#she stoops to conquer

[nomilkinmyteaplease]

Greta Scacchi, Freddie Fox, Tanya Reynolds and Sabrina Bartlett in She Stoops to Conquer at the Orange Tree Theatre

[thatsouthernstate]

orangetreetheater: A beautiful new image has just landed for SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER, with Freddie Fox and Tanya Reynolds 🎄 👀 Stay tuned! We've got some exciting news coming your way... Join our mailing list to be the first to hear, link in bio👆 📷: Rebecca Need-Menear

[literatileoipiano]

It's finally happening tomorrow.

Participating in a student exchange programme has always been on my 'College Life' bucket list. I prepared my clothes for tomorrow and hung it to keep it ready to go; it was then that a pang of nostalgia hit me. I used to hang a white shirt in the same position when I was in school (as a part of my school uniform). Never wore one after I left school. But here I am, playing the character of Charles Marlow and hanging my (kinda) school uniform now. Just how fast the night changes!

Gotta practice my lines now.

[jamiemarsters]

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Pic of the Day: James Marsters looking wickedly good in this @latheatreworks promo pic for She Stoops to Conquer 2010

@realjamesmarsters #JamesMarsters #SheStoopsToConquer #WickedlyGood #AndJustATouch #Naughty

[missanthropicprinciple]

Can I go back in time and watch She Stoops to Conquer directed by Douglas Hughes at the Guthrie in 1996?

K thanx bye

[knox-nem]

I truly feel too much, to write it all critically on my papers.

[travsd]

A Groatsworth of Goldsmith

It is characteristic of this specialized age that appreciation for Oliver Goldsmith (1728-1774) seems to have declined over the past century. And yet it is the very eclecticism of his undertakings that make Goldsmith extraordinary: playwright, novelist, poet, historian, biographer, natural historian, and (many believe) also a children’s author. Like Smollett, Goldsmith was trained to be a…

[denimbex1986]

“I don’t remember ever not thinking I was going to be an actor,” says Cush Jumbo. We’re meeting to talk about her new role in Shakespeare’s legendary psychological drama, Macbeth, in which she will star opposite David Tennant. Has she always wanted to act, I ask? “This is just what I do – I’m not that good at anything else.”

When it comes to Jumbo, “good” is an understatement. The star of The Good Wife has played many formidable stage roles, appearing in Phyllida Lloyd’s groundbreaking, all-female version of Julius Caesar at the Donmar Warehouse in 2012, She Stoops to Conquer in the same year at the Olivier Theatre, and opposite Hugh Jackman in The River on Broadway – to name a few. A personal favourite for me was her star turn as the titular role in Hamlet at the Young Vic two years ago, which stopped me in my tracks.

But it was when Jumbo decided to not just act but create – writing and starring in Josephine and I, a play about the jazz sensation, political activist and international icon Josephine Baker, in 2015 – that she garnered real, critical acclaim. Josephine and I catapulted Jumbo towards scoring the iconic, whip-smart female role she has now undertaken: Lady Macbeth.

Despite being offered the role several times, Jumbo didn’t feel the set-up was right – until now. “One of the biggest things I’ve learnt over the last 10 years is: don’t play opposite a man, if you’re not sure whether that man is going to mess with your mental health,” she tells me. But the right timing, the safety net of acting opposite Tennant (a close friend) and the vision of director Max Webster has been a magic combination, giving her the confidence to take on this venerated role.

In this production, Webster has chosen to put the marriage at the centre. “He believes Macbeth is a play about a couple suffering with psychosis after losing a child,” says Jumbo. In order to create a sense of intimacy, the production employs the use of headphones, through which the audience experiences binaural technology that creates an intense and unnerving 3D sound world. I’m excited to see how this technique might help to amplify the sense of inner monologue that Shakespeare is so good at creating.

Lady Macbeth and Jumbo are alike in one sense, at least: they both want to be heard. You could call this serendipity, but Jumbo thinks of it more as destiny: “It’s quite amazing how the universe gives you things when you need them,” she says. Jumbo’s ambition with her performance is to change perspectives of this much-maligned anti-heroine. “Her name has been dragged through the mud,” she explains. “If she were male, she would’ve been seen as a flawed hero.” She’s determined to give Lady Macbeth’s character new meaning, and to prove her as one of Shakespeare’s smartest creations.

Jumbo is looking forward to a busy period, Macbeth aside. She has demonstrated her entrepreneurial spirit with Criminal Record, an eight-episode crime thriller that she pitched, co-executively produced and will star in, which will debut on Apple TV+ in January 2024. It’s an exciting time for the actor – and there’s no doubt that, both on stage and screen, Jumbo is one to watch.'

[caramel-included]

Gentle Gyomei

(๑˃̵ᴗ˂̵) Fem!Reader x Gyomei Himejima

G: Fan Fiction, One-Shot, Smut

hey guys so i came out of retirement to literally write this… so yeah enjoy 😘

CW for age gap (el oh el)

As the night becomes day, you, a demon slayer are stationed to attend one of the hashira meetings. Although you aren’t a hashira yourself, you must stay to protect them from outside worries. It’s actually quite rare of them to ask a fellow demon slayer to guard their meeting but if their meeting is so classified to the point they had to stuff your nose and ear and face the other way from them, then you didn’t mind protecting it for them.

Once the meeting has ended, you watched as the Love Pillar, Mitsuri Kanroji, walk out. Her aura was shiny and beautiful, kind and warm. She was one of the Hashira’s you talked with and went on missions along, even if your ranks differ. “Y/N!” Mitsuri noticed you and gave you a sweet hug. Before you hugged her back you took out the plugs from the nose and ears. “Hi Mitsuri! I’m glad to see you recovered well from defeating Upper Moon 6. Must have been super stressful!”

“It was! Tanjiro and Genya told me about how when they would cut the demons head off, then it shaped and split into another demon. I was like woah!!”

“Omg so spooky!” You reacted.

Mitsuri was younger than you by a year, and her reaching a high hashira status and you staying as an upper-middle ranked slayer never bothered you. You were never jealous of her either. Her love she shared with you was pure and genuine, in no shape or form you could hate nor despise her.

As more Hashira walked out, the both of you saw Obani Iguro. You were aware of the crush Mitsuri had for Mr. Iguro. In fact, you tried pushing the idea onto her to date but she would always decline at the end of the day, fearful of rejection. You couldn’t blame her anyway, as you had eyes for somebody as well. Mitsuri let herself go as she went to talk with Iguro, walking, she waved at you goodbye.

The final Hashira to walk out was Gyomei Himejima, you stood firm and shy, a different attitude from what you gave the other hashira’s. It was suppressed feelings that you had for Mr. Himejima. In fact, Himejima was the one to save you from a demon who killed your family, then helped you become a demon slayer. You owed it all to Gyomei, and gained romantic feelings over him. Next to Mitsuri, you and Gyomei talked a lot. Never the talker, Gyomei always listened to what you had to say. Even if it’s something small or large, he lends you his hand and cries on your shoulder.

“Y/N.” His deep voice felt like it was vibrating the whole building, it made you shiver.

“Yes, sir?” You responded to him with a confused tone. Your eyes didn’t meet his until he spoke to you once more.

“Can you walk with me?”

You were shocked, this was the first time he asked you to walk with him. It shouldn’t be a big deal of course as you walk around his estate all of the time, yet this was the first time he suggested and initiated this. He slid the door open, holding it for you to exit. As the both of you walked, your arms interlocked with his. Honestly, being this intimate with him was a shocker.

You decided to stay silent as you both reached his estate, once stepping into the wooden floor, he cried. He always cried, but this cry was more emotionally towards you. He stooped down to your level, holding you as he sat on the hallway floor. “Mr. Himejima?” You finally spoke to him, questioning why he cried into your uniform.

“I am stressed for you.” He said simply, “As Kibutsuji inches closer to little Nezuko, who had conquered the sun, we will soon have to face bigger dangers.”

“But I can handle those dangers.”

Gyomei paused before sighing deeply, “I care for you deeply Y/N. You should have gotten off and lived a normal life. Get married and have children.” His head turned to look towards you, “Yet you decided to follow my steps as a demon slayer.”

You felt buried in the choice of confessing how you really felt about Gyomei. You grumbled before explaining yourself, “You saved my life.”

“I was too wary of demons once I found my family in their state.” You paused at almost every sentence, “I couldn’t turn a blind eye to this, you inspired me at first sight. I was on the verge of death, ready to join my family, but you decided that my life was just as delicate.”

Your hands cupped his face, then caressed his head, “I followed you because I fell in love with you.” Your heart pounded loudly as you exposed your secret feelings. “I typically don’t believe in first sight, but when you stayed beside my side while I healed despite having a job to do, I felt safe. You started something for me, you don’t understand it.” Your arms wrapped around his head as Gyomei’s head still rested on your chest.

His head felt hot, but you were stuck freaking out that you expressed your feelings for a guy way older than you. You felt a bit immature now that you took this opportunity to confess how you feel, fully expecting for him to like you back. But the next thing you know, his head is stationed at your face, his pearly eyes still having enough water to cry. Stone and composed Himejima breaks just from you.

“Y/N, Our time together might have not been long. But I was able to express so much joy just by being by you. You reciprocated more than I have, and were able to maintain a smile. Whenever I dream, I see myself outside of the Demon Slayer Corps with you by myself as a married couple. All I cared about was you, and your wellbeing.”

Tears slowly fell down your face, is it coming to an end with how he’s talking to you like this? Confessing to you that he wishes you a long life. “May I kiss you.” You asked sweetly in a quiet tone.

“Yes.” He whispered back in your ear.

The surroundings were quiet, the hallway smelt of sweet incense, and both skins slowly touched. You felt his dry lips but moist face. His tongue slowly sliding inside of your mouth to give you a sloppy yet passionate kiss. He picked you up to lead you into his room, placing you down as if you were a porcelain doll. The way he dragged his hand to examine you more carefully was tender and intimate, romantically intended.

“Would I be a selfish man to marry you immediately?” He asked, moving his head close to your neck. His nose rested on your shoulder.

“It would make me a selfish woman to agree so quickly.” You responded to his question as his hands slowly remove your clothes from your body.

You help him remove his garment, giving him time to caress your body more. His hand was dramatically bigger than your body, and one gentle grip made your body tingle. He massaged your stomach and hips, then slowly moved his hand towards your pussy. Circularly, he moved his hand, his fingers sending you tingles by how simple his movement was. His rough skin bumped with your soft pussy. Slowly but surely, you were lubricated enough for him to slip a singular finger inside of you.

Your hand tightened around his arm that held you in a sitting position with him. Your nails digging in his skin didn’t affect him whatsoever, it did however made him move his finger inside and out of you. The way he pleasured you was gentle, gentle like how he’d hold you. Although his finger moved slow, his hand thickly opened your vagina. So pleased, you bit his arm to start cumming.

“I came so quickly.” You thought to yourself, a bit embarrassed about squirming while he listened to you do so.

“Y/N,” He said your name softly, “Will I be embarrassing to ask if you could have my baby.”

Once he asked that question, you felt his body heat meet an extreme. You look up at him to see his face a redder color from before, “You’re never embarrassing, Mr. Himejima.”

He shifted the both of you once more, having you face him. His dick kissed the entrance of your pussy before it slowly filled itself in you. “Mffgh!” Your mouth was closed as you loudly exclaimed a moan. His dick was thick and veiny, it made the inner walls of your vagina tighten around his dick. “Mr. Himejima.” You huffed out as your hand tightened around his arm once more.

You took an estimate of how big his dick was, 12.3 inches, was your best guess. His body started to move, his dick sliding in and out of you with ease. Each time his skin slapped on yours felt like a kiss. Gyomei remained his simple and benign demeanor towards you, holding your hand and protecting your head with a pillow, while also holding himself up with his singular hand. You took in each thrust like a good girl, holding your moans slightly so you didn’t huff so loudly.

“Whenever you talk,” He spoke out while huffing somewhat, “It grows butterflies in me. The way we have similar interests and feelings made those butterflies flutter faster. Your voice is like a melody.”

His praise simply made you cum all over again, he stopped moving so he could let you breathe. “You really think so?” You asked, wanting to hear more of his validation. He removed his dick from inside of you, making you feel empty from the inside of your cunt. He sat down, and led you to his lap where his dick would reenter you.

“I know so, my Y/N.” He burrowed his lips onto yours, and you felt yourself cum slightly once more. You took deep breaths before moving up and down on his penis. His lips quivered as he would softly grunt. His hand held your back then waist, guiding you to pleasure the both of you two, his other hand massaged your breast. You felt overstimulated by how much he touched your body and how his dick basically kissed your g-spot.

Gyomei placed you on your back again, and his movements became more sloppier and quicker. You moaned loudly as his dick hit your g-spot in the same rhythm. “Himejima!” You moaned out his name as you came the 4th time.

“Y/N!” He repeated your name quietly, over and over again until he came inside of you. Gyomei’s dick removed itself out of your pussy and small drips of his cum came out.

He laid down next to you, breathing loudly. Possibly exhausted, he still took the time to check on you. You looked at him, sweaty and all, giving him a cheesy smile like the one you ways give him. This time, he gave you that same smile, that gentler smile.

After a couple of weeks, you left a resignation message to your crow to give to the Ubuyashiki Estate. Your head turned to the window as your attire completely changed to a kimono and an obvious belly bump.

[lesbiansagainsttheatre]

antigonick, antigone funn, birth

the task of the translator of antigone, anne carson / 1.01 the bane of rudyard, wooden overcoats / antigonick, anne carson / 1.05 she stoops to conquer, wooden overcoats

[thatsouthernstate]

orangetreetheater: First look at SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER, currently in rehearsals. Our Christmas comedy by Oliver Goldsmith and directed by OT Artistic Director Tom Littler with Francesca Ellis, opens previews at the Orange Tree on 18 November. Featuring our wonderful cast: Sabrina Bartlett, Richard Derrington, Freddie Fox, David Horovitch, Guy Hughes, Robert Mountford, Tanya Reynolds and Greta Scacchi. Tickets going fast; book now at orangetreetheatre.co.uk 📷 Marc Brenner

[jesuisgourde]

A list of all the books mentioned in Peter Doherty's journals (and in some interviews/lyrics, too)

Because I just made this list in answer to someone's question on a facebook group, I thought I may as well post it here.

-The Picture of Dorian Gray/The Ballad Of Reading Gaol/Salome/The Happy Prince/The Duchess of Padua, all by Oscar Wilde -The Thief's Journal/Our Lady Of The Flowers/Miracle Of The Rose, all by Jean Genet -A Diamond Guitar by Truman Capote -Mixed Essays by Matthew Arnold -Venus In Furs by Leopold Sacher-Masoch -The Ministry Of Fear by Graham Greene -Brighton Rock by Graham Green -A Season in Hell by Arthur Rimbaud -The Street Of Crocodiles (aka Cinnamon Shops) by Bruno Schulz -Opium: The Diary Of His Cure by Jean Cocteau -The Lost Weekend by Charles Jackson -Howl by Allen Ginsberg -Women In Love by DH Lawrence -The Tempest by William Shakespeare -Trilby by George du Maurier -The Vision Of Jean Genet by Richard Coe -"Literature And The Crisis" by Isaiah Berlin -Le Cid by Pierre Corneille -The Paris Peasant by Louis Aragon -Junky by William S Burroughs -Absolute Beginners by Colin MacInnes -Futz by Rochelle Owens -They Shoot Horses Don't They? by Horace McCoy -"An Inquiry On Love" by La revolution surrealiste magazine -Idea by Michael Drayton -"The Nymph's Reply to The Shepherd" by Sir Walter Raleigh -Hamlet by William Shakespeare -The Silver Shilling/The Old Church Bell/The Snail And The Rose Tree all by Hans Christian Andersen -120 Days Of Sodom by Marquis de Sade -Letters To A Young Poet by Rainer Maria Rilke -Poetics Of Space by Gaston Bachelard -In Favor Of The Sensitive Man and Other Essays by Anais Nin -La Batarde by Violette LeDuc -Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov -Intimate Journals by Charles Baudelaire -Juno And The Paycock by Sean O'Casey -England Is Mine by Michael Bracewell -"The Prelude" by William Wordsworth -Noise: The Political Economy of Music by Jacques Atalli -"Elm" by Sylvia Plath -"I am pleased with my sight..." by Rumi -She Stoops To Conquer by Oliver Goldsmith -Amphitryon by John Dryden -Oscar Wilde by Richard Ellman -The Song Of The South by James Rennell Rodd -In Her Praise by Robert Graves -"For That He Looked Not Upon Her" by George Gascoigne -"Order And Disorder" by Lucy Hutchinson -Man Crazy by Joyce Carol Oates -A Pictorial History Of Sex In The Movies by Jeremy Pascall and Clyde Jeavons -Anarchy State & Utopia by Robert Nozick -"Limbo" by Samuel Taylor Coleridge -Men In Love: Masculinity and Sexuality in the Eighteenth Century by George Haggerty

[arbitrary line break because tumble hates lists apparently]

-Crime And Punishment by Fyodor Dostoevsky -Innocent When You Dream: the Tom Waits Reader -"Identity Card" by Mahmoud Darwish -Ulysses by James Joyce -The Four Quartets poems by TS Eliot -Julius Caesar by William Shakespeare -A'Rebours/Against The Grain by Joris-Karl Huysmans -Prisoner Of Love by Jean Genet -Down And Out In Paris And London by George Orwell -The Man With The Golden Arm by Nelson Algren -Revolutionary Road by Richard Yates -"Epitaph To A Dog" by Lord Byron -Cocaine Nights by JG Ballard -"Not By Bread Alone" by James Terry White -Anecdotes Of The Late Samuel Johnson by Hester Thrale -"The Owl And The Pussycat" by Edward Lear -"Chevaux de bois" by Paul Verlaine -A Strong Song Tows Us: The Life of Basil Bunting by Richard Burton -Don Quixote by Miguel de Cervantes -The Divine Comedy by Dante Alighieri -The Jungle Book by Rudyard Kipling -The Man Who Would Be King by Rudyard Kipling -Ask The Dust by John Frante -On The Trans-Siberian Railways by Blaise Cendrars -The 39 Steps by John Buchan -The Overcoat by Nikolai Gogol -The Government Inspector by Nikolai Gogol -The Iliad by Homer -Heart Of Darkness by Joseph Conrad -The Volunteer by Shane O'Doherty -Twenty Love Poems and A Song Of Despair by Pablo Neruda -"May Banners" by Arthur Rimbaud -Literary Outlaw: The life and times of William S Burroughs by Ted Morgan -The Penguin Dorothy Parker -Smoke by William Faulkner -Hero And Leander by Christopher Marlowe -My Lady Nicotine by JM Barrie -All I Ever Wrote by Ronnie Barker -The Libertine by Stephen Jeffreys -On Murder Considered As One Of The Fine Arts by Thomas de Quincey -The Void Ratio by Shane Levene and Karolina Urbaniak -The Remains Of The Day by Kazuo Ishiguro -Dead Fingers Talk by William S Burroughs -The England's Dreaming Tapes by Jon Savage -London Underworld by Henry Mayhew

[jamiemarsters]

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Pic of the Day: James Marsters & Joanne Whalley promo pic for @latheatreworks' She Stoops to Conquer 2010

@realjamesmarsters #JamesMarsters @therealjoannewhalley #JoanneWhalley #SheStoopsToConquer #AdorableInBackAndWhite #HopingWeGetToHearSomeMoreJamesLATheatreWorksGoodies #SuchFun

[cajon-desastre]

Ask me no questions, and I'll tell you no fibs.

Oliver Goldsmith. She Stoops to Conquer

[beyralxoxo]

{Amor Omnia Vincit-Lucius Verus Aurelius}

SUMMARY: Caracalla and Geta are turning their heads towards India, and Indian Crowns know better than to anger the Rome's Wolfs. [PROLOGUE]

PAIRING: Lucius Verus Aurelius x South Indian OC

WORD COUNT: 445

WARNINGS: none for now :}

Amor Omnia Vincit: Love Conquers All

Sixteen years after the death of Marcus Aurelius, his ,,dream of Rome” has been forgotten.

Under the tyranny of the twin emperors Geta and Caracalla, corruption flourishes.

Their ruthless agression spreads like plague throughout the empire.

The fall of the great city is imminent.

Only the hopes of those who still dream remain…

After the Roman Empire secured its grip on Numidia, the ambitions of Geta and Caracalla turned eastward—toward the fabled riches of India. The Indian crowns, wary of the empire's insatiable hunger for conquest, sought to avoid plunging their lands into the brutal chaos of Roman warfare. They knew Rome's reputation too well.

In their councils, the kings deliberated fiercely over how to preserve their sovereignty without sacrificing their dignity. Proposals of tribute, alliances, and trade flowed freely, but one whispered suggestion sent ripples through the court—a peace offering in the form of a woman.

The notion, though pragmatic, was met with outrage. For many, it was unthinkable to barter their daughters for diplomacy. "Would we stoop so low as to hand over our blood to the wolves of Rome?" some declared. Others nodded grimly, believing such a gesture would tarnish their honor forever.

But amidst the uproar, one voice rose above the clamor. A minor king, neither celebrated nor scorned, stepped forward. His eyes held the weight of a decision already made. He offered a name—Tillotama, his daughter born of a courtesan.

Though she was a child of no official union, he spoke of her beauty and her wit, gifts that would surely intrigue even Rome's ruthless rulers. With a mixture of resignation and pride, he declared her the one worthy to stand as a bridge between empires.

And so, Tillotama's fate was sealed—not by her own hand, but by a desperate king seeking to save his people from the jaws of conquest. Little did they know, the daughter of a courtesan would carry the power to shape the destinies of both worlds.

Yet, fate had far more in store for Tillotama. For with her, a protector would rise—a man unlike any other. He was born with fury coursing through his veins, his soul a tempest of rage that no mortal force could calm. His thirst for vengeance was insatiable, a fire that no thousand armies could quench.

He was a godless creature, a storm in human form. Yet what happens when such a man meets his destiny in her eyes? What if, in the presence of this woman, his unyielding wrath is eclipsed by something he cannot fight?

What if, in that fateful moment, the godless man falls to his knees—not in surrender to kings, nor to gods, but to her?

[iraot]

Summary: In the wilds of the ton there is the desire for more, three hearts will beat as one. Pairing: Rafayel x Caleb + Rafayel x Caleb x F!Reader Word Count: 5966 AO3

Chapter 14: The End

The past year had been nothing short of perfection—a whirlwind of passion, power, and prosperity. Their union, unconventional though it may have seemed to the outside world, had only strengthened them, turning their estate into an empire. She had used her keen intelligence and sharp wit to broker deals that had foreign businessmen lining up at their doorstep, eager to merge their wealth with the Qu name, while Caleb had done the impossible—securing a royal contract with the queen herself, their finest horses now bred and sold for prices that made lesser noblemen pale.

They had conquered the world together and now, they were bringing new life into it.

But for all her composure, for all her clever maneuvering in business and politics, nothing had prepared her for the sheer, breathtaking terror of realizing she was with child. She had spent that first night clutching her stomach in the darkness, torn between awe and fear, unable to shake the lingering worry of what this would mean—for her, for Caleb, for Rafayel. Yet, when she had finally spoken the words aloud, when she had whispered, I’m pregnant, into the quiet of their bedroom, she had been met with nothing but warmth—Caleb gathering her in his arms, pressing slow kisses to her temple, Rafayel dropping to his knees before her, hands splayed across her belly, whispering reverent promises against her skin. --

The evening was warm, the summer air thick with the scent of jasmine and candle wax, the windows thrown open to invite the night breeze inside. She sat curled in one of the chaise lounges, watching as Caleb and Rafayel bickered over a game of chess at the low table before the hearth. The fire was unnecessary in the heat, but Rafayel liked the look of it, and Caleb humored him as he always did.

“You have no strategy,” Rafayel declared, moving a piece with slow, calculated ease. He didn’t even look at Caleb as he did it, far too pleased with himself. “It’s infuriating.”

Caleb hummed, utterly unfazed. He leaned back in his chair, stretching his long legs out with casual arrogance. “You only say that because I win half the time.”

Rafayel scoffed, his fingers drumming against the armrest. “Half is generous. And even when you do win, it’s not because of skill—it’s luck.”

Caleb smirked, his violet eyes glinting with amusement. “You’d rather believe the universe conspires against you than admit I might be a worthy opponent?” He moved his piece without even looking at the board, his confidence infuriatingly effortless. “How fragile your ego must be, my lord.”

Rafayel’s eyes narrowed, a slow, predatory smile curling at his lips. “Oh, my lord now, am I? Careful, Caleb—you only call me that when you want something.”

She laughed softly from where she sat, drawing both their attention. “He does want something,” she murmured, propping her chin in her hand. “He wants to distract you so you don’t notice how badly he’s about to lose.”

Caleb gasped in mock offense, pressing a hand to his chest. “You wound me, love. I would never stoop to such deception.”

“Wouldn’t you?” she mused, tilting her head. “Are you saying you haven’t spent the last hour using your charms to keep Rafayel from paying attention?”

Rafayel huffed a laugh, shaking his head. “He always does.” He reached for his wine, taking a slow sip before leveling Caleb with a knowing look. “You could lose the game entirely and still have the audacity to call it a victory.”

Caleb grinned, tilting his head slightly. “Of course. Winning a game is one thing—but winning your attention, your focus, your frustration?” He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping just enough to be dangerous. “That’s the game I actually enjoy.”

Rafayel exhaled through his nose, shaking his head as if to rid himself of the effect Caleb had on him. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet, you adore me,” Caleb said, smug.

She watched them, warmth curling in her chest, filling her so thoroughly it nearly ached. They had always been like this—playful, sharp, entirely themselves with each other. It was theirs, this love, something distinct from what she had with each of them, something as real and deep as anything she had ever known.

Which was why she knew—without question—that this child would belong to all of them.

She shifted slightly, settling her weight against the armrest, her fingers tracing idle circles against the silk of her gown. “Speaking of victories,” she murmured, her voice carrying just enough mischief to draw their attention back to her. “I’d say I have a rather impressive one of my own tonight.”

Caleb arched a brow, intrigued. “Oh? Do tell, wife.”

Rafayel smirked. “If it’s another scandal in the making, I hope you waited to inform me after I finished my wine.”

She laughed, shaking her head. “Nothing so scandalous. Just…” She let the moment breathe, watching them both watch her, waiting. Then, with a slow, knowing smile—“I win.”

Caleb blinked. “Win what?”

Her smile widened, her hands settling lightly over her abdomen. “The race to bring an heir into this world.”

Silence.

The shift was instant.

Rafayel’s hand stilled against his glass, his sharp, two-toned eyes locking onto her, seeing. Caleb sat up straighter, his usual easy confidence momentarily stolen from him, his breath catching in his throat.

It was Rafayel who spoke first, his voice low, measured, careful. “…You’re certain?”

She exhaled, her smile softening, something deeply real settling behind her ribs. “As certain as a woman can be.”

Caleb grinned, his laughter escaping him in a breathless, delighted rush as he surged to his feet. “You little menace!” He crossed the room in an instant, sinking to his knees beside her, his hands framing her face, his lips pressing to hers in a kiss so full, so bright, it left her breathless. “You kept that from us? For how long?”

She laughed against him, tangling her fingers in his hair. “Not long—only long enough to enjoy the moment I told you.”

Rafayel moved.

He wasn’t as quick as Caleb, but his presence was immediate, his warmth pressing in from the other side, his hands settling over hers against her stomach, covering the small, fragile life that had already begun to grow. His lips brushed against her temple, lingering there, his breath shuddering slightly as he exhaled.

Caleb pulled back just enough to look at her, really look at her, his eyes soft with something deep, something aching in its devotion. “Our girl is going to be impossible to spoil,” he murmured, his thumb brushing over her cheek.

She huffed a laugh. “You assume it’s a girl?”

Caleb’s grin turned wicked. “Oh, of course. If she’s anything like either of her parents, we’re doomed.”

Rafayel finally spoke, his voice softer than she had ever heard it. “We’re lucky.” His lips ghosted against her temple again, his fingers still covering hers. “And I will never forget that.”

She turned toward him, pressing her forehead to his, Caleb still warm at her side, and whispered, “Neither will I.”

--

The months that followed had been easier than she expected, and yet nothing could compare to this—to the pain, to the sheer, primal agony of bringing their child into the world. The room was hot, too hot, the air thick with the scent of burning candles and herbal tinctures, the midwives moving around her in a blur as she gasped and pushed, her body taut with exertion. Rafayel was at her side, his forehead pressed against hers, his hand gripping hers so tightly it ached, his other hand smoothing damp strands of hair from her forehead as he kissed the top of her head.

"You’re doing so well, my love," he murmured, his voice unsteady but steadying, a contradiction in itself. She could feel the tension in him, the barely-contained fear beneath his calm mask, but he didn’t let it show, wouldn’t let himself waver—not when she needed him to be strong. Caleb was behind her, supporting her back, his lips brushing against her ear as he whispered soft encouragement, his hands warm against her skin, anchoring her through the storm of pain.

She cried out as another contraction wracked her body, her nails digging into Rafayel’s forearm as she bore down, her breath ragged and uneven. "I can’t," she gasped, her voice breaking, her body trembling from the effort. "I can’t, I—"

"You can," Caleb cut in, his voice firm but gentle, a steady presence through the haze of exhaustion. His fingers tightened against her back, his breath warm against her ear as he murmured, "You are, darling. You’re so close. Just a little more."

Tears pricked at her eyes, and for a moment, she let herself drown in them, let herself lean into the safety of their presence, let their voices guide her through the impossible. Rafayel kissed her temple, his lips lingering, soft, worshipful, and then—

A sharp cry split the air.

Her entire body went limp in an instant, relief crashing over her like a wave as the midwife’s voice rang through the room, triumphant. "It’s a girl!"

The words sent a shudder through Rafayel, and for a moment, his grip on her hand tightened almost painfully before he let out a sound—half a laugh, half a choked sob. "A girl." His voice was thick with something unspoken, something raw, something so achingly full of joy that it broke her completely.

Caleb pressed a kiss to her damp cheek, his thumb stroking her face as he whispered, "You did it, love. I’m so proud of you." His voice wavered, and when she opened her eyes, she saw it—saw the tears clinging to his lashes, saw the depth of his love written so plainly across his face that she could do nothing but reach for him, her fingers tangling in his dark hair as she pulled him down for a soft, exhausted kiss.

And then the midwife was placing the baby against her chest, a small, warm weight bundled in soft blankets, impossibly tiny, impossibly theirs. Her breath caught in her throat as she looked down, as she traced the delicate curve of a tiny cheek, the soft, squalling little mouth, the impossibly perfect fingers curling weakly against her chest. "Oh," she breathed, her voice breaking, her arms tightening instinctively around the child. "Oh, my love."

Rafayel let out a shuddering breath, his hand sliding over her shoulder, his fingers trembling slightly as he reached out, as if afraid to touch something so precious, so fragile. When his fingers finally brushed the baby’s cheek, his expression shattered completely—pure, unfiltered adoration overtaking his usually sharp, composed features. "She’s beautiful," he whispered, reverence laced in every syllable.

Caleb chuckled, though his own voice was thick with emotion as he leaned over, brushing a gentle finger over the baby’s tiny fist. "She’s got your eyes, Rafayel," he mused softly, and sure enough—when the baby blinked blearily up at them, her gaze was a perfect mirror of his mismatched hues, one blue, one red.

Rafayel let out a watery laugh, his thumb stroking along the baby’s cheek as he murmured, "Of course she does. A little firebrand, just like her mother." He turned his gaze back to her, and there was something in his eyes—something deep, something unshakable, something that told her, without words, that she had given him more than he ever thought he would have.

The staff outside erupted into cheers, the sound echoing down the halls, laughter and celebration ringing through the estate as the news spread. Their child—their daughter—was here, born into love, into power, into a world that had been carefully, meticulously built for her.

She exhaled shakily, exhaustion finally beginning to settle over her in waves, her body still trembling, still aching, but utterly at peace. Rafayel and Caleb remained pressed close, their warmth surrounding her, their hands never leaving her, their lips brushing against her forehead, her temple, her lips.

"We have a daughter," she murmured, her voice heavy with awe, with exhaustion, with something so deep and all-consuming that it nearly overwhelmed her.

"We do," Rafayel whispered, his hand resting over hers, over their child, over the life they had created together. "And she is everything."

And for the first time in her life, she knew—she had everything, too. Despite their rampant protests, she finally insists on them going to bed; they whisper they’ll be nearby but she knows. The room was quiet now, the chaos of birth fading into something softer, something sacred. The fire in the hearth had burned low, casting a dim, golden glow over the bed where she lay, her body trembling with exhaustion but her arms full, her heart fuller. The scent of lavender water still clung to the sheets, masking the sharp iron tang of blood, of sweat, of effort. And in her arms, wrapped in impossibly soft linen, was the weight of everything—her daughter, her child, warm and safe against her chest.

A knock at the door. Soft, hesitant, uncharacteristic. Then, the creak of hinges, the rustle of fabric, and her mother stepped inside. Lady Vide moved carefully, her usual grace tempered, her movements smaller, more human than grand.

Her gaze found her daughter first—not the child, not yet—her daughter. Her lips parted, but for a long moment, no words came. Instead, she reached forward, her hands hovering just over the damp strands of hair sticking to her daughter’s temple before finally, finally smoothing them back.

"You’re alright?" she whispered, as if saying it any louder might break her. Her hands traveled lower, over her shoulders, down her arms, gentle but searching. "You—nothing hurts?"

She let out a breathless, tired laugh. "Everything hurts." Then, quieter, more honest, "But I’m fine, Mother."

Lady Vide exhaled sharply, as if she had been holding her breath for hours, for years. Her fingers tightened, just briefly, around her daughter’s wrist before she let go. Then, and only then, did she allow herself to look down.

The baby was impossibly small, fragile in the way that made Lady Vide’s entire world tilt. Her breath hitched, her carefully curated composure cracked. "Oh," she whispered, voice trembling. "Oh, my love."

A small, knowing smile tugged at her daughter's lips. "She is the love you mean now, isn't she?"

Lady Vide let out a wet, breathless laugh, one hand rising to cover her mouth. "I have enough love for both of you." Slowly, carefully, she reached forward, her fingers grazing over the downy softness of the newborn’s head, as if terrified that pressing too firmly would shatter the moment.

"She’s so small," Lady Vide murmured, her voice thick. The baby stirred at her touch, a tiny hand twitching against her swaddle, and Lady Vide let out something close to a sob. "How are they ever this small?"

Her daughter swallowed against the lump in her throat, adjusting the baby just slightly, offering her mother more. "Would you like to hold her?"

Lady Vide blinked, startled, then let out something close to a laugh—wet and breathless and full of something her daughter had never seen in her before. "Yes," she whispered, pleaded. "Oh, yes, my darling, please."

Her arms shook as she lifted the child from her chest, the loss of warmth immediate, aching, even just for a moment. But when she settled her daughter into her mother’s arms, when she saw Lady Vide hold her, breathe her in—she knew. She knew.

Lady Vide stared down at her grandchild, her lips parting, her hands cradling the baby’s head with a reverence bordering on worship. "Hello," she breathed, the single word carrying a depth of emotion too vast to contain. She swallowed, tears slipping free, unbidden, uncaring. "Oh, my love. My beautiful, beautiful girl."

Her daughter let her head fall back against the pillows, watching, memorizing. "She looks like you, you know," she murmured, the truth slipping free before she could stop it. "When you’re not scowling."

Lady Vide let out a watery chuckle, brushing a trembling finger over the baby's cheek. "She should look like me. That way, she’ll terrify men and rule them." Then, softer, as if speaking to no one but the child herself, "And she will be loved—properly, fiercely, without condition."

The words hit deeper than her daughter expected, settling in places long left untouched. Her throat tightened, her chest ached, and when she spoke next, her voice was barely above a whisper. "Did you love me like this?"

Lady Vide looked up, her face open in a way it never had been before, tears still glistening along her lashes. "I still do." Then, with quiet certainty, "And now, I love her too."

Her daughter let out a shuddering breath, closing her eyes for a moment, just a moment, before nodding. "Good," she whispered, leaning against her mother, against family. "Then she has everything."

The door creaked open again, this time without the hesitation her mother had shown. Heavy footsteps crossed the threshold, slow and deliberate, pausing just at the edge of the dim candlelight. She knew before she looked up. Her father.

He did not speak right away, nor did he move toward her, nor did he even glance at the bundle in her arms. His gaze was fixed only on her, sweeping over her face, her form, as if he could read the truth of her condition in the shadows beneath her eyes, in the way she cradled herself around the child. He exhaled through his nose, deep and steady, though something in his shoulders remained rigid.

“You’re well?” His voice, always a measured, commanding thing, was quieter now, rough around the edges. It was not a question of politeness, nor one of curiosity—it was an assessment, a demand for truth.

She let out a slow breath, feeling the weight of his scrutiny settle over her. “I am, Father,” she said softly, shifting just slightly beneath the blankets, adjusting the child against her chest. "Tired, but—I'm here."

Her father nodded once, sharp and deliberate, but his expression did not change. He took a step closer, his eyes flicking over her arms, her posture, searching for any sign of weakness she might be hiding. "Many women are not," he murmured, voice rough, unguarded in a way he rarely allowed.

She swallowed hard, understanding the weight of what he was not saying. That he had feared, for the first time in his life, that she might be lost to him—that his daughter, his firstborn, might slip from this world before he had the chance to do anything at all. "But I am," she said again, softer this time, meant just for him.

He exhaled sharply, as if the words settled something in his chest. His hands, which had been locked behind his back in rigid control, loosened at his sides. Then, at last, his gaze flickered downward.

The baby was still nestled close, her small face barely visible beneath the linen swaddle. She had not yet stirred, not yet fussed, as if she, too, could feel the presence in the room had changed. Her father regarded the bundle for a long moment before tilting his head slightly.

“She is small,” he observed, voice as steady as ever, though there was something unreadable beneath it. He was not a man prone to sentimentality, nor did he wear his emotions for the world to see, but she knew him. She saw the way his jaw tightened, the way his fingers twitched as if resisting the urge to reach out.

"She is strong," she countered, watching him closely. She adjusted just slightly, offering a better view, though she did not push. "Like her grandfather."

Her father’s mouth pressed into a thin line, but his eyes—sharp and assessing as they always were—softened just a fraction. “Flattery will not make me forget that you nearly gave me heart failure tonight,” he muttered, folding his arms across his chest. "Your mother has been weeping on and off for hours."

She smiled, amused despite herself. "You may as well admit you were worried too." Her voice was light, teasing, the kind of familiarity they rarely indulged in but was no less true.

His sharp, gray eyes locked onto hers again, and for a moment, silence stretched between them. Then, in a voice quiet, steady, and unshakable, he said, "I have never been more afraid in my life."

Her breath caught, startled by the rare honesty in his tone. He never spoke of such things, never allowed the world to see any moment of weakness. And yet—here he was, standing at the foot of her bed, telling her the truth of his fear as if it needed to be spoken.

She swallowed thickly, her fingers tightening around the swaddle as she let the weight of his words settle between them. "I wasn't afraid," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. "I had them with me."

Her father’s gaze flickered—just briefly—toward the closed door where her husbands had disappeared, resting at her command. His lips pressed into something thoughtful, unreadable, but he did not argue. Instead, he took a slow step closer and—finally—lowered himself onto the edge of the bed.

“Show her to me,” he said, though it was not a command. It was something gentler, something rare. A request.

She shifted carefully, pulling back the blanket just enough to reveal her daughter’s face. Soft, round-cheeked, utterly perfect. The baby let out a tiny sigh in her sleep, her small fingers twitching, her little brow furrowing before she settled again.

Her father stilled.

His breath caught, though he did not let it show beyond the smallest twitch of his fingers. He did not reach for her—he never had, never been the sort to cradle or coddle—but she felt it, felt the careful way he leaned in, the way he memorized the tiny face before him.

“She will be great,” he murmured, and this—this—was not just an observation. It was not a compliment, nor idle words spoken for the sake of comfort. It was a certainty, an acknowledgment of what had just entered the world.

She smiled softly, tilting her head to rest against the pillow. “I hope she is kind, too.”

His gaze flickered to hers, something knowing in his eyes. “If she is raised by you, she will be.” A pause. Then, softer, more thoughtful, “But she will be feared, too. That is a gift.”

She let out a breath of laughter, exhausted but full, warm but understood. "You would call fear a gift."

He arched a brow, the ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips. "You are my daughter."

She exhaled, closing her eyes briefly, the weight of the night settling into her bones. "Yes," she murmured, voice thick with something fond, something full. "I am."

Her father remained seated for a moment longer, his presence grounding, reassuring. Then, finally, with a slow inhale, he rose to his feet.

"Your mother will be back soon," he said, adjusting his cuffs with practiced ease. "She will see you fed properly, as I doubt you will think to do so yourself."

She hummed, too tired to protest. "You are not wrong."

He huffed, something almost amused in the sound. "Get some rest, my love." He hesitated for only a second before reaching down, brushing the lightest touch of his fingers over her hair—a brief, fleeting thing that still made her chest ache. Then, turning toward the door, he murmured, "You did well."

And just like that, he was gone.

The night was deep and quiet, the estate wrapped in the heavy stillness that only came after great events. The fires had burned low, the halls empty save for the distant creak of settling wood and the hush of wind beyond the windows. But above it all, piercing through the silence, was the sound of a baby’s cry—small, sharp, insistent.

Madam Martell did not hesitate. She had been listening, waiting, her instincts too finely honed to sleep through such a sound. With practiced efficiency, she pulled on a heavy shawl against the night chill and made her way through the dim corridors, her steps swift but silent.

She found them as she expected: mother and child, nestled against the pillows, the new mother exhausted, shifting sluggishly as she tried to soothe the fussing infant in her arms. The little one squirmed, her tiny face scrunched with displeasure, her cries still small but persistent. The mother—her lady—murmured soft reassurances, but exhaustion had made her movements slow, her hands clumsy with fatigue.

Madam Martell did not speak right away. Instead, she crossed the room without ceremony, her shadow stretching long in the candlelight. Only when she was near did she murmur, "Let me see her."

The young mother startled slightly, her tired eyes blinking up at her as if only just realizing she was there. But she made no protest, shifting just enough to offer Madam Martell a glimpse of the child. "She won’t settle," the mother admitted, her voice thick with exhaustion, her frustration quiet but felt.

Madam Martell hummed, her sharp eyes flicking over the baby, taking in the little fists, the wrinkled brow, the trembling pout. Newborn fussing. Nothing more, nothing less. "She’s fed?" she asked, already knowing the answer.

The mother sighed, adjusting the swaddle. "She won’t take."

Madam Martell clicked her tongue, then lowered herself onto the edge of the bed. "Here, let me—" She reached, her hands steady but careful, watching as the young mother hesitated before finally, finally allowing her to help.

With the ease of someone who had done this before, Madam Martell adjusted the tiny bundle, shifting her into a better position against her mother’s chest. The baby let out another little wail, but it was softer this time, her fussing turning more restless than distraught. "There, now," Madam Martell murmured, her voice low and sure. "You just need to feel safe, don’t you?"

The mother exhaled shakily, adjusting her hold. "She is safe," she whispered, something unspoken curling between her words, something vulnerable.

Madam Martell glanced at her, eyes sharp even in the dim light. "She doesn’t know that yet." Her voice was not unkind, but firm in the way only a woman with experience could be.

Another quiet whimper, then—a shift, a seeking motion—and finally the baby latched. The tension in the room eased in an instant, the little one’s cries muffled, replaced with soft, rhythmic suckling. The young mother let out a breathless sigh, her head tipping back against the pillows, her entire body sagging with relief.

Madam Martell did not move. Instead, she sat quietly, watching, taking in the sight before her with an expression unreadable. It was the first time she had seen this child—this tiny, perfect thing that had stolen sleep and filled the house with joy in equal measure.

"She’s got his hair," Madam Martell murmured at last, her voice softer than usual.

The young mother smiled, her fingers brushing over the baby's dark, downy curls. "I think she has my nose," she murmured sleepily, half-teasing, half-sincere.

Madam Martell huffed, arching a brow. "Poor thing, then."

A laugh, quiet but real. The young mother shook her head, but the humor in her eyes was genuine. "I’m too tired to argue with you."

Madam Martell smirked, but the expression was fleeting. Her sharp eyes softened as they flickered down to the nursing child, her lips parting slightly, as if she meant to say something—something important, something she was not sure she had the right to speak aloud.

She hesitated.

Then, finally—"I did not raise you."

The words hung between them, unexpected but carefully chosen.

The mother blinked, shifting slightly, her expression flickering with something unreadable. "...No," she said at last, quiet but steady. "You raised him."

Madam Martell nodded once, as if confirming something to herself. "I did." Her hands, resting in her lap, curled slightly into the fabric of her shawl. "And he is a difficult, impossible man, because of it."

The young mother let out a quiet laugh, her voice warm despite her exhaustion. "Because of it?" she repeated, amused. "Or in spite of it?"

Madam Martell snorted, shaking her head. "A little of both."

Silence stretched between them, comfortable now, thoughtful. The baby stirred slightly but remained latched, her tiny body warm, content, whole.

Then, softer now, Madam Martell murmured, "I did not think I would see this day."

The mother looked at her, her expression quiet, waiting. "You didn’t?"

Madam Martell shook her head, something old and unspoken settling in the lines of her face. "He was never supposed to have this." A pause. Then, with quiet certainty—"But I am glad he does."

Something in the young mother’s throat tightened, her fingers brushing absently over the baby’s back. "I am too."

Madam Martell exhaled, then, after a long moment, reached out.

Slowly, carefully, she smoothed a single finger over the baby’s impossibly small hand, tracing over the delicate knuckles, the softness of skin untouched by the world. The baby curled her fingers instinctively, grasping onto her without thought, without hesitation.

Madam Martell stilled.

Her breath left her in a slow, measured exhale, her lips parting slightly, her expression unreadable. When she finally spoke, her voice was quiet, unsteady in a way the young mother had never heard before.

"Ah." A pause. Then, softer, reverent, "There you are."

–

The evening was warm, the air thick with the scent of summer roses, a breeze carrying the faintest trace of lavender through the garden. Caleb stood beneath the lantern glow of the terrace, cradling Talia against his chest, the slow, steady rise and fall of her breathing lulling him into quiet contentment. The child’s small fingers curled against the fabric of his waistcoat, her impossibly soft cheek resting against his shoulder as she slept, the picture of peace.

He traced the delicate slope of her nose, the faintest brush of his thumb over the soft roundness of her cheek, utterly entranced by her. She was a perfect blend of them, the very best pieces of their love forged into something whole, something real, something he had only ever dreamed of. His heart ached with it, this feeling so vast it threatened to spill over, and when he lifted his head, it was to find Rafayel twirling their love in his arms, her laughter bright against the evening sky.

Their duchess—his wife, their wife—was radiant, her skirts flaring as Rafayel spun her with effortless grace, his own laughter low and warm, full of something unguarded. She clung to him as if the world might slip away if she let go, and the people around them—family, friends, those who had come to know their unconventional love as something sacred—watched with fond amusement. It had taken years, years of careful maneuvering, of whispers and half-held truths, but now there was only this—freedom, joy, the kind of happiness most men never even dared to dream of.

Caleb exhaled, looking back down just as Talia stirred, her tiny body stretching in that slow, drowsy way of babies caught between sleep and wakefulness. Her eyes fluttered open—gradient, shifting between shades of blue and red just as Rafayel’s did, a trait she had inherited without question. "Hello, little love," Caleb murmured, his voice soft as he pressed a kiss to her forehead, the warmth of her tiny hands pressing against his cheeks sending something sharp and sweet through his chest.

She cooed at him, her sleepy smile a mirror of her father’s, and he felt it then, that boundless love, that impossible, aching gratitude for the life they had built. He thought of their conversations late into the night, of the whispered dreams shared in the hush of their bed, of the knowledge that soon—soon—another child would come, one that carried his blood, his name. She was eager for it, their duchess, her desire for another child worn openly, spoken with the same passion she carried for all things she loved.

He knew Rafayel did not care whose blood ran through which child’s veins—only that they were loved, that they were theirs, that they would be given every choice, every opportunity to carve their own path. Talia could take over the horses if she wished, or perhaps it would be the next child, or the one after that; all that mattered was that they had the freedom to choose. Caleb, though, could not deny the quiet thrill at the thought of a son born from his own blood, of another piece of their family woven into existence, another child to hold, to love, to pass down all that he knew.

With a reluctant sigh, he passed Talia into the waiting arms of her grandmother, Lady Vide, who received the little girl with a delighted coo, pressing a kiss to her soft curls. Talia, always eager for affection, kicked her tiny feet and let out an excited pant, babbling as Lady Vide smothered her with doting adoration. Caleb lingered for only a moment, watching as his daughter basked in her grandmother’s love, before turning back toward the light, toward the heart of his world.

He moved through the garden, drawn by the laughter, by the sight of them wrapped in the revelry of the evening, by the knowledge that they belonged to him as much as he belonged to them. She saw him first, her face alight with warmth as he stepped closer, her arms outstretched to welcome him even before he reached her. "Is she hungry?" she asked, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek, her hands coming to rest against his chest as if she could feel the steady drum of his heart beneath her touch.

"No," he murmured, his voice low, reverent, as his arms curled around her waist, holding her close, anchoring himself in the warmth of her body. "She’s getting affection from her grandmother." His gaze flickered to Rafayel, who had yet to step away, who lingered as he always did, never quite willing to sever the invisible thread that bound them together.

Caleb did not hesitate, reaching for him, pulling him into their embrace, and as always—Rafayel let him. He was the more reserved of the three of them, the one who carried his love in sharp edges and quiet sacrifices, but here, with them, he melted, softened, let himself be held. His head rested against Caleb’s shoulder, his arm slipping around their wife’s waist, and for a moment, they simply stood there, wrapped in each other, in love, in everything they had fought so hard to have.

"You are so unbearably sentimental," Rafayel muttered, though there was no bite to his words, only fondness, only the slow, quiet surrender of a man who had stopped fighting the joy he did not think he would ever deserve.

Caleb hummed, pressing a lingering kiss to the side of his head. "I have reason to be."

Their duchess exhaled a soft laugh, tilting her head to press a kiss to Rafayel’s temple before looking between them, her gaze shimmering with something unspoken. "We are the luckiest people alive," she murmured, her fingers tracing over the back of Rafayel’s hand, threading between his fingers before reaching for Caleb’s. "Aren’t we?"

Rafayel sighed, long-suffering, but his grip tightened on them both, and when he spoke, his voice was softer than the night around them. "Yes," he admitted, pressing a kiss against the curve of her jaw, his other hand resting against Caleb’s back, lingering as it always did. "I suppose we are."

Caleb, holding the two loves of his life in his arms, knowing their family would only grow, knowing their love would only deepen—he had never believed in fate but looking at them now, feeling them, breathing them, knowing them—

How else could he explain this perfection?