakably, he smelled like himself. Warm. Male. Overwhelming.

“You think yourself very clever,” he said.

“I think you like this apron.”

“I think you have mistaken tolerance for permission.”

Your breath caught.

His hand rose, not touching you yet, only reaching for the edge of the apron where it lay against your collarbone. His gloved fingers brushed the gold-threaded Ultima. The contact was light, almost reverent.

“You wear my Chapter’s symbol,” he murmured. “On bare skin.”

“Yes.”

“You stand here with nothing beneath it.”

“Mmmhmmm.”

“You expect me to eat what you have prepared after presenting yourself like this.”

“I thought you might want dessert first.” You bit your lower lip, surprising yourself with your insolence.

His eyes flashed.

The next breath barely left your lungs before he took your face in one massive hand and bent to kiss you.

It was not gentle.

It was controlled, because Cato Sicarius did not lose himself easily, but it was hot enough to steal sense from you. His mouth claimed yours with a sternness that made your knees loosen. His beard scraped your skin. His thumb pressed along your jaw, angling your face exactly where he wanted it, and you opened to him with a soft, eager sound.

He swallowed that sound.

Then he made another one from you.

His free hand went to your waist, fingers spreading over the tie of the apron. For one terrible, thrilling moment, you thought he might rip it off you. Instead, he only tugged it tighter, pulling you sharply against him. Your bare breasts pressed behind the fabric. Your belly met the hard plane of him. Through the black bodyglove, you could feel the heat of his body and the unmistakable line of his arousal.

You whimpered into his mouth.

He broke the kiss just enough to speak against your lips.

“Is this what you wanted?”

Your fingers clutched at his shoulders. “Yes.”

“You wanted to distract me.”

“Ah!”

“To lure me into this galley like some undisciplined mortal youth.”

You tried to smile. “Did it work?”

His mouth moved to your cheek, then lower, dragging heat along your jaw.

“Yes.”

The single word sank straight through you.

His hand slid from your waist to your hip, then down, curving around the bare flesh exposed by the apron. He squeezed, firm and possessive, making you gasp. His other hand moved to the counter behind you, caging you there. The sheer size of him made the world disappear beyond his shoulders.

“You are fortunate,” he said, lips brushing your ear, “that I have locked this section’s access.”

Your pulse jumped. “You did?”

“I am not careless.”

“You planned this?”

“I planned privacy.” His teeth grazed your earlobe. “You were the one who planned sedition.”

You laughed, breathless and shaky. The sound became a moan when his hand slipped beneath the apron.

His fingers found you hot and already wet.

Cato went still.

The teasing vanished from your face. Your head tipped back against the cabinet, lips parting as his gloved fingers stroked through the slick heat between your thighs with terrifying precision. He watched you while he did it, his blue eyes intent, studying each tremor, each flutter of your lashes, each tiny break in your breathing.

“This,” he murmured, “from cooking in an apron?”

“From you looking at me in it.” You corrected him, and his expression softened for a fraction of a second.

Then his fingers pressed firmer, and you jolted.

“Cato.”

His name left your mouth too sweetly.

The control in his face thinned.

He sank to his knees.

Your breath stopped.

It should have been impossible, that a man like him, a warrior made monumental by gene-craft and war, would kneel on the galley floor before you. Yet he did. He gripped your hips and turned you slightly, then lifted you with effortless care onto the edge of the counter.

The metal was cold beneath your bare skin, making you hiss.

Cato’s mouth curved faintly.

“Too cold?”

“A little.”

“You should have worn more.” He chided, though there was no real heat in his words.

“You would have complained.”

“Such insolence!” His hands pushed your thighs apart, and just like that, your laughter died.

The apron still covered you from the front, hiding him momentarily from the view of any poor unsuspecting soul who might choose to override his commands, and shielding you from the cold air, but beneath it his hands were on you, spreading you open. He lowered his head under the fabric, and the sight of him disappearing beneath the blue apron stamped with the Ultima was so obscene, so absurdly intimate, that your whole body flushed.

Then his mouth touched you.

Your palms slapped down onto the counter.

“Oh.”

He kissed you there first, slow and deliberate, his beard scraping the tender skin of your inner thighs. He inhaled like a starving man trying to retain dignity at a banquet. Then his tongue dragged through you, deep and hot, and you cried out before biting your own knuckles to muffle the sound.

Cato pulled back only to murmur against you.

“No. Let me hear it.”

“My lord, someone might…”

“No one will enter.”

His tongue found you again.

The man who commanded armies ate you like a vow.

There was no hurried desperation in him at first. He licked you slowly, thoroughly, as if learning the shape and taste of your arousal were an exercise worthy of military precision. His hands gripped your thighs to keep you open. When you tried to close them around his head, overwhelmed by the heat gathering too quickly in your belly, he held you firm with almost insulting ease.

You sobbed his name.

He rewarded you with a low sound that vibrated against your flesh.

Your hips jerked.

“That’s it,” he murmured. “There you are.”

You shuddered. “Cato…”

“You taste best when you have been wicked.”

The words ruined you.

You bucked against his mouth, and this time he did not restrain you. He let you grind against his tongue, let you chase the pleasure he was dragging out of you. The apron shifted over his head with every movement, the Ultima wrinkling against the sharp bridge of his nose when he pushed closer. It should have been funny. It was, distantly. Mostly it was unbearable.

His tongue circled your clit, then flattened over it. Two fingers pressed inside you, thick and careful, stretching you with a slow insistence that made your spine bow.

“Cato, please.”

He lifted his mouth just enough to speak, fingers still working you. “Please what?”

“Please don’t stop.”

“I had no intention of stopping.”

With that, he returned to you with more hunger.

The first climax hit hard enough that you nearly slipped on the counter. He caught you immediately, one arm locking around your hips, mouth still on you as your body clenched and shook. You gasped, thighs trembling against his shoulders, your hand tangled in his dark hair without any thought of propriety.

He did not stop.

You whimpered. “Too much.”

His mouth softened, but his fingers stayed inside you, stroking with slower, deeper patience.

“You can give me another.”

“I can’t.”

“Oh but you can.”

“I’ll make a mess.”

At that, he looked up from beneath the apron.

His mouth was wet. His beard was damp. His eyes burned.

“You already have.”

Your face went hot enough to rival the stove.

He smiled; it was small, wicked, and devastating.

Then his mouth was on you again.

The second climax came slower, drawn from you with merciless devotion. He took his time, tasting you until your whole body felt boneless, until you were shaking too hard to tease him, until the only sounds leaving your mouth were broken, pleading fragments of his name.

When it finally broke, he held you through it, his palms warm and steady on your thighs while you came against his tongue.

Only when your trembling eased did he rise.

He stood between your spread legs, immense and satisfied, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand in a gesture so blatantly male that your body clenched around nothing.

His gaze sharpened as he noticed your arousal climb once more.

Of course he noticed! Astartes missed nothing!

“Still?”

You swallowed.

The apron had twisted around your body. One breast was almost exposed; the fabric caught on the curve. Your thighs were slick. Your lips were swollen from kissing him. Your pulse beat everywhere.

“I wore the apron for you, cooked for you… I wanted you to see…” you whispered.

“Mission accomplished!” he chuckled as he ran his tongue over his lips, as though to taste your essence on them once more.

“And now…” you panted; his hands closed around your waist.

“And now,” he said, finishing your sentence for you, “I am going to take you over this counter.”

Your breath left you in a shaky rush.

He helped you down from the edge, but only long enough to turn you around. Your palms met the cool metal surface. Your cheek hovered over the counter as his hand pressed gently between your shoulder blades.

“Tell me now,” he said quietly.

The command steadied everything.

Beneath the heat, beneath the teasing, beneath the absurdity of the apron and the sanctified impropriety of it all, there was that line he never crossed without your invitation. You could feel him behind you, huge and hard and breathing with controlled restraint, but waiting.

Always waiting for the word that made it yours too.

You looked back at him.

“Take me.”

His eyes darkened.

He bent over you, his chest pressing against your back, mouth at your ear.

“Again.”

You trembled. “Take me, Cato.”

He kissed the side of your neck.

“Good girl.”

His hands moved with quick, efficient hunger. The apron stayed on. He only untied it at the back enough to expose you more fully, leaving the blue fabric draped over your front, the gold Ultima pressed beneath your breasts against the cold counter.

Behind you, he opened the fastening of his bodyglove.

You heard the soft shift of fabric, and then, you felt him.

Hot, heavy, and thick against your slick entrance.

Your fingers curled against the counter.

He rubbed himself through your wetness once, twice, dragging the head of his cock against your clit until your hips jerked. He exhaled through his teeth.

“You are soaked.”

“You did that.”

“Yes,” he said, with unmistakable satisfaction. “I did.”

Then he pushed inside.

Slowly…. Deliberately….

Even prepared, even wanting him desperately, you had to breathe through the stretch. He was careful, as careful as a man like him could be, one hand gripping your hip while the other braced beside yours on the counter. His size filled you inch by inch, splitting you open with a deep, heavy pressure that made your eyes sting.

“That’s it,” he murmured. “Breathe.”

You did, or you tried to, anyway.

He stopped halfway, jaw clenched hard enough that you could hear the tension in his breath.

“More,” you whispered.

His hand slid over your belly beneath the apron, fingers splayed there as though he could feel where he was claiming space inside you.

“Greedy.”

“For you.”

A rough sound left him, and he pushed deeper.

You moaned, long and helpless, as he seated himself fully inside you. For a moment, he stayed there, buried to the hilt, his body bowed over yours, his mouth pressed against your shoulder. You could feel him shaking with restraint.

He was so controlled in war. So exacting. So proud.

And here, with you bent over a counter in a private galley, naked except for an apron bearing his Chapter’s sacred mark, he was barely holding himself together.

The thought made you clench around him.

Cato growled.

“Do that again and I will not be gentle.”

You did it again, deliberately now.

His hips snapped forward, in response and you felt the counter jolt beneath you.

You cried out as he took you with a roughness sharpened by weeks of discipline, by the constant closeness between you, by every teasing glance you had given him while pouring recaf or fastening a purity seal, by every time you had leaned just a little too close and pretended not to see how his gaze lingered.

Now he did not pretend.

He held your hips and fucked you hard, each thrust driving you forward against the counter, the apron trapped beneath your body. The metal was cold against your breasts. His body was furnace-hot behind you. The sounds were filthy in the enclosed space, skin meeting skin, your wetness taking him, your breath breaking around his name.

“You knew what this would do,” he said, voice low and ragged. “Didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“You wanted me like this.”

“Yes.”

“Bent over my galley counter.”

“Yes.”

“Wearing my symbol while I take you.”

You whimpered. “Yes!”

His hand slid up your spine, then curled lightly around the back of your neck, holding you in place without force. The gesture was possessive enough to make your mind go soft at the edges.

He leaned close, beard brushing your cheek.

“You taste best,” he murmured, “when you are spread open for me and trying to be quiet.”

Your body clenched violently around him.

He cursed under his breath, something in old Talassarian, rough and reverent.

“Again,” he said. “Do that again.”

“I can’t help it.” You whimpered as his hips snapped against your ass, driving him deeper into you.

“Oh my poor little woman, so desperate for my cock!”

His rhythm deepened. Slower now, harder, grinding into you at the end of every thrust until you could feel him everywhere. He knew how to use his strength, knew how to hold back just enough to keep from hurting you while still making you feel claimed down to the marrow. His hand slipped beneath the apron again and found your clit, slick fingers circling in time with each drive of his hips.

Your knees nearly gave, but he caught you, arm banding around your waist, hauling you higher against him so your feet barely touched the floor. The change in angle made you cry out.

“There,” he said.

You could not answer.

He had found the place inside you that turned pleasure into white heat. Every thrust struck it. Every circle of his fingers made your body tighten. You reached back blindly, and he caught your wrist, bringing your hand to his mouth. He kissed your palm, then pressed it flat to the counter again.

“Hold on.”

And you did.

The third climax rose like a wave with teeth.

“Cato, I’m going to…”

“Yes.”

“I’m…”

“Yes, come for me.”

You shattered around him.

He kept thrusting through it, drawing it out until pleasure blurred into something almost unbearable. Your body pulsed around his cock, slick and tight, and he groaned into the back of your neck, the sound torn out of him.

“Perfect,” he rasped. “You are so perfect.”

His rhythm faltered.

That was when you knew he was close.

You pushed back against him with what little strength remained. “Come in me.”

His hand tightened on your hip.

You turned your face enough for him to see your mouth, your flushed cheek, your eyes heavy with want.

“My lord,” you whispered, wicked even now. “Please.”

His control broke beautifully.

He thrust once, twice, then buried himself deep and came with a low, shuddering groan, his body locking around yours. Heat flooded inside you, thick and intimate, and the sensation made you whimper. He held you there, pressed to the counter beneath him, breathing hard against your skin as his release pulsed deep inside you.

For a long moment, neither of you moved.

The pot on the stove gave a small, offended bubble.

You laughed weakly.

Cato’s forehead rested between your shoulder blades.

“Do not laugh,” he said, though there was no bite in it.

“You ravished me in a galley while dinner burned.”

“It is not burned.”

“You checked?”

“I can smell it.”

You laughed again, softer this time, and he kissed your shoulder. The tenderness of it made your heart ache in a way the roughness had not.

Slowly, carefully, he withdrew. You shivered at the emptiness, then at the warmth of him beginning to spill down your thighs. Cato saw it and went very still.

You looked back at him.

His gaze was fixed between your legs.

“Oh,” you said, breathless. “You like that too.”

His eyes lifted to yours with dangerous dignity.

“You will not survive your own mouth one day.”

“I survived yours just fine.”

He closed his eyes for a second, as though appealing to the Emperor for patience.

Then he reached for a clean cloth, wet it with warm water, and began to clean you himself.

That was Cato, too.

The same man who had bent you over the counter and fucked you until you forgot the ship around you was now careful with your tender skin, one hand steady on your waist while the other wiped you clean with almost ceremonial gentleness. He adjusted the apron over you when you shivered, tied it properly again, then turned you to face him.

The Ultima symbol was wrinkled now.

He looked at it.

Then at you.

“You have desecrated sacred heraldry.”

“I think you helped in that desecration, my lord.”

“I am certain I did most of the work.” He said, ruefully as he tried to straighten out the wrinkled apron the best he could.

You smiled up at him. “Would you like me to apologize?”

“No.”

“Would you like me to never wear it again?”

“No!” His answer came too quickly.

Your smile widened.

He sighed, long-suffering and utterly defeated.

“You are impossible.”

“And you my lord, are hungry.”

“Yes,” he said, and kissed you once, slower now, and you tasted yourself on his mouth. “I am.”

You reached behind you, turned off the heat fully, and then, lifted the lid from the pot. Steam rose between you, fragrant and rich. Cato watched as you spooned the food into a bowl with hands that still trembled a little.

When you offered it to him, he accepted.

The first bite made his expression shift almost imperceptibly.

You knew that look. A tiny softening at the corner of his eyes. A memory finding its way through duty and discipline.

“Good?” you asked.

He swallowed.

“Very.”

You leaned against the counter, bare legs still unsteady, apron crooked, hair coming loose.

“Better than ration brick?”

“That is not a high standard.”

“Better than the officer’s galley?”

“Easily.”

“Better than the honoured kitchens of Macragge?”

“Careful now!”

You laughed.

He took another bite, then set the bowl down. His hand came to your chin, tilting your face up.

“But you,” he said quietly, thumb brushing your lower lip, “taste better than all of it.”

Your breath caught as Cato kissed you again, deep and lingering, as the battle barge moved silently through the dark between stars, bearing warriors, weapons, duty, and war.

And in one sealed little galley aboard that immense machine of conquest, the proud symbol of Ultramar lay warm against your naked skin, wrinkled from his hands, and beloved because of it.

GODS... I DON'T KNOW WHAT CAME OVER ME!!!!

I swear I did NOT intend for this to turn into whatever this monstrosity is!!

Now, if you will excuse me, I shall go and douse myself with a cold shower!

For a moment there was no sound but the deep, bellows breathing of the Primarch barely muffled by the rushing of blood in your ears. Then, a long sigh.

“Very well.”

He shifted you in his arms. When you began to descend you panicked, fingers locking onto the engravings on his pauldron. 

“Wait! What-”

“Hush.”

His deep voice pulsed through you like a rolling tide. Your rigid muscles relaxed and you allowed him to set you upon his bed. The firm mattress barely gave beneath your weight. Your feet dangled. Finally, you gained the courage to open eyes that had remained tightly shut since that awful moment in your grandmother’s cell.

Sparse, heavy furniture. Clean lines. Shades of blue. A desk the size of a small land vehicle, almost totally obscured by precisely stacked columns of parchment. Somewhere data slates buzzed and pinged with incessant notifications. 

You felt your heartbeat slow.

Safe. I’m safe here.

Safe to sort through the maelstrom of emotions swirling within you.

She’s finally gone.

Most likely, she’d been gone even before Roboute’s sword fell. The look in her eyes… the voice coming from her mouth… the strength in her clawed hands. You touched your throat again and winced at the sting.

“At the end… she wasn’t human anymore, was she?” The steadiness of your voice surprised you.

Roboute had his back to you, murmuring something into his personal vox set. It should have been difficult to read body language through the sheer massiveness of his armor. But you saw him tense.

The silence stretched long before he finally spoke.

“No.”

Light, the old records were true. It hasn’t happened in over half a millennia, but now….

You whispered an ancient, terrible word. “Void-cursed.” 

“Is that your people’s term for it?”

“One of them.”

Void-cursed. Plagued by a being from the Warp. Possessed. 

Your shaking intensified. “When she looked at me, at the end, she reminded me of how Victor had looked. Like something other had crawled inside her skin.”

Roboute did not reply.

“I’ve heard stories.” You needed to talk, to process what you’d seen. “The reasons why every Light-blessed child undergoes the Dampening. What happens if they don’t.”

Guilliman turned toward you again. His face reminded you of marble. But emotion flickered in his deep eyes. In a single stride he stood before you in all his titanic majesty. Then, his armor groaned as he sank to his knees.

Even seated on the high bed, you were barely at the level of his eyes.

“My Hearts,” he placed his gauntleted hands on either side of your hips, “Listen to me.”

Something in his tone made you stiffen. 

“We must never speak of what occurred in that chamber.”

You furrowed your brows. “Roboute-”

“Never.”

You flinched. His eyes widened, then he brought one hand up to cup your face. 

“I do not mean to frighten you. Please, try to understand. To speak of… such things… carries great danger.” 

You pulled away. “The Matriarch is dead, Roboute! I was not so insensible when you brought me back to this ship. I heard the whispers. If everyone does not know by now, they will soon. For the Light’s sake, Conrad was there! He saw!”

His jaw flexed. “I am aware. That will have to be remedied.”

“What do you mean?”

He looked away. Reaching out, you curled your fingers around the edge of his gorget as if you had the strength to pull him back. 

“Roboute, what do you mean by that?!”

He stared into the middle distance. You could almost see the calculations running behind his eyes.

“Rumors can be suppressed. We will craft an acceptable story. And I do not think your cousin a fool. He will agree to keep silent. Drastic measures need not be taken.”

Your blood ran cold.

“You wouldn’t hurt him.” You whispered. “You wouldn’t.”

Those burning blue eyes turned their full force back on you. “I will do what is necessary to protect you.”

An invisible hand wrapped around your lungs and squeezed. 

“I don’t understand. Conrad wouldn’t harm me.”

“My Hearts, please-”

“You did not react this way when people whispered of Victor’s betrayal and corruption.”

“Love-”

“Granted, this is… different. But surely things are not so dire that you must-”

“Enough.”

He stood. The air in the chamber grew heavy, pressing upon your body as if the gravity had suddenly doubled. 

Roboute Guilliman, Primarch, towered over you.

“It will be as I say.”

He stood less than five feet away. Yet it felt like a chasm had opened between you.

***

Guilliman saw you retreat into yourself and regretted every word that had come out of his mouth. 

No, not the words. Rather, the manner in which they were spoken.

He would say the words again. And again. As many times as it took to make you understand. 

I must.

Still, as he looked down at your silent form, perched like a bird on the edge of a bed far too large for you, his hearts ached.

He softened his voice as much as he was able and whispered your name.

The vox buzzed.

“My Lord, the serf you requested is here.”

Guilliman sighed as he replied. “Let them through, Cato.”

The door hissed open. The young man in serf’s robes bowed low. The cart he pushed held a bowl of steaming water, clean cloths, and basic medical supplies. Guilliman motioned him to leave it. With another bow, the serf departed. The door closed. 

And they were alone again.

Guilliman pulled the cart closer. Kneeling once more in front of you, an action his armor protested, he carefully dipped a cloth in the warm water.

“Tilt your head, my Hearts. Please.”

You did, your eyes still not meeting his. 

It took an inordinate amount of focus to press the damp fabric against your throat. The smallest overcorrection and he could render you unconscious. Or worse. Twice, the cloth slipped from between his armored fingers to splat softly against your lap.

“Throne damn it.” He grumbled. “Again, manual dexterity of a Legio Cybernetica battle automaton.”

I should have removed my armor first.

A soft huff made him look up. Your lips were pressed tight, but he swore he saw the faintest trace of a smile.

Both his hearts leapt.

“I have many skills. Nursing, it seems, is not one of them.”

The smile did not return. 

He winced. “I should not have spoken so harshly. I only….”

A strange feeling. To be at a loss for words.

What could he say? 

Time and time again you had been pulled from his arms. Threatened. Harmed. Nearly killed. He knew the gray emptiness of thinking he’d lost you forever. His mind slipped back to that moment in your empty chambers. Curled on the floor like a lost child as he contemplated a future without your light to warm him.

“I cannot lose you.”

The words were raw, unpracticed. The voice a rasping wreck no one would ever think could come from a Primarch. Much less the Lord Regent of the Imperium.

“I cannot.” He ceased his paltry medical attempts. “And if the events of that chamber reach the wrong ears, if the words spoken within are learned….”

***

“You would run Anathema’s sword straight through her if you knew! We know. We know what she is!” 

“Halfbreed bitch!”

***

Roboute Guilliman was many things. A fool was not one of them. 

He knew the implication of your grandmother’s, or the Thing possessing her’s, final words. He suspected she… It… had been on the verge of revealing a secret that would have damned you in the eyes of the Imperium before someone intervened.

An intervention not entirely necessary.

I would have ended that foul hag before she spoke another syllable. 

“Roboute….”

You took the cloth from him and dabbed at the scratches on your throat. But your eyes fixed on his face.

“I don’t know what she was talking about. In the end.”

You weren’t lying. The air left Guilliman’s lungs in a rush that ruffled the loose hairs around your face. 

“That is most likely for the best, my Hearts.” He spoke before you could ask the questions he saw poised on your lips. “We will not speak of it.”

You frowned. “Not now, perhaps. But-”

“Not ever.”

This time you did not back down. Something in your face hardened, a determination he both admired and dreaded.

“Roboute, I agree with you there are more important matters than my parentage to focus on right now. The Matriarch’s death will make my succession both easier and more difficult, and power must be consolidated lest anarchy reign.”

He smiled, pride burning in his chest. “A practical mindset.”

“But,” you lowered the red-stained cloth and gripped it hard, “I know you suspect something.”

I do. And it could destroy you.

He remained silent.

You softened, pressing a hand against his stubbled cheek. “I don’t want secrets between us, Roboute.”

He almost laughed at that. Almost.

“This Imperium runs on secrets.” He didn’t bother hiding the bitterness in his voice.

“But a marriage can’t.”

A marriage.

The words sent a jolt like lightning through every nerve ending in his body.

He was going to marry you. Despite what he suspected, he would still marry you. Love you. Protect you from everything and everyone who would tear you from him. Xenos, TerraNovan, or Imperial. 

I will have your life entwined with mine and DAMN whatever blood runs in your veins!

He kissed you.

It was not planned. It was not gentle. 

Guilliman gripped the back of your head, digging his fingers into your hair, and pressed his mouth against yours with just shy of crushing force. Building on his most recent experience, he swept his tongue between your lips. He could have classified your exact taste if he wished. The precise chemical make up.

But he didn’t care, so long as it was you.

I could subsist on your mouth, your breath, alone. 

Only when you began to pat desperately at his cheeks did he pull away. You panted, sagging against his chestplate. He gave you precisely thirty seconds to catch your breath before lifting you by your waist and attaching his mouth to your bruised throat.

He drew his tongue over the scratches, relishing your gasp. The tang of iron stirred something filthy and animal in him. 

Throne, I wish I was out of this cursed armor!

“Tell me you are well.” He growled between kisses. “Tell me you are mine.”

Your pulse pounded wildly against his lips. “You are… ah… trying to distract me!”

“Tell me.”

“Yours! I’m yours, Roboute!”

“Mine.”

And I will do what I must to keep you.

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