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pandapetals · 7 months ago

Text

The Whispers at Howlett Manor

Your parents are forcing you to marry Lord Howlett in hopes of securing the future of Langley House. However, there is more at play than you realize.

lord logan howlett x fem!reader - no use of y/n, light reader description, reader has a last name - langley for story purposes, angst, forced marriage, regency era stuff, brooding logan, reader is stubborn, reader has sisters and a family, some fluff towards the end, sexual tension, light enemies to lovers, logan is a softie

a/n: Okay, so i love pride and prejudice/bridgerton (anything like that) so it was only a matter of time before i wrote something like that for logan. Anyway, this was going to be inspired by bridgerton but ended up being more inspired by logan’s comic book childhood mixed with just regency typical era stuff.

Also, i literally didn’t think this would be this long (i will admit the ending isn’t the best, i got tired of writing/kinda got writers block so sorry). also sorry it took so long to post but it's long af.

word count: 28k

divider credit: @pommecita

“Must you always be so difficult?” Lady Langley’s voice carried across the room like the crack of a whip, sharp enough to pierce through the layers of the emerald chiffon being draped over your shoulders. The maid fumbled with the fabric, her hands trembling as she tried to secure the delicate buttons along your back.

You drew a long breath, pressing your lips together to steady your voice. “Mama, I have done everything you asked,” you said, your tone strained but calm. You waved the maid away, your impatience slipping out in the motion.

“Everything?” your mother scoffed, her fingers coming up to massage her temple in a familiar gesture of frustration. “Dearest, you have done the opposite of everything. That dreadful scene at dinner the other night—do you even realize how close you came to ruining us? Lord Howlett was barely polite by the end of it.” She turned, her skirts sweeping across the polished floor as she began to pace, the rhythmic click of her heels only adding to the mounting tension.

You spun away from the mirror, the sight of your own reflection—eyes dark with resentment, cheeks flushed with the heat of suppressed anger—was too much to bear.

“Why must it all fall to me?” you burst out, meeting her gaze with a defiance that startled even you. “Why must I be the one to endure it all, to wear the fine dresses and force a smile, as though I am some precious porcelain doll to be displayed? Did you and Father not bring us to the brink with your own decisions?”

Lady Langley’s eyes widened at your boldness, though whether with indignation or a glimmer of guilt, you couldn’t say. “We did what we had to do for this family,” she replied, her voice low and tremulous. “And now, you must do your part. Marrying Lord Howlett will restore everything. His wealth is our salvation—our only chance to keep Langley House from crumbling.”

You turned back toward the mirror, but not to admire your appearance. The gown was exquisite—deep green with gold stitching along the neckline, chosen for the way it complemented your hair and hinted at your mother’s hope that it might catch Lord Howlett's eye once more.

All you saw was a stranger trapped in silks, her future bound to a man she hardly knew. A man whose stern gaze and gruff manners at the dinner table had left her with a vague sense of unease.

A man who seemed old enough to be your father, though still handsomely rugged, with a strength in his bearing that spoke of battles fought far from the comforts of an English drawing-room. Lord James Logan Howlett—his name alone seemed to carry a weight that threatened to crush you beneath it.

“I will not be sold off like cattle,” you said quietly, almost as if testing the words. The defiance wavered in your chest, but it was there—small and growing. “You cannot force me, Mama.”

Lady Langley’s gaze softened, if only for a moment, and her hand reached out but stopped just short of your shoulder. “My dear, there is no force. Only necessity,” she whispered. “Think of your sisters. Think of your father’s health. We cannot afford a scandal.”

The room seemed to close in, the walls heavy with expectations that clung like dust to every surface. You felt the weight of it pressing down, smothering that flicker of defiance before it could truly catch fire. There would be no escape from the duty laid upon your shoulders—not without dragging the entire family down with you.

As the maid returned to finish securing the gown, your gaze drifted back to the mirror, catching a glimpse of your own reflection. You tilted your chin up and straightened your spine, forcing yourself to appear composed. You would have to play the part—at least for tonight.

The question lingered in the back of your mind: Who would Lord Howlett be, once the doors closed and the pretense fell away? It scared you more than you cared to admit.

Without another word, your mother swept out of the room, leaving behind only the faintest rustle of silk in her wake. You exhaled, shoulders drooping as the maid finished pinning the last curl into place. Downstairs, the murmur of your sisters' voices drifted up, accompanied by the distant sound of your father’s halting footsteps.

As you descended the grand staircase, your sisters gathered at the foot, their eyes bright with excitement and curiosity. “Oh, look at you!” one exclaimed, reaching out to brush the delicate fabric of your gown. “Such a beautiful color,” another said, her fingers tracing the lace trim with envy.

Your father stood at the end of the stairwell, leaning heavily on his cane. His smile was gentle but tinged with a quiet weariness. “You look lovely, my dear,” he said, extending a hand toward you. His voice had lost some of its usual strength, but there was still warmth in his gaze as he squeezed your fingers. “I am sure you will have a splendid time at the play.”

You returned his smile, though it felt stiff, as though someone had drawn it onto your face with a trembling hand. “Thank you, Papa,” you replied softly. “Though I—”

Your mother’s sharp voice cut across the hallway, shattering the moment. “You shall behave tonight,” she declared, appearing around the corner with a frown etched so deeply into her face that you wondered if it had been permanently carved there. “Do you understand?”

You sighed, dropping your father's hand as your sisters scattered like birds startled by a hawk. “Yes, Mama. I understand.”

“I am serious, girl.” Lady Langley stepped closer, her eyes narrowing as though she could will obedience into you through sheer force of will. “The Dowager Lady Elizabeth Howlett is to be your chaperone, and I have heard she is not a woman inclined to kindness. This is your last chance to make a favorable impression on Lord Howlett.”

Before you could reply, your father interjected, his tone soothing, yet strained. “My love, she will be fine. There’s no need to fret.” He reached for his cane again, wobbling slightly, and one of your sisters, who had been listening around the corner, darted forward to steady him.

You took a step toward him to help, but a knock echoed from the front door, interrupting you. The butler promptly moved to answer it, revealing Lord James Howlett and his mother standing on the threshold.

Lord Howlett’s dark, brooding eyes swept over the entryway, landing on you with an unreadable expression. His face was set in its usual stern lines, the strong jaw rigid as though it had forgotten how to soften. Beside him, Dowager Lady Elizabeth Howlett stood with her arms crossed tightly over her chest, her thin lips pressed into a line of disapproval as if the very air of Langley House was beneath her.

“Good evening, Miss Langley,” Lord Howlett said, inclining his head slightly. “I trust you are ready?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be, my lord,” you replied with a polite curtsy, though your tone carried a hint of edge. “It is, after all, only a play.”

The faintest glimmer of something—was it irritation?—flickered in his eyes. “Indeed. Perhaps you might endeavor to watch this one instead of glancing longingly toward the exit.”

You arched a brow, a small, mirthless smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. “I assure you, my lord, I shall be entirely captivated—provided, of course, that the performance is not as stiff as some of the company I keep.”

The Dowager’s eyes snapped to you, sharp as a hawk’s. “Mind your tongue, girl,” she said in a low voice that dripped with condescension. “A lady ought not to jest so carelessly.”

“Oh, but I am quite in earnest, Lady Elizabeth,” you replied, meeting the older woman’s gaze with a practiced sweetness. “I would not dare make light of such an important evening.”

Lord Howlett’s lips twitched, not quite forming a smile. “Let us hope, then, that your enthusiasm lasts until the final act,” he said, offering his arm. “Shall we?”

You hesitated a moment before taking his arm, the rough fabric of his sleeve brushing against your skin as you settled beside him. His posture was rigid, as though every step was calculated to maintain the distance between you, and there was a tension in the air that crackled like static.

“Tell me, my lord,” you said as you descended the steps together, “do you always bring your mother along when courting?”

His gaze slid sideways to meet yours, a dark brow arching slightly. “Perhaps I thought you might benefit from a proper example of decorum,” he replied, his voice as dry as autumn leaves.

You tilted your head, your lips curving into a smile that didn’t reach your eyes. “How considerate of you,” you said. “Though I should warn you—I’ve never been easily subdued. Even with a watchful eye upon me.”

“Then let us hope,” he said quietly, “that you find something worth behaving for this evening.”

Together, you descended the steps with Lady Elizabeth two steps behind. You climbed into the carriage and the weight of the Dowager’s gaze bore down on you like a cold hand gripping your shoulder. Lord Howlett settled opposite you, his expression veiled in shadow, and for a moment, you wondered if there was more beneath that brooding exterior—something other than duty and disdain.

The thought was fleeting, and as the carriage lurched forward, you turned your attention to the dimly lit streets outside, wondering if the play would prove to be the most engaging performance of the evening, or if the true drama lay in the careful dance of words between you and the man who might soon be your husband.

────୨ৎ────

The play had begun with a flurry of activity on the stage, enough to momentarily capture your interest. But as the actors’ exaggerated gestures dragged on and the dialogue grew stale, your thoughts drifted elsewhere. By the halfway point, you were tapping your finger impatiently against the gilded armrest of your seat, biting back a yawn.

Lord Howlett sat beside you, his posture rigid, gaze fixed on the performers as if he were determined to will some life into the lackluster production. Behind you, two rows up, his mother, the Dowager Lady Elizabeth Howlett, sat in conversation with Lady Drummond, her sharp whispers cutting through the quiet like a needle through cloth.

“Must you do that?” Lord Howlett murmured, his voice low and taut, though he didn’t look your way.

You arched an eyebrow, glancing at him from the corner of your eye. “If you mean by ‘that,’ not falling asleep in my seat, then yes, I must. This play is dreadful.”

His jaw tightened, the muscles working beneath the skin as though he was grinding down the words he truly wished to say. “It is hardly the fault of the actors if your attention span is as short as your temper,” he muttered.

You bristled, half-turning toward him. “Or perhaps, my lord, it is because I find greater amusement in watching the dust settle on these velvet curtains than in enduring one more moment of this drivel.”

Without waiting for a reply, you stood and swept out of the aisle, the swish of your gown echoing in the hushed theater as you made your way down the dimly lit hallway. The air was cooler out here, and you took a deep breath, feeling a mixture of relief and defiance coursing through you. Surely, there must be something more engaging than sitting like a doll, pretending to be enthralled by dreadful theatrics.

“Miss Langley.”

The clipped voice was unmistakable, and you rolled your eyes before turning. Lord Howlett had followed you, pushing the theater door open with a firm hand, his expression shadowed and irritated as he stepped into the corridor. “You cannot simply leave in the middle of a play,” he said, his tone laced with exasperation. “It is beyond improper.”

You let out a dry laugh and crossed your arms. “I can do as I please, my lord. If I find myself losing the will to live through another act, I shall not sit there and suffer just to uphold some antiquated notion of propriety.”

He took a step closer, his brow furrowing as though you were some curious creature he was trying to decipher. “Why must you always defy what is expected of a lady?” His voice dropped lower, edged with something like genuine bewilderment. “It seems you take a particular delight in making a spectacle of yourself.”

“It seems you take particular delight in brooding and casting judgment,” you shot back, narrowing your eyes at him. “Is that not a spectacle in its own right? Or is it simply the pastime of a man who finds fault in everything and amusement in nothing?”

For a moment, you thought you saw a flicker of something else in his gaze—amusement, perhaps, or even admiration. But it was gone in an instant, replaced by the same stony look he always wore. “You think this is a jest?” he said, his voice low and rough. “You have no idea what is at stake.”

You scoffed, turning away from him and pacing a few steps down the corridor. “Oh, I am well aware. My family’s reputation, our fortune—such as it is—dangles by a thread. You are meant to be our savior, are you not?” You whirled back to face him, your eyes flashing. “I am to marry you and secure my family’s future, regardless of my feelings on the matter.”

He stepped closer still, his eyes hardening as he looked down at you. “You do have a choice, Miss Langley,” he said, his voice almost a growl. “You may refuse me, of course. You may tear up the marriage contract and walk away. But do not pretend you are unaware of what will follow if you do.”

You felt the sting of his words, the cold truth in them. “You mean the ruin of my family, the loss of our home, our dignity?” you replied, bitterness curling in your voice. “You think I do not know what is at stake? I know it better than anyone.”

“Then why do you resist so stubbornly?” His tone was quieter now, the anger ebbing into something else, perhaps even a touch of weariness. “Do you truly wish to see Langley House crumble? Your sisters scattered to find their fortunes, your father’s health worsening under the strain of financial ruin?”

Your breath hitched, and for a moment, the bravado slipped. “Of course not,” you said softly, the fight draining from your voice. “But that does not mean I wish to spend my life bound to a man who sees me as a duty—a burden, even.”

His expression shifted something unspoken passing through his gaze. “I do not see you as a burden,” he said, though the words sounded as though they cost him something to admit. “But I will not pretend this arrangement is anything other than what it is: a necessity.” He took a step back, his jaw tightening once more. “However, necessity does not mean cruelty. I would not make your life a misery, Miss Langley. I may not be the husband you would choose, but I would see to it that you do not suffer.”

You searched his face, looking for some hint of insincerity, but found none. “You speak as though you would do me a favor,” you said, your voice quiet but edged with defiance. “But I cannot help but wonder if you say this only because you, too, have no other choice.”

He inclined his head, a faint, humorless smile curling at the corner of his lips. “You are selfish,” he said, his voice low and edged with disdain. “You would let your family slip into ruin simply because you find me... unlikable? Is your pride worth so much, Miss Langley? Why can’t you be an obedient lady and do what is required of you?”

“Obedient?” You scoffed, the word scraping against your throat like gravel. “Oh, I see. I am a dog to be trained, then? A creature to sit and stay at your command?” You stepped closer, defiance burning in your gaze as you met his eyes without flinching. “That is where we differ, my lord. You would have a wife who falls meekly at your side, a pretty ornament to nod and smile on cue. But I would rather have a husband who doesn’t haunt brothels while demanding loyalty in return.”

His expression hardened, a flash of something dangerous igniting in his eyes. The silence between you was like a blade drawn taut, ready to cut. “You do not know me, Miss Langley,” he said quietly, the words seething between clenched teeth. “You presume to judge, but your knowledge is nothing but rumor and spite.”

“Then enlighten me, my lord,” you shot back, your voice rising despite yourself. “Tell me why the other ladies of the ton avoid you like a blight. Explain why a man of your wealth and standing must settle for a bride who has no choice in the matter. It seems to me that you are as desperate as the family you claim to save.”

His jaw tightened, and for a moment, it seemed as though he might reach for you—whether to silence your insolence or pull you closer, you could not say. But he kept his hands at his sides, though they were balled into fists. “Watch your tongue, Miss Langley,” he said in a voice so low it was nearly a growl. “You speak of things you cannot understand.”

“Then perhaps you should make me understand,” you replied, refusing to back down. “Because what I see before me is not a savior but a man grasping at the last thread of respectability. If you think marrying me will somehow restore your standing, then you are the one who is mistaken.”

He exhaled sharply, a bitter laugh escaping his throat. “You truly believe you have the upper hand here, don’t you?” His gaze flicked over you, as though appraising something less than worthy. “But let me make this clear, Miss Langley. It is not just your family’s name that hangs in the balance—it is your sisters' futures and your father’s health. Or do you not care about that, either?”

The words stung, and for a moment, the fight drained from your voice. “Of course, I care,” you whispered, the anger giving way to something more vulnerable. “But do not expect me to be grateful for a fate I did not choose, nor for a man who believes he can command my respect by demanding it.”

He took a step closer, and you felt the warmth of his breath as he spoke. “And do not expect me to offer comfort where there is no gratitude,” he said, his voice a rough murmur. “I do not need your approval, Miss Langley, only your cooperation. Your disdain matters little in the grand scheme of things.”

“Then you shall have my cooperation,” you said, your voice steady even as a knot tightened in your chest. “But make no mistake, my lord—cooperation is all you will ever have. If you are hoping for an obedient wife to dote on you, you shall find yourself sorely disappointed.”

“Obedience is not what I seek,” he replied, his gaze unwavering. “But I will have a wife who understands duty. That, at least, I can count on from you.”

You turned your face away, refusing to let him see the flicker of uncertainty that stirred behind your anger. “Then you shall have what you wish, Lord Howlett,” you said, your voice barely more than a whisper. “But do not mistake duty for affection. You may secure this marriage, but my heart is another matter entirely.”

For a moment, his expression softened like a cloud breaking to reveal the faintest glimmer of light behind it. Then it was gone, replaced by that same stern resolve. “Affection,” he repeated, as though the word itself were a foreign concept. “I think we both know that sentiment has little place in arrangements such as these.”

With that, he turned and strode back toward the theater, leaving you standing in the dim corridor, your breath coming a little too fast, your pulse thrumming with a mix of fury and something unsettling that you could not quite name. The door closed behind him, muffling the distant applause from the stage and the dull murmur of voices, leaving you to wonder whether this confrontation had left either of you any closer to understanding the other—or if it had merely drawn a deeper line in the sand.

The carriage had barely rolled to a stop outside Langley House when you flung open the door and stepped out, your movements quick and agitated, as if you could outrun the suffocating weight of the evening. The cool night air bit at your cheeks, but it did nothing to soothe the roiling in your chest. All you wanted was the solace of solitude, to shed the layers of pretense like a stifling gown.

Your steps had scarcely touched the gravel drive before you heard the heavy thud of boots behind you.

"Miss Langley." Lord Howlett’s voice cut through the quiet, steady, and unyielding as ever. His mother, the Dowager Lady Elizabeth, called after him with an impatient huff, but he paid her no mind.

You quickened your pace, the glow from the house’s lanterns casting long shadows along the steps ahead. "I wish to be alone, Lord Howlett," you said sharply, your voice fraying at the edges. The marble step was slick with evening dew, and your foot slipped, your balance faltering.

In an instant, his hand was at your elbow, steadying you before you could tumble forward. The grip was firm, strong enough to remind you of his presence but not rough. Still, the warmth of his touch burned like an affront, and you wrenched your arm free, glaring up at him. "Do not touch me," you hissed, taking a step back.

His jaw tightened, but he did not retreat. "We need to speak about the marriage," he said, his tone low and even, though there was a trace of something gentler beneath it—a reluctant concern, perhaps, that seemed to soften the hard line of his brow.

"There is nothing to discuss," you scoffed, folding your arms tightly across your chest as if to barricade yourself against him. "The terms are clear—I have no choice in the matter, so let me have at least this one freedom." You gestured toward the door behind you, your voice trembling with anger. "Allow me to go inside and be alone before I am forever bound to you."

For a moment, he said nothing, merely studied you in the dim light, his gaze searching yours as if he could see the truth buried beneath your defiance. He exhaled a soft, reluctant sound. "You think I wish to force this upon you?" he asked quietly. "You think I delight in binding myself to a woman who loathes the very sight of me?"

"Then why follow me out here?" you retorted, your voice rising despite yourself. "If you do not wish to force my hand, then why not leave me be?"

"Because," he said, his voice firming again, "if there is even the slightest chance that we could find some common ground—some understanding—then we owe it to ourselves to try." He took a cautious step closer, his expression gentling just a fraction. "I do not want a wife who feels trapped," he murmured, as though the admission cost him something. "But I cannot simply walk away from this marriage without condemning your family to ruin. Nor can you."

You hesitated, caught off guard by the faint softness in his tone. It was the first time he had spoken of the marriage as something other than a grim obligation, the first time you glimpsed a hint of vulnerability in him—like a crack in a fortress wall, small but real. "And you truly believe that 'understanding' will change anything?" you asked, skepticism thick in your voice.

"I believe it could make the difference between a life of misery and a life of endurance," he replied, his eyes never leaving yours. "Or perhaps even... something more." The words were spoken so quietly you almost doubted you’d heard them right, but there was a sincerity in his gaze that made your pulse quicken in an unfamiliar way.

You swallowed, the chill of the night air seeping into your skin as the anger ebbed, replaced by a cautious unease. "And what would you have me do, my lord?" you said, your tone softer now, though no less guarded. "Pretend to be content? To play the obedient wife you seem to think I should be?"

"No," he answered, his voice rough with honesty. "I would not ask you to pretend. I would ask you to give us a chance to learn who we truly are, beyond what is expected of us." He hesitated, then added, almost hesitantly, "You may find that I am not the monster you imagine me to be."

A bitter laugh escaped you despite yourself, and you shook your head. "You ask much of me, Lord Howlett," you said, taking a step back toward the door, your hand finding the cold brass of the doorknob. "But I shall consider your... proposal, if only because it seems I have little choice in the matter."

He inclined his head, accepting your words with a solemnity that surprised you. "That is all I ask," he said quietly. "For now."

Without another word, you turned and slipped inside the house, the door closing behind you with a soft click. As you leaned back against the cool wood, you pressed a hand to your chest, where your heart still raced with the remnants of anger and something unsettling.

It was a small concession, what he had asked for—a chance. Whether it would lead to any true understanding between you was as uncertain as the flickering candlelight in the dim entryway.

────୨ৎ────

For the past few days, you had managed, almost miraculously, to forget the looming specter of your engagement to Lord Howlett. The bustle of your sisters’ chatter and the endless duties of tending to your father’s needs kept your thoughts mercifully occupied. It wasn’t until afternoon tea, in the quiet stillness of the drawing room, that reality began to creep back in.

"Dearest, you should be getting ready," your mother said, her tone as clipped as the neat pour of tea into her porcelain cup. She glanced at you over the rim, the same expectant look in her eyes that always made your stomach twist.

"Getting ready?" you echoed, glancing up from the delicate pastry you had just bitten into. "Whatever for?"

She set the teapot down with a soft clink. "Lord Howlett is calling upon you this afternoon. I told you several times already—he said it was urgent."

You paused, your brows knitting together in confusion. "I don’t recall—"

"Of course, you don’t," she cut in, already turning her attention back to the list she kept by her saucer. "But mark my words, he’s coming to make his proposal official. It is time you finally accepted your future, dear. There are matters to be arranged, details to prepare for the wedding. You should be grateful he’s being so… proper."

The word grateful sat uneasily on your tongue, and you swallowed it down along with your annoyance. Pushing back your chair, you rose hastily, a flutter of unease stirring in your chest as you rushed toward your room. The idea of marrying Lord Howlett had begun to seem less daunting—he had not been altogether unkind, and there was a certain steadiness about him that could be called reassuring. The thought of him proposing, of that moment when he would slide a ring onto your finger and the arrangement would become irrevocably real, sent a jolt of panic through you.

When you entered your chambers, you found your maid already laying out a gown of ivory muslin—a gesture of assumption that made your cheeks burn with resentment. Still, you let her help you into the dress, her fingers quick as they tied the ribbons and smoothed the fabric. You wore your hair loose, allowing it to tumble down your back in soft waves; an act of small rebellion, for you knew your mother would have preferred it neatly pinned.

By the time you descended the stairs, Lord Howlett was already waiting in the drawing room, standing near the window where the afternoon light softened the harsher lines of his features. He turned as you entered, his gaze sweeping over you with a measured look that betrayed nothing.

"Miss Langley," he greeted, inclining his head with that familiar formality. "Thank you for receiving me on such short notice."

You curtsied, your movements practiced and restrained. "I was told you had something urgent to discuss, my lord. I must confess, I am curious as to what could not wait."

His lips twitched, not quite a smile but something close. "Then I shall not keep you in suspense." He reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a small, velvet box, opening it with a quiet snap. Inside, nestled against the dark lining, was a ring—a delicate band of gold set with a single emerald, flanked by two smaller diamonds. The green stone gleamed in the light, as deep and rich as the forests of Howlett Manor.

You were surprised by the quick stab of pleasure that rose in your chest. "The ring… it is beautiful," you admitted before you could think better of it. You caught his eye and saw something flicker there, a brief, almost imperceptible softening.

"I hoped you would like it," he said quietly, and for a moment, the tension that always seemed to hang between you loosened ever so slightly. "The emerald reminded me of—" He stopped, glancing away as though he had already said too much. "Well, I thought it would suit you."

A silence stretched between you, more thoughtful than awkward, before he cleared his throat and closed the box, slipping it back into his pocket. "There is also another matter," he said, his tone returning to its usual steadiness. "My mother is hosting a ball in our honor tomorrow evening. She insists it will be a grand affair, and I—" He hesitated, as though weighing his next words. "I would be honored if you would accompany me, Miss Langley."

"A ball?" you repeated, and though you meant for your tone to sound disinterested, you couldn’t quite keep the hint of dread from creeping in. "So soon? I would have thought we might… wait, given the circumstances."

"Lady Elizabeth is not a woman inclined to wait," he replied, a wry twist in his voice that was not without sympathy. "She wishes to make our engagement known to society without delay. It will be… expected, of course, that we present a united front."

"Naturally," you said, though the word felt bitter on your tongue. You looked away, toward the gilded clock ticking away on the mantel. "And what, precisely, would that united front entail, my lord? Do you expect me to pretend to be a willing bride, eager to embrace my future with you?"

He was silent for a moment, and when he spoke, his voice was low, almost kind. "I expect only what you can give, Miss Langley. If all you can manage is civility, then that will suffice."

You glanced at him, taken aback by the gentleness in his tone. "You surprise me, Lord Howlett," you said, your voice softer than before. "I did not think you capable of such… understanding."

"I am not as devoid of feeling as you seem to believe," he replied, a faint, rueful smile tugging at his lips. "But I would not have you think I am resigned to a marriage without hope of something more than mere obligation." His gaze met yours, steady and unyielding. "If there is any chance at all that we might find some semblance of happiness, I would take it."

The words lingered in the air, as fragile and uncertain as a new leaf on a winter branch. You hesitated, and a small part of you were reluctant to dismiss him entirely. "Very well, my lord," you said at last. "I shall attend this ball, and we shall play our parts for society. But do not mistake my agreement for acceptance."

"I would not dare," he murmured, and there was the faintest hint of relief in his voice. He pulled the velvet box from his pocket handing it to you before taking his leave.

You found yourself opening the box, glancing at the ring once more, that emerald stone glinting like a tiny spark of hope. It was a beautiful ring, you thought, though whether it would come to signify a promise or a prison remained yet to be seen.

────୨ৎ────

"My, my. Howlett Manor is even more magnificent than I imagined," Lady Langley breathed, her voice hushed with awe as the two of you stepped into the grand entryway.

The butler bowed with a practiced grace, and the quiet echo of your footsteps on the marble floor seemed to emphasize the vastness of the space. "This is to be your home, dear," she added, her gaze drifting upward to the vaulted ceiling, where intricate plasterwork and painted frescoes caught the morning light.

You huffed softly, resisting the tug at your heart. The manor—no, the estate, as it ought to be called—was indeed more splendid than you cared to admit, though you had steeled yourself not to show it. Even from the approach, its beauty had been undeniable: the sprawling gardens with their perfectly trimmed hedges, the marble fountain in the circular drive, its water sparkling like diamonds, and the lush oak trees lining the path like silent sentinels. Yet the sight of the interior, with its polished wood paneling and gilt-framed paintings, stirred something inside you that you could not quite name—a feeling somewhere between wonder and resentment.

"It is... pleasant," you said at last, the word falling flat even to your ears. Your tone was deliberately blasé, a feeble attempt to veil the fact that the grandeur of Howlett Manor made Langley House seem almost shabby by comparison. You watched your mother drift toward a painting—a portrait of some long-dead Howlett ancestor, his expression as stern as the current lord's.

"Pleasant?" She shot you a disapproving look over her shoulder, one brow arching in that way that always made you feel like a child again. "Do not be coy, dearest. This estate could rival a palace, and you know it." Her voice took on a lilting quality as she turned back to admire the ornate chandelier suspended above you, its crystals glittering like a thousand tiny stars. "It will be quite the step up from Langley House."

You bit the inside of your cheek, turning away from her. "If only that were the most important consideration in a marriage," you murmured, more to yourself than to her. As if marble floors and gold leaf could ease the unease that settled in your chest. The manor may be exquisite, but it was still a cage, albeit a gilded one, with walls that seemed to close in the moment you stepped inside.

Just then, a door on the far side of the hall opened, and Lord Howlett emerged, his dark gaze sweeping over you and your mother with a hint of appraisal. His expression softened—though only slightly—as his eyes settled on you. "Miss Langley, Lady Langley. I trust the journey was not too taxing?" His voice was low and measured, as though politeness was a formality he had long since mastered but did not particularly enjoy.

"It was quite manageable, thank you," your mother replied, flashing him a practiced smile. "And I must say, Lord Howlett, your home is truly breathtaking. I believe my daughter finds it to her liking as well, though she is being rather modest about it."

You bristled at the suggestion and shot Lord Howlett a look that was equal parts defiance and wariness. "It is certainly... impressive," you said, your tone more guarded than before. "Though I would imagine it feels rather empty at times, with all this space."

A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. "It is certainly quieter than the bustling atmosphere at Langley House, I imagine," he said, with a slight lift of his brow. "But I assure you, it is far from lonely."

His words hung in the air, and you wondered if there was an unspoken meaning hidden in them, something deeper than mere pleasantries. For a moment, you allowed your gaze to wander over the grand staircase that swept upward, the dark wood banisters gleaming under the chandelier's light, and the tall windows that overlooked the grounds, where sunlight poured in, bright and unforgiving. It was a beautiful place, undeniably, but it wasn’t yours.

"Well, I suppose I shall have to grow accustomed to all this… splendor," you said, your voice softer now, almost resigned. "After all, it will soon be my duty to see that Howlett Manor is properly kept." The words felt strange on your tongue, as though you were speaking of another woman’s life.

Lord Howlett’s expression shifted, just a touch. "It will be more than a duty, Miss Langley," he said quietly, his gaze steady on you. "I would have you feel at home here. In time." There was a note of sincerity in his voice that gave you pause, and for a fleeting moment, you wondered if he truly meant it—or if he was simply trying to soothe you like one would a skittish horse.

You nodded, though you did not entirely trust yourself to reply. The weight of the ring on your finger suddenly seemed heavier, its emerald catching the light with a glint that reminded you of promises yet to be fulfilled, and choices that had been made for you long before you ever set foot in this grand house.

"Come, dearest," your mother interrupted, her voice bright with forced cheer as she swept back over to you. "Lord Howlett’s mother is expecting us for tea. We wouldn’t want to keep the Dowager waiting, now would we?"

You inclined your head in reluctant agreement and began to follow her, but just before you reached the door, you glanced back at Lord Howlett. His gaze met yours, and for a brief, disquieting moment, you thought you saw a flicker of something genuine there—a glimmer of hope or perhaps doubt. Then he turned away, and you were left wondering if you had imagined it altogether.

────୨ৎ────

"I am pleased you accepted my invitation for tea," Lady Elizabeth said, her tone as cool and crisp as the fine china from which she sipped.

The butler moved gracefully between the three of you, filling cups with practiced precision. "I am a very busy woman, as you can imagine, but I thought it prudent to speak with you before the ball this evening." Her gaze slid over you and your mother with an assessing look that felt more like judgment than welcome.

Your mother offered a polite smile, though you could see the strain in it. "We are honored, Lady Elizabeth. I have heard so much about your journeys. You must have seen some remarkable places. I do envy such a fulfilling life… though, of course, my duties keep me at home with my family."

Lady Elizabeth’s lips tightened as if your mother's words had struck the wrong chord. Her eyes—cold and calculating—rested on you, and you could feel the weight of her scrutiny. It was clear she did not much care for the Langleys, despite the upcoming union. Perhaps she tolerated this match because it served her son’s purposes, but not out of any fondness for you or your family.

Sensing the chill in the room, you made an effort to soften the atmosphere. "You must have had some wonderful experiences. Where do your travels take you, Lady Elizabeth?" you asked, attempting a pleasant tone.

The older woman waved the butler away, her movements sharp as she took up her teacup once more. "All over England, and occasionally the Continent. I have been fortunate enough to travel extensively," she said, though there was a faint trace of bitterness in her voice. "Of course, it was never meant to be a solitary pursuit. My late husband and I had always dreamed of seeing the world together." She paused, her expression hardening. "Alas, we do not always get the lives we wish for."

Your mother nodded sympathetically, though Lady Elizabeth seemed to pay her little attention. "How dreadful, losing one's partner," your mother said softly. "It must be some comfort to have your son by your side."

Lady Elizabeth gave a faint, humorless chuckle, setting her cup down with a little too much force. "Logan?" she said, as though the name itself tasted sour on her tongue. "He is a dutiful son, I suppose, though I always did wish..." Her voice trailed off, and she pressed her lips together in a thin line before continuing, "Well, it does not matter. One cannot change what is already done."

You felt a jolt of surprise at her words. There was no warmth when she spoke of Lord Howlett—only a veiled disappointment that seemed to cut deeper than mere disapproval. The realization unsettled you, and against your better judgment, a small pang of sympathy stirred in your chest. What must it be like, you wondered, to be judged so harshly by one’s mother? To be seen as little more than a reminder of unfulfilled dreams?

"Lord Howlett has been… kind," you offered, your voice gentler than before. "He has made efforts to make me feel welcome."

Lady Elizabeth’s sharp gaze flicked to you, her eyes narrowing as though she could sense the faintest hint of defense in your tone. "He is a man who understands his duty," she said curtly. "Nothing more, nothing less. But you would do well not to mistake that for kindness, Miss Langley. He has his father’s temperament—stubborn and unyielding. It will not be an easy life for you, no matter how pretty the ring on your finger."

Her words were like a slap, though you weren’t entirely certain if they were meant for you or her son. The way she spoke of him, as though he were a disappointment, made your chest tighten with an emotion you hadn’t expected—pity. It was a curious thing to feel toward a man you’d only just begun to know, but it was there all the same, lingering at the edges of your thoughts like a stubborn shadow.

Your mother quickly changed the subject, her voice a touch too bright. "Well, Lady Elizabeth, I must say, your home is simply splendid. The ball will surely be the event of the season." She turned to you with a pointed look, the silent reminder clear: Remember why we’re here. Play your part.

"Yes, I’m sure it will be… lovely," you murmured, though you felt none of the enthusiasm your mother’s words suggested. The idea of the ball—a grand spectacle where you and Lord Howlett would be displayed like fine wares, a symbol of union that felt far from heartfelt—made you want to retreat even further into yourself. But retreating was not an option, not when duty beckoned.

Lady Elizabeth's expression softened, though only slightly. "I expect nothing less," she said, her gaze sweeping over you both. "We must present a united front, after all. Appearances matter, even when the heart is not engaged."

The words hung in the air, heavy with implications. You glanced at your mother, who was nodding as though everything Lady Elizabeth said was perfectly reasonable. Yet you couldn’t help but wonder if there was a warning hidden in her tone—a reminder of what this marriage was truly about.

"Well, then," your mother said, setting her empty teacup aside, "we should go upstairs and prepare. There is much to be done before this evening."

Lady Elizabeth waved a dismissive hand. "Yes, yes. I have given instructions to the maids. They will see that everything is in order."

With that, you rose from your seat, grateful for the excuse to leave the stifling parlor. As you and your mother made your way up the grand staircase, you cast one last glance at Lady Elizabeth, who was staring into the distance, her expression as cold and remote as the marble statues that lined the hall.

At that moment, you thought of Lord Howlett again and wondered what it would be like to grow up under the shadow of such an unforgiving woman—one who seemed to see nothing but what could have been, rather than what was. It didn’t excuse his sternness, his brooding demeanor, but it offered some small insight into why he might be the way he was.

────୨ৎ────

The ball was a spectacle of shimmering lights and lavish décor, each detail carefully orchestrated to impress. The chandeliers above cast a warm, golden glow over the guests, who moved in graceful circles across the marble floor like figures in a painting.

Your gown—an opulent creation of deep sapphire silk embroidered with silver thread—caught the light with every turn, the fabric glinting like starlight and drawing the eyes of those around you. You felt their stares lingering, appraising, but it was as if they were looking at a finely dressed doll rather than a flesh-and-blood woman.

Your mother had drifted off, eager to mingle and sing the praises of this grand match. It left you standing alone in a sea of unfamiliar faces, the polite chatter around you blurring into a single, indistinct hum. Though the event had ostensibly been arranged in your honor, it felt more like you were a prize on display, set out for the approval of society rather than for any true celebration.

Determined not to appear lost, you moved to the edge of the ballroom, your gloved fingers trailing over the polished surface of a side table laden with flowers. You caught snatches of conversation as you passed by small clusters of guests, their voices rising and falling like the strings of an orchestra.

"Well, I must say, it's quite the surprise that Lady Elizabeth managed to secure such a match for her son," a woman's voice murmured, low and conspiratorial. You glanced to your left and saw a pair of elegantly dressed women in their middle years, their fans fluttering as they spoke. "I had begun to think poor James would never find a bride. His temperament is not exactly… charming."

Another voice chimed in, this one with an edge of mischief. "And his mother hardly helps matters, does she? Lady Elizabeth has been a terror for years, ever since her husband died. I can't imagine growing up under such a cold hand."

"Well," the first woman continued with a sigh, "he was always the dutiful son. But duty is hardly enough to make one pleasant company, is it?"

Their words settled over you like a damp mist, uncomfortable and cloying. You were still learning who Lord Howlett—or James, as they called him—truly was, but you had already sensed that the relationship between him and his mother was strained. Hearing it discussed so openly, with such dismissiveness, only added to the unease you had felt since the start of the evening. It was as though you were intruding on a story that was not yours, but in which you had unwillingly become a central character.

Feeling a knot tighten in your chest, you turned abruptly and made your way toward the terrace doors. You needed air—something to clear the suffocating sense of being scrutinized, and judged, even before the real marriage had begun.

Pushing through the doors, you stepped out into the cool night, grateful for the brisk wind that carried the scent of autumn leaves and distant rain.

The garden stretched out before you, illuminated by lanterns that flickered in the dark like tiny fireflies. You had barely taken a few steps when you saw a figure leaning against the stone balustrade at the far end of the terrace. His silhouette was unmistakable, broad-shouldered, and tense, with the light of the nearest lantern casting half his face in shadow.

"Lord Howlett," you said, your voice carrying a trace of surprise despite yourself. "I didn’t expect to find you out here, avoiding your ball."

He turned at the sound of your voice, his dark gaze finding yours in the dim light. "And I didn’t expect to find you fleeing the festivities," he replied, his tone dry but not unkind. "Is the grand occasion not to your liking, Miss Langley?"

You moved closer, folding your arms against the chill, though it was not entirely the cold that made you shiver. "It is grand, yes," you said, the words feeling hollow even as you spoke them. "But it is also… overwhelming. It seems everyone here has something to say about you and your family."

His expression tightened, a shadow passing over his features. "Let me guess," he said, his voice dropping to a rough murmur. "They’ve been speaking of my mother and me, as though we are some tragic figures to be pitied or criticized." He gave a short, humorless laugh. "People always do."

You hesitated, uncertain whether to reveal what you had overheard. Something in the darkness of his gaze, in the way his shoulders seemed to carry a weight that had nothing to do with the fine tailoring of his coat, made you speak. "They said… that your mother is difficult, and that you…" You trailed off, suddenly unsure. "That you have always been dutiful, but that it does not make you pleasant company."

His jaw tightened, and for a moment you thought he might turn away from you and retreat into the silence of the garden. But then he sighed, the sound heavy with resignation. "My mother is a difficult woman," he admitted, his tone devoid of any attempt at pretense. "She was not always so, but after my father died… she became colder. As though his death froze something in her. She has never quite forgiven me for not being the son she imagined I should be."

The raw honesty in his voice startled you. It was the first time you had heard him speak so openly, and the words cut through your resentment like a knife through silk, leaving you with an unexpected ache. "I'm sorry," you said softly, though you knew the words were inadequate. "It must be… difficult, to carry that."

His gaze shifted back to you, his expression softening just a fraction. "It is," he said quietly, "but I do not seek pity, Miss Langley. I am only telling you this because—" He hesitated as if weighing the significance of what he was about to say. "Because I would have you understand that I do not wish to marry out of obligation any more than you do. But life is rarely kind enough to allow us our preferences."

You took a slow breath, feeling the tension in the air between you, taut and humming. "Then what do you wish for, my lord?" you asked, the question coming out softer than you intended. "If not obligation, then what?"

He was silent for a long moment, his gaze steady on you as though searching for something in your eyes. "If we must go through with this," he said at last, "then perhaps we might find some way to make it bearable. To be… companions, at the very least." He gave a small, rueful smile, one that barely reached his eyes. "And you needn’t call me 'Lord Howlett' anymore. It sounds as though we are forever strangers. You may call me Logan if you wish."

The use of his given name felt strange on your tongue, but not unpleasantly so. "Logan," you repeated, testing the feel of it. The intimacy of the gesture surprised you, and for the first time, you wondered if perhaps there was more to this man than the stern exterior he showed the world. "Very well. But only if you call me by my name as well. I would prefer not to feel like a stranger in my marriage."

"Agreed," he said, the faintest trace of warmth returning to his voice. "Then we shall start there, at least."

You nodded, a small, reluctant smile curling your lips. The path ahead was still fraught with uncertainty, but for the first time, the weight on your chest seemed to lift just a little, as though you had found a foothold on a steep climb. The night air no longer felt quite so cold, and the lights of the ballroom behind you seemed a world away, as though the two of you were the only people in existence.

"Perhaps…" you began hesitantly, your voice almost lost in the cool night air. "Perhaps you like to dance?" The suggestion came out more tentative than you intended, as though you were testing the ground beneath you for cracks. "I—I don't know if you are a dancer, but—"

"I am not," Logan interrupted, his tone blunt as ever. His gaze flicked to the ballroom beyond the terrace, where the strains of a lively waltz floated out through the open doors.

You nodded quickly, heat rising to your cheeks as awkwardness settled over you like a heavy cloak. "I see. Well, then," you said, already beginning to turn away, "I should probably—"

"Wait," he said, his voice softer now, almost as if he regretted his abruptness. "I may not be a dancer by nature, but…" He extended his hand, gloved and steady, toward you. "I suppose I could make an exception. For tonight."

You hesitated, glancing between his outstretched hand and his eyes, which held a flicker of something unexpected—perhaps even a hint of apology. It seemed as though he was offering more than just a dance; he was offering a moment of truce, a chance to find common ground, if only for the span of a waltz.

Slowly, you placed your hand in his, the warmth of his touch seeping through the thin fabric of your glove.

He led you back through the terrace doors and onto the polished floor of the ballroom. The light was softer here, the shadows of the grand chandeliers dancing across the marble in tandem with the swirling couples.

Logan's hand found its place at your waist, and you felt the light pressure of his fingers against your back as he drew you closer. His other hand held yours gently, as though he were wary of holding on too tightly.

"You may find I am somewhat clumsy," he said, his voice low and edged with a reluctant humor. "I am better suited to riding or fencing than to this… delicate footwork."

"Then I shall tread lightly," you replied, a small, teasing smile touching your lips as you met his gaze. "It wouldn't do to embarrass you in front of your guests."

A wry glint sparked in his eyes. "I'd wager you would enjoy that far more than you should," he murmured, his tone laced with dry amusement.

The music swelled around you, and as you began to move, you could feel the tension in Logan's posture. His steps were careful at first, almost hesitant, as though he were measuring each movement to ensure he did not misstep. Yet, as the dance went on, a certain ease began to creep in. There was a surprising steadiness in the way he guided you, his hold neither too firm nor too tentative, as though he were learning how to match your pace.

"You're not a terrible dancer, you know," you said after a moment, allowing yourself to relax into the rhythm. "I think you may have misled me."

He gave a soft chuckle, the sound rumbling low in his chest. "If you say so. Though I still feel like an imposter among these graceful sorts." His gaze swept briefly over the other dancers, his expression thoughtful. "I imagine this isn’t exactly the kind of evening you dreamt of when you thought of marriage."

You glanced up at him, surprised by the note of genuine curiosity in his voice. "No," you admitted, your tone candid. "But I’m not certain I ever dreamt of marriage at all. Not in the way young girls often do. I always thought… well, that I might have a choice in the matter. That I would marry someone of my choosing." The words slipped out before you could weigh them, and you immediately wondered if you had said too much.

Logan’s grip on your hand tightened ever so slightly. "And yet here you are," he said quietly, his gaze locking onto yours, "dancing with a man you did not choose."

"Here I am," you echoed, unable to disguise the faint edge of resignation in your voice. "But you should know, Logan—I have not resigned myself to being simply dutiful." There was a challenge in your eyes as you met his, and for a moment, the world around you seemed to blur, leaving just the two of you moving in time with the music. "I do not intend to be a wife in name only, nor a woman without her mind."

The corner of his mouth lifted, though the expression was not quite a smile. "Good," he said, the word a murmur. "I would not want a wife who could be so easily subdued." There was a pause, and then he added, as if it cost him something to say it, "You have a strength about you, a fire. It… suits you."

His words, spoken so plainly, sent a shiver down your spine from the strange thrill of being seen, even if only for a moment. "Logan?" you asked, your voice almost a whisper. "What do you want from this… arrangement?"

The dance slowed, and he guided you to a stop at the edge of the ballroom, where the light was softer and the music faded into the background. His gaze never wavered from yours, and for an instant, you could see the layers of guardedness in his eyes, the uncertainty mingled with something deeper.

"I suppose I want what anyone wants," he said at last, the honesty in his tone startlingly raw. "A life that is… bearable, at the very least. Perhaps, in time, something more than just duty." His hand lingered on your waist, as though he was reluctant to let you go. "But I will not force affection where it does not exist. I would rather we find some common ground, even if that is all we ever share."

The tension between you hung in the air like a breath unspent, and you found yourself nodding, your throat tight. "I suppose that is a start," you said, a hint of a smile pulling at your lips. "But I will warn you, Logan—I have little talent for settling for 'bearable.' If I am to find contentment, it will be on my terms."

"Then let it be on your terms," he replied, his voice soft but resolute. "As long as you allow me to learn them."

The music swelled once more, the moment passed, but something unspoken lingered between you, fragile and tentative. As you moved away from the dance floor, you could not help but feel that you had glimpsed the man behind the title—neither a brooding lord nor a reluctant suitor, but someone trying, just as you were, to make sense of the path that lay ahead.

────୨ৎ────

The days before the wedding passed in a blur of preparations, each one more elaborate than the last. Your mother seemed determined to outdo herself in every detail, from the arrangements of the flowers to the grandness of the banquet, as though an opulent ceremony could distract from the quiet desperation behind it.

The Langleys were teetering on the brink of ruin, yet she had no qualms about spending lavishly, especially since it was Lord Howlett’s money footing the bill. It only pressed your nerves further, making you feel as though you were hurtling toward an unknown fate with no time to catch your breath.

Your sisters were surprisingly calm about it all, their usual youthful chatter subdued by a vague, uneasy acceptance. One of them, the youngest, had even confessed her concern as you helped her brush out her hair the night before. “Do you have to marry him?” she whispered, her wide eyes full of worry. “People say he’s… odd. They say his temper is frightful, and he spends too much time away from society.”

You forced a reassuring smile, though you could not quite summon the words to soothe her fears—when your own still lingered in the corners of your mind.

Yet, if there was any solace to be found in those frantic days, it was in the quiet hours you spent by your father's side. His health had declined steadily over the past year, leaving him confined to his bed more often than not, and you took every opportunity to care for him, fetching his tea, sitting with him in the evenings, and reading aloud from his favorite books. He was the one constant in your world, and though you tried to keep the worry from your voice, he seemed to sense the storm that raged beneath your calm facade.

One evening, you sat beside him in the dim glow of the bedside candlelight, the murmur of the household carrying faintly through the closed door. Your father’s eyes, though weary, still held a spark of the warmth that had always comforted you. He reached for your hand, his grip gentle but steady. "You seem troubled, my dear," he said softly. "I imagine it is not just the bustle of the preparations weighing on you."

You hesitated, but then sighed, letting some of your defenses fall. "I suppose I am… uncertain," you confessed, your voice barely above a whisper. "There is so much talk—about Lord Howlett’s character, about his reputation. I hardly know him at all, and yet I am to marry him."

Your father’s expression softened, a faint smile touching his lips. "You’re right to have your doubts, but there is more to James than society sees," he said, his voice low and earnest. "He is a good man, despite what people may say. I have known him for some time."

You looked at him with surprise. "You have?"

He nodded, a faraway look in his eyes as if recalling something from long ago. "I once had the chance to see the measure of his character firsthand," he began. "It was a few years back before his father passed. There was an incident in the village—a fire broke out in one of the cottages. I had gone down to see if I could offer any assistance, and there was James, knee-deep in the smoke and chaos, helping to pull a family from the burning house. He didn’t wait for anyone else to act—he just did what had to be done." He paused, his gaze meeting yours with quiet intensity. "Afterwards, when the villagers tried to thank him, he brushed it off as though it were nothing."

You listened, the image of Logan emerging from the smoke—a man of action rather than words—forming in your mind. It didn’t fit the stories whispered about him at all, the rumors of a cold, temperamental lord who preferred his solitude to society.

"He doesn’t wear his virtues for others to see," your father continued, his tone tender. "But they are there, and I would not have agreed to this marriage if I didn’t believe he was worthy of you." His voice dipped, softening. "In fact, it was I who insisted upon it."

The admission struck you like a sudden breeze, and you blinked in surprise. "You insisted?"

A faint chuckle escaped him, though it was tinged with sadness. "Your mother had other plans," he confessed. "She wanted you to marry Viscount Ashcombe. But I knew that man for what he was—a charming rake with a smile that hid his vices. He would have squandered what little we had left and treated you as nothing more than a pretty ornament for his arm. I could not allow that."

A shudder of relief ran through you. Viscount Ashcombe had indeed been a frequent guest at Langley House, his charming demeanor masking a calculating gaze you had never quite trusted. That your father had shielded you from such a fate filled you with a new, deep gratitude, but also a touch of guilt. "And… Lord Howlett?" you asked, your voice hesitant. "You truly believe he is a better choice?"

"I do," your father said simply, giving your hand a reassuring squeeze. "James may not be the gentleman of society’s dreams, but he is honorable, and he would not see you come to harm. I have seen how he looks at you, even if you have not noticed it yourself. There is a kindness there, though it is buried deep. I only ask that you give him a chance to prove himself to you."

You felt the sting of tears behind your eyes, not out of sadness, but from the overwhelming tenderness in your father’s words. He had always been a voice of reason and quiet strength, and if he believed Logan was a good man, perhaps there was something more to this arrangement than mere obligation. "I shall try, Papa," you whispered, your voice thick with emotion. "If you think it right, I shall try."

A soft smile curved his lips, and he reached up to tuck a stray curl behind your ear. "That is all I could ever ask of you, my dear," he said gently. "And remember, marriage is not defined by society's expectations or even by the beginnings it is built upon. It is shaped by the choices you make together, by how you face the world as one."

You stayed with him a while longer, resting your head on the pillow beside his as he spoke of simpler things—memories of your childhood, stories of when he and your mother first met. Yet, as his voice grew softer and the evening deepened, your thoughts drifted to Logan, and you wondered if this marriage could truly be more than just duty.

────୨ৎ────

"Stop squirming, dear. You'll ruin the lace," your mother chided, her tone sharp with impatience. The maid's fingers fumbled with the last of the tiny pearl buttons running down the back of your gown. You tried to stand still, though your nerves thrummed beneath your skin like the tension of a tightly wound string.

"But it's itchy," you complained, wincing as the delicate lace sleeves brushed against your arms again, the fine fabric more irritating than luxurious at that moment. The dress, an ivory satin creation with lace overlay, clung to your frame like a beautiful prison, its layers heavy and constricting. You stared at your reflection in the looking glass—the bride-to-be staring back at you was almost unrecognizable, her cheeks pale and eyes wide with the uncertainty she couldn’t quite mask.

"Beauty is not meant to be comfortable," your mother said briskly, stepping forward to adjust your veil with quick, efficient movements. "Today of all days, you must endure a little discomfort." She pressed a kiss to your forehead, though there was no true tenderness in the gesture—only the determination of a woman who would see her daughter wed, no matter what doubts might linger in the air.

You glanced toward the window where the light spilled in, illuminating the fine dust motes that danced in the air. Beyond the glass, the sprawling grounds of Howlett Manor stretched out, perfectly manicured and bedecked with white roses for the occasion. Guests were beginning to arrive, their carriages forming a neat line along the drive, and you felt a fresh wave of apprehension as the realization settled in by the end of this day, you would be Lady Howlett. No longer just yourself, but part of something larger and more daunting than you had ever imagined.

"Come, dear. It is time," your mother said, her voice taking on a softened tone that still carried an edge of insistence. She took your hand and led you down the grand staircase, the train of your gown trailing like a whisper behind you. As you reached the bottom step, a footman opened the doors, and the warm summer air rushed in, carrying with it the faint strains of music and the murmurs of assembled guests.

The ceremony itself was to take place in the garden, beneath a canopy of white silk, with roses entwined in the trellis above. You took your place at the entrance of the aisle, your breath catching in your throat as the music swelled.

Ahead of you, the guests rose to their feet, their eyes upon you like a sea of expectations. You felt as though you were walking into a story already written, where every step was a line you could not change.

Then you saw him.

Logan stood at the end of the aisle, his back straight and his face composed, but there was a different look about him today—something more open in his expression as if the stern lines of his features had softened slightly in the golden light. He was dressed in a dark coat and waistcoat, his cravat a crisp white, and for the first time, you thought he looked less like the brooding lord and more like any other man, perhaps even a little… nervous. The thought was oddly comforting, to see that he too might be feeling the weight of this moment.

What truly caught your attention was the sight of him speaking with a young woman—his cousin, Marie, whom you had met briefly the night before. She stood close to him, her dark curls bouncing as she laughed softly at something he said. Logan’s face, usually so guarded, was uncharacteristically warm. He reached out to gently touch her arm, a small smile playing on his lips. There was an ease in his manner that you had not seen before. It was a different side of him—a side that seemed capable of tenderness.

As if sensing your gaze, Logan looked up and met your eyes. The warmth did not fade from his expression; if anything, it deepened, and he gave you a small, reassuring nod. It was a subtle gesture, but there was something in it that steadied your breath—a silent acknowledgment that whatever lay ahead, you did not have to face it alone.

The music began again, and you took a step forward, then another, your heartbeat loud in your ears as you moved down the aisle. Your gaze remained fixed on Logan, his presence grounding you as you drew nearer. When you finally reached him, he extended his hand, and you placed yours in it, the warmth of his touch radiating through your glove.

His fingers squeezed yours gently, a subtle comfort. “Breathe,” he whispered, his voice low enough that only you could hear. “You’re doing fine.”

You exhaled, a shaky breath escaping you, and for a moment, the knot in your chest loosened. “You seem remarkably calm,” you replied quietly, glancing up at him. “Are you not nervous at all?”

His lips curved into a faint smile, one that was almost playful. “Terrified, if you must know,” he admitted, his eyes holding yours. “But I’ve been told I hide it well.”

A surprised laugh slipped out before you could stop it, the sound quiet and breathless. You hadn’t expected him to share such a candid confession, and somehow, it made everything feel a little less daunting.

The priest began to speak, the familiar words of the ceremony flowing around you, and though your mind still buzzed with nerves, you found yourself clinging to that moment of shared honesty, to the knowledge that beneath Logan’s composed exterior, a man was grappling with uncertainty, just as you were.

As the vows were exchanged, Logan’s voice was steady, but there was a sincerity in his tone that made you look up at him again, your pulse quickening. He held your gaze as he spoke, and at that moment, it felt as though the rest of the world had faded away—leaving only the two of you standing there, joined in a promise neither of you had fully chosen but both were willing to see through.

When it came time to place the ring on your finger, his hand lingered over yours, his touch careful, almost reverent. “You’re not alone in this,” he said softly, just for you to hear, his breath warm against your ear. “And you never will be.”

The words settled in your chest, bringing with them a quiet sense of resolve. As the priest declared you husband and wife, you felt a strange mix of relief and anticipation, as though you were standing at the edge of something new and uncertain, but not entirely unwelcome.

You glanced at Logan once more, catching a glimpse of that same warmth in his eyes, and for the first time, you wondered if perhaps there might be room, however small, for something real to grow.

When he leaned in to kiss you, you hesitated for a moment. He was gentle, almost tentative as though he were offering you not just a gesture of the ceremony but a promise of something more. The guests cheered and the music swelled pulling you back.

────୨ৎ────

The reception was in full swing by the time you made your way downstairs. The lively hum of conversation and clinking of glasses echoed through the grand hall, but the merriment seemed to blur at the edges of your awareness. Your mind was still reeling from the conversation you’d had with your mother moments before—her not-so-subtle suggestions about "wifely duties" and the inevitability of sharing a bed with your husband tonight.

The thought made your stomach twist, and your cheeks were still warm with embarrassment. You had hoped to delay that particular aspect of marriage, at least for a while, but there was no denying the weight of expectation pressing down on you.

As you rounded a corner into one of the quieter wings of the manor, you slowed your steps, grateful for a moment of reprieve from the noise and the prying eyes.

It was then that you caught sight of Lady Elizabeth, standing near the far end of the corridor with another woman you vaguely recognized—a guest, perhaps, or a distant relation whose name escaped you. They were somewhat obscured by the shadows, their heads bowed close together as they spoke in low, urgent voices.

You stopped short, instinctively stepping back to avoid being seen, but their conversation drifted toward you in hushed but distinct whispers.

"…it was the only way to ensure his claim to the manor," Lady Elizabeth said, her voice cold and matter-of-fact. "You understand, don’t you? A bastard child cannot inherit Howlett Manor unless certain… conditions are met."

The other woman gasped softly, her fan fluttering nervously at her throat. "Are you saying James is—"

"A bastard," Lady Elizabeth cut in, the word sharp and unyielding. "Yes. He is the son of a groundskeeper we had. I had an affair—brief, foolish—and yet, here we are. The late Lord Howlett agreed to raise him as his own, but only if Logan did what was necessary to preserve the family name and secure the estate. That meant marrying, producing an heir… appearing respectable." Her tone held a trace of bitterness, as though the situation was a distasteful chore she had no choice but to accept.

The truth struck you like a blow to the chest, knocking the breath from your lungs. You gripped the edge of the doorway, your fingers digging into the wood as the world seemed to tilt around you. Logan is not truly the heir to Howlett Manor? He is… illegitimate?

The whispers continued, their voices fading in and out. "…must keep it quiet, of course," Lady Elizabeth was saying. "If anyone found out the truth, it would cause a scandal. All the wealth, the manor—gone. That is why this marriage was so important. He needs a legitimate heir, and quickly."

You could hardly process what you were hearing. The weight of the revelation pressed down on you, filling your chest with a mixture of shock and betrayal. You had known there were expectations upon this marriage, pressures you had not fully understood, but this… this was an entirely different kind of entanglement. It wasn’t just a matter of appearances or duty—it was a lie. A lie that Logan had kept from you, that his mother had kept from society, a lie that now entangled you as well.

Forcing yourself to remain calm, you stepped back quietly, retreating before they could notice you. Your heart pounded in your ears as you made your way to one of the smaller parlors, where you sank into a chair, your mind spinning.

The scandal this could cause—if the truth were to come out, it would ruin not just Logan, but your family as well. The very thing you had married to avoid—the loss of Langley House, the disgrace—would become inevitable. I cannot tell anyone, you thought, a tremor running through you. No one can know.

Later, you found yourself drifting through the reception, the laughter and music around you feeling like a distant, disjointed melody. You did your best to play your part—the smiling bride, the gracious hostess—but every time you caught sight of Logan across the room, a fresh wave of unease washed over you.

You wondered how long he had known, how long he had kept this secret hidden from you. Had he intended to tell you eventually, or had he planned to let you live in ignorance, a pawn in his efforts to secure a future for himself?

As if summoned by your thoughts, Logan approached you near the edge of the ballroom, where you had retreated once more to catch your breath. His expression was softer than usual, and there was an unexpected warmth in his eyes as he came to stand beside you. "You look… radiant," he said quietly, his voice low and gentle. He reached out to brush a stray curl from your cheek, his fingers lingering near your temple. "I was looking for you earlier. I was hoping to steal a dance."

You stiffened at his touch, the tenderness in his tone feeling almost like a mockery in light of what you now knew. You forced a smile, though it felt brittle, and nodded. "A dance? Yes, of course. It is… our wedding day, after all."

His brow furrowed slightly, as though sensing that something was amiss. "Is everything all right?" he asked, his voice dipping with concern. "You seem… distant."

How could I possibly tell you? The question burned at the back of your throat, but you swallowed it down. "I'm just… overwhelmed," you replied, letting out a small, shaky breath. "It’s all been so… sudden." It wasn’t entirely a lie, and you hoped he would accept it.

His hand found yours, and he gave your fingers a reassuring squeeze. "I understand," he said softly. "It’s a great deal to take in. But you’re not alone in this." There was a genuine kindness in his eyes, a sincerity that should have comforted you, but instead only deepened your sense of betrayal. You knew that while he spoke these words of reassurance, there was a secret between you—one that threatened to unravel everything if it ever came to light.

You allowed him to lead you onto the dance floor, you couldn’t help but feel like you were playing a role, just as much as he was. The music swelled, and you fell into step with him, your hand resting lightly on his shoulder, his arm firm around your waist. He looked down at you with an intensity that made your pulse quicken, but instead of feeling warmth, you felt a chill.

"I’m glad you’re here," Logan murmured as you danced, his voice low enough for only you to hear. "I know we didn’t choose this, but… I’d like to think we could find some measure of happiness, even if it’s not the kind we once imagined."

You met his gaze, your heart twisting painfully at the sincerity in his expression. He looked at you as though you were the only person in the world, and yet… you could not forget the conversation you had overheard, the truth that hung like a shadow between you. "Yes," you replied, forcing the words out even as they tasted bitter. "I suppose we could try."

He leaned in closer, his breath warm against your cheek. "We’ll figure it out," he whispered. "Together."

The word together stung, and as you looked up at him, you wondered if he was truly offering you a partnership—or simply playing a part in a carefully crafted lie.

────୨ৎ────

The wedding celebration had stretched late into the night, and when it was finally over, you felt an overwhelming sense of relief. The laughter, music, and endless well-wishers had been exhausting, and you had longed to retreat somewhere quiet and familiar.

But Langley House was no longer your sanctuary; Howlett Manor was now your home, and the realization settled heavily on your shoulders as the last guests departed, and the manor returned to its usual stillness.

The early morning air was cool and damp, the dew clinging to your skin as you stood on the grand steps of Howlett Manor, watching your family prepare to leave. The sight of their carriage waiting at the end of the gravel drive stirred a longing in your chest, a longing to climb inside and return with them to the warmth and comfort of your childhood home, to the place where you still knew who you were.

Your father embraced you gently, his kiss a soft brush against your cheek. "You’ll be fine, my dear," he murmured, his voice both reassuring and tinged with sadness. "Remember, if ever you need anything, we are only a letter away."

You nodded, managing a small, tight smile. "I know, Papa." But as you pulled back, a knot formed in your throat, and you had to bite your lip to keep it from trembling.

Your sisters crowded around you, their eyes bright with mischief and concern. "Now you're a proper lady, a married woman!" one teased, nudging your arm. "We expect to see you behaving with all the decorum of a countess." Another giggled, adding, "Try not to be too miserable without us."

You forced a laugh, waving them off as they climbed into the carriage, and you watched it roll away, the wheels crunching over the gravel until the sound faded into the distance. As the carriage disappeared from view, the sense of loneliness settled in, a cold, creeping sensation that sank into your bones.

Howlett Manor was vast, with its sprawling halls and echoing chambers, but it felt impossibly empty, like a hollow shell. The servants bustled about with quiet efficiency, their footsteps barely audible on the polished floors, but their presence did little to fill the silence. There was no life here, none of the warm chaos you were used to—just endless rooms and corridors that all seemed to lead nowhere.

You wandered, your slippers brushing over the ornate rugs, your fingers trailing along the smooth banisters. At Langley House, there had always been some comfort in the small, familiar things: the chipped vase on the mantelpiece, the faded armchair your father favored, the distant sound of your sisters' laughter drifting through the halls.

But here, everything was pristine and grand, untouched by time or sentiment. It was as though the very walls resisted your presence, like an indifferent host merely tolerating a guest.

Eventually, you found yourself in a small library tucked away on the eastern side of the manor. It was far more modest than the grand, formal library you had glimpsed earlier—this room seemed a bit forgotten, its shelves crammed to the brim with books of every kind. The air smelled faintly of dust and leather, and a few stray beams of sunlight spilled through the narrow window, illuminating particles that danced lazily in the air.

You sank into a worn armchair by the window, its upholstery faded from years of sunlight. It wasn’t a particularly inviting chair, but it was the first place you had found that didn’t seem to insist upon its grandeur, that didn’t make you feel quite so out of place.

Your fingers traced the spines of the books nearby—collections of poetry, histories, and old novels whose covers were cracked with age. You pulled a volume at random from the shelf and settled back, trying to lose yourself in the words, but the text seemed to blur before your eyes, and you couldn’t shake the emptiness that gnawed at the edges of your thoughts.

The loneliness here was different from what you had expected. It wasn’t the sharp sting of missing your family, nor was it the cold silence of being truly alone.

Rather, it was a kind of isolation that seeped into you even when surrounded by people—people who knew their place here, who moved about the manor with the easy familiarity you lacked. Even Logan, who you’d scarcely seen since the wedding day, seemed a stranger to this place at times. You had caught glimpses of him in passing, his brow furrowed in thought or his expression distant, and you wondered if he too felt as though he did not entirely belong.

You had just begun to drift off into an uneasy doze when the sound of voices outside the library door roused you. You started, closing the book and setting it aside as the door opened and Logan stepped in, speaking quietly with his cousin, Marie. There was a lightness to his tone, a warmth you had rarely heard in his voice. He laughed at something she said, the sound deep and genuine, and there was a soft smile on his lips as he reached out to ruffle her hair in an affectionate, brotherly gesture.

You felt a pang of something you could not quite name—jealousy, perhaps, or simply longing. It was strange to see him this way, unguarded and almost joyful.

As if sensing your gaze, Logan looked up and saw you seated there, half-hidden behind the armchair. His smile faded slightly, but a flicker of that warmth remained as he inclined his head toward you. "I didn’t realize anyone else was in here," he said, his voice carrying a faint note of surprise. "I hope we didn’t disturb you."

"Not at all," you replied, rising to your feet, though the sudden movement made you feel unsteady. "I was just… trying to pass the time."

Marie gave you a friendly nod before excusing herself, leaving the two of you alone in the quiet library. Logan's gaze followed her for a moment, then returned to you, and you felt the weight of his attention, his curiosity.

"Have you found everything to your liking?" he asked, his tone polite, though there was a hint of something else in it as if he was searching for reassurance himself. "I know it must be quite an adjustment…"

"Yes," you answered, forcing a smile that felt strained. "It is… different, certainly." The understatement felt almost laughable, but you could not bring yourself to confess the depth of your unease. Not to him. Not yet.

Logan’s expression softened, and he took a step closer, his voice dropping to a more intimate tone. "If there’s anything you need—anything at all—please let me know," he said. "I would not have you feel like a stranger here."

The kindness in his voice unsettled you, for you could not help but wonder if it was merely an act, part of the role he was expected to play as a new husband. After all, how could he speak of not wanting you to feel like a stranger when he had kept the most significant part of his life hidden from you? When the very foundation of this marriage was built on secrets and necessity?

"Thank you, my lord, but I fear I will always be a stranger here," you blurted before you could stop yourself. The moment they left your lips, a flicker of regret curled in your chest, but it was too late to take them back.

Logan's brows furrowed, a shadow of concern crossing his features. "I had hoped to make you comfortable," he said, his voice measured, as though he was choosing each word with care. "If there is something amiss… Is your chamber not to your liking, or—"

"It is not the chamber," you interrupted, shaking your head. "Everything here is grand. Perhaps that is the problem." You gestured vaguely around the room, where the dark wood paneling gleamed in the afternoon light, where the velvet drapes hung heavy and untouched. "Nothing feels… homey. It is as though I am trapped within these walls, surrounded by all this grandeur, but with nothing of substance to occupy me. There is an emptiness here and I…" Your voice trailed off, uncertain how to convey the rest without sounding ungrateful or childish.

He took a step back, the distance between you widening, though his gaze remained fixed on you, unwavering. "How can you be so unhappy when it has only been hours since our wedding?" There was a hint of frustration in his tone, barely concealed. "I know this is all new, but I thought—" He broke off, his jaw tightening. "I thought you were willing to give this a chance."

A dry laugh escaped you, tinged with a bitterness you hadn’t meant to reveal. "Willing, yes," you replied, a tremor in your voice. "But happiness? That is another matter entirely. I was not happy to begin with, and though I did promise I would try to make this marriage work, I don’t know if I can." You paused, your throat tightening around the words. "I am alone here, without my family, without my father. He has no one by his side."

Logan’s expression softened slightly, his shoulders relaxing just a fraction. "I know it is difficult," he said quietly. "But I would not have you feel this way. If there is anything I can—"

"I do not need reassurances, my lord," you snapped, the sharpness of your tone surprising you. You took a step toward him, the frustration and fear that had been simmering since the wedding rising to the surface. "I need honesty. I need to know that I am not merely here to serve as the solution to a problem that was never mine to begin with."

He blinked, a flicker of confusion crossing his features. "What are you talking about?"

You opened your mouth to respond, the words balanced precariously on the tip of your tongue. I know the truth. I know what your mother said—that you are not truly the heir, that you are a— You swallowed, the weight of the secret pressing against your chest like a stone. But as you met his gaze, you saw a rawness there, a genuine concern that made you falter. The words died in your throat, and you looked away, unable to bring yourself to shatter whatever fragile understanding existed between you.

"Nothing," you said finally, your voice barely above a whisper. "It is nothing."

"Is it?" he pressed, his tone gentling. He took a tentative step closer, his hand lifting as though to touch your arm, then falling back to his side. "I know this marriage did not begin as a love match, but that does not mean we cannot build something worthwhile from it. I am trying to give you a place here, but you must meet me halfway."

A bitter retort hovered on your lips, but you swallowed it back. "Halfway?" you echoed, a faint tremor in your voice. "And what would that look like? Me sitting in silence while you attend to your duties, while your mother watches over me like a hawk to ensure I fulfill my role as your wife and nothing more?"

Logan's jaw tightened, and there was a flicker of something in his eyes—anger, perhaps, or hurt, or some mixture of the two. "My mother does not dictate our marriage," he said, his tone firm. "Nor does she have a say in how I treat you."

"But does she have a say in why you married me?" The question slipped out before you could think better of it, and as soon as the words hung in the air between you, you wished you could take them back. You saw the way his expression changed, the guarded look that closed off whatever warmth had been there moments before.

"What are you trying to say?" His voice was low, his gaze piercing as though searching your face for answers you were unwilling to give.

You took a step back, wrapping your arms around yourself as though to ward off the sudden chill that seemed to fill the room. "Forget I said anything," you murmured, turning away from him. "I am simply tired. It has been a long day."

You walked away, the tension hung between you, a taut string threatening to snap at any moment. You could feel Logan's eyes on your back, his unspoken questions pressing against you like a weight. You had come so close to revealing what you knew, and now the secret lay thick and unspoken between you. Its presence impossible to ignore.

However, the damage was done. The words you hadn’t said had already begun to build a wall between you, one that grew higher with every passing silence.

────୨ৎ────

It was days later, in the quiet hours of the late afternoon, when Logan found you curled up in the worn armchair with a book in hand, nestled in the small, tucked-away library. It was far removed from the grand and imposing main library, which you had visited only once and found too vast, too cold for your liking.

This library felt different. It had a lived-in quality, as though it were a place where someone came to retreat from the weight of duty, a place where time seemed to slow. You had claimed it as a sanctuary of sorts, a space where you could be alone with your thoughts and the company of the old novels that lined the shelves.

You didn’t notice Logan’s presence at first, not until the faint creak of the door announced him, and you looked up, startled. Rising to your feet, you brushed a stray lock of hair behind your ear, your loose curls tumbling over your shoulders.

"My lord, I did not notice you there," you said, your voice betraying a hint of the nerves that still stirred whenever you found yourself alone in his company.

Logan’s lips quirked in a faint smile, his gaze sweeping over the room before resting on you. "You don’t need to stand on ceremony here," he said, his tone softer than you had expected. "And you certainly don’t need to call me ‘my lord’—not in this place." He glanced around at the cluttered bookshelves as if reacquainting himself with the space. "I always thought of this library as a refuge, of sorts. It seems you have found it, too."

You relaxed slightly, though you still felt a touch self-conscious. "I did not realize this was… your library. It felt less formal than the others—more… welcoming," you admitted, a hint of a smile playing on your lips. "I hope I did not intrude."

"Not at all," he replied, stepping closer, his hands clasped casually behind his back. "In truth, I’m glad to see someone making use of it. I’ve always preferred this room over the larger one. There’s a kind of comfort here, wouldn’t you agree?"

You nodded, glancing back at the book you had set down—a collection of poetry. "I suppose I’ve always preferred smaller spaces. They feel less like… museums, more like places meant to be lived in."

Logan’s gaze drifted to the book resting on the armchair. "Byron," he noted, recognizing the gold lettering on the spine. "A man who made his life as dramatic as his verses. Are you fond of his work?"

"I am," you said, your eyes brightening at the familiar subject. "There is something about the way he captures longing and melancholy… It feels so human, so true."

Logan’s expression softened, a glimmer of shared understanding in his eyes. "Yes, there is a kind of honesty in his verses, even when they’re full of exaggeration. It’s as though he’s trying to make sense of his own heart."

He reached out, pulling a slim volume from the shelf beside him. "But I’ve always been more inclined toward Wordsworth," he confessed, turning the book over in his hands. "His love of nature, the way he finds solace in it… There’s a quietness to his poetry that I find calming."

You tilted your head, a touch of curiosity lighting your gaze. "That’s surprising. I didn’t take you for the type to seek out… calm."

Logan let out a chuckle, his thumb brushing over the book’s worn cover. "I suppose that’s why I do seek it. A man doesn’t have to look very far to find chaos, but peace… that’s something worth searching for." He glanced at you, and the lightness in his expression gave way to something more thoughtful. "You know, my father always called me James. I suppose it was the name he preferred—more dignified, I think, in his mind. But my mother… She always called me Logan, from the time I was a boy."

He hesitated, a shadow crossing his features. "I suppose I never stopped thinking of myself that way. James feels like… a stranger, a name for the person I am supposed to be, rather than the person I am."

The confession surprised you, and you found yourself searching his face, trying to understand the layers of the man standing before you. "Is that why you asked me to call you Logan?" you asked softly, as though the gesture could bridge the distance that still lay between you.

He nodded revealing a small smile, and for a moment, the tension seemed to ease.

“Then I shall call you Logan if that is who you truly are.” You said after a moment before sitting back down in the armchair, gesturing for him to take the one across from you, and after a moment’s hesitation, he did, setting the Wordsworth volume on his knee.

"You’ve made quite a collection here," you remarked, glancing around at the overflowing shelves. "I didn’t realize you read so much."

Logan’s expression warmed, and he shrugged slightly. "There was always more to learn, more to understand," he said. "I suppose books were the one constant when everything else seemed uncertain."

You understood that sentiment all too well, and it struck you how much you had underestimated him. He was not just the reserved and sometimes brooding man society saw, nor merely the heir struggling to uphold his family's expectations. There was a depth to him, a yearning for something beyond duty. You wondered if you had misjudged him—or at least, not truly seen him.

"You mentioned your father," Logan said gently, breaking the silence. "I know you miss him. I… I would not want to keep you from seeing him. Once I’ve attended to some business here, I shall take you to Langley House. You can stay as long as you like."

The offer came so unexpectedly that you stared at him, caught off guard by the sincerity in his voice. "You would do that?" you asked, a faint tremor in your tone.

"Of course," he replied, his gaze steady on yours. "It is your home, after all. I promised I would not have you feel like a stranger here." His lips curved in a small, earnest smile. "Besides, I would not wish to be the kind of husband who denies his wife the comfort of her family."

A warmth blossomed in your chest mingled with a pang of guilt at the secret you still kept from him. For now, you allowed yourself to accept his kindness, to believe that perhaps there was something to be built between you, some foundation upon which to steady the uncertain future that lay ahead.

You returned his smile, a tentative hope stirring within you. "Thank you, Logan," you said quietly, and as the light faded from the window, the two of you sat in the small library, the silence between you no longer quite so empty.

────୨ৎ────

The sun was sinking behind the trees, casting long shadows across the entryway of Howlett Manor, as you paced back and forth, your arms crossed tightly over your chest. The hours had dragged on, each one heavier than the last, filled with the monotonous duties of running the household—duties that had felt all the more tedious with your mind fixed elsewhere.

Your father was ill, and the news had struck like a blow to the chest, leaving you restless and frantic.

You had received the message from your mother just after midday, her handwriting trembling across the page as she described your father’s sudden fever. The thought of him alone, struggling for breath while you remained stuck here, had been gnawing at you ever since. You had been prepared to leave immediately, but propriety demanded you wait for Logan’s return; a lady did not travel alone, no matter the urgency. Yet the minutes had crawled by, and still, he had not come.

Finally, as the last light of day began to fade, the front door swung open, and there he stood. Logan’s hair was damp with sweat, and his coat was dusted with the evidence of his travels, but he seemed unharmed—unlike your father, whose condition you had only grown more desperate to reach with each passing moment.

"There you are," you exclaimed, your voice sharp and edged with impatience. "I’ve been waiting all day for you to return. I need to leave for Langley House at once."

Logan blinked, taken aback by your tone. "I’m sorry, I—"

"My father is ill," you cut him off, your pacing quickening as you spoke. "He’s taken a sudden fever, and I will not wait here a moment longer. I must go to him." The words tumbled out in a frantic rush, your chest tightening with every breath.

Logan frowned, concern flashing in his eyes, but his tone remained calm. "It’s already late. The roads are dark, and it would be dangerous to travel now. We should wait until morning—"

"Morning?" You spun to face him, incredulous. "You promised, Logan. You said as soon as your business was done, you would take me to Langley House. But now you ask me to wait even longer? My father could be—" Your voice broke, and you swallowed hard, fighting the tears that threatened to spill over.

He stepped forward, his brow furrowing. "I know you're worried, but traveling in the dark—"

"I don’t care about the dark!" you shouted, your hands clenching into fists at your sides. "My father needs me, now, not when it’s convenient for you." The frustration and fear you had kept bottled up surged forward, and before you could think better of it, the words you had been holding back escaped in a rush. "I know why you married me, Logan," you said, your voice trembling with the force of your emotions. "I know the truth about you—about who you are. A bastard son, trying to secure his inheritance through this marriage."

His expression froze, a flicker of confusion crossing his features. "What… what are you talking about?" he asked, his voice low and uncertain, as if the ground beneath him had just shifted. "Who told you—"

"It doesn’t matter who told me," you snapped, your heart pounding as you took a step back. "What matters is that you only married me to secure your fortune, and now you would have me wait while my father suffers? You are no better than a liar, Logan." The name felt bitter on your tongue, as though it belonged to a stranger.

He reached for you, his voice urgent. "Please, just listen to me. I don’t—"

You shook your head, unwilling to hear whatever explanations he might have. "I’ve heard enough," you said coldly, turning on your heel and marching toward the door. "I’m going to Langley House, with or without you."

Without waiting for his response, you stormed out of the entryway and hurried to the stables, your pulse thundering in your ears. A stable hand gaped at you as you demanded a carriage be readied at once, and you hardly noticed the incredulous look the servants exchanged as you climbed inside, your hands trembling with anger and fear.

The carriage lurched forward, and you stole one last glance at the manor as it receded into the distance. You half expected Logan to follow, to call out and demand you stay, but there was nothing—only the growing darkness and the sound of the wheels on the gravel.

As the night swallowed the road ahead, the magnitude of what you had done began to sink in. You had left without hearing his side of the story, and though part of you felt justified, another part—a quieter, more uncertain part—wondered if you had made a terrible mistake.

────୨ৎ────

A few days had passed since you arrived at Langley House, and you had barely left your father's side. His fever had not yet broken, and though he sometimes seemed to drift into a peaceful sleep, there were moments when his breathing grew labored, his skin pale and damp.

You clung to his bedside, your hand wrapped around his frail fingers, fighting the exhaustion that pressed against your eyelids. The hours blurred together, and you lost track of time; all that mattered was being there, willing him to recover with every silent plea.

"You should rest, dear," your mother had said, her brow creased with worry as she hovered by the door. But you waved her off with a weary shake of your head, and after a moment’s hesitation, she left you be. It was the first time in days she had not insisted on something, and you were grateful for the silence.

At last, when even your determination could not keep your eyes open, you retreated to your old room. It felt strange to be there again—the space was exactly as you had left it, a time capsule of your girlhood, yet you felt like an intruder.

The familiar lace curtains, the faded wallpaper, the worn quilt at the foot of the bed… all reminders of a past life, one that seemed distant now that you were a wife with different burdens to bear. You lay down, but sleep remained elusive, your thoughts tangled and restless.

A soft knock interrupted the quiet, rousing you from your half-conscious state. You sat up slowly, rubbing your eyes as a servant peeked hesitantly through the door. "My lady," she murmured, "there is a gentleman here to see you."

Your chest tightened, a familiar dread curling in your stomach. "If it is Lord Howlett, tell him I am busy," you said, your voice sharper than you intended. You had not spoken to Logan since you left Howlett Manor in a fit of anger and hurt, and you were not sure you were ready to face him yet.

The servant hesitated, her eyes shifting toward the hall. "He was quite insistent, my lady." Before you could respond, the door creaked open wider, and there stood Logan, looking unlike you had ever seen him.

He was pale, his hair unruly as if he had run his hands through it too many times, and there were dark circles under his eyes, as though he had not slept in days. For a moment, he seemed almost a stranger, stripped of the composed exterior you had grown used to. There was a rawness about him that made your heart twist despite the anger you still felt.

"May I come in?" he asked, his voice rough, and there was a vulnerability in his expression that gave you pause.

You hesitated, your grip tightening on the edge of the quilt. "If you’ve come to offer more excuses, Logan, I’m not interested," you said, but the words lacked the conviction they had held days ago. His appearance, so disheveled and hollow, had already chipped away at your resolve.

He stepped inside without waiting for permission, closing the door gently behind him. "I don’t have excuses," he said quietly, his gaze meeting yours with an intensity that left you breathless. "Only the truth."

You folded your arms across your chest, trying to steady yourself. "The truth?" you echoed bitterly. "And what truth would that be? That you married me only to secure your claim to Howlett Manor? That your mother’s schemes made a fool of me?"

A muscle tightened in his jaw, and he took a slow breath before answering. "I did not know," he said, the words almost a whisper, as though admitting them pained him. "I didn’t know… until you left." He took a step closer, his voice thick with raw honesty. "After you stormed off, I confronted my mother. She… she told me everything. That I am not the true heir, that my father was not my father, and that the marriage was her way of ensuring my claim remained undisputed."

You stared at him, the floor seeming to shift beneath you. "You didn’t know?" you repeated, scarcely able to believe it. "You expect me to believe that you were kept in the dark about something so… so consequential?"

"I swear to you," Logan said, his voice hoarse, "I had no idea. All my life, I believed what I was told—that I was the legitimate son of the late Lord Howlett. I never had reason to question it." His expression tightened, a shadow passing over his eyes. "But now… now I know the truth. And my mother—" He let out a bitter, broken laugh. "She’s furious with me for confronting her. She won’t speak to me. I’ve lost… I’ve lost the only family I thought I had."

The anger you had been holding onto slipped through your fingers, replaced by an ache you had not expected. You saw the hurt in his eyes, the way he struggled to keep his voice steady, and for the first time, you felt a flicker of sympathy, even guilt. Slowly, you let your arms fall to your sides.

"Why did you come here?" you asked softly, your voice wavering. "Why now?"

"Because I needed you to know," he said, his gaze searching yours for something—understanding, forgiveness, perhaps even solace. "I needed you to know that I did not deceive you, not intentionally. And… because I hoped…" His voice trailed off, and he swallowed, his eyes dark with uncertainty. "I hoped you might still be willing to come back. If not for the marriage, then… at least to speak with me. To try to understand."

You hesitated, your heart tugging in two directions. You had been so sure of his betrayal, so certain that he had used you, and yet now, seeing him so undone, so lost… It stirred something within you, a reluctant compassion that you could not quite suppress.

You slipped out of your bed and took a step toward him, your hand lifting slightly before you let it fall again. "Logan," you whispered, your voice barely more than a breath. "I don’t know what to say."

He looked down, his shoulders slumping as though he had been carrying a weight too heavy to bear. "Then don’t say anything," he replied, his tone quiet and strained. "Just… let me stay. Just for a moment."

Before you knew what you were doing, you reached out, your fingers gently touching his arm. He looked up at you, surprise flickering in his eyes, and you saw how deeply this had wounded him—this revelation that had shattered the foundation of his life. Slowly, tentatively, you let your hand rest on his shoulder, feeling the tension beneath your touch.

"It’s not your fault," you murmured, the words coming unbidden but somehow feeling right. "You didn’t ask for any of this."

His breath hitched, and he took a step closer, as though drawn to your warmth, his hand coming up to cover yours where it rested on his shoulder. "I don’t know what I am now," he confessed, his voice raw. "I don’t know who I’m supposed to be."

"Well," you said softly, offering a small, tentative smile, "I suppose that's the one good thing about something so tragic. You now have the freedom to be whoever you want." Your voice carried a note of gentleness, an unspoken reassurance that you hoped might reach him.

Logan’s expression softened, though the lines of exhaustion remained etched in his face. He glanced away, as if considering your words, his hand still resting over yours. For a moment, you both stood in the quiet room, the only sound the distant ticking of a clock. The air was fragile, a sense that this moment was a truce, however brief.

You drew in a breath, your hand slipping away from his shoulder. "You look exhausted," you said, your voice just above a whisper. "You should rest."

His gaze met yours, and though he hesitated, he gave a slight nod. "If… if you don’t mind, I could stay," he murmured, a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. "Just for a while."

You didn’t know why you agreed so readily—perhaps it was the rawness in his voice or the way his shoulders sagged as though the weight of the world had settled there. "You can stay," you said, and then, after a beat, you added, "There is a chair by the window."

He took the offer quietly, walking over to the armchair and sinking into it as though his legs had finally given out. You climbed back into your bed, your movements slow and unsteady, and pulled the covers up to your chin, still half-aware of his presence. It was strange to think that just days ago, you had left him in a storm of anger and hurt, and now here he was—wounded, vulnerable, and seeking comfort under the same roof as you.

Your eyes grew heavy with exhaustion, the events of the past few days catching up with you all at once. You hadn’t meant to fall asleep, but the weariness seeped into your bones, and soon, you drifted off, the soft rustling of Logan shifting in the chair the last sound you heard before darkness claimed you.

────୨ৎ────

You awoke with a start some hours later, the room dimly lit by the pale glow of moonlight filtering through the lace curtains. You turned over, expecting to see Logan still sitting in the armchair, but the chair was empty, a faint indentation on the cushion the only sign he had been there at all. For a moment, confusion clouded your thoughts, and you sat up, rubbing your eyes. Where could he have gone?

Rising from the bed, you wrapped your robe around yourself and padded into the hallway. The house was silent, the kind of deep stillness that only comes in the middle of the night.

You wandered from room to room, your footsteps echoing softly against the polished wooden floors. The familiar sights of Langley House brought a pang of nostalgia, and for a moment, you could almost imagine you were a young girl again, tiptoeing through the halls after bedtime. But the gravity of your situation quickly pulled you back to the present, and your thoughts turned to Logan.

At last, you reached your father's room and saw the door was slightly ajar, a sliver of warm light spilling into the hallway. You pushed it open gently and paused in the doorway, your breath catching at the sight before you.

Logan was seated by your father’s bedside, his head bowed and his hands clasped together as if in prayer. His voice was a low murmur, almost inaudible, and though you could not make out the words, you could hear the raw emotion in them. Your father lay still, his breaths steady but faint, and you noticed the way Logan reached out to touch the old man’s hand, his fingers brushing gently over the wrinkled skin as though offering a silent promise.

You took a step inside, the floorboard creaking beneath your weight. Logan’s head snapped up, his eyes meeting yours in the dim light. For a heartbeat, you both remained still, the air between you thick with unspoken words.

"I didn’t mean to intrude," he said quietly, his voice rough with fatigue. "I… I woke and found myself unable to sleep. I thought I might… check on him." There was a tenderness in his tone and it sent a strange warmth coursing through you.

You walked slowly to your father's bedside, your gaze shifting between the frail figure in the bed and the man sitting beside him. "You didn’t have to come here," you murmured, though there was no reproach in your voice, only a quiet gratitude you had not expected to feel. "But thank you."

Logan shook his head, a faint, tired smile pulling at his lips. "I wanted to," he replied, his hand still resting on your father's. "I thought… if I my father were like this, I would have wanted someone to be there with him. Even if it wasn’t me."

The words touched something deep within you, and you found yourself sitting down in the chair across from him. The silence settled over the room again, but it no longer felt oppressive. It was a silence of shared understanding, of finding comfort in the presence of another even when there was nothing more to be said.

"Why did you come here, Logan?" you asked softly, the question escaping before you could stop it. "Why did you follow me to Langley House after everything that happened? I know you said it was to tell me the truth but—"

His gaze lifted to meet yours, and for a moment, you thought you saw a flicker of something vulnerable in his eyes. "Because I made a promise," he said, his voice steady but low. "And because… I didn’t want you to face this alone."

A lump formed in your throat, and you looked down at your father, his breathing steady and rhythmic, as if reminding you that time was still on your side. "You didn’t have to keep that promise," you whispered. "Not after—"

"But I wanted to," Logan interrupted, his tone firmer now. "I wanted to because… because I care." The last words came out in a hushed tone, as though they were fragile and needed to be handled with care. "And because, despite everything, I hoped that… maybe we could still find a way to make this work."

You inhaled slowly, your gaze still fixed on your father's frail form. The sincerity in Logan's voice stirred something in you that you had tried to bury beneath anger and hurt. You reached out, your hand finding Logan's where it rested on the edge of the bed. His skin was cool beneath your touch, and you felt him tense for a moment before his fingers curled gently around yours.

"I don’t know what will happen," you murmured, your voice barely audible in the hushed stillness of the room. Your gaze remained fixed on your father's frail form, his breaths slow and steady. "My feelings… they’re complicated. All I can think about right now is him—nothing else." The words came out in a strained whisper, the weight of them pressing heavily on your chest.

Logan's eyes never left you, his expression open yet laced with concern. "I’m not asking for anything more than for you to trust me," he said, his voice steady but soft, as though he knew this was fragile ground you stood upon. "That’s all, I promise."

The sincerity in his tone unsettled you more than any declaration of love or grand gesture might have. You stood, shaking your head, unable to shake the feeling that this conversation was too much for your father’s ears—even if he was too weak to hear a single word. "Not here," you said, your voice barely above a whisper as you walked toward the door. "This… it’s too much."

Logan followed you into the dimly lit hallway, pulling the door closed behind him with a quiet click. The air between you felt charged and tense, and as you turned to walk away, you felt his hand catch yours, his fingers curling around yours in a tentative hold.

"I can’t make promises," you said quickly, pulling your hand free with a frustrated shake. "You say things like that, and my mind begins to spin. What if it’s all just another lie? Another way to keep me obedient and… and compliant." The words tumbled out, each one weighted with the uncertainty and fear that had been building inside you. "You would lose everything if we fail to produce an heir. Did your mother tell you that? Did she tell you what’s at stake?"

Logan’s jaw tightened, and for a moment, there was a flash of something in his eyes—hurt, perhaps, or frustration.

When he spoke, his tone was calm, edged with a quiet determination. "She told me… enough," he admitted, his voice low. "Enough to know what is expected of us." He took a step closer, his gaze holding yours with an intensity that made your heart quicken. "But I am not my mother, and I did not marry you to force you into anything. I won’t make promises I can’t keep, but the one thing I can swear to is this: I have no intention of deceiving you."

You swallowed hard, your breath catching in your throat. "You say that now, but… what happens when time passes and there is still no heir? Will you still be so understanding then?" The doubt laced through your voice, but beneath it was a flicker of hope that you desperately tried to suppress.

His eyes softened, a mixture of sadness and resolve glinting in the depths. "I don’t care about titles, or legacies, or any of the things my mother obsesses over," he said, his voice roughened by an emotion you could not name. "I care about you. I care about the truth between us, even if it’s a tangled mess right now." He reached for your hand again, his touch gentler this time, as if he were asking rather than taking. "I know I’m not perfect, and I know you don’t owe me anything. But I’m asking you to give me a chance to prove that I can be the man you deserve, and not just the husband you ended up with because of circumstance."

You stared at his hand over yours, the warmth of his touch seeping into your skin, and for a moment, you couldn’t speak. The walls you had built up since leaving Howlett Manor felt as though they were crumbling, brick by brick, under the weight of his words. There was still a voice inside you, one that whispered caution.

"I don’t know if I can trust that," you whispered, your voice breaking. "How do I know this isn’t just a way to secure what you need? How do I know you’re not saying what I want to hear just to keep me from running?"

Logan’s grip tightened slightly, his fingers lacing through yours as if to anchor you. "Because I’m not asking you to stay for obligation’s sake," he said, the rawness in his tone sending a shiver down your spine. "I’m asking because I want to try and build something real with you—something beyond what anyone else expects of us." His other hand rose to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing away a tear you hadn’t realized had fallen. "If you walk away now, I won’t stop you. But if you give me a chance… we can start by just… finding a way to be ourselves again. Not lord and lady, not husband and wife, but just… us."

The tenderness in his touch, the way his eyes searched yours for any sign of hope, struck you deeply. You felt a swell of emotions rising within you—fear, longing, confusion—all tangled together and impossible to untangle.

Slowly, hesitantly, you let out a breath, your chest tightening as you took a step closer, feeling the warmth radiating from Logan’s skin. "All right," you said, your voice trembling slightly despite your best efforts to steady it. "We can try… but only if we’re honest with each other. Completely honest." The words felt like both a promise and a challenge, an unspoken plea for something real in a world that often felt like a tangle of duty and deceit.

Logan nodded, his eyes never leaving yours. There was an intensity there, a quiet determination that made your pulse quicken. His gaze flickered from your eyes down to your lips as they parted, and the faintest smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, as though he were allowing himself, for the first time, to believe that there could be more between you than obligation.

"That’s all I’m asking for," he murmured, his voice low and rough. His hand fell away from your cheek, lingering in the space between you as if he wasn’t quite ready to let go entirely.

The silence seemed to thrum with possibilities, the air thick with an unspoken question that neither of you dared to voice. You were close enough to feel the warmth of his breath, to see the flicker of uncertainty in his eyes—the same uncertainty that you felt rising within you.

The memory of your first kiss drifted to the forefront of your mind: a soft, quick exchange during the wedding ceremony, one that had felt more like a formality than a true connection. This time, though, would it feel different? Would it feel real, tangible? The air itself was urging you to close the gap, to explore what lay beyond the roles you had both been playing.

Just as you took a breath as if to bridge the final inches, a soft voice interrupted the charged stillness. "Am I interrupting something?"

You and Logan sprang apart, the moment shattering like glass. Your head snapped toward the doorway where your father stood, his frame leaning slightly against the doorframe for support. His color was better, his cheeks no longer pale and hollow, and there was a hint of mischief in his eyes as they flicked between you and Logan. It was the most life you had seen in him since your arrival, and despite the awkwardness of the moment, a wave of relief washed over you.

"Papa," you said, your voice coming out higher than intended as you quickly brushed a hand over your hair, as if smoothing away any trace of what had almost happened. "I didn’t realize you were awake."

"I woke a short while ago," he replied, a slight grin tugging at his lips. "Though I can see I’ve walked in at a… delicate moment." He shifted his gaze to Logan, giving him a nod that was both acknowledging and appraising. "I suppose I should thank you, Lord Howlett, for keeping my daughter company while I recovered. I understand it must be rather difficult, managing a wife as stubborn as she is." His tone was light, teasing, but there was a glint of approval in his eyes that hadn’t been there before.

Logan dipped his head in a slight bow. "It is an honor, sir," he replied, his voice soft. "And I would say it’s rather a privilege to have a wife with such spirit. It keeps a man on his toes."

Your father chuckled softly, his laughter a welcome sound in the room. "Well spoken, my boy. Well-spoken." He glanced at you, his gaze warm with affection. "And you, my dear—you look as though you haven’t slept in days. You mustn’t worry so much over an old man like me. I’m feeling quite a bit better now, thanks to your constant vigilance." His voice softened. "I could hear you, you know… sitting by my bed, speaking to me even when I couldn’t respond."

A knot formed in your throat, and you quickly turned your head away, blinking back the sudden prick of tears. "I only did what any daughter would do," you murmured, the words catching slightly as you tried to compose yourself. "I’m just relieved you’re on the mend."

"Indeed I am," he said with a faint smile. "And I will continue to be, especially if I can trust that you’ll both refrain from causing a scandal in the middle of my convalescence." His gaze drifted pointedly back to Logan, a hint of fatherly protectiveness in his tone.

Logan met his eyes with a quiet assurance. "You needn’t worry, sir. I intend to take care of her," he said, his voice steady, but then he glanced toward you, the corner of his mouth curling up. "If she’ll allow me to."

There was something in his expression, something earnest and unguarded that sent a flutter through your chest. You felt a blush creep up your cheeks and quickly turned back to your father. "You should rest more," you said, avoiding Logan’s gaze as you walked into the room, busying yourself with adjusting your father’s pillows. "You’re still recovering, and I don’t want you overexerting yourself."

Your father gave you a knowing smile, then settled back into the bed with a sigh. "I suppose you’re right, my dear. But I expect to be up and about soon. And perhaps…" he glanced meaningfully between you and Logan, "if all goes well, I shall see some progress between the two of you by then."

"Father," you chided, though the blush on your cheeks deepened.

Logan only smiled, his eyes meeting yours with a quiet promise. "I think that’s a fair expectation, sir," he said, his voice softening as he held your gaze a moment longer than necessary.

You turned to leave the room and the feeling of his eyes on you lingered like a gentle warmth, as though the moment you had shared wasn’t entirely lost—just postponed, waiting to be resumed in the stillness of a future yet to be written.

────୨ৎ────

It felt oddly intimate, sitting outside for afternoon tea with the whole family, including Logan. The air was warm, softened by a gentle breeze that stirred the leaves of the nearby oak tree and rustled the delicate lace on your sleeves. You were seated at the white metal table beneath the shade of a parasol, idly fanning yourself as you watched the scene unfolding on the lawn.

Your father, who had recovered remarkably well, stood with his cane in hand, his posture straighter than it had been in weeks. Beside him was Logan, who looked unusually relaxed in his shirtsleeves, his coat draped over the back of a nearby chair. They were both attempting to teach your youngest sister the finer points of pallmall, though judging by her shrieks of laughter and exaggerated swings, it was clear she was more interested in chaos than in any true mastery of the game.

Your father pointed toward the wooden ball with his cane, giving some encouragement, while Logan crouched down to demonstrate the correct stance, his deep voice carrying across the garden.

You could see the way your sister's eyes sparkled as she looked at him, her cheeks flushed with excitement. There was a natural ease to Logan’s movements, a gentleness in his manner that you had not always seen. It stirred something unfamiliar and unsettling in you.

"He is rather easy on the eyes, isn’t he?"

You blinked and turned sharply toward your mother, who sat beside you, a faint smile curling at the corners of her lips.

"Oh, please, do not speak about Father that way," you quipped, rolling your eyes. But when you saw the mischievous arch of your mother’s brow, you realized with a jolt that she had not been referring to your father at all. "Mama!" you hissed, heat rising to your cheeks.

"What?" She gave an innocent shrug, though the sparkle in her eyes betrayed her amusement. "I may be an old woman, but I am not blind. And you’d do well to notice the way he looks at you." She glanced pointedly in Logan’s direction, and when you followed her gaze, you caught him watching you, his expression softening as your eyes met.

Quickly, you turned your attention back to your teacup, lifting it to your lips to hide the sudden flutter in your chest. "You’re imagining things, Mama," you murmured, keeping your tone dismissive, but there was no mistaking the warmth that crept into your voice.

"Am I?" your mother replied with a knowing smile. "Well, if I am, then perhaps I should get my eyes checked." She sipped her tea, her gaze lingering on Logan for a moment longer before turning to engage one of your sisters in conversation.

You chanced another glance across the lawn. Logan had returned to coaching your sister, his hand resting lightly on her shoulder as he corrected her stance. His hair fell untidily over his forehead, the sunlight catching in the strands, and there was an easy grace to him that seemed to draw you in against your will. It was as if you were seeing him anew. Someone who had begun to carve out a space in your thoughts, even when you hadn’t wanted him to.

As the game concluded and your sister raced off in pursuit of a butterfly, Logan strolled back toward the table, his gaze finding yours as if pulled there by some unseen force. He stopped beside your chair, a playful glint in his eye. "Would you care to join the game?" he asked, his tone light. "Your sister claims she is now the undisputed champion and says you would be no match for her."

You couldn’t help but smile at that. "Is that so?" you replied, arching a brow. "And did you encourage this confidence of hers, my lord?"

"Only a little," he admitted, the corner of his mouth quirking up in a faint smile. "But I believe it’s warranted. She has quite the swing."

"Then perhaps I ought to prove her wrong," you said, setting your teacup aside and rising from your chair. There was a flutter of anticipation in your chest as you stepped onto the lawn, and Logan offered you his arm, which you accepted, feeling a jolt of warmth spread from the point of contact. It was a small, ordinary gesture, yet it seemed to speak volumes—an unspoken acknowledgment that something was shifting between you.

He guided you to where the mallet lay on the grass, his hand lingering at the small of your back for just a moment. "Shall I show you the proper stance, or do you already consider yourself an expert?" he asked, his voice laced with a playful challenge.

You couldn’t resist the faint smile that tugged at your lips. "I think I can manage," you said, taking up the mallet and positioning yourself with as much grace as you could muster. But as you prepared to take the swing, you felt Logan step closer, his presence a comforting heat at your back.

"Here," he murmured, reaching around you to adjust your grip. His hand closed over yours, his touch firm but gentle, and you could feel the warmth of his breath against your temple. "You’ll get a better aim if you angle the mallet just slightly…" His voice trailed off as his gaze met yours, his eyes dark and intent, as though he had forgotten entirely about pallmall.

You held your breath, aware of the inches that separated you—of how easy it would be to turn, to close that distance, to see if his lips were as warm and steady as his hands. The thought sent a shiver down your spine, and for a moment, you wondered if he felt it too. If he, too, was resisting the pull.

Just as you were about to speak, to say something—anything—your sister called out from across the lawn, breaking the spell. The moment shattered, and you quickly stepped forward, your cheeks warm with something that felt dangerously close to longing.

"Thank you," you said, your voice steadier than you felt. "For the… instruction."

Logan’s lips curved in a faint smile, though there was a hint of something unspoken in his eyes as he stepped back. "Anytime," he replied, his tone gentle. "Though I think you hardly needed my help."

You turned away as your pulse quickened. You looked back toward the table where your mother sat, her expression unreadable, and you couldn’t help but feel as though something definitely between you and Logan had shifted, even if you weren’t quite sure what it was.

────୨ৎ────

The journey back to Howlett Manor was marked by a heavy, simmering silence. The wheels of the carriage rumbled over the uneven road, but it did little to distract you from the charged tension that hung between you and Logan.

He had spoken only a few words since leaving Langley House, his voice low and hesitant, while you had responded with polite nods, unwilling to break the quiet. It was as if something taut and brittle was between you, ready to snap at the slightest provocation.

When the carriage finally rolled to a halt, you glanced out the window and saw Lady Elizabeth waiting on the manor steps, her expression as sharp as a blade. She stood rigidly, her arms crossed over her chest, her eyes narrowing as she spotted the carriage. The sight of her sent a chill through you, and even before she spoke, you could sense the confrontation that awaited.

Logan let out a weary sigh, his hand already on the door handle. "Stay here," he murmured, his tone edged with frustration. "I’ll deal with her."

But you were already reaching for the door, refusing to remain hidden like some guilty secret. "I will not," you said, your voice firm as you stepped out into the cool evening air.

The weight of his gaze was palpable as you moved past him, and you heard him mutter under his breath, a resigned, "Of course, you wouldn’t."

Lady Elizabeth descended the steps as you approached, her dark eyes fixed on you with an intensity that made your skin prickle. There was no warmth in her expression—only a cold, calculated disdain that spoke volumes before she even opened her mouth.

"So," she said, her voice cutting through the air like a blade, "you’ve come back. And after the disgraceful way you left, no less." Her gaze flicked to Logan, as though seeking confirmation of your audacity. "I expect an apology, from both of you."

Logan's jaw tightened as he stepped beside you, his voice low and steady. "An apology?" he echoed, his brow furrowing. "For what, exactly?"

"For trying to bring scandal upon this family," Lady Elizabeth snapped, her eyes flashing as she turned her glare fully on you. "Leaving without a word, abandoning your duties as my son's wife. It was irresponsible, childish—"

"Enough," Logan interrupted, his tone sharp and edged with something you hadn’t heard before—a warning. He took a step forward, positioning himself slightly in front of you, as though shielding you from his mother’s words. "This is not her fault."

Lady Elizabeth’s mouth tightened into a thin line. "She left this manor in a fit of temper, and I will not stand by and have my family's reputation dragged through the mud by some—"

"She left because of the lies," Logan cut in, his voice rising. "Because of your lies." His eyes darkened, and he held his mother’s gaze without flinching. "She knows, Mother. About me. About the truth of my birth."

The silence that followed was like the calm before a storm, and for a moment, you thought you saw a flicker of something—fear, perhaps, or anger—in Lady Elizabeth's eyes. But it vanished as quickly as it had come, replaced by a cold, imperious stare. "And did you think it was wise to reveal such a thing?" she spat, her tone laced with venom. "To her?" Her gaze darted to you, filled with contempt. "What does she know of the sacrifices that were made to keep this family’s legacy intact?"

Your heart pounded in your chest, a surge of indignation rising in you. "I know that whatever sacrifices were made, they were not mine to make," you said, your voice trembling with a mixture of anger and defiance. "I was used as a pawn in a game I didn’t even know I was playing."

Lady Elizabeth’s lips curled into a sneer. "A pawn, indeed. It is you who stands to gain from this marriage, my dear. Or did you think your family's situation was not known to us?"

Logan took another step forward, his hand clenching at his side. "That’s enough," he said, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "I won’t let you speak to her like that."

His mother’s eyes widened, a flicker of shock breaking through her composure. "You would take her side over mine?" she asked, incredulity dripping from each word. "I did what was necessary to secure your future, to ensure that you would not be cast aside. Now you turn on me for the sake of—"

"Leave," Logan said abruptly, his voice hardening to steel. "Leave now, before you say something you cannot take back."

For a moment, it seemed as though she might argue, but then she straightened, drawing herself up with all the dignity she could muster. "Very well," she said icily, her gaze flicking to you one last time, as though etching you into her memory with distaste. "But do not think this matter is settled." She turned sharply on her heel and strode back up the steps, disappearing into the manor with a swish of her skirts, leaving a chill in her wake.

The silence descended once more, you let out a breath. The encounter had left you shaken, and yet… there was a strange sense of relief, too. You glanced at Logan, who was still standing rigidly, his eyes fixed on the place where his mother had just vanished. There was a tightness in his jaw, an unspoken conflict that lingered in the lines of his face.

"You didn’t have to do that," you said quietly, your voice softening. "She’s your mother."

He shook his head slowly, his expression unreadable. "That doesn’t give her the right to speak to you that way," he murmured, his gaze finally shifting to meet yours. There was a flicker of something in his eyes—like longing, or perhaps relief, as though in defending you, he had also taken a step toward freeing himself from his mother’s expectations. "I promised to be honest with you," he continued. "And I meant it. Whatever else happens, I will not let her dictate our lives."

You felt a rush of warmth, not just from his words but from the quiet intensity with which he spoke them. It wasn’t just a defense; it was a declaration—a small but significant act of loyalty that stirred something deep within you. You took a step closer, your fingers brushing against his hand in a tentative gesture of gratitude, and for a moment, neither of you spoke.

The silence stretched between you, almost as a shared understanding—a bond that had begun to form amid secrets and betrayals, and was slowly becoming something more solid. Logan’s fingers curled around yours, and the touch felt like a promise in itself.

"Come," he said softly, his voice almost a whisper. "Let’s go inside.”

You nodded, allowing him to lead you back into the manor, your hand still clasped in his. As you crossed the threshold together, you couldn’t help but feel that, despite everything, there was a glimmer of hope despite the uncertainty of the future.

Later that night, you found yourself pacing the length of your chamber, your footsteps muffled by the thick rug beneath your bare feet.

Sleep had become a rare visitor since the wedding; Howlett Manor held a kind of darkness that seemed to linger in the very walls, keeping you on edge. The vast, silent corridors, the draughts that whispered through the halls, the way the night settled heavily over the estate. It was as though the manor itself was unsettled, restless, and it had passed that restlessness on to you.

Then there were the sounds. Soft, distant groaning that seemed to rise and fall on the air. You had dismissed it before, convincing yourself it was nothing more than the old bones of the house shifting or the wind rattling the shutters. But tonight, as you stood in the shadows of your room, the sound came again, louder this time, and unmistakably human. It clawed at your nerves, tugging at your curiosity and, despite the unease prickling along your spine, you felt compelled to find out what—or who—was behind it.

Drawing in a breath to steady yourself, you reached for the door handle and slipped out into the dimly lit corridor. The candles along the walls flickered as you passed, casting long, wavering shadows that danced on the stone. You followed the noise, the low groaning growing clearer, guiding you down the hallway and toward one of the rooms.

As you drew closer, the sound sharpened into muffled cries, pained and desperate. You hesitated at the door, your hand hovering over the handle. It was Logan’s voice, unmistakable even in its anguish. A shudder ran through you as you pressed your ear to the wood, your pulse quickening. Was he hurt? Was someone in there with him?

You turned the handle and pushed the door open gently, peering into the darkness of the room. Logan lay sprawled on the bed, the sheets twisted around his limbs, his chest rising and falling rapidly as though he were struggling for breath. His face was contorted in agony, beads of sweat glistening on his brow. The groans came again, low and tortured, escaping his lips as he writhed in the grip of some unseen terror.

Without thinking, you hurried to his side, your heart pounding. "Logan," you whispered, reaching out to touch his shoulder. "Logan, wake up. It’s just a dream—"

The moment your fingers brushed against his skin, his eyes flew open, wide and unfocused. Before you could react, his hand shot out, grasping your wrist in a vice-like grip and yanking you closer. The suddenness of the movement sent you stumbling forward, and you cried out as his other arm came around, knocking you off balance. You fell against the bed, your wrist pinned painfully beneath his hand.

"Logan, stop!" you gasped, your voice high and trembling. "It’s me—"

His eyes were wild, unseeing, and for a terrifying moment, you weren’t sure he recognized you at all. His grip tightened, and you winced, a sharp pain shooting through your wrist. But then his gaze seemed to clear, the dark confusion lifting as he blinked and released you as though burned.

The room fell into a tense silence as you pulled your arm back, rubbing your sore wrist and staring at him, your breath coming fast. Logan's eyes widened with horror as he took in the scene, his chest still heaving with the remnants of his nightmare.

"I—I didn’t mean to—" His voice cracked, and he sat up abruptly, his hand trembling as he reached toward you. "Are you all right?"

You nodded shakily, though your heart still raced. "I’m fine," you said, though your voice came out quieter than you intended. "It’s just… you were having a nightmare. I tried to wake you, but you…" You swallowed, the words trailing off as you looked down at your wrist, where faint red marks were already starting to form.

His gaze followed yours, and his expression crumpled with guilt. "God, I’m sorry," he whispered, his voice rough with shame. "I—I've never meant to hurt you. I didn’t even know it was you. I thought—" He broke off, running a hand through his disheveled hair, his fingers tangling in the damp strands. "I thought I was still… there."

You hesitated, the pain in your wrist already ebbing, replaced by a different kind of ache—one that came from seeing the despair in his eyes, the way his shoulders slumped as though he carried the weight of a lifetime’s worth of regrets. "Still where?" you asked softly, your gaze searching his face. "Logan, what did you dream about?"

He swallowed hard, his jaw tightening as he stared down at his hands, which lay open in his lap as though he were afraid of what they might do. "I have the same nightmare every night," he admitted, his voice low and unsteady. "It’s always the same. I see my father… the man who raised me. He’s lying there, lifeless, and it’s my fault. I’m the one who…" His voice broke, and he looked away, his breath shuddering. "I’m the one who killed him."

The words hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. You stared at him, your pulse thrumming in your ears as the full weight of his confession settled over you. "Logan…" you breathed, not knowing what else to say. There was a rawness in his voice that tore at you, a grief and self-loathing that seemed to spill out in waves. You found yourself reaching for him, hesitantly resting your hand on his arm, your touch light and tentative.

"He died years ago," Logan continued his voice barely above a whisper. "It was an accident, but… I was there. I could have stopped it. I should have stopped it." He let out a harsh, bitter laugh that made your heart clench. "I suppose that’s why the nightmares won’t leave. They remind me of what I could never make right."

You tightened your grip on his arm, drawing his gaze back to yours. "It wasn’t your fault," you said gently, the words spilling out even though you knew they might not bring him any comfort. "You can’t blame yourself for something you couldn’t control."

His eyes searched yours, a flicker of something glinting in the depths. "You shouldn’t be here," he said quietly, though he made no move to pull away from you. "You should have left me to my demons. It’s safer that way."

"Perhaps," you replied, your voice barely more than a breath as you looked down at where your hand rested on his arm. "But if I left, who would keep you from them?"

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. Then, without fully understanding why, you leaned in closer, your touch sliding from his arm to his hand, your fingers threading through his. The silence between you was heavy. It was as though you were sharing the same breath, the same pain. Somehow, that made it a little more bearable for him.

Logan’s hand tightened around yours, and when he exhaled, it was as though some of the weight had lifted from his chest. "Stay," he murmured, his voice roughened by exhaustion. "Just for tonight."

You nodded, not trusting your voice to speak. As you settled back against the pillows, Logan lay down beside you, his body still tense but his grip on your hand unwavering. The darkness seemed to close in around you both, but this time, it felt less like a threat and more like a shared refuge.

Eventually, the rhythm of his breathing steadied, and you felt yourself slipping into sleep, lulled by the quiet comfort of his presence.

When the early morning light peeked through the curtains, its soft glow casting pale golden streaks across the bed, you were certain you were alone. The events of last night already seemed like a distant dream—the nightmare, Logan’s confession, the way you had fallen asleep side by side. The sheets felt cool where you lay, and for a moment, you wondered if he had left before dawn, quietly slipping away to avoid the awkwardness of the morning after.

You let out a small sigh and reached out tentatively, your hand roaming across the mattress, half-expecting to find only the emptiness where he had been. But then, your fingertips brushed against something warm. Your eyelids fluttered open, and you turned your head to see Logan lying there, his back to you, balanced precariously near the edge of the bed as if he had tried to keep as much distance between you as possible. It was almost comical—this broad-shouldered man, practically dangling off the side, as though the mere thought of sharing space with you was a dangerous line he dared not cross.

A small, unbidden smile tugged at your lips as you took in the sight. It was… endearing, in a way, how he seemed so out of place there, awkwardly trying to respect a boundary that neither of you had defined. The tension of the night had faded into something softer and sweet. You hadn’t meant to wake him, but you couldn’t help it—the sight of him like this, so different from his usual composed self, made you want to tease him, just a little.

"Are you planning on falling out of the bed, or are you just trying to escape?" you whispered, your voice still husky with sleep.

Logan stirred, a faint groan escaping him as he rolled over slowly, blinking against the morning light. His hair was tousled, falling into his eyes, and there was a faint crease on his cheek where it had pressed against the pillow. He looked at you, still half-asleep, and it took a moment for your words to register. Then a sheepish smile curved his lips, and he rubbed a hand over his face.

"I didn’t want to crowd you," he murmured, his voice rough and low. "You were asleep, and I… wasn’t sure if you’d…" He trailed off, his cheeks coloring slightly as if realizing how ridiculous he must have looked, hanging onto the edge for dear life.

A small laugh bubbled out of you, the sound light and unexpected. "I think the bed is big enough for the both of us," you teased gently, unable to hide the warmth in your tone. "You didn’t have to keep such a dramatic distance."

Logan’s smile grew, a flicker of amusement in his eyes now. "Well, I didn’t want you to wake up and think I’d taken advantage of your kindness," he said, his tone softening. "I didn’t want to… presume."

The sincerity in his voice made your heart squeeze, and for a moment, the awkwardness settled into something that made your pulse quicken. You hadn’t even realized until now just how much his presence comforted you, how safe you had felt lying beside him last night. The realization came with a rush of something warm and unfamiliar, and it took you by surprise.

"Well," you said, your gaze drifting to where his hand rested on the sheets between you, "if you’re so worried about my comfort, perhaps next time you can stay closer… so you don’t fall off the bed." The words left your lips before you could fully think them through, and as they hung in the air, you felt a blush creep up your neck, your cheeks warming with the boldness of your suggestion.

Logan’s eyes widened slightly, a mixture of surprise and something like hope shimmering in their depths. He glanced down at your hand, which had somehow drifted closer to his, and a crooked, endearing smile touched his lips. "Next time?" he repeated, his voice laced with a hint of playful curiosity. "So you’re already planning on sharing a bed with me again?"

You bit your lip, a nervous laugh escaping as you quickly shook your head. "That’s not what I meant," you stammered, though the smile pulling at your mouth betrayed you. "I just—well, I meant if… circumstances were to, you know… happen again." The words felt clumsy and inadequate, but there was no taking them back now.

Logan chuckled softly, his gaze warm and lingering on your face. "I see," he said, his voice dropping to a tender murmur. "If circumstances… happen."

You nodded, feeling a sudden wave of self-consciousness wash over you. The room seemed too bright, too intimate in the morning light, and you reached for the edge of the blanket, pulling it higher as if it could shield you from the vulnerability of the moment. Logan cleared his throat, the sound breaking the silence in a way that felt almost painfully loud.

"I should… I have matters to attend to with my mother," he said, his voice sounding rougher than usual. "I’m positive she’s still fuming." There was a faint hint of a wry smile on his lips, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

You nodded again, quickly, unsure if you could trust your voice not to betray the odd mixture of emotions swirling inside you. Relief, embarrassment, something like disappointment—it all tangled together, making it hard to breathe. Logan took your silence as agreement and turned away, slipping out of the bed with a fluid, quiet movement.

You found yourself glancing over at him before you could stop yourself, and then quickly averted your gaze when you noticed the way his nightshirt clung to his back, the fabric outlining the curve of his shoulders and the lean muscles beneath. You swallowed hard, focusing intently on a spot on the floor, as though it were suddenly the most interesting thing in the world.

Logan’s bare feet padded softly on the rug as he gathered his clothes, his movements quick but not hurried, as if he too was acutely aware of the lingering awkwardness in the air. "I… I’ll see you later," he said, his voice low and hesitant, as though he were testing the words before letting them go.

"Yes," you managed to reply, though your voice came out softer than you intended. "Later."

For a brief moment, he hesitated at the door, his hand resting on the frame as if considering saying something more. But then, with a small nod, he slipped out, the door clicking shut behind him.

You exhaled slowly, sinking back into the pillows, the blanket still pulled up close. The room seemed larger now, emptier, and you couldn’t help but wonder if he had felt the same pull that you had—the subtle, magnetic pull that had lingered in the space between you. You pushed the thought away, telling yourself that it was foolish to read too much into a moment shared in the quiet hours of dawn.

────୨ৎ────

The better part of the day had passed in the garden, where the air was thick with the scent of blooming roses and the gentle hum of bees. You had retreated there after hearing the heated voices echoing up from downstairs. Lady Elizabeth’s clipped tones and Logan’s frustrated replies had risen in a crescendo that spilled into the halls, making it clear that whatever rift lay between them was far from being mended.

It seemed wise to keep your distance, and so you had found a book, tucked yourself into a quiet corner at the far edge of the garden, and tried to lose yourself in the pages while the murmur of nature surrounded you.

The stone bench beneath you was warmed by the sun, and though you kept your eyes trained on the book in your lap, the words seemed to blur together. You had long since given up on following the plot, your thoughts drifting back to the night before—Logan’s haunted confession, the way he had looked at you as if you were the only thing grounding him in the present. The memory of it lingered, unbidden, in the back of your mind, filling you with a confusing mix of tenderness and doubt.

The crunch of footsteps on the gravel path drew your attention, and you glanced up to see Logan approaching. His expression, which had been set in a firm line, softened as his gaze met yours. He looked weary, as though whatever argument he had just endured had drained him of energy, yet there was also a quiet determination in the way he carried himself, his shoulders squared despite the tension in his jaw.

"May I join you?" he asked, his voice carrying a hint of hesitation, as though he were uncertain of his welcome.

You closed the book gently, offering a small nod. "Of course," you said, shifting slightly to make room for him on the bench. "How… how did it go with your mother?"

He sank beside you, his sigh barely audible but weighted with frustration. "As well as can be expected," he replied, running a hand through his hair. "Which is to say, not well at all." He paused, glancing at the neatly trimmed hedges and the flowers that swayed in the breeze. "But I've made a decision." His tone softened, and he turned to look at you. "My mother will be moving out of Howlett Manor."

The statement took you by surprise, and you blinked, unsure if you had heard him correctly. "She’s leaving?"

Logan nodded, his gaze steady. "Yes. I think… it’s for the best. It’s become clear that we cannot live under the same roof without tearing each other apart." He hesitated, his fingers tapping lightly on his knee as though he were working up the nerve to say something more. "With her gone, there will be… a lot of space in the manor. I was thinking… if you’d like, your family could move in. The Langleys could make this place their home too."

The offer hung in the air between you, carrying with it the weight of an unspoken promise. For a moment, you didn’t know what to say, your thoughts tangling in your mind. "That’s… kind of you to suggest," you began slowly, your gaze falling to your hands. "But our marriage… things are still so uncertain." You swallowed your throat tight with the admission. "I don’t know if we should be making decisions like this when we don’t even know what the future holds for us."

Logan's hand reached for yours, his touch gentle yet firm. "I know things are uncertain," he said quietly, his voice raw with sincerity. "But I’m willing to do whatever it takes to make this marriage real—to make us real." His thumb brushed over your knuckles, sending a shiver through you. "I like you. I like the way you challenge me, the way you look at me as though I’m worth trying for. I want this to work, not because we have to, but because I choose to."

His words seemed to reach inside you, stirring something that had been long dormant—something warm and fragile that blossomed with each passing second. You looked up at him, your heart racing, your breath caught somewhere between hope and fear. "You… you mean that?" you whispered, your voice barely audible. "You’d choose this, even if—"

"I would," he interrupted softly, his other hand reaching to cup your cheek, his touch feather-light, as though he were afraid to break whatever spell lay between you. "If you’ll let me."

The moment stretched out, the world around you fading into the background until there was only him, his gaze locked on yours, his breath mingling with the warm air. You leaned in, almost without thinking, your eyes fluttering shut as your lips met his, tentative and searching. The kiss was soft at first, a gentle brush that sent a tremor through you, but as he deepened it, a quiet urgency arose, his hand slipping to the nape of your neck to pull you closer.

The world seemed to tilt, and when you finally pulled back, breathless, you saw a light in Logan’s eyes that you had never seen before—a mixture of relief, hope, and tenderness. That set your heart racing all over again.

"You kissed me back," he murmured, a hint of wonder in his voice as his thumb traced your cheek.

"I suppose I did," you replied, a shy smile tugging at your lips as you felt the warmth of his hand still against your skin. "It seems I’ve made my choice too."

He leaned his forehead against yours, his breath still slightly uneven. "Then let’s make this work," he whispered, the words like a promise carried on the breeze. "Together."

────୨ৎ────

The morning sun spilled through the tall windows of the nursery, casting a golden light over the pale blue walls and the delicate lace curtains that swayed ever so slightly with the summer breeze. The room was filled with the soft sounds of cooing and gentle rocking, and you sat in the cushioned chair near the window, cradling your newborn daughter in your arms. Her tiny fingers curled around your thumb, and you marveled at how something so small could hold your entire heart within her grasp.

The past year had swept by like a dream, and Howlett Manor had become a place of life and laughter in ways you hadn’t imagined when you first arrived. The once lonely halls were now filled with warmth, with family, and with a love that had grown slowly, steadily, and then all at once.

Logan appeared in the doorway, his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows and a streak of dirt smudged on his cheek, evidence of whatever task had drawn him outside earlier. His eyes softened when he saw you, his gaze drifting down to the baby nestled in your arms. "She’s awake," he murmured, his voice low and filled with a quiet wonder that had not diminished since the day she was born.

You looked up at him, your heart swelling with affection as you noticed the way he lingered in the doorway, as though hesitant to disturb the peacefulness of the moment. "Come here," you whispered, tilting your head in invitation. "She’ll be glad to see her father."

He crossed the room in a few strides, his movements careful as though he were still getting used to the idea of this tiny new life you had brought into the world together. As he reached out to take her from you, his fingers brushed against yours, and you shared a quiet smile. The love between you had become something tangible, something that seemed to shimmer in the air every time your eyes met.

Logan cradled his daughter with a tenderness that belied his strong, rugged exterior. She blinked up at him, her wide eyes reflecting the light as she reached for his nose, her tiny hand waving in the air. "There you are, little one," he murmured, his voice dropping to a gentle murmur that was only for her. "You’re going to be causing all sorts of trouble before we know it, aren’t you?"

You laughed softly, leaning your head back against the chair as you watched them together. "If she’s anything like her father, she’ll be climbing out of windows and sneaking into the stables before she can even walk," you teased.

He glanced at you, his mouth curving into a playful smile. "And if she’s anything like her mother," he countered, "she’ll have a stubborn streak a mile wide and won’t take no for an answer."

The joy in his eyes was undeniable, and it was a joy that had become commonplace at Howlett Manor. The changes were everywhere—in the lively dinners shared around the long oak table, where your father told stories that made your mother laugh like a young girl again; in the afternoons when your sisters played with the dogs in the garden, their laughter carrying on the wind. The Langleys had made the manor their home, and though the arrangement had been born out of necessity, it had grown into something far richer—a tapestry of shared lives and everyday happiness.

The sound of footsteps echoed down the hallway, and your mother appeared at the door, a fond smile on her face as she saw the three of you together. "There you are," she said warmly, her eyes crinkling at the corners. "We were wondering if you planned to join us for the midday meal, or if we should come to you."

"We’ll be down shortly," you replied, glancing at Logan as he swayed gently, his daughter’s eyelids beginning to droop once more. "It seems someone is already ready for her nap, though."

Your mother’s gaze softened as she watched Logan rock the baby in his arms, a look of deep contentment on her face. "She’ll be a strong one," she said quietly, her voice laced with pride. "Just like her parents."

Logan met your eyes, a shared understanding passing between you as your mother slipped back out of the room. You rose from the chair, moving to stand beside him, and as you laid a hand on his arm, he turned slightly to press a kiss to your forehead, his lips lingering there as though he couldn’t quite pull away.

"I think life has turned out better than either of us could have imagined," he murmured, his breath warm against your skin.

You tilted your head up, your gaze finding his. "I think we made it that way," you said, a quiet pride in your voice. "Together."

The words hung in the air for a moment, a reminder of the path you had walked to get here—of the uncertainty, the struggles, and the slow, steady growth of love that had bloomed between you. You leaned in, your lips brushing against his in a tender kiss that spoke of more than just affection; it was a promise, a celebration, and an unspoken agreement that this—all of this—was just the beginning.

As you drew back, the baby stirred in Logan’s arms, letting out a tiny whimper that brought a smile to both of your faces. "Come on," he said, his voice soft and full of love. "Let’s go downstairs. Your family is waiting."

Together, you walked down the grand staircase, the sunlight streaming in through the windows, bathing the manor in a warm, golden light. The sound of familiar voices drifted up from the dining room, filling the air with the cheerful bustle of family life.

As you reached the bottom of the stairs, your daughter nestled safely in her father’s arms, you couldn’t help but feel that this life—so full of love, laughter, and even its small imperfections—was exactly where you were meant to be.

933 notes · View notes

wikiangela · 7 months ago

Text

you're my happily ever after (so i'll take my chance now, risk it all somehow)

rating: G

words: 2.6k

8x06 fix-it, because I'm pissed - I or my fics aren't going anywhere tho <3

thank you to @evansboyfrend for beta reading, ily 🫶

[also on Ao3]

It feels like the whole world is crumbling down. It feels like the Earth should shake, burst on fire, open up and swallow everything around. As dramatic as it is, he kind of expects it to happen, and it’s weird that he’s still sitting here. His ears are ringing, panic rising in his chest with each of Tommy’s words. He watches Tommy get up and head for the door, and he’s frozen to his spot. It’s not- it can’t be. It fucking can’t be. “Wait,” he finally manages to say, trying to keep his voice from trembling, “did you just break up with me?” He asks, hoping to any entity that listens that he just misinterpreted it, that he got it wrong. Because- because he can’t lose Tommy. He’s falling for him so fast and so hard. He’s ready for the next step. He’s ready to move in together. He’s ready to talk about one day, eventually, maybe getting married. He knows he wants that. He knows what he wants, and he wants Tommy. “Yeah, I guess I did.” Tommy answers, glancing back at him, his expression sad but firm. But Buck knows him. Knows that this mask will crumble into something devastated as soon as he leaves. That Tommy’s heart will shatter, just as Buck’s is right now. He can see through Tommy, he knows that he cares about Buck. It just- it doesn’t make sense. What was he even talking about… It was all so much, so fast, Buck’s brain is still scrambling trying to understand it all. “Believe me, I didn’t see-” Tommy starts, but Buck shakes his head and interrupts him. “No.” He stands up, his legs feeling shaky. Tommy fully turns towards him, confusion in his face. “What do you mean, ‘no’?” He frowns.

“I mean, no, you’re not breaking up with me.” Buck says more confidently than he feels. Because this can’t be it. The last six months, the best six months of his fucking life, can’t end like this. Can’t end at all. He won’t have this. “I know you care about me. And I care about you. And I don’t want to break up.” He sees Tommy open his mouth to speak, his expression hardening – putting on a mask again, trying to hide the hurt. He speaks again before Tommy can. “If you truly, genuinely want this, not because you think it’s gonna be better for me or you, but because you don’t want to be with me, fine, I can respect that. But I won’t accept it without a fight. I- I wanna fight for us, Tommy.” Buck steps closer to him, hoping that Tommy doesn’t step back, that might just break him. He doesn’t, he’s stuck in place, sad eyes on Buck’s. “Let me fight for us. You-” he adds quickly, on a roll now, not wanting Tommy to interrupt until after he’s done, after he’s said his piece. He needs to say it all now, let Tommy know how he feels. He can’t watch him leave without trying to fix it first. Tommy’s looking at him intently, just listening, not even trying to speak. “You gave me a second chance once, when I fucked up our first date, and I- I want to believe it wasn’t for nothing. So- so you’re my first man, so what?” Buck throws his hands up in frustration, he thinks he’s starting to sound a little frantic, speaking faster and faster. He just can’t let Tommy leave without him knowing exactly how Buck feels. “It’s far from my first relationship ever. Why- why is it so different just because you’re a man? It shouldn’t be. I don’t need to date other people, experiment or whatever else. I’ve dated people, slept around, did it all. I know how that goes, how it feels, and I don’t want to do it again. I know what I want, Tommy. And I want you. And don’t you dare tell me how I feel.” He feels anger seep in, Tommy’s words ringing in his head. What the actual fuck was he thinking? “I’m a grown man, I know how I feel. Yeah, it’s new and exciting, but it’s also real. It’s real to me, and- and if there’s any chance of forever, I want to take it. And-” he takes a breath. He feels like he’s been speaking in one breath, feeling a little lightheaded now, his heart hammering. Or maybe that’s just the panic. “And don’t start with the whole ‘I’m not your last’ bullshit.” He shakes his head again, tears welling up in his eyes, anger still building. Really, what in the world? How could Tommy want to just throw away the most wonderful relationship that’s happened to Buck in years? Maybe ever? “You don’t know that. I don’t know that. Yeah, we could break up one day. But you could also be my forever, and I could be yours. I’d love a chance to find out, even if it hurts in the end. But maybe that’s just me. Maybe I’m the only one here brave enough to risk it. And- and what about my heart, huh?” Tears are threatening to spill, his voice shaking now, with sadness and anger, and desperation. He can’t let him go, he can’t. “You said I’d break your heart eventually. But this, right now? This is you breaking mine.” He finishes, almost panting now, his monologue taking the wind out of him, wanting to say everything on his mind, in his heart. He hopes he got his point across.

“Evan.” Tommy just whispers, with a pained expression. There are tears in his eyes, too, one lone one slipping through, falling down his cheek. Buck’s hand itches to reach out and wipe it off, but he’s not sure if he’s allowed to anymore.

“Give us a chance, Tommy. Let us fight for this. Fight for me, for us. Fight with me.” He’s aware he sounds like he’s begging at this point, but he doesn’t care. This is too important. “I thought it’s been so good between us lately-”

“It has!” Tommy rushes to say. “It’s been amazing. You make me so happy. That’s why I’m scared, I just- I’m sorry, Evan, but I can’t let myself get hurt like this again. Because I- I’ve been there before, and it was hard to get back up, and with you- I don’t think I’d be able to ever recover from this one.” He admits, his stone-faced facade crumbling, and Buck can see his own feelings reflected in Tommy’s expression. Sad, devastated, heartbroken.

“We can- we can take some time apart.” Buck says around a lump in his throat. He feels like he can’t breathe. All he wants is to rewind until before he dropped the moving in bomb which must be what made Tommy freak out. He could say anything else, and take it slower, and maybe they’d be on their way out right now, a date night like they planned. “If that’s what you need. A break. But not for good. And then let’s come back to it clear-headed, knowing for sure what we want. And if you still want to break up, I- I’ll respect that. But I already know what I want,” he repeats firmly, decisively. “I want a future with you. I want to move in together, and one day down the line get married, and- and I want it all with you. We can slow down if I’m rushing this. I tend to do that, and if it’s scaring you, I’m sorry.” He adds, not wanting to backtrack any of this, but aware of how intense he’s coming off. He’s never been more serious about anything in his life. “But the past six months have been the best in my life. I’ve never felt so happy, so free, so comfortable, so safe. And I’m not giving up on you, Tommy. I will fight for you until I can’t anymore, until you tell me that you don’t care about me and I should just fuck off.”

“Evan. You know I’ll never say that.” Tommy responds quietly.

“I know. Because I’m confident in us, in the fact that you do care, and you do want me. I know that.” Buck emphasizes, and realizes, not for the first time, that he never felt like this before. This secure. This confident about someone wanting him. “I also know you’re just trying to protect yourself, your heart, and I get it. But I can’t let you go without a fight. I won’t. I messed up a lot in my life, and I won’t mess up this. I refuse to. Because I-” he takes a sharp breath, the words pressing on his lips. He doesn’t want to say it for the first time in a possible break up, a moment of such anger and devastation. But he needs to put it all out there. Needs Tommy to understand how much he’s trying to throw away right now. “I love you, Tommy.” He confesses, sees Tommy’s face melt into the saddest expression Buck’s ever seen on anyone, tears spilling freely now. Both of theirs, he realizes, feeling wetness on his cheeks. “I’ve been falling for you a little bit more with each day we spend together, with each minute. And I know- I hope you feel the same. But if you can look me in the eyes and tell me you don’t-” he swallows thickly, the thought alone is too much to bear.

“I can’t do that.” Tommy interrupts quickly. “Of course I love you, Evan. It happened so quickly it kind of scared me a little.”

“I noticed.” Buck says dryly, and Tommy lets out a humorless chuckle. “If you ask me, which you didn’t, by the way, you decided for both of us, which was an asshole move,” he points out, and Tommy looks away, as if ashamed. Good. Buck loves him, which means he’s gonna call out when he’s acting shitty. “I’d rather give us a real try and get my heart shattered if it comes to this, instead of always wondering what if, always wondering if you’re my one who got away. Which you would be.”

“I’m sorry.” He shakes his head, takes a step towards Buck, now just half a step away. “I’m sorry, maybe breaking up is too hasty. Impulsive,” he scoffs at himself, probably remembering how he called Buck that just a few minutes ago. Well, so maybe they’re both a little impulsive. Not a problem, in Buck’s opinion. “I don’t- I don’t want to break up. I never want to be away from you.” He says, his voice barely above a whisper. His hand flinches at his side, like he wants to reach out, grab Buck’s, touch him. Buck hopes he does. “It just- it seemed too fast. Like you got wrapped up in the moment. It’s still so new, I thought we were taking it one step at a time, and I didn’t-” he takes a deep breath, as if bracing himself, and Buck knows what he says is going to sting – and it does, it feels like a gut punch, actually, “I didn’t think you were as serious about this as I was getting. And I realize we should’ve done the mature thing and talked it out. I’m sorry. It’s just, we’ve barely talked about any future here. But I want it, of course I do. I’m just- I’m scared. My heart has never been in this much danger.” He looks into Buck’s eyes as he says it, more vulnerable than ever. This is everything Buck wants right now, for them to talk, to discuss this, to try fixing it, instead of one of them running away and the other giving up and not fighting for it. Buck’s been there, he doesn’t want a repeat.

“Tommy.” Buck is the one to close the distance between them, carefully brings his hands up to cup Tommy’s face, giving him a chance to back away, but he doesn’t. Instead, he breathes out a sigh of relief, like he craved Buck’s touch as much as Buck craves his. “You remember when I told you I wanted something with you? Even though I didn’t know what that something was yet?” he asks and Tommy nods slightly, Buck’s palms still resting on his cheeks. “I’ve been serious about you since that precise moment. About pursuing this, and wanting some kind of future with you. I know I tend to rush into things, it’s been a problem before.” He huffs a self-deprecating laugh. “I tried not to do that with you, but I failed, clearly. I just think from now on, we both should stay and talk and try to work it out if we have any issues with something. If you still want me.” He adds a little anxiously, but relaxed when he feels Tommy’s palms settle on his hips.

“Of course I want you, Evan. I always will.” Tommy says, that loving look in his eyes, that always makes Buck’s heart melt a little. That look that Buck loves so much, that made him think that Tommy might feel the same way.

“Good. Like I said, I’m not letting you go. Ever.” He says decisively, a huge weight that’s been there since the topic even started finally lifting off his chest. This might be the best thing that’s ever happened to him, and no matter the conclusion – which he’s pretty sure will be the happily ever after he’s always craved – it’s worth the risk, it’s worth everything.

“Good.” Tommy echoes, that gorgeous, scrunchy smile of his slowly spreading on his face, and it’s like sunshine came out from behind stormy clouds. “I don’t intend on letting you go, either. I love you, sweetheart. And I’m so sorry for… for this mess. For overreacting.”

“That’s fine, we’re past this- well, actually, we are gonna talk about it more, but at least we’re on the same page now, I hope.” Buck says, slowly leaning in. “I love you so much. I never want to lose you.”

“I’m sorry.” Tommy says again, and Buck just wants him to stop saying it. It’s fine, they’re fine now. “You won’t. You have me for as long as you want. I promise.”

“What if I want you forever?” Buck whispers, his face so close to Tommy's, their lips almost brush. It sends a shiver down his spine, like he hasn’t kissed him in days, when they just exchanged a quick kiss hello a few minutes ago.

“That works for me.” Tommy smiles again, and finally dives in for a kiss, but it lasts barely a second before he’s pulling away, Buck trying to follow. Tommy chuckles, running a comforting hand up and down Buck’s side. “But maybe let’s put a pause on the whole moving in together thing, huh? At least until we fully talk everything through.”

“Yeah, good idea.” Buck nods, his gaze flickering between Tommy’s eyes, now sparkling happily, and his pretty, kissable lips. It feels so good to be able to just have a mature conversation and resolve whatever issues arise. If they keep doing that, he thinks they’re going to be okay. He’ll make sure of that. “No need to be impulsive,” he adds, his lips twisting into a teasing smirk.

“Okay.” Tommy chuckles quietly, his cheeks reddening. “Just kiss me.”

Buck doesn’t need to be told twice. He kisses Tommy like he means it, like he’s his person, like he’s the love of his life, trying to put all those emotions into a kiss. He knows for sure he’s getting the same intent back. And at this moment, in his kitchen, narrowly avoiding losing his love because of a stupid reason, he decides it. One day, not too quickly, but not too far into the future, he’s going to ask Tommy Kinard to marry him. And he’s more than sure of the response he’ll get.

[also on Ao3]

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ladybyakuya · 11 months ago

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| I WISH YOU ROSES + KAIJU NUMBER 8.

+cw. —f!reader, smut headcanon + scenarios format, sort of exs to lovers, mature content, angst and hurt, comfort, alcohol consumption, established relationship

+syn.— making amends after the fight. who apologizes first? does it always end up with sex? or is he sleeping on the couch tonight?

+wc. —1.5k

+notes. — wanted it to be super smutty but ended up with angst instead. enjoy and scream in tags if you like it| redirect to blog navigation.

→ [ ICHIKAWA RENO ]

reno would stare at the screen of his mobile phone opening your message box yet not send a single text to you. he is a little stubborn. in the spur of the moment, he said, “maybe we had nothing, to begin with in the first place.” those were some heavy words. he won't disagree. even liquor isn't enough to drown his feelings about you. why do people drink to forget their love anyway? it's stupid. it's so stupid. he locks his phone and then buries his head in his hands murmuring, “god why can't I just call her?" the rusty fizzy flavor is threatening his throat again. his phone starts to vibrate and rings a little later making him jump a bit but his reflexes were quick enough not to get you a first full ring. “hello? babe? is that you?”

“just call her man.” Iharu drawls from the other side and disconnects the call even though he sits opposite him. Reno looks at him ungodly pissed until the prior speaks up, “don’t waste your anger on me, dude.” Reno’s phone rings again.

“you’re doing this on purpose, aren't you picking on me?” Reno tartly responds holding his phone towards him so sure about that Iharu is doing it again but that dimwit is so drunk that he has to lean forward, squint his eyes at the screen.

“no dudee. It's your girl—” Reno picks up the phone but he doesn't speak.

“are you at a bar right now? i just finished my work.”

“yes, I’m. can I go pick you up?”

“of’course you can but I got a cab. bye. text me the address.”

When you reach at the bar you could easily spot him. He is sitting at the corner in a secluded area. Ofcourse he is. Then, there is Iharu practically drooling on the table.

“why are you here?”

“what do you mean why I'm here? You texted the address.”

“yes but aren't you angry? At me?”

“yes but I know better than to take you seriously when you are that angry. ” he looks away from your face. “we can talk about it if you are still upset.” he shoots you a lazy smile and gets up.

“what about him?”

“what about who?” reno asks with pinched eyebrows.

Iharu’s snores are quite loud by now. You look at Reno holding your hand out. He doesn't protest. He gives you his phone and says his passcode. He gets you. His words are not drawly but rather slower than usual. At first, you intend to call Kafka but both of them being a pain in the ass you texted his vice-captain.

The can ride from bar to home was silent. Reno was laying his head down on your shoulder, eyes closed but a little fidgeting was there every now and then. As soon as you reach your apartment complex he got out, even leant against the wall while being on the elevator. He's sulking. It's adorable sometimes. When you reach your shared apartment he doesn't come in stands outside until you ask him to.

“i’m sorry.” reno says loud enough to kick out the drowsiness out of his body. “i'm sorry, babe.”

“well, it was partly my fault too but —” you grab his collar and pull him towards yourself. his defense system is useless against you. “but I'm going to make it memorable.” you say unbuckling his pants. As soon as his trousers hit the floor Reno closes the door with a kick while you go to your knees. “perhaps we should fight more,”

With his member in your hand you look up at him and then blink. once. twice. thrice. And then get up and walk inside your room. A few seconds of silence and then Reno is walking on your trail left by you apologizing for a few more times until you just shut him up with the most sloppiest toe curling blow job.

→ [ GEN NARUMI ]

“do not walk away from me. I'm not done talking yet.” Narumi's voice is perfectly flat devoid any splotch of anger or even frustration. he is leaning against the door as you move from kitchen counter to the dinning table carrying the dishes, then cooked meals and a water bottle. his eyes are going back and forth waiting for you to say something, anything or just yell at him. he can handle your blood and tears, not this silent treatment.

“well, don't treat me like I'm one of your missions and we are good.” you exclaim with a low voice while waving a hand as if you were talking to yourself but actually you just wanted to beckon him for dinner.

“i don't us to be just good. I want us to be better, to be comfortable in each other's presence, even in thoughts. . .” and now he is going to lecture you, like one of his subordinates. there is an agonizingly awful silence filling the room as you wait for him to continue but he is just there, standing, still silent.

you turn your chair to spare a look at him. his stance is still the same, lazy and nonchalant. he isn't mocking you or your love for him. he genuinely cares for you.

“i mean it.” he starts walking towards you in faster pace than usual. “and you know that.” he stands in front of you looking like a kicked puppy. the moment you leave your seat he is going to pounce on you like a wounded animal. this has happened before and last time it hurt a lot. so you don't get up instead just turn around to eat.

He grabs your wrist before you can even touch the food. “I said we’re not done talking.” he almost yells. seeing you flinch he sighs deeply before he gets on his knees and rests his head on your lap. “we submit are phones after turning it off. that's why I didn't know— that you were coming early from work. we work in different departments so we have different rules too. you can ask around. they'll tell you.”

“why didn't you say that earlier? was the whole fight really necessary?” you said with utter frustration laced underneath your voice.

“shouldn’t i at least get the benefit of doubt?” he looks at you placing his chin on your thighs.

you stroke his hair and he closes his eyes. “yes but — umm— never mind.” you say running your thumb over his lips. he graces a glance at you before running his hands on your back tracing up to your shoulders, he is crouching now and then pull away your top. now you're naked and sitting on a chair as he is standing. he throws the top away and sits on his knees again. hooking his arms around your calf muscles he licks in between your legs. “this is payback.” he whispers. your panty is still on and all Narumi is doing is licking slowly over the cloth, sometimes barely touching but if this is the payback you don't mind it at all, unlike last time.

→ [ HOSHINA SOSHIRO ]

Hoshina is the one who gives you the silent treatment even if he is at fault. He doesn't want his anger to harm you in any way, be it due to you or due to himself. He is not much of an angry person to begin with but somehow he just loses it for you. Maybe that's his protective instinct for you or the fear of melting the cocoon he created for his own protection. Either way, it's frustrating. It's frustrating enough that he keeps telling you how you should not put yourself in danger to protect him in a field mission yet you keep disobeying him at every mission. Either you are mocking him or trying to take his position which by the way both are wrong given the fact that you are his subordinate. He sat on one of the benches in the training room. he is too frustrated to concentrate on training.

“you know, you can let your anger out right? on me?”

Hoshina looks at you, pupils ever so still like a moonlight pond on a windless night. That's exactly what he doesn't want. don't you get that? you're wearing your night dress not your suit, which means you were either waiting for him or going to bed.

“i'm not mad at you.” he sighs. “not even myself. just at the situation in general. i know it's your instinct to protect people but sometimes . . .” he trails off looking at his fisted hand. he unfists his hand again.

“i can take it all, you know?. be it your love or anger. . .” Hoshina looks at you keeping his bottle aside. he swallows before leaving his place and dragging you inside the training room, the door still not closed.

“are you sure about that my love?” he graces his hands in between your thighs while whispering. you give him a nod. “let's see how long you last.” as his hand rubs against your entrance his mouth starts to suckle over your nipples as his other hand pins both of your hands above your head. the night suddenly feels long and breezy.

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harmonyrae · 1 month ago

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Vow - Part 2

Synopsis: You're marrying the leader of Onychinus, of course your life is going to change. Did you expect for this man to occupy your every thought? No, but you're not complaining. All it takes is one brutal reminder of what he's capable of to potentially ruin what you've been building. But only if you let it.

AN: So we might have 4 parts for this one guys... The plot is heavy and I'm in too deep. I hope you find it interesting! Cover images from Pinterest.

Content Warnings: I swear the smut is coming soon but omg the build up is so good… Explicit language & sexual themes, alcohol consumption, vehicle accidents, serious injuries, blood, violence & death, medical terms/procedures described, 18+ MDNI

Word Count: 17.1k (oh boy it's a long one)

Part One

The frigid wind threatens to ruin Veronica’s hard work as a gust sweeps through your curls. You tighten your grip on the coat wrapped around your shoulders as Sylus guides you to his Escalade parked in front of the hotel. His hand on the small of your back, steadying you as you climb into the car.

He closes the door and pauses to talk to Tanya, who had insisted on walking you both out. He holds her hand and you hear her muffled voice declare, yet again, that you and Sylus are “the most beautiful match.” You can’t help but smile at the compliment, she’s not wrong.

Sylus in his sleek black suit with a crisp white dress shirt and you in an elegant gown, your hair curled and pinned to cascade over your shoulders in soft waves. You looked like a couple. There’s a natural physical chemistry and it’ll certainly help sell the marriage.

Sylus climbs in the car and pauses. You look over to see him staring at you.

“You okay?” He nods, but his usual smile is missing.

“I want to make sure you still want to go through with this.”

You surprise yourself as you reach for his hand. His thumb mindlessly strokes your fingers once again.

“You’re not forcing me into anything, if that’s what you’re afraid of.”

His smile slowly reappears and he kisses your hand. He releases you just long enough to turn on the car before offering his hand again. You’re about to marry this man and you’re sitting here wondering if you’re ready for the hand-holding stage?

You take his hand and he laces his fingers with yours.

“We have a wedding to get to.”

The drive to the courthouse is a short one, so Sylus wastes no time reviewing what you told your parents about him. You also tell him about their work overseas, making sure he knows enough about them to signify a lengthy dating relationship.

“I’ll follow your lead, sweetie.”

You stare straight ahead at the courthouse looming in the distance. You watch people walking down the busy city streets, blissfully unaware of the life-changing event you’re about to go through. Before you know it, Sylus is exchanging pleasantries with the parking attendant and finding a space. He turns off the car and leans back.

“Ready?”

“As I’ll ever be.”

He helps you out of the car and places your hand over his arm, keeping you close. The warm air of the courthouse is a welcome reprieve. The vaulted ceilings and vintage paintings age the building significantly, making the monitors and holographic displays look intensely out of place.

“Oh my goodness, there she is!”

You hear your mothers voice before you see her. Your grip on Sylus’s arms tightens and he chuckles, the sound oddly comforting.

“Look at you! Oh!”

Your mother rushes to you with her arms spread wide. You look over her shoulder to see your father standing next to Zayne and Yvonne. Who stares at you, her smile faltering as she looks at the man next to you. She raises a brow and her sweet smile turns into a sly grin. You’re going to get an earful later, you just know it.

Your mother throws her arms around you.

“You look stunning!”

“I agree.”

Sylus winks at you as your mother turns to give him a once over. She tucks her arm around your waist and pulls you close while she examines your husband-to-be.

“So you’re Sylus? Hmm…”

“Mom…”

Sylus laughs, his features soft, his voice light.

“I am. It’s an honor to meet you.”

Your mother squints at him, her expression hardening. She leans towards you, but keeps her eyes on Sylus.

“Too many piercings. And his hair, it’s… too long.”

His usual shaggy style was cleaned up for the occasion, but compared to Zayne and your father, his hair was certainly untraditional. Your mother has always had high standards for any man you spend any time with. Even Greyson, who is in a happy relationship with another woman. She always expected him to be well-dressed and clean-shaven.

“But…”

Just as you’re about to give your mother an earful, she surprises you.

“You’re very polite. And… if you make my baby girl happy… I’ll give you a chance.”

He extends his hand and she takes it, allowing him to press a chaste kiss to her knuckles.

“This is the man who owns a winery? He looks like a punk!”

“Dad!”

Your father walks right up to Sylus and crosses his arms. Zayne stands behind him with his hands in his pockets, he’s failing miserably at hiding a smirk.

“And Zayne tells me you live in the N109 Zone? You intend to have my daughter live there?”

If looks could kill, Zayne would be a bloody lump on the floor with how you’re staring.

“My vineyard is located in the Zone. I value my privacy. The perceived danger keeps me safe.”

You lean closer to Sylus.

“Yeah, you value privacy too, right, Zayne?”

You make sure he sees your eyes trail down his arms. His jaw tenses and he pushes his shoulders back. He opens his mouth to respond but you cut him off.

“You know, with being a doctor, client confidentiality and all that. I mean we all can understand that, right?”

Zayne nods and your father shakes his head.

“That place is too dangerous, what if you get hurt?!”

Sylus covers your hand with his.

“Maintaining my privacy is not my only reason for operating there. I am well-respected in the Zone. I offer jobs to those seeking a fresh start. I also invest in other local businesses, enabling more legal jobs, which means less crime. Neighborhoods are being rebuilt and communities are starting to thrive. So your daughter will be safe, I will make sure of it.”

You’re impressed with Sylus’s, very political, answer. It seems the respect he’s earned in the Zone does not come from violence alone. It seems your father is also impressed, he sighs before extending a hand to Sylus. He shakes Sylus’s hand and gives it a squeeze.

“As long as she’s safe, you and I won’t have a problem.”

Sylus nods, your father releases him and motions for your mother.

“We’ll head inside, I want to talk to the judge about these holographic atrocities.”

Sylus chuckles as you watch your parents head for the courtroom. Yvonne rushes over, completely oblivious to the rising tension between your brother and betrothed.

“Hi! I’m Yvonne, best friend, fellow resident, and I guess now former roommate! Speaking of, did you send those movers or are we getting robbed right now?”

“Wait, what?!”

Sylus pats your hand and grins.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Yvonne. And yes, I sent them. Thought it’d be best to send them today so you can relax undisturbed tomorrow. I apologize for not reaching out directly.”

“Oh! That’s… actually really sweet of you! Greyson and I rarely do big events on the weekends, so we’ll be out cold tomorrow!”

She lunges forward and pulls you into one of her warm bear hugs.

“You look amazing. I’m so happy for you hun!”

She tilts her head to whisper in your ear.

“And we are going to talk about where you met this delicious man later, okay?”

You sigh and she breaks the hug. She squeezes your shoulders before turning to Sylus.

“As the best friend, I am obligated to warn you that if you hurt her I will fuck you up.”

“Evie!”

She turns quickly, her chestnut curls swoosh through the air behind her and bounce with every step as she walks away. You love Yvonne, but she is the least scary person you know.

“I wouldn’t take her threat lightly. A doctor would know how to make your death instantaneous or agonizingly slow.”

Your eyes flick up to see Zayne staring pointedly at Sylus. He takes a step closer and lifts one of his hands, tapping the side of his own neck.

“Just one strike to your spinal cord between C1 and C2 and you’ll die rather quickly. But a cut through the carotid artery, well, you’ll drown in your own blood.”

Your entire body tenses, you can’t even clear your throat or take a deep breath. Zayne has never been a violent man, he’s spent his life terrified of his own evol and how he might accidentally hurt someone. And now…

“Are you threatening me, Zayne?”

“Yes.”

He doesn’t even hesitate to answer. You bite your lip, unsure of what to say. You look between Sylus and Zayne, trying to come up with the right words.

“That’s why I like you.”

You blink, Sylus appreciates Zayne’s threat? What the fuck is going on? Before you can ask, you feel Zayne’s lips on your cheek.

“You’re sure about this?”

You look up at him, his eyes searching yours.

“I am.”

He nods and gives Sylus one last look before turning to enter the courtroom.

“Boss!”

You jump at the sudden noise behind you. When you look over your shoulder you see two men in dark suits, both wearing masks with what look like beaks, running towards you. They stop right behind Sylus and he turns to look at them directly.

“We got ‘em!”

One of the men holds out two small boxes. Sylus takes them and points to their faces.

“Masks.”

“But…”

“Masks.”

Sylus repeats himself, with a firmness to his voice that even makes you straighten up. The men take off the masks and hook them on their belts. They’re attractive young men, sandy ginger hair, freckles, but their eyes… They look like they’ve seen too much in their short lives. One of them has a faint scar down his face and neck, the skin surrounding it discolored as if the cause of the original wound was something unnatural.

“This is Luke and Kieran.”

“Oh, the twins! Right. Hi.”

Their faces light up and they both bow, rather dramatically.

“Sylus says you’re like family to him so –”

“Boss said that?!”

The one with the scar nearly shouts, both men smiling from ear to ear.

“Kieran, volume.”

So Kieran is the one with the scar, making the other - the one with deep dimples - Luke.

“We’ll be inside in a moment.”

They rush past, both snickering and swatting each other as they enter the courtroom.

“Sorry, I didn’t realize you kept that a secret.”

“They know, I just… I don’t make a habit of saying it.”

He hands you one of the small boxes Luke and Kieran delivered.

“Open it.”

You carefully open the box and see a ring with a thick silver band with a square cut black gem. Small diamonds line the sides framing the large gem. When you look up you see Sylus holding open the other box, a smaller ring sits inside, but the matching gem is anything but small. The ring has a delicate silver band with teardrop diamonds surrounding the matching black gem. You stare at the ring, then up at Sylus, then back at the ring.

“Exchanging rings is a common tradition, even at courthouse ceremonies.”

“Y-yes, but… Sylus this is… it’s…”

“Gorgeous? Dazzling? Incredible? Say anything other than ‘too much.’”

You close your mouth and look down at the set of rings.

“I love them. Thank you.”

His smile widens and your cheeks flush as he steps closer.

“We’ll have to kiss, are you okay with that?”

If your cheeks were flushed before, they’re absolutely burning now. Keeping your eyes focused on his chest you nod.

“Then let’s go.”

He wraps an arm around your waist and leads you to the courtroom. He pauses before pushing the door open, both of you taking a deep breath in tandem. What you’re doing for the sake of security would be considered insane by most, but to you, this feels… right. As the doors open, your plans fade to a distant memory, a new future awaits.

The judge looks up from his paperwork, his wrinkles deepen as he smiles at you and Sylus walking up to him. Your mother and father stand to the side, Zayne and Yvonne beside them. Your mother’s eyes are misty while your father’s jaw is tense. Luke and Kieran stand with their hands behind their backs, chests forward, chins held high. You’re convinced they’d salute if your family weren’t present.

“Judge Harlow, thank you for accepting this appointment so swiftly. I appreciate you.”

Judge Harlow shakes Sylus’s hand before turning his attention to you.

“Anything for you, Mr Sylus. And this is your lovely bride?”

You bow your head and accept his extended hand. He gives it a gentle shake and gestures to the desk behind him.

“A civil ceremony is rather quick, unless you both would like to exchange vows?”

Sylus looks over at you, he squeezes your hand when he notices your wide eyes.

“We will keep it simple today. Making it official is what matters.”

The judge nods, circling his desk to lay out the paperwork and two pens. He looks at Sylus.

“Do you wish to marry this woman of your own accord?”

Sylus turns to face you. His thumbs brush over your fingers in calming circles.

“I do.”

The judge turns to you.

“And do you wish to marry this man of your own accord?”

You stare into Sylus’s eyes and see the unmistakable flicker of worry. Your lips curl into a gentle smile. Your thumbs respond in kind, the tension in his hands vanishing in an instant.

“I do.”

“Do you have rings you’d like to exchange?”

You both present the boxes Luke and Kieran gave you. Sylus takes your hand and slides the ring on your finger, his eyes never leaving yours. You hold his hand and slowly slide his ring on, watching his face shift from confident to… you’re unsure what to make of his expression now. Something akin to serenity or contentment.

“By virtue of the authority vested in me as Chief Justice, I now pronounce you married under the Laws of Linkon. I suppose, for the sake of being a tad more traditional, you may now kiss the bride.”

Sylus lifts a hand to caress your cheek, his warm touch makes your heart pound. You’re sure everyone in the room can hear it. As he leans closer, your hands rest on his waist, gripping the fabric of his suit jacket.

“Close your eyes, angel.” He whispers.

You shiver and obey, as his lips touch yours every muscle in your body relaxes. His other hand finds your waist to pull you in. The chill of his lip rings contrast deliciously with the heat of his lips. He hesitates for a moment, letting his lip drag against yours, but you lean forward to seal your lips over his. A quiet sigh escapes him and he smiles into the kiss. Your tongue flicks his lip and he squeezes your hip, he leans back to break the connection.

“You’re full of surprises aren’t you?” He breathes.

“All you need to do now is sign on the dotted line.”

You turn back to the judge and watch as Sylus picks up a pen and hands it to you. He leans over to sign the document on the desk, stepping aside to give you space to do the same. As you stare down at the document you notice your hand trembling. What is this man doing to you? You sign the paper and jump as the judge claps.

“Congratulations, you’re officially married.”

Your mother rushes up to you and wraps her arms around you and Sylus. Once she’s done nearly suffocating you, your father offers his hand to Sylus, giving him a curt nod. Zayne stays a few steps back, allowing his parents to have their moment with you. Yvonne kisses your cheek before skipping over to Luke and Kieran to introduce herself.

“You’re hosting the reception in a club?!” Your father sneers.

“I own the club, it’s been transformed for the occasion. No expense spared.”

“You own a club?!” Once again, your father looks like he’s about to launch into a lecture.

“The most popular club in the Zone and Linkon. We’re known for our top of the line security.”

Your father deflates, temporarily appeased. Everyone gathers to walk out of the courthouse to the parking garage. You cling to Sylus, your fingers unconsciously tapping against his bicep. He slows down to let the rest file in front, stopping for a moment to help you put on your coat.

“How are you feeling?”

His hands linger on your shoulders and you’re hesitant to turn around. The thoughts spiraling are becoming gradually less appropriate and you have a shit poker face.

“I’m… okay, I think. Just a lot to take in.”

Sylus turns you around with a gentle touch, his arm looping around your shoulder to hug you close to his side. His warmth seeps through your coat.

“When we get back to the hotel I’ll call up the masseuse, help you relax before the reception.”

He opens the door to the courthouse and ushers you outside, still holding you close.

“You don’t have to do that…”

“I do. Or if it’ll make you feel better, I could do the massage myself?”

You laugh. You fucking laugh. Because what else are you supposed to do? You have no idea what to say in response. Frankly, the only responses that come to mind are straight up filthy.

“Then tell me what you need.”

His request catches you off guard, his desire to help you relax eases the tension. You offer him a small smile.

“Sylus…”

“Sylus!”

The familiar voice sends chills down your spine. You nearly collapse, if it weren’t for Sylus holding onto you you’re sure you’d be in the fetal position.

“Antov Volkova. What can I do for you?” Sylus purrs.

Volkova steps forward, right past your parents and Zayne. You’re thankful Yvonne seems to have left already, but the fact your family appeared to be conversing with this man makes your stomach turn. Volkova is as tall as Sylus, dark brown hair and even darker eyes. He’s unnaturally tan, if he weren’t built like a bull you’d joke about his tanning salon fees. His dark gray suit hugs him tightly, his black dress shirt unbuttoned scandalously low. His signature tiger tattoo is hidden in the low light of the parking garage, but you can see claws disappearing beneath the fabric. He’s an attractive man, square jaw, plump lips, high cheekbones, a well-maintained beard. Perhaps that is why you trusted him. He looks like a proper business man who maybe just likes to workout. If only you’d known his true intentions.

“I was just stopping by to congratulate the happy couple.” His thick Russian accent muddies the words together, as if he’s speaking in cursive.

“Well, thank you. We appreciate that.” Sylus is far too calm, it’s almost unsettling.

“I was hoping you had a moment to speak about our latest business deal. It’s rather urgent.”

Right… “business deal” aka you. Sylus nods and gestures for Volkova to follow. You expect him to let you go and tell you to wait with your family, but he keeps his hand on your waist, bringing you along. Volkova steps in line with Sylus.

“A word in private if you don’t mind.”

“I do. Anything you have to say to me you can say in front of my wife.” Fuck, that’s hot.

Volkova gives him a sideways glare, but doesn’t argue. He crosses his arms and turns his glare to you, you tremble. Sylus notices.

“You think just because you married Sylus you don’t have to pay me back? Is that it?”

“She doesn’t.”

Volkova tenses, refocusing on Sylus.

“I know you two are not madly in love, too impatient to wait for a proper wedding. Since when do you interfere with business deals that do not concern you?”

“I could ask you the same question, Antov.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“You should train your mutts to stay quiet when they’re staking out one of my deals. Did you wonder why they didn’t show up with the intel?”

You can tell Volkova is struggling to maintain his calm demeanor. He glances past you, smiling.

“So you marry a woman who owes me money? And you think that will stop what’s coming?”

“I know it will. She owes you a pretty penny. Without the cash flow you won’t be securing that deal with Lion Pharmaceuticals. Well, you wouldn’t be anyways, I already bought the company and instructed them to drop you as their advisor. Word travels fast, I’m sure other businesses in the Zone will hear and drop you as well. The one thing I won’t touch, because I’m just such a nice guy, is your off-shore accounts. You leave her alone and they stay in your name.”

Volkova steps up to Sylus, nearly chest to chest. You squeeze his hand and he rubs his thumb over yours, sending you a subtle message that he’s not worried.

“You really want to make this war a messy one, don’t you? For her?”

Volkova stuffs his hands in his pockets, but not before you notice the strands of white crackling energy floating around them. The air around you hums with static making your skin tingle and hair stand on end.

“A war would require a true adversary, which you are not.”

Volkova turns suddenly and stalks away, a blacked out SUV pulls up and flashes their lights. Sylus slowly follows, keeping his voice steady.

“I take it we have an understanding?”

Volkova opens the back door and stops, his hand nearly crushing the metal. He looks over his shoulder with a smirk.

“Of course, Mr Sylus. Completely.”

He climbs in the car and it takes off. You look up at Sylus, who stares at the car speeding away.

“He’s seen my family. Spoken to them. What if he –”

“They’re under my protection.” He interrupts.

“I… I thought…”

“They’re technically my family now, right? No one’s going to hurt them, you have my word.”

He rubs your shoulders and pulls you into a hug. You close your eyes and breathe him in, his warm amber scent soothing you instantly.

“Thank you.”

He hums and turns you both around to approach your family once more.

“Everything alright?” Zayne asks, your parents cautiously stepping out from the safety of their car to hear.

“Just a simple misunderstanding, but it couldn’t wait. I apologize.”

You parents exchange a doubtful glance, but don’t press. Zayne, however, crosses his arms in defiance. He leans against his car and keeps his eyes set on you.

“The reception is in a few hours, does anyone need directions?” Sylus’s voice doesn’t waver, his confidence rubs off on your parents and their concern fades.

“Yes, if you could plug it into the GPS for me?”

“Of course.”

Sylus leans over and gives you a kiss to the temple, leaving you frozen in place. He walks over to your parents car and helps them while you try to remember how to breathe. Zayne approaches and leans down to whisper in your ear.

“What the fuck was Volkova doing here?”

You bristle at his harsh tone, but force a neutral expression in case your parents looked over.

“Threatening us, but Sylus handled it. I’m fine, you’re fine, mom and dad are fine.”

He straightens and rubs the back of his neck. You take advantage of the opportunity and wrap your arms around his waist, hugging him tightly. He grunts and sighs, patting your arm in surrender.

“Are you okay? Really?”

“I’m okay. Really.”

He pulls you into a proper hug before letting you go and turning to his car.

“I’ll see you tonight.”

You watch him back out and drive away, waving as he passes. Zayne will be okay, his evol is powerful, he’s extremely calculated making him a bit paranoid - which is good when dealing with someone like Volkova. Your parents will be leaving for their third international university tour in a few days, so they’ll be fine. You… you have Sylus. Everything will be… fine…

Veronica grabbed you immediately upon arriving back at the hotel, she helped you remove your wedding dress and slip into a fluffy bathrobe. She made quick work of curling your hair into hot rollers and darkening your makeup to better match your dress. Sylus sat a few feet away, sipping a cocktail.

“So you’re just going to watch?”

He stands and leans against the vanity table in front of you. Damn him for being so tall, you look up at him and that smile… He offers you his glass and you eagerly take it, downing the rest of his drink.

“I didn’t take you for a cosmo guy.”

“Only on special occasions.”

“Oh, today’s special?”

“Well, I’m only getting married once.”

You stare, lips slightly parted, a question on the tip of your tongue. He catches your look of disbelief and returns to the bar cart to make another drink. You watch him through the mirror.

“To tell you the truth, I never planned on getting married.”

You turn around in your seat making Veronica gasp, she grabs your chin and leans over to check her work.

“And yet you suggested this plan? When you never wanted to be married in the first place?”

“I have nothing against the concept of marriage, I just never considered myself…” He hesitates.

“You never considered yourself what? Husband material?” He chuckles, but doesn’t look up.

“What about you? You said it yourself ‘career comes first’ and yet you don’t seem to be hating the role so far.”

“Ahh… the avoidant type, noted.”

“I’m not avoiding… simply, finding common ground. We both had our reasons.”

You look away from him now, letting him slip from the room to change into a matching suit. Oh hell, he got a matching suit? You just picked the dress this morning. Veronica swipes a brush over your nose, bringing your focus back to her.

“You look a little overwhelmed.”

Nodding, she holds your chin and tips your head back to apply a light dusting of blush to your cheeks. She smiles and grabs a lipstick.

“You’re a doctor, right?” You nod again. “Just think of today like a big surgery. You’ve made it through the tough part, but now’s the closing. Complications can still happen at this stage, but there’s less to worry about now.”

“Do you have experience or family in the field? That sounded very… official.”

“I’ve watched every season of Grey’s Anatomy… Twice.”

She finishes touching up your makeup and leads you back into the bedroom to get dressed. The gown you picked this morning had been tailored in just a few short hours to sit perfectly over the swell of your hips. The hem hovers just over the floor so you won’t trip, but seamlessly hides the boot on your foot. Veronica tightens the laces of the corset which makes the skirt cascade over your hips in soft waves. She adjusts the sleeves to sit off your shoulders before sliding your hands into the long black lace gloves. You hold her hand as you slide your uninjured foot into a strappy sandal with a short wedge.

“Has anyone told you red is your color?”

“No… I’ve always worn blue actually. But…”

“You’re starting to warm up to it?” Sylus opens the door the rest of the way and steps in.

You turn to face him as Veronica removes the hot rollers, winding them around to let the curls fall and bounce. For fucks sake, this man looks good in everything. A matching dark red velvet suit with a black dress shirt, one again unbuttoned to show off his toned chest. Your eyes linger on the sliver of skin and you mentally reprimand yourself for your lack of self-control. However, when you look up, you notice Sylus is completely captivated by the thigh-high slit in your skirt. Your toned leg extended for Veronica to fasten the strap around your ankle. You flex your quad and Sylus’s eyes drop to the floor.

“Distracted?”

“A bit. Is that a problem, angel?”

You don’t hide your smile and he doesn’t hide his.

“You seem to like that nickname. Seems unfair since I don’t have one for you.”

“What would you like to call me then?”

“Well, Ryūō…” He narrows his eyes. “I could call you Dragon? Or… oh, how about Lil S?”

His laughter fills the room, making you disturbingly proud of yourself.

“Well…”

“If you’re about to say some cringy shit like ‘there’s nothing lil about me’ we will have a problem.”

He laughs louder as he steps closer to you, he extends his hand and Veronica passes your hand to his. You glare at her and she snickers.

“It might be cringy, but it’s true.”

He kisses your knuckle, right above your ring. Your pussy throbs just thinking about his not-so-lil… everything. Get a hold of yourself. Veronica fluffs your hair one last time and gives your shoulder a reassuring squeeze.

“Have fun tonight you two.”

The ride to the club was comfortable, Sylus told you more about his club and you maintained enough self-control not to stare at his god-like side-profile. If he wasn’t so pretty, this wouldn’t be such a problem.

“Wait! Ollie!”

Sylus almost swerves when you shout, but regains control effortlessly. He glances over at you with a brow raised.

“Sorry… my cat. Oliver, or Ollie. We didn’t talk about him… and… uhm… Can he…” “That explains Luke and Kieran’s text. Your cat was delivered to the base with the rest of your belongings. The twins have been trying to coax him out of his carrier for the past few hours.”

You turn to look out the window, the sudden urge to cry takes you by surprise. Knowing Ollie can stay with you brings you so much comfort. Just the split second of doubt made you reconsider the whole marriage. You were not giving up the troublesome kitten you found in a dumpster behind a Wendy’s after your first shift at Akso. Absolutely not.”

“Hey…”

Sylus reaches for your hand and you shake your head, looking at the roof of the car to keep tears from falling.

“Sorry, I just… he’s really important to me. I know that probably sounds dumb, I know he’s a cat. He’s just, like, my baby… in a way… god, ignore me.”

Sylus holds onto your hand, making no move to let go.

“It doesn’t sound dumb. Is he friendly?”

“Very. He follows the rule of ‘if I fit, I sit’ religiously. I’ve found him sitting in a Poptart box before. Well, when he was a kitten, now he absolutely could not fit in a Poptart box…”

“He’s a big cat?”

“Maine Coon. His paws are the size of a pear.”

Sylus chuckles, continuing to rub your hand slowly. He turns into the parking lot of his club, which is already relatively packed. He helps you out of the car and guides you to a side entrance. A security guard greets you both with a smile before ushering you inside.

“We’ll greet a few people, have a few drinks, have cake, do our first dance… Nothing wild. Enjoy yourself, you don’t have to stay glued to my side all night unless you want to.”

“Wait… first dance?”

“Another traditional reception event, no?”

“I mean… yes…”

“If you’d rather we didn’t I can –”

“No!” You interject. “I was just surprised. What song did you pick? Aren’t they usually, like, symbolic or something?”

“I picked a classic, simple, elegant. Nothing dramatic.”

“Care to share?” You tilt your head and he just smiles. The security guard opens the door and you’re hit with a wave of fragrant air. You gasp at the sight before you.

“Too much?” Sylus circles in front of you, still holding your hand.

The club looks nothing like it usually does from the pictures online. Bright neon lighting has been replaced with a warm orange glow, spot lights angled to reflect off of the gem-crested ceiling. Round tables with silk tablecloths circle the dance floor, each topped with a crystal vase with red and black roses. The bar was covered in tall candles and rose petals. Servers and security wear black suits, the bartender in a gorgeous red cocktail dress that shimmers in the candlelight. The DJ stand has been dismantled and replaced with a band, a singer in a black gown sways her hips as she sets the mood with her velvet voice.

“It’s gorgeous…”

You hold onto Sylus as he leads you further into the club. Guests mingle, sip champagne, some couples dance to the smooth jazz renditions of modern pop songs. Sylus approaches the bar and nods at the bartender who twirls and skips over.

“Boss and Mrs Boss! What can I get for ya?”

Damn, that’ll take some getting used to. Sylus orders a gin fizz and looks at you.

“I’ll have a Vodka cranberry.”

She nods and gets to work. Sylus leans on the bar and watches you.

“What?” You huff.

“You look beautiful.” You blush.

“You said that already. At the hotel, remember?”

“Is there a rule about how many times I can say it?”

That fucking smirk again. Oh the butterflies…

“Sylus!”

A young man and a tall woman weave through the crowd to reach the bar. As they get closer, you see the woman has a prominent baby bump, her hand rests on her stomach protectively while her other hand clings to her companion.

“Rafayel, didn’t you tell me you couldn’t make it? Something about a babysitter?”

The man, you assume to be this Rafayel, runs a hand through his dark purple waves. He has just as many piercings and tattoos as Sylus. With his sleeves pushed up to his elbows you can clearly see the intricate tattoos of ocean scenes. The woman next to him wears a silky blue dress, cutouts framing her own body art.

“Talia surprised us. She took the girls for the weekend, which means…” He reaches out and takes a flute of champagne from a passing server. He raises the glass before tipping it back, downing the bubbly in one go. He winces and shivers, Sylus laughs.

“Take it easy Raf, don’t want to get drunk so early in the night. I’m sure Bakeneko would like to remain childfree, not taking care of your drunk ass.”

Rafayel sneers, but the woman laughs. You’re guessing Bakeneko is Sylus’s nickname for her. Does he have nicknames for all the women in his life…?

“I don’t mind. Raf has had a hell of a week at the studio.”

You exchange pleasantries with her, recognizing her name almost instantly. She’d lived on your street growing up and is one of Zayne’s patients. She wouldn’t recognize you, she moved away before you returned from the hospital. Your white hair was definitely throwing her off.

“I am surprised you got married, you always said it wasn’t your thing.”

“Rafayel!”

Sylus chuckles and steps closer to him, placing a hand on his shoulder.

“What? Are you disappointed I won’t be attending any more of Talia’s parties? You both still go to those, right?”

Rafayel turns bright red, he glares at Sylus as he downs another glass of champagne. He stammers for a moment.

“Fuck you…”

He drags his wife behind him as he turns to walk away, her laughter harmonizes with Sylus’ as they leave. Before you can ask any questions another woman approaches. Her wild curls - which she tried her hardest to pin back - frame her delicate features. The lavender dress makes her dark skin look downright divine. You can’t remember where you’ve seen her before…

“Suz!” Sylus cheers. She smiles and accepts his hug.

“Sy, congratulations. Seriously, I’m really happy for you. For the both of you.”

She turns to you and extends her arms, she hesitates, pulling back.

“Is it okay if I hug you?”

You’re not sure if you know this woman, but you nod. She embraces you and tilts her head towards your ear.

“I own Suzaku Repairs on the border of the Zone. I know we usually see each other in our helmets, but it’s nice to put a name to a face for once.”

“Oh my god! Hi!” You tighten your hug.

You’ve only heard her referred to as “The Mechanic” - when your bike needed a fast repair post-race she was there. Her shop was where races usually wrapped up unless police got involved. She always wore her welding helmet and a leather jacket when racers filed in. You’d only ever stayed for a quick tune up, repair or gas refill before speeding off. Sylus had delivered your bike to her the night of the accident. You had called her to get an estimate and, without thinking, gave her your real name. The accident really scrambled your brain, what’s the point of having a code name if you forget to use it.

“Thank you for coming.”

“Of course. I’ve been looking forward to meeting the genius behind that bike.”

You blink.

“You built the engine yourself, right?” You nod. “Fuck, that thing is beautiful. And you’re not a mechanic?” You shake your head. “I swear if you say you used YouTube…”

“Sorry…”

“No! Don’t be. You did a great job. It’s almost ready for you to pick up. There’s a few parts I didn’t have, but Sylus said he could order them for you.”

Sylus turns around and produces your drink. You eagerly take it and sip, savoring the sharp bite of the Vodka and tart cranberry flavor. His hand settles on your hip and you almost choke on your second sip.

“I don’t know if you remember, but…” She pauses, looking down to the end of the bar. She tenses and crosses her arms.

“Uhh… you know what, I’ll catch up with your guys later. Congrats again!”

She pushes her way through the crowd in the opposite direction. You look to the end of the bar and see Zayne making his way to you.

“You look amazing.”

You don’t wait for approval, you throw your arms around Zayne’s neck and pull him into a hug. He smiles against your shoulder.

“Sylus! Hey!”

Another young man squeezes his way through the crowd. His shaggy blonde hair hangs in his eyes. His crispy white dress shirt is left unbuttoned with the sleeves rolled up, for fucks sake is every one of Sylus’s friends heavily tattooed?

“Xavier, I told you black tie.”

The man, Xavier, chuckles - his raspy voice follows the same cadence as Sylus, but is much softer. He fiddles with the buttons of his shirt. His hands are covered in tattoos that travel up his arms, his neck tattoo dipping down to his chest and stomach. He looks completely covered, like there’s not an inch left - other than his face. Which has a few piercings, of course, Sylus must be in a club for body modification addicts.

“I don’t own a black tie, Sy. You know that.”

Sylus chuckles and pulls Xavier into a hug. After being released, Xavier steps to the side, to stand directly in front of you.

“I would say congratulations, but he’s a handful. So… good luck!”

“Oh fuck off!” Sylus chides.

“What? You know I’m right.”

Sylus takes a step closer and Xavier feigns fear.

“Okay, okay - since it’s your wedding, I’ll be nice. Call me Monday, I have the intel you wanted. It was nice to meet you, well… officially.”

“Xavier!” Sylus warns.

Xavier grins and disappears into the crowd. Finishing your drink, you turn to Sylus and cross your arms. Zayne leans back against the bar, nursing his whiskey, trying to avoid the tension, but listening in at the same time.

“Xavier maps our races.”

“And?” You push.

“And… he’s a hacker. He may have looked into you for me, just –”

“WHAT?”

“Just to help me prepare for your protection. You don’t just need physical protection, you’ll need cyber protection as well. And he’s the best there is. He didn’t dig too deep, alright?”

“Where’s the lovely couple?”

The singer shouts and the crowd hoots and hollers, looking around for you and Sylus. When they spot you, they start clapping and pointing.

“Ahh, there they are! Come on up here you two, it’s time for your first dance!”

Sylus holds out his hand and winks. You let him lead you to the dance floor. He positions your arms over his shoulders and slides his hands down over your curves to hold your waist. He tips his head down and nudges your nose with his, prompting you to look up at him.

“Focus on me, sweetie.”

His voice echoes in your mind as the band begins to play. The song is familiar, sweet and slow. When the wispy voice of the singer chimes in you blush and hide your face in his chest. The vibrations of his laughter make you flush hotter.

“I’m a fan of the classics. Elvis always got straight to the point, I like that.”

He really chose Can’t Help Falling in Love by Elvis fucking Presley for your first dance. You turn to rest your cheek against his chest, your eyes downcast. He takes small steps, gently swaying. The room darkens and you stumble, he catches you and dips you back just enough to make it look intentional. As you regain your balance, you glance around, the lights are so low you can’t see the crowd of onlookers. There’s a subtle buzzing sound behind you, but before you can turn to look Sylus grabs your chin and brings your attention back to him.

“Remember what you said earlier, before the wedding?”

You squint, his face may be dimly lit but his eyes are glowing. It’s strangely intoxicating, you can’t look away. Your mind works overtime trying to recall what you could have said that he could be referring to now. The buzzing suddenly stops, followed by a deep hiss. Sylus let's go and as you look over your shoulder you see the dance floor slowly being covered in fog. His hot breath tickles your ear as he leans in.

“Looks like we’re on a cloud… just floating.”

You swear your heart skips a beat and you don’t have arrhythmia. He brought the clouds to you. This man you barely know, who married you to protect you, invited you into his world, showered you with luxury and has handled you with such care ever since the night he found you in that ditch. He’s treated you better than any man ever has and he barely knows you.

Maybe Elvis is right… Maybe falling in love is something you can’t control.

The sky is turning the lightest shade of pink when Sylus’s car pulls into the parking garage of a massive building at the center of the Zone. You lean your head back on the headrest and pinch the bridge of your nose, the reception was more lively than you expected. Everyone was drinking, dancing and tapping their glasses repeatedly for the happy couple to kiss. After tonight, you’re fairly certain you could draw Sylus’s lips based on memory alone.

As Sylus’s car winds higher and higher through the levels, you glance over at him. He’d discarded his suit jacket before jumping in the driver seat so his sleeves could be rolled up. His forearm flexes as he turns, his thumb tapping the top of the steering wheel. His profile is backlit from the neon blue lights of the garage. The bump on the ridge of his nose, his long lashes, his lower lip caught between his teeth. You shake your head, alcohol and exhaustion make you extra horny - noted.

He stops at a booth and waves at the attendant who unlocks the door to a private garage on the top level. He parks the car and jumps out to open your door. Your feet are swollen after spending the night dancing, either with Sylus or Yvonne. The boot on your injured foot was uncomfortably tight and the moment you stepped out of the car you groaned. You cover your mouth, eyes wide with embarrassment. Sylus presses lightly on your shoulder, leaning you back against the car. He crouches and removes the sandal off of your uninjured foot and peels back the velcro of the boot. He slides your foot free and you sigh at the rush of air.

“Thank you, you really didn’t have to – Sylus!”

He picks you up with one arm, holding your boot and sandal in his other hand. Your arms coil around his neck as you hang on. Sylus nods to a man standing in front of the elevator, he stands aside and Sylus enters, an iron gate closed behind him. The elevator ascends and you tap him on the shoulder, he tilts his head back and his eyes widen as you pet his head.

“You can put me down now.”

He shakes his head.

“I intend to carry you over the threshold like a gentleman, angel. And I don’t think you can walk with your ankle swollen like that.”

“Carry me over the threshold? Sylus…”

The doors open before he can respond. When you realize the doors opened directly into an apartment it clicks, of course he owns the penthouse. He carries you through the living area, dark gray walls with shiny black floors, the walls lined with the occasional painting or gun case. The strong scent of leather and firewood drifts through the air, it turns floral as you pass the dining room. A long obsidian table lined with plush red chairs, huge arrangement of what look like red orchids. You pass by a man in a suit carrying a large vase of black dahlia flowers and gasp, you open your mouth but Sylus beats you to it.

“He’s been collecting any flowers that are toxic to cats and replacing them. Those were in my room, Ollie is fine.”

He drops your shoes and swings a set of double doors open. You spot a mountain of boxes stacked in the corner, but besides that, the room looks completely put together. A king size bed with an egregious amount of pillows, floor to ceiling windows, a couch and faux fireplace, a bookcase and large mahogany desk. Two doors sit open along the far wall, one is an empty walk-in closet and the other you assume is a bathroom.

Sylus sets you down on the edge of the bed and backs up. There’s a low growl from the corner of the room and you look past Sylus to see Ollie hunched in the corner under the desk.

“Ollie! Baby, come here honey… It’s okay!”

He doesn’t move. Sylus takes a knee and extends his hand.

“Pleasure to meet you Ollie.”

Ollie growls again, but inches forward. His nose lifts into the air, his head bobbing as he sniffs the air. Staying low to the ground he crawls out from under the desk. Sylus doesn’t move and you’re too intrigued to say a word. Ollie twists his body and hunches his back, his ears flattening. Another pitiful growl, he puffs his fur.

“I can do that too.” Sylus purrs.

He wraps himself in mist, letting it spiral and spin around him. This must be his evol… His eyes glow and he tilts his head, like he’s challenging Ollie.

“Sylus! You’re scaring him.”

Ollie yowls and bounces sideways towards Sylus. Sylus doesn’t move, he just stares at Ollie. Another low growl and Ollie deflates. You blink. He lowers his head and sniffs, slinking forward until his nose is nearly touching Sylus’s fingers. The energy evaporates, his eyes stop glowing. Ollie chirps and he licks Sylus’s fingers, bumping his nose over each finger before rubbing his head into his palm.

“See, we can be friends.”

You glare at Sylus. He’s petting Ollie now, who is pacing back and forth, clearly enjoying the attention and pats.

“Did you just have a standoff with my cat?”

“Not a standoff, just a display of power. We’ve reached an understanding.”

“You’re so weird…”

Sylus chuckles and pats Ollie on the head one last time before standing.

“If you need any additional furniture, just let me know. You’re welcome to explore the house, just don’t try to open the door with the number pad. That’s my armory, it’s probably better if you don’t know what I keep in there.”

“Actually, uhm…” You avoid making eye contact, painfully aware of how awkward you feel.

“I don’t think I can… get out… of this…” You gesture to your dress.

Sylus sits on the bed beside you and turns your shoulders until you shift your back to him. He removes the bow attached and unravels the knot carefully. As the corset loosens, you cross your arms over your chest to hold the bodice up. His fingers graze the skin of your back and you bite back a moan. You really need to get it together, even Ollie can sense how pitiful you are. Sylus stands and shoves his hands in his pockets.

“Thank you.” You mutter.

“Of course. I’ll see you in the morning. Goodnight… wife.”

You scoff and give him a playful smile.

“Goodnight, husband.”

He closes the door behind him and you limp your way into the closet. Thankfully, the boxes are labelled and you find your pajamas quickly. Ripping open the box, you grab a pair of slippers, sweatpants and a tank top. You quickly change and limp over to the mountain of boxes, finding one labelled “medical stuff” - sure enough, your ankle brace is right on top. Slipping it on, you shove your feet into your slippers and head into the bathroom.

The bathroom is twice as big as your bedroom. A massive walk-in shower, a tub you could consider a small pool, a separate room for the toilet, a… sauna… okay… Next to the boxes with your bathroom necessities, you spot an unopened box for a fancy litter box tree.

“Fuck me…”

After taking off your makeup and tossing your hair into a messy bun, you decide to explore. You pass Ollie on your new bed, curled up by the pillows. You give him a quick kiss before cracking the door open and stepping out.

You pad your way through the winding halls, exploring the various rooms. There’s a library with an enormous wingback chair by the window. A fully equipped gym with a boxing ring. An absolutely stunning kitchen with a walk-in wine closet. A home theater with a popcorn machine and candy station. An indoor pool and hot tub. You find the door with the number pad and pause for a moment, allowing your imagination to run wild with what he could have locked up in there. After you convince yourself it really is best you don’t know, you continue your tour.

Your signal to stop is when your leg starts hurting again. You make your way down the hall towards your room, but the subtle hum of music makes you pause. You follow the sound, you turn down the only hallway you have yet to explore. There are two doors, you press your ear to the first and hear nothing. Opening the door a crack, you see a massive four-poster bed with a canopy, black silk frames the mattress. You assume it’s Sylus’s bedroom, it certainly fits his aesthetic - much like the whole house to be honest. Other than your room, the whole house gives off vampire lord vibes.

The second door isn’t closed completely. You tip-toe, well you try to, down the hall to take a closer look. Peering into the room, you see a desk with a stack of books and various folders. A fireplace crackles and next to it, a vintage gramophone plays a somber melody. You spot Sylus seated in an armchair, swirling a glass of whiskey. You’re about to push open the door when the song picks up and a voice rings out.

The lyrics rip through you, with questions of how to love and trust again. The singer mourns, perpetuating the ache of the loss with the image of dancing with the ghost of their lost love. You start to put the pieces together, he didn’t want to get married… Could this be why? He already loved someone… and he lost them.

Sylus sips his drink in silence, staring into the fire with a blank expression. What’s going through his mind? Who did he lose? How did he lose them? Why is he torturing himself like this? Your heart aches for him. He looks down at his now empty glass and stands prompting you to sprint down the hall. You carefully close your bedroom door behind you and hurry over to your bed. You crawl under the blankets beside Ollie, who immediately snuggles up next to you once you’re settled. You stare at the ceiling. Who did you marry? And what happened to him?

It’s been nearly 2 weeks since you and Sylus got married. So far, you’ve been like ships passing in the night, barely seeing each other for more than a few minutes. It was like he worked a graveyard shift while you worked… well, you worked a “who-the-fuck-knows” shift. You had been scheduled for day shift lately which meant you were coming home when Sylus was heading out. You’d become fairly familiar with the house now, memorizing certain codes for the private garage and elevator. Sylus even gave you your own black card.

“Get whatever you need… or want for that matter.”

You hadn’t touched the card until today, you didn’t want to get accustomed to spending his money. But when the hospital was visited by the Linkon City Scouts and you saw their giant wagon of cookies… it was a done deal. You just finished placing the last box of double chocolate chunk cookies on the kitchen island when Sylus walked in.

“I didn’t realize we had a delivery of… Ooey Gooey Choco Chunk Cookies arriving today…”

You didn’t realize he was even home… You definitely wouldn’t be in your oversized hoodie with no pants on if you’d known. Sliding around the counter to hide your bare legs, you smile.

“I’m sorry, the Linkon City Scouts were at Akso today and those girls know exactly how to guilt trip you into spending a fortune. These… also happen to be my favorite cookies of all time…”

He picks up a box and opens it, bringing the box to his nose. He pulls a cookie out. The ridiculous chocolate chunks look heavenly, you almost want to snatch it out of his hand. He stuffs it in his mouth before you can make a move. He nods, but his face doesn’t twist with overwhelming joy like you expected.

“Pretty good.”

You scoff and stomp your foot. Sylus chuckles and you cross your arms.

“What?”

“Pretty good? Pretty good! I… what… how…”

“Aww… I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to insult your favorite cookie, sweetie.”

“Oh shut up!”

He laughs, that full bodied, “rich man” laugh that you’ve grown quite fond of. He rests his hip against the counter and rolls up his sleeves.

“I was just glad to see you finally used the card. Even if it was for cookies.”

You’re about to hit him with a witty comeback but stop short.

“Wait… how did you…? I’ll pay you back, I swear!”

“Don’t, besides it went to a good cause. The Linkon City Scouts made a small fortune and you have a smile on your face.”

You blush, clearing your throat to distract yourself.

“Are you just heading out?”

He shakes his head and grabs another cookie out of the box.

“Things have… slowed down a bit. I’m spending tonight at home.”

“Oh! Uhh… okay…”

“I was actually going to work on your bike.”

You gasp and scurry around the counter to stand in front of him.

“My bike? What? When did – how – where?!”

He places his hands on your shoulders and grins. Even with how excited you are, you don’t miss how he looks at you, eyeing your legs for a moment longer.

“It was delivered this morning. And the parts you needed came in last week. I’m going to the garage to finish fixing it up.”

“You don’t need to do that! I should… I should be the one to fix it… Wait, you didn’t pay for the repair already, right?”

He removes his hands and turns to walk out of the kitchen, you grab his hand and try - keyword try - to pull him back. He ends up dragging you forward a few feet.

“Sylus! I’m the one who crashed, I should pay for it and fix it!”

You nearly trip over the step into the dining room from the kitchen. When you bump into his back, he finally stops.

“Help me fix it then.”

You can tell by his expression that he has made up his mind. His eyes drop down to where your hand is still wrapped around his wrist. You let go, slowly, and side step him.

“Fine.” You stomp off towards your room.

“Where are you going? Garage is this way.”

“I can’t fix my bike without pants on!”

“Not with that attitude!”

You spin around and continue to walk backwards, making your face as animated as possible to laugh sarcastically. He smirks and watches you walk away. You’re especially careful when you turn around, if you trip you’ll never get over the anguish and embarrassment.

Ollie greets you at your bedroom door with a squeak. Sylus said he’s welcome to roam the house, but you want to make sure he’s acclimated to your room first. That way he’ll have a safe space to run to. You scoop him up and give his belly a kiss. He chirps and stretches his back legs until his toes are spread. Dropping him on the bed, you rush into your closet to find something suitable. A pair of jeans… nothing too fitted, but something that will make your ass look good. Wait, why do you care what your ass looks like when you’re just trying to fix your bike? Okay, well you know why…

“Just be cool. Don’t be weird. Fix your bike and…”

You can’t even finish your thought, the idea of Sylus bent over your bike takes you right out. You bite your lip as you slip on a pair of baggy jeans and a cropped black tank top. Sliding on your converse sneakers proves to be a challenge because Ollie decides your shoelaces are his new hyperfixation. Before you trip over the silly cat, you fish a bag of treats out of your night stand and toss one in the air for him to catch.

“Silly boy…”

With one hand you toss your hair on top of your head with a claw clip while looking for your work gloves. You’d unpacked almost everything, but had shoved most of your biking boxes deep in your closet. Though you’ve been medically cleared, your leg aches every time you even think about sorting through them.

You find the gloves and tuck them in your pocket. You jog through the house to the elevator, punch in the code and ride it down to the private garage. When you exit, you head towards the “bike” section, where all of Sylus’s bikes are lined up in a neat little row.

He basically has his own mechanic shop here in his own garage. Every tool, an engine hoist, an air compressor, a lifting jack and a whole shelving unit of spare parts. You hear the clanking of tools and as you pass the last car you see Sylus…

Oh…

His shirt hung from the handlebars of a nearby bike. His bare torso was already glistening with a thin layer of sweat. His pants hung low on his hips, his belt unhooked. Your evol might be acting up because you are actually frozen in place. Not a force in the world could move you from this spot. You’d seen Sylus’s tattoos the night of the accident, from a distance and through a narrow gap in a doorway. But now? Goddamn.

Full sleeves with pops of red, the dragon tattoo that started at his chest and disappeared at his waistband, and when he turned around to grab a tool you could finally see his back. Skeletal wings branching off of a spine that ended in a point at his lower back. He pauses and moves closer to you. You don’t even realize he’s noticed you until he’s directly in front of you. Your eyes are level with his chest and those damn nipple rings. A single finger hooks under your chin and tips your head back to face him.

“Eyes up here angel.”

You try to laugh, but what comes out is a pathetic gurgle. He returns to his spot beside your bike, which looks so much better already. The heat that radiated off of him must have thawed you out because you can walk again… You approach your bike and bend down to examine the body work.

“I’ll have to get some parts resprayed, but as long as it runs that’s what matters.”

“We just have, let me see… the ECU and suspension to change out, yea?”

You straighten and survey his work. He’d already removed the seat and unplugged the battery, revealing the empty spot where the ECU should be.

“Looks like it just needs to be plugged in. Where is the –” You look up and Sylus is already holding the new part. “Oh… thanks…”

You take the ECU and slide it into place, plugging it in and securing the restraints. Sylus watches you work in silence. Handing you the wrench to plug the battery back in. You stretch out your hand for the drill to fasten the seat in place, but never receive it. When you look up, Sylus is inspecting the tool.

“Uh… Sylus?”

“Why did you start racing?”

You blink… slowly.

“What?”

“I’ve been thinking about that night. Finding you, taking you to Zayne, learning about your deal with Volkova. And I can’t help but wonder… Why risk your whole career to race?”

You haven’t had to explain this, well, ever. It’s been your secret for the past few years and you’ve always liked it that way. No one knew and that made it exciting. You put your hands on your hips and indulge his curiosity.

“On my first day at Akso, Dr Noah took all the interns on a tour. The last stop was the OR. He gave us the typical lecture about how some of us wouldn’t make it and we need to support each other and all of that. But… he said one more thing. He said that being a surgeon meant we crave adrenaline, that we thrive in high stress situations. He said we need to learn how to train our minds to be calm no matter how much adrenaline is pumping through our veins. That we had to train our mind like any other muscle group, repetition, consistency.”

You crouch and run your hand along the discolored sections of the frame.

“I always preferred bikes. I mean I got my motorcycle license before my regular license. I was just on a ride a few weeks into my internship when I almost crashed into a race passing through Central. And I don’t… I don’t know why but I followed them. I just watched from a distance. Until someone rolled up on me.”

“Do you remember who?”

“Kawauso. She tried to be scary, but with a bright pink bike? Yeah, she dropped the facade and invited me over. I got the rundown about the racing scene. I knew it was risky, I knew it didn’t make sense with my career and… everything, but… I just… wanted to do it anyway.”

You stand up and Sylus offers the drill. You accept it and he holds the seat down as you screw it in place. He turns and picks up a box off the floor, laying out the new shocks on a nearby bench. He drags over a lift and slides it under your bike, pumping the lever with his foot to prop it up. He offers you a wrench and a torque wrench. You squat down and begin to loosen the bolts on the shocks currently attached.

“It does.”

“What?”

“It does make sense.”

He offers you a genuine smile as he holds out his hand. You pass him the bolts and line up the new shock. You measure how high you need to prop up the rear tire and shove wooden blocks underneath to level it out.

“I’m assuming your alias is related to your evol, right?”

“Hold on, is this just a Q&A for me? I should ask you questions too.”

“You could, but I might not answer.”

“Then I might not answer either.”

You're locked in a minute-long staring contest before he gives in. He sighs.

“Fine. Ask your question.”

“Why dragons?”

He raises a brow and you realize how blunt your question came across.

“You have a lot of artwork, sculptures, jewelry… tattoos… all dragon related. I can only assume there’s some significance?”

He’s quiet for a moment.

“Do you remember what you said about your snow leopard?”

“Dragons are your spirit animal?” He nods.

“Ooh! I should call you… what’s his name… the little dragon from Mulan?”

“You are not going to call me Mushu.”

“Aww why not? It’s cute.”

You can tell he’s trying to keep his glare as menacing as possible, but when you bat your eyelashes he folds. Standing up straight, he crosses his arms.

“No.”

“Fine.” You grumble as you finish securing the bolts. “Okay, it’s done.”

Sylus helps you remove the wooden blocks under the wheel and releases the valve, lowering the lift. He holds the bike steady while you return the tools to the workbench.

“You should test the height, make sure it feels good.”

You round the bike and swing your leg over, Sylus steps back and watches as you lean forward and wiggle side-to-side. You can feel your heart start to race and your throat burns causing tears to well up behind your eyes. You try to ignore it, but it only gets worse. Lifting a foot to the foot rest, you realize that while the height is perfect you weren’t ready for the way the bike shifts beneath you. You shove your heel down trying to put down the kickstand. While you successfully kick it down, you lose your balance in the process.

“Careful!” Sylus shouts.

You slide off the bike, but your legs are numb and tingling. The garage tilts and your ears begin to ring. When you open your eyes you’re on the floor… on top of Sylus, his arms around you with one of his hands holding the back of your head. You’re sweating and shivering, like you have a fever that came on rapidly. Your brain is telling you to get up, but your body is so slow to react. Your cheek against his chest is comforting, hearing his heartbeat steadies your own.

“Angel…”

His voice is gentle, he moves the hair that had fallen over your face out of the way.

“Are you alright?”

“I… I think so.” You sound drunk, your words slurred.

“Let’s sit up.”

He rolls to his side, he lowers his hand to gather your legs and set you on his lap as he sits up. You come up with a whole speech about how you’re fine and he doesn’t need to do this and you can get up, but not a word comes out of your mouth. He cradles you to his chest as he presses the back of his hand against your cheek and forehead.

“You’re warm.”

In a moment of weakness, you look up at him. His eyes are filled with concern and his cheeks are just a tad bit flushed. Your mind is so foggy you don’t realize your gaze has dropped to his lips. They part slightly, a shallow breath. When you meet his gaze again, his pupils are blown as if he’s searching your face for any sign of discomfort, confusion, anger. His palm warms your cheek, his fingers wiping away tears you hadn’t felt fall. The distance is too much and yet not enough, does he want this too? You’re leaning forward before your anxiety can stop you…

Beep Beep Beep

Your phone… The pager ringtone you specifically bought for hospital alerts. Shit. You place a hand on his chest.

“I’m getting called back in. I… uhm… thank you for helping me with my bike.”

“Are you sure you’re alright?”

You nod and hold your breath as you force yourself to stand. Ignoring the wave of dizziness, you pull your phone from your pocket. Sure enough, mass casualty, all hands on deck.

“I have to go, MCI. Thanks again!”

You rush out of the garage and back upstairs to get your scrubs and an energy drink. Sylus isn’t in the garage when you return to get in your car. While you’re thankful for that, you also wish you could have seen him one more time before heading out.

Another week goes by… You see even less of Sylus. Not that you really noticed - you totally did - you had been pulling doubles and any free time was spent studying for the boards. Zayne found you curled up in an on-call room after working 48 hours straight and sent you home with the strict orders not to come back until the weekend. A forced 3 day break? Rare.

The first day was spent catching up on sleep, barely leaving your bed unless you needed water or to use the bathroom. Sadly, what woke you up on the second day was the ear piercing shatter of something in the hallway. Half asleep you sprint out of your room and find Ollie hiding under a nearby table.

“Oliver Oscar Odin! What did you do?!”

A gorgeous, and possibly priceless, vase lies shattered on the floor. The arrangement of red and orange snapdragon flowers is completely destroyed. You tiptoe around the water and broken glass to find a towel and broom. All the while, rehearsing what you’ll say to Sylus.

“I knew I shouldn’t have let him out of my room. Too many fancy things… Oh my god, how much did that cost? Probably more than I make in a year. Or 10. Fuck… Ollie you little… sh–”

“What did your son do now?”

You’ve just finished sweeping up the broken glass, but the flowers are still scattered and the pink towel on the floor is a dead giveaway. Sylus surveys the damage and bends down, finding Ollie under the table almost instantly.

“Sir, that wasn’t very nice.”

“I’m so sorry, I’ll pay for the vase and, I should have offered this sooner, I can cat-proof the house! There’s so many nice things and Ollie… well, I’ve been working more lately and he’s clingy and–”

“Angel, slow down.”

He holds your shoulders and stops your rambling.

“It’s just a vase. Are you and Ollie alright?”

You open your mouth, but words fail you. Looking over your shoulder you see Ollie sniffing the fallen flowers. He taps them with his paw as if they’ll come to life at any moment.

“I think so, yeah.”

“Good, because I was hoping you’d be available tonight for dinner.”

Talk about whiplash.

“Dinner?”

“I got word that Volkova is going to a meeting at one of my restaurants. I thought it would be a good opportunity to make our presence known and maybe get under his skin a touch.”

Giggling, you hug the broom handle. Is this a date or a mission to him?

“So you’re not going to like… hurt him or anything? We’re just intimidating him, right?”

He nods and suddenly bends down, you hadn’t noticed Ollie rubbing against Sylus’s leg for the past minute. Once you see Ollie in Sylus’s arms, pushing his little face into the crook of his neck… oh you are so done for. There is nothing in this world that could make you fold faster than a man who is cuddling with your cat. He could bend you over right now and…

“So? Are you free tonight?”

“Ahh… yes. Yes I am.”

“Can you be ready in an hour?”

You can hear Ollie purring and you’re not a heart specialist, but you’re fairly certain it’s about to stop functioning… You nod and Sylus turns to leave with Ollie in tow.

“Where are you taking my son?!”

Sylus’s laugh echoes down the hallway, he calls out over his shoulder.

“I’m showing him the most expensive vases to break!”

You scowl at his cheeky remark and quickly finish cleaning up the mess Ollie made. Rushing back to your room to find something to wear and tame the rats nest on your head. You have no idea what kind of restaurant you’re going to, how fancy it is, if there’s a dress code… You don’t own a lot of dresses so you don’t have many options. Then you remember a gift Yvonne gave you for Christmas last year.

“That… that I can work with.”

You’re putting the finishing touches on your outfit when you hear a soft knock at your door. You quickly open the door and find Sylus leaning against the doorway. His silk dress shirt hangs loosely from his toned torso, unbuttoned and sleeves rolled up - as usual. High-waisted dress pants cut into his waist just right, a chain belt draped over his hip. His necklace, wait… oh… it’s a body chain. Cool. Awesome. Spectacular. His body chain dips down beneath his shirt and your mind does a backflip trying to pull it together.

“You look… amazing.”

You laugh awkwardly, not noticing Sylus had been checking you out as well. Yvonne’s gift was obviously a winner. A short leather skirt with a zipper down the front and matching cropped camisole. You’d layered the camisole over an oversized white dress shirt, tucking half the shirt into the skirt. Your over-the-knee boots are almost too tight on your thighs now, hours of running around the hospital has obviously made an impact.

“Th-thank you. I wasn’t sure if this place is fancy, so if I need to change I can!”

“No, you look perfect. Amazing, as always.”

“Stop that.”

That was not meant to be spoken out loud, but okay…

“Stop what?”

“Stop… being so nice to me.”

Sylus gasps in mock horror.

“That’s not going to happen sweetie.”

He offers his arm and escorts you to the garage, smirking like a fiend the whole way. Sylus’s penthouse was located at the heart of the N109 Zone, so the drive to the restaurant was relatively short. He waves at the hostess and walks you to the table himself, not waiting to be seated. You can already feel the eyes of everyone in the room sizing you up.

“This is my usual table, best view but close to the exit. We can move if you like?”

“No, this is nice, the view is breathtaking…”

The lake at the center of the N109 Zone was almost destroyed after the incident. The once prosperous Zone was plunged into darkness, wildlife and nature took the brunt of the impact. The damage to the community came later. In recent years, the lake has been renovated and restored, this restaurant seems to be thriving due to its proximity to one of the last natural beauties of the Zone. You’d become accustomed to the blue neon lights illuminating every street, but the string lights lining the perimeter of the lake cast a warm glow over the dark water. If it wasn’t 5 pm you’d think you were having a midnight meal under the stars.

A waitress arrives to deliver a bottle of wine and two glasses. You’re too distracted by the gorgeous view to realize the woman is positively foaming at the mouth over Sylus. She leans on the table and pops her hip out, bending over to level with Sylus. When her ass disrupts your view you finally take notice. Her thick blonde curls fall over her shoulder, the way her tight black mini skirt rides up and her white button up pops open… You reach across the table and pick up the wine bottle, serving yourself since your server is too busy eye-fucking your husband.

That’s a wild statement. Since when do you claim him? And why shouldn’t he find enjoyment elsewhere? It’s not like you’re really married, other than on paper.

You pour almost half the bottle in your glass and take a long sip. Sylus has his eyes fixed on you, not that you noticed. The box-blonde server's audacity has your complete attention.

“Angel?”

You almost think he’s talking to the waitress, but when you feel Sylus’s hand on your arm you refocus. He’s staring at you with a smirk which makes you even more frustrated. You tilt your head at him.

“Yes, honey?”

His brows raise and his smirk falters for a moment, which, honestly, brings you immense pleasure. Catching this enigma of a man off guard is something you’re sure doesn’t happen often. He leans forward with his elbows on the table. The waitress stands up now, straightening her stance as she realizes your relation to her favorite customer.

“Just let me know when you’re ready to order Sy.”

She saunters away, flipping her hair over her shoulder. You take another sip. Sylus pours himself a glass and leans back.

“Honey?”

“Or would you prefer I also call you Sy?”

He looks into his glass and swirls the sweet Merlo.

“You’re looking awfully jealous, kitten.”

Oh no no no no.

“Are you trying out some more nicknames for me now, Mushu?”

He sets down his glass and raises his hands, laughing.

“Alright, alright. I surrender.”

“I thought you said we were here to terrorize Volkova? I don’t even see him.”

“Behind me.”

You look over his shoulder and scan the room. Finally you spot a large group at the back of the restaurant. Volkova leans back in the booth, he’s already staring at you. You’re not sure what comes over you, but you raise your glass and nod, maintaining eye contact with the angry Russian the whole time. He attempts to smile, but he fails miserably. Opting to down the rest of his beer and shouting for their waiter for a refill.

“Having fun?”

Sylus eyes you, clearly enjoying your seemingly out-of-character responses.

“Maybe I am.”

Sylus orders for you, roast salmon with chimichurri sauce and toasted garlic quinoa. You’d never try it on your own, but Sylus has good taste so, why not?

Dinner is served and it’s delicious, as expected. Conversation flows almost too naturally, there’s no awkward silences. Even during silent moments you are completely at ease. You’d learned your lesson last time and stopped drinking after one glass.

“Your evol is rather unique isn’t it?”

“Is it now?” Sylus coos.

“What I’ve seen of it, yes. I still don’t fully understand what… it is?”

He completely ignores the waitress who returns to clear the dinner plates. And this might make you a horrible person but… that made you happy. He takes a sip of water and rubs the back of his neck, stretching. You can hear a crack and wince.

“I’ve listened to doctors argue over whether it’s matter manipulation or atomic manipulation. Doesn’t matter to me. If I want… say…”

He looks at your wine glass.

“Refill your wine glass.”

You watch a red and black mist descend over the glass, when it dissipates the glass is full.

“That’s incredible… Wait, doctors? Was your evol tested when you were young?”

If you hadn’t been staring so intently, you’d have missed how his eye twitched and his smile tightened. He lifts his hand and starts twisting one of the studs in his ear. A self-soothing tactic? You really should have paid more attention in those psychiatry classes.

The waitress arrives with your dessert, to your surprise it’s two small skillets sizzling as ice cream melts over what looks like a brownie. The strong scent of maple and pecans gives you an intense flashback from your childhood. Your mother used to make maple blondies with a drizzle of maple syrup. You stare down at the dish and blink back tears.

“Is this… a maple blondie?”

Sylus nods, his neutral expression changes quickly when he notices your eyes are glazed over.

“What? What’s going on?”

“Nothing, it’s nothing… My mom used to make these. Not as fancy, but damn…”

You take a spoonful of blondie and ice cream, using your fingers to place a pecan on top. As soon as the concoction hits your tongue you have to suppress a moan. Joyous memories flash behind your eyelids as you savor the spoonful. You’d have to remember to bring Zayne here.

“How is married life?”

Volkova’s voice makes the sweet maple turn sour on your tongue. You swallow and look up to see him standing next to Sylus. You take another spoonful of dessert.

“Sweet.”

With that, you shove the spoon in your mouth and stretch your leg out to tap Sylus’s shin under the table. He smiles, catching your hint.

“What can I do for you, Antov?”

“I should be asking you that question. You knew about the deal tonight, yes?”

Sylus smirks. Volkova crosses his bulky arms, making the fabric around his shoulders strain.

“Your intimidation tactics might work on lesser men, but it won’t work on me. Have a drink with me, as a celebration to a deal well struck. Even with you sniffing around.”

“I’d let the ink dry before you celebrate.”

Volkova chuckles, he glances over to you.

“And how about you Yuki onna? Are you going to deny me the honor as well?”

You run your foot along Sylus’s calf and he shifts in his seat. Again, he definitely got the message.

“Volkova.” Sylus stands and faces him. “It’s clear my wife is not interested in speaking with you. So I suggest you walk out before they carry you out in a body bag.”

You must be a sick and twisted individual because hot damn you’re wet… Volkova sighs and smiles at you and Sylus one last time before walking out. You watch him climb into the same blacked out Escalade from the day of your wedding. Once the car pulls off, you turn back to Sylus, who is next to you, offering his hand.

“Ready to get out of here?”

You nod and take his hand. He stops at the bar briefly to pay and exchange pleasantries with the owner. It’s not surprising that Sylus was the primary benefactor for getting this place up and running. What he told your parents wasn’t a total lie. The Zone is becoming less terrifying by the day. Or maybe that’s just because you have Sylus at your side.

“How far is your building?”

“What makes you think I own the whole building?” You pinch his side and he grins. “Okay, I do own the whole building. It’s maybe… 10 minutes?”

“Why don’t we walk home?”

“You want to walk? In the N109 Zone?”

You step closer, looping your arm through his.

“You’re with me, what do I have to worry about?”

“Glad we’re on the same page now.”

Oh, this cocky fucker. You hold onto him, your head resting on his shoulder, letting him lead. The evening air has a bitter chill to it, making you regret not bringing a thicker coat. Sylus takes your hand on his arm and laces his fingers with yours before tucking it in his jacket pocket. You keep your head down, but you give his hand a gentle squeeze.

You pass the wreckage of a large building, it appears clean up efforts are ongoing. You hadn’t heard about any explosions or gang wars leading to such destruction, so it takes you by surprise. Sylus notices your slowing footsteps and follows your gaze across the street.

“Willow Creek Medical Center.”

“Huh?”

“You’re wondering what the building was? It was Willow Creek Medical Center.”

“What happened to it? This looks recent.”

Sylus nods and continues walking, forcing you to look away.

“They were a private practice, doing fairly well. Had plans to get state funding and become a proper hospital. As rumors spread, certain… factions… were not so happy about their plans.”

“Someone attacked them because they wanted to build a hospital?” Sylus nods. “Who the fuck would do something like that?”

“People who don’t like competition.”

The way he said that… He’s not telling you everything, but maybe you don’t want to know the full story. Someone tried to destroy the potential future of medical care in an underserved area. Just as you’re about to ask more questions, you turn the corner and are ushered into the back entrance to Sylus’s private garage by a security guard.

You pass Sylus’s various cars, finally reaching your bike, which is still propped up next to his. The warmth of the elevator makes you sigh in relief, leaning further into Sylus. He rests against the wall and looks down at you. God he looks good in this lighting… The way the low lights cast shadows across his sharp features. His brows, his nose, his jaw. The occasional flash as the light bounces off one of the golden studs on his lip.

It’s a battle of the mind, should you give into your desire or continue to maintain the friendly - if not flirty - relationship you’ve built with Sylus? You’re terrified you’re reading him wrong, does he have the same desire? What if he doesn’t? What if you take the chance and you ruin it? What if you don’t? What if, what if, what if.

It’s like he’s reading your mind, he rests his forehead against yours. Your breath catches as you tilt your face up, your lips brushing his. Closing your eyes, you breathe deeply, inhaling his scent. The way his cologne clings to his skin, the lingering hint of the sweet wine from dinner. His other hand reaches up to touch your cheek, the lightest touch sending a jolt of heat through your skin to your core.

And then it’s ruined. Your cell phone rings.

“Fuck…” You whisper.

“The hospital again?”

His fingers trace your jaw. You’re tempted to ignore the call, but it’s Zayne’s ringtone and he’ll just keep calling. You force yourself to move away, immediately craving his warmth again.

“No, it’s Zayne.”

You reach into your coat pocket and grab your phone. As soon as you see that you have 3 unread texts from Zayne you start to panic. Something isn’t right. You quickly answer.

“Hey Zayne, sorry I didn’t realize you texted me.”

“Are you safe?”

His question immediately puts you on high alert and Sylus reaches out to steady you in response. The elevator doors open and you stumble into the house with Sylus at your side.

“Yes, I’m safe, what’s wrong?”

“Volkova just left Akso.”

“What?!”

Sylus motions for you to put the phone on speaker, you do so and hold the phone up between you. He helps you take off your coat while Zayne continues.

“He came in complaining of chest pain and requested me by name. Greyson offered to run tests but he wouldn’t accept anyone but me as his doctor.”

“You didn’t treat him, right?”

“I couldn’t exactly deny a patient, even if I suspected he was faking symptoms.”

“Zayne!”

“I wasn’t alone with him at any point, I made sure of that. And after I cleared him I told him I could refer him to another cardiologist as I’m not taking new patients at this time.”

“God… This is because of us, isn’t it?”

Sylus crosses his arms and sighs loud enough for Zayne to hear.

“What do you mean? What did you do?”

“We saw him tonight. I may have been… a bit aggressive.” Sylus admits.

“So he retaliated by coming to Akso to look for me?”

“I’ll handle it.”

“No! You’ve done enough. He went after Zayne because you wanted to mess with him.” Sylus opens his mouth to reply, but your anger gets the better of you. “Is the deal he closed tonight going to fall through because of you?”

Sylus snaps his mouth shut.

“Zayne, I’m so so sorry.”

You turn away from Sylus and hurry to your room, slamming the door behind you. You take your phone off speaker as you flop down on your bed. Zayne clears his throat.

“I’m okay. I can protect myself, you know?”

“I know, I just… I should have been more careful. I let my guard down, I should have told Sylus not to… I just.. Fuck…”

“Breathe. I’m fine. He left and I’m drafting a memo to staff doctors about referring him to Mercy General if he needs any more testing done.”

After having Zayne walk you through a few more breathing exercises, he hangs up and goes back to work. You change into sweats and force Ollie to cuddle with you until your anxiety has calmed down. What if Volkova had gotten Zayne alone? What if he hurt him?

What if marrying Sylus made things worse…?

“A female patient comes in and says they were in the ER a week ago after a car accident and diagnosed with a concussion. They are still suffering with symptoms like drowsiness and a severe headache. What are your first steps?”

Yvonne holds the flashcard close to her chest as she sips her coffee. You tap your pen on the table and close your eyes, making a mental checklist of the steps you’d take.

“First, I’d order a MRI to get a better look at her brain, see if there’s anything we missed during her first visit. I’d also assign a nurse to keep a close eye on her, if she presents any signs of a stroke or further discomfort they’ll need to contact me immediately.”

“Alright, while in the MRI she falls unconscious.”

“Are we seeing the results yet?”

“Yes, but the patient is unconscious.”

“Well, I need to know what I’m seeing before I order any medications or take drastic measures. I don’t want to make the damage worse.”

“The test shows an acute subdural hematoma on the right side of her brain.”

“Fuck… okay, I would…”

“Well, don’t say fuck in front of the administrator…”

You glare at Yvonne, making her giggle and almost spit out her coffee.

“Evie, I swear to god…”

“The patient is unconscious, doctor! She could be dying! Why are you wasting time?!”

Okay, Greyson is having too much fun trying to make you nervous… You cover your eyes with your hands and refocus. Acute subdural hematoma. Unconscious.

“I would immediately send her to the OR while continuing my examination of the scan to choose my method of treatment.”

“And what is your method of treatment?”

“Is the brain currently swollen?”

You peek at Yvonne through your fingers. She looks down at her card and nods.

“I would opt for a craniectomy to address the bleed and alleviate pressure.”

Yvonne tries to hide her smile, but you catch her quick wink. Unfortunately, so does Greyson.

“Yvonne, now she knows she’s right!”

“I’m sorry! She still hasn’t gone over the surgery itself though! There’s still time for you to freak her out.”

“Oh, I see how it is, you guys are plotting against me!”

Greyson holds up his hands and Yvonne covers her mouth to avoid laughing too loudly. You’re all seated at a table in the kitchen of the largest on-call room at Akso. There’s an attached room with a few beds where almost every doctor tries to nap during their longer shifts. And right now, Zayne is taking a nap. The last thing you all want to do is irritate him by waking him up with your study session antics.

“Okay, go ahead. Describe the procedure. Step by step please.”

Before you have a chance to begin, his pager goes off. It’s still funny to you that Greyson uses an actual pager - a piece of literal ancient technology - instead of using his phone like everyone else. As soon as he sees the message he’s running out the door without a word. Yvonne gasps and gets up, pulling her doctor coat on quickly.

“Sorry, that’s probably ICU. I need to go too, do you want to continue tomorrow night?”

“Yeah, I’m on New Year's duty, so I still have the rest of this week off.”

“I don’t know if I envy you or pity you…”

“Getting a full week off before and after New Year’s Eve and Day because of the absolute HELL it will be?”

“Okay, yeah, I pity you. I’ll see you tomorrow night.”

Yvonne rushes out, leaving you and the pile of flashcards and study guides in the breakroom. You grab a piece of paper and write a quick note for Zayne.

I’ll be around tomorrow night to study with Evie and Grey if you still want to talk. Please go home and stop sleeping in the on-call room. Love you.

You pack up your backpack, re-tie your snow boots and put on your puffer jacket. The hospital is eerily quiet at this time of night, the overnight shift just began so staff is doing their rounds and most of the patients are asleep. Usually, your late night study sessions last a little longer, but the ICU has been packed this week. Specifically the cardiac unit, so Yvonne and Greyson have been busier than usual.

You take the steps and scan your badge at the backdoor to the staff parking garage. You remember you promised to text Sylus when you were heading home. Digging in your pocket, you realize your phone is not where you thought it’d be. Swinging your backpack off your shoulder, you unzip the front pocket and feel inside - not there either. As you reach your car, you pull off your backpack and set it on the hood. You’re about to unzip it when you hear a door slam. Looking around you don’t see anyone, not a soul. Maybe someone came out? Got in their car? But none of the cars are turning on.

You’ve only just heard the scrape of boots on concrete when an arm wraps around your neck and something hard and cold is pressed into your back.

“Keep your mouth closed princess.”

Your eyes immediately sting with tears and your legs shake. The man behind you yanks you back, half-carrying you as he backs you up to a van parked at the entrance of the garage. How did they get inside the private employee parking lot? You’re shoved against the side of the van, your cheek pressed against the cold metal. What you assume is a gun digs into your side even harder as the man removes his arm from around your throat.

“Put your hands behind your back and keep quiet. Boss told me not to mess up that pretty face, I’d hate to disappoint him.”

You follow his commands, your mind racing as you come to terms with the fact you’re being taken. You’re actually being kidnapped. It has to be Volkova, right? Unless Sylus has another enemy, which is actually pretty likely. But Volkova has been his primary problem for months now. Your wrists are secured with zip ties before the man pulls the van door open. He shoves you inside, your knees scrap against the rough floor of the empty cabin.

“Now stay still.”

The man slams the door shut and runs to hop in the driver’s seat. The engine roars to life and the van speeds out of the parking lot. With no windows you have no idea which way he turned and you can’t sit up to look out the front windshield because he keeps looking back at you through the mirror. Even the tiniest shift makes him shout at you to stay fucking still.

You try to calm your mind, counting to keep track of how many minutes have gone by since he took you. 5 minutes… 10 minutes… You’re getting closer to the border to the N109 Zone. As streetlights go from Linkon City warmth to N109 Zone neon your panic swells. You have to do something… Anything… What do you –

Bang Bang Bang

Three shots. The van slides and spins as the driver loses control. You try to grab onto something behind you, but there’s nothing… The van hits something and you’re thrown to the other side. Finally the van skids to a stop and the driver jumps out, you roll onto your side and pull your knees up to your chest.

Bang

A single shot this time. You hold your breath as everything goes quiet. Footsteps, right outside. You can’t decide if you should scream for help or pretend to be unconscious. You don’t have the chance to choose as the doors to the van fly open.

“Sylus!”

Sylus dives into the van to grab you, gently pulling you out. He sits you down in the grass beside the road and takes your hands in his. When did the zip-ties come off? He runs his fingers along the red marks, searching for any sign of injury. He’s quiet and methodical as he examines you and as comforting as that should be, it only makes you worry.

You take a moment to take in your surroundings. The smashed up van is up against a guard rail, glass and metal scattered across the road behind it. It’s a backroad of some kind, tall trees and thick bushes line the roadway. Sylus’s bike is next to the van, his helmet on the seat. And then you see him, the man who took you, on the ground… dead.

“Oh my god…”

Sylus lifts his hands to your face and turns your head back to him. His pupils are blown and his hair is damp with sweat. You try to look back over at the body, but he won’t let you.

“Y-you killed h-him… Oh my god Sylus you fucking killed him!”

His eyes narrow and he drops his hands to your shoulders.

“And you’re alive.”

You push him away from you and force yourself to stand, stumbling as you try to create distance. You take a step towards the body, but stop yourself. Your medical training tells you to run over and check for a pulse, no matter how unlikely it is. You can see the bullet wound to his forehead from where you stand. You should make an effort to save his life, but… you can’t. Or you don’t want to.

“You… You could have just stopped him or… or…”

“Or what?”

You turn around and almost bump right into Sylus’s chest. He looks down at you, his voice is off, he’s angry. Or as close to angry as you’ve ever seen him.

“Or… You could have just knocked him out or…”

“Knocked him out?”

“Sylus, you KILLED SOMEONE!”

“What exactly do you think I do for a living?”

His tone silences you. He steps closer.

“When I asked you about Onychinus, you knew what that was. You’re too goddamn smart to stand here now and try to tell me you don’t fully understand exactly what my position requires.”

You take a step back, but he follows.

“You’re in too deep to play innocent now, angel. You were in too deep before I even met you.”

“Don’t you dare.”

“What?”

“Don’t you dare throw that in my face. I know I fucked up. I was trying to fix it then and I’m trying to fix it now, but this is someone’s life!”

“It’s your life! Your life’s on the line and I vowed to protect that, remember?”

“And I vowed to save lives, no life is more important than another!”

“Yours is!”

The rumble of a car engine interrupts your argument, not that you were going to say anything else. How do you respond to that? What does he mean? Why does he care so much? The BMW pulls up beside you and Sylus, the window rolls down to reveal Luke in the driver seat.

“We got here as soon as we could.”

Kieran leans over the center console.

“What do you need, boss?”

Sylus doesn’t look away, his eyes remain locked on you.

“Take her home. And don’t leave until I get back.”

“You’re not coming with us?” Luke asks.

“No.”

He turns away and returns to his bike. He secures his helmet and hops on, speeding away without a second look. You stand next to the car and watch him drive off until he is a tiny speck in the distance. The car door opens and you look up to see Kieran holding the back door open for you. You slide in and close your eyes

“The guys are here, we should be good to go.” Luke says.

As he pulls away, you look out the back window. Another van is parked on the side of the road, a team of men in masks hop out. You see one of them cover the body with a sheet before Luke takes a turn.

Luke and Kieran try to make small talk with you on the drive home, but you just stare out the window in silence. You can’t stop thinking about what Sylus said.

Yours is.

Luke hasn’t even parked the car before you’re jumping out and racing to the elevator. The boys wait in the car and let you take the ride alone. When you reach the penthouse you sprint to your bathroom, stripping down and climbing into a scalding shower. You throw on an oversized tee and underwear before shoving your leggings, sweater, puffer jacket, literally all of your clothes from tonight, into a trash bag and place it in the hall outside your door. You may have been zoned out, but you do recall Kieran’s instructions.

You don’t care that your hair is wet or that you still have clumps of mascara stuck on your lashes. Crawling in bed with your blanket wrapped around you, you finally let yourself cry. You know you’re not crying for the dead man and what this means for you as a doctor… You’re crying because of the look on Sylus’s face when you backed away from him. That look of hurt and fear tore you apart. Now he’s god knows where. What if you don’t get a chance to say you’re sorry? 🏍️۶ৎ🩺

Song Reference:

𝕿𝖆𝖌𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙: @trishiepo0 @not-so-quite-human @kitsunetori @babyx91 @libriomancer @lilyadora @crowskitten22 @letharue @silverbrain @alastor-simp @drama-trauma @0tterteeth @mysticcollectionvoid @godzillaglitter @m00nchildwrites @plsdonttakemyname @hauntedbysmut @withering-dream @lostwingz2236 @simpfortheseven @spacegroteske @namjoonseuphoria @celestialforce @rafshottestgf @oxamarok @withering-dream @zaynessbeloved @animecrazy76 @yournextdoorhousewitch @addiglessthanthree @4ttack-ur-heart @moonberry69 @pandoras-rabbit @cookiesaresquishy @hamnaalien @needlewandandthimble @brekkers-whore @goddexxluv @satansdaughter123 @poisonf0rest @darkalleycat1987 @morrigan87 @never-justforever @ericherries @lev-berryz @aishasylus @altair718

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A few more janky edits I made to help me visualize Sylus in this universe. Enjoy!

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itneverendshere · 3 months ago

Text

holy ground beneath them- liam mairi (one shot)

★ pairing: childhood best friends to fwb ★ warnings: none; part one

.・゜゜・　　・゜゜・． .・゜゜・　　・゜゜・．

The sparring ring reeks of sweat and blood.

Your pulse is still plummeting in your ears, making you recall the last hit—your opponent's elbow slamming into your ribs, your back colliding with the hard-packed dirt. You should’ve yielded, should’ve stopped.

You move, wincing. Everything hurts.

The cadet across from you— was bigger, eager to prove himself—noticed you were out of it, took advantage, as he should. He got you on your back twice, landed a nasty kick to your ribs, and when he had you in a chokehold, when you should have tapped out you didn’t.

What is wrong with you?

You kept fighting, clawing, even as your vision darkened, even as Liam was yelling at you from the sidelines. You only remember the moment the other cadet’s grip got impossibly tighter, your body screaming for air, and the fury in Liam’s voice when he finally called the fight himself. When he shoved the other cadet off you and dragged you out of the ring, not letting you stand on your own.

“Training’s over. Get your ass to the med ward. Now.”

Liam is pissed, that much is obvious. He shoves you onto the infirmary bench—none too gently—and crouches in front of you, fingers pressing against your ribs. You bite down on a wince.

His nostrils flare. “Hurts?”

No, of course not. You love the feeling of getting kicked in the ribs.

“Not that bad,” you lie.

Liam lets out a slow, measured breath, physically restraining himself from strangling you. “Not that bad,” he repeats flatly. “You couldn’t even stand on your own two feet a minute ago.”

“I’ve had worse.”

“You’re a fucking idiot.” His hands are rough, but practiced, as he tilts your chin up to assess the damage. “You could’ve gotten yourself killed.”

You scoff, wincing as he dabs a cloth against the cut on your cheek. “It was just a challenge match.”

Liam’s glare could set fire to the entire quadrant. “You were losing, you let yourself get pummeled. Why?”

You know why, you think he knows why too. But saying it out loud feels like taking a blade to your ribs, so you settle for silence. The war is coming. The war is here, and there’s no guarantee any of you make it through. Liam, Xaden, Bodhi—they’re your people. The whole squad has turned into your found family, even the newbies, and the thought of losing any of them is unbearable.

You weren’t exactly thinking straight in the ring.

Liam’s fingers pull you by your jaw, forcing you to meet his eyes. His thumb brushes over the purpling bruise along your cheekbone, his touch gentler than his earlier chosen words. He’s assessing you, studying every scrape, cut, every place you’ve been hurt as if he can fix it just by looking at it hard enough. His fingers trail lightly along your temple, down to your jaw, his calloused thumb grazing over a split in your lip.

His other hand settles on the back of your neck, “You can’t do this. You can’t go into fights distracted. It’s gonna get you killed, and I swear to every fucking god, I won’t be able to handle that.”

You open your mouth to argue, but he tilts your chin slightly, blue eyes narrowing at the swelling at your cheek. His thumb strokes absently over your skin, his touch so achingly familiar it makes you want to sob. His brows furrow, his lips pressing together, you know he’s holding back everything he wants to say.

“You can’t do that,” he murmurs, voice rough. “You hear me? You hate it when I go on missions, because I could die,” He starts, “You fucking hate it, and you act like you’re the only one allowed to care. But you’re not the only one who gets to be angry or scared.”

Your throat tightens as you attempt to look away, but his grip keeps you still.

“You can’t throw yourself into fights like you have nothing to lose. You do, you have me, you have Bodhi and Xaden. Garrick. If you die because you weren’t paying attention, because you couldn’t get out of your fucking head, it won’t just be you who pays the price.” His voice drops even lower. “I can’t lose you. Do you get that? I can’t.”

He’s said the words before, a lifetime ago. You were nine, reckless and stubborn even then, climbing where you shouldn’t, running way too fast for the size of your legs, pushing limits that didn’t need to be pushed. That day, you’d taken a nasty fall, scraping your knees bloody, tears burning in your eyes even as you insisted you were fine. But Liam wasn’t having it. He had crouched in front of you, just like now, hands gripping your shoulders, frustrated.

“I can’t lose you,” he’d said back then. You hadn’t understood it fully then, his worry… it was just a silly fall you told him, questioning the way his hands trembled as he helped you up. But you do now.

You don’t know what to say. What could you possibly say to that? You nod, hardly perceptible due to the pain in your face, but Liam sees it. He sighs and shakes his head, muttering something under his breath before placing his forehead briefly against yours, long enough to remind you that he’s here. That you both still are.

Then he pulls away, the absence of his touch colder than it should be. “Don’t do it again.”

You swallow hard. “Okay.”

He packs away the infirmary supplies, his fingers are still shaking and you hear him muttering again—to himself. “Swear I’m gonna break that asshole’s fucking face.” Then his eyes lift back to you, narrowing slightly. “Take your leathers off.”

You blink. “Liam, if you wanted to get me naked, you could’ve just asked.”

He does not look amused. “Take them off. Now.”

You hesitate. Not because you’re shy—Liam’s seen you battered and bruised before, vulnerable in ways most people never have. It’s not like he hasn’t seen you naked before, a lot. In ways that had nothing to do with stitching up wounds and everything to do with breathless nights, tangled sheets, and the desperation of trying to forget the war outside your door.

Except, this isn’t the version of you that reaches for him in the dead of night

You grumble but obey, wincing as you peel your jacket off and then tug your undershirt over your head. The second the bruises on your ribs are exposed, Liam’s on you.

“Fuck,” he hovers over the deep, angry bruising along your ribs. He’s careful when he finally touches you, fingertips grazing over the worst of it before applying pressure.

You suck in a breath, and he exhales through his nose in annoyance.

“Guess you’ll have to do all the work for the next week,” you quip, grinning through the pain, hoping the sarcasm will get you out of trouble. “Since I’ll be out of commission.”

Liam levels you with a glare so unamused. “Not funny.”

“Kinda funny.”

“You almost got your ribs broken.” He grabs the salve again, warming it between his fingers before applying it. “I’m not laughing.”

“I’m fine, Liam.”

You hiss as the cool paste makes contact with your skin, but Liam's fingers are warm, spreading it gently. He’s still pissed, and you feel guilty, knowing you shouldn’t have been so reckless. Shouldn’t have scared him like that.

You don’t like that look on his face—the way his lips are pressed thin knowing he’s holding something back. You hate it.

“I really am sorry,” you confess.

He doesn’t respond right away, just keeps rubbing the salve into your ribs, working methodically. You watch him, how his brows furrow, his fingers trembling slightly when they find the deepest bruise and it makes you lean in, placing the softest peck to his lips.

It’s barely anything compared to what you’re used to, a brush of your mouth against his, a silent apology you don’t know how else to give. When you pull back, he’s stopped moving, his hands still on your ribs, eyes locked onto yours.

He shakes his head, “You don’t get to distract me,” he huffs, but his voice has lost its earlier temper.

You smirk, wincing as the movement pulls at the cut on your lip. “Did it work?”

You know shouldn’t have kissed him, not here, outside of the four walls of his room where you can both pretend it’s just two friends helping each other out, a habit that won’t mean anything if you never talk about it. You and Liam don’t have rules—not officially. But you’ve never done this outside of your bedrooms.

He glares at first, but then without another word, he dips his head and kisses you again—slowly enough not to hurt you. “No,” he lies, brushing his thumb over your lip one last time. “Now shut up and let me finish patching you up.”

You allow yourself to really look, you’re too sore to fight the pull, and you almost passed out in the sparring ring today, you’re still feeling a little reckless.

Liam’s hair is a mess, damp from sweat, those golden-blond strands falling into his face like they always do when he’s frustrated. And he is frustrated. His eyes—too fucking blue. It’s unfair, really, how they stand out against the sharp cut of his cheekbones, the strong line of his jaw. Even when he’s pissed, even when he’s all but radiating annoyance, he’s still—Gods, you hate that you notice.

“Stop it.”

You blink, dragging your eyes back up to his. “Stop what?”

He gives you a look, one that says don’t play dumb with me, before shaking his head. “You’re staring.”

“I just got my ass kicked. Forgive me if I’m a little dazed.”

You’re still tingling when the door creaks open again.

Xaden steps inside, eyes immediately narrowing when he takes in the state of you—bruises blooming along your ribs, the cut on your cheek, your still-swollen lip. His gaze zeros in the salve glistening against your skin, then to the infirmary supplies still scattered across the bench.

“The fuck happened to you?”

You shrug, wincing when the movement pulls at the bruises. “Challenge match.”

Liam, still crouched in front of you, doesn’t bother to look back. “Relax. I’ve got it handled.”

Xaden doesn’t look convinced.

“I’m fine.”

Liam lets out a humorless chuckle, standing up and stretching his arms over his head. “You’re a pain in my ass, that’s what you are.” He shakes his head before turning toward the door. “I’m gonna go grab more supplies, since someone”—he shoots you a pointed look—“decided to bleed all over the place.”

“Aww, you care.”

Liam mutters something under his breath, it sounds suspiciously like too much, before giving Xaden a look. “Watch her, make sure she doesn’t do anything stupid while I’m gone.”

Xaden’s lips twitch, but he nods, stepping further into the room as his brother strides out. His expression doesn’t change, but you know him well—he’s assessing you, reading you the same way Liam just had. He's seen you pull reckless shit before, has probably done worse himself,

“What?” you tilt your head up to meet his stare.

His eyes flicks toward the door Liam disappeared through, then back to you, and something about how he’s looking at you makes you squirm. “You two know what you’re doing, right?”

You blink. “Huh?”

Xaden lifts a single dark brow, “You and Liam.”

Your pulse kicks up for a reason that has nothing to do with your injuries. “I don’t—”

He gives you a look. “Don’t bullshit me.”

Like he has any fucking room to talk. Xaden “I’d Rather Die Than Feel Emotions” Riorson thinks he’s the expert on navigating relationships. As if he’s not out here blatantly pining after Violet Sorrengail like a lovesick idiot while pretending, he’s not.

Half the quadrant already knows where that’s heading.

You want to say something, something along the lines of, Oh, that’s rich coming from you, dumbass. But you don’t, because despite everything, you like your ribs intact, and Xaden is still Xaden.

Instead, you stare at him, unimpressed. “And you’re the one giving me the talk?”

Xaden turns slightly, the brow still lifting like he can hear every single unspoken insult in your head. “You’re deflecting.”

“I should be.” You move your arms—pain flaring through your ribs—and immediately regret it. Xaden notices, lips fighting that stupid smirk.

He titles his head slightly, “If you two are going to be reckless, at least don’t be stupid about it.”

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

He sighs, rubbing a hand down his face like gods, you’re exhausting. “Right. Okay.” He nods, “And Liam just happens to be the one personally patching you up every time you do something stupid?”

You are so fucking grateful Liam isn’t in this room right now. You’re still pissed at Xaden, for the endless missions Liam gets sent on, for the fact that it’s always him, and for how easily everyone else lets it happen, simply because he’s the best of all of you.

“I get injured a lot,” you counter. “It’s convenient.”

“And the way he was looking at you wasn’t convenient.”

Your stomach jumps around—not in the way it does when Liam’s hands are on you, or when he looks at you. This is the kind of reaction only an older brother figure can incite—the pure desire to throw hands.

“You’re such a hypocrite.” You point at him accusingly. “I don’t see you having this little intervention with yourself every time you look at Violet like she personally hung the fucking moon.”

“This isn’t about me.”

“It’s exactly about you,” you say, pushing yourself up on shaky legs. Xaden doesn’t move, doesn’t offer to help, he knows better. “You’re acting like I don’t know what I’m doing—”

“You don’t.”

“Neither do you!”

“Look,” he says, “I don’t care what you do. I just—” He cuts himself off, his throat working as he swallows. He trails down to the bruises blooming along your ribs, the still-swollen cut on your cheek.

And there it is, it’s not anger, just fear. The same kind Liam had in his voice earlier, the same you’ve seen in his face far too many times, the same kind you understand, because you feel it too. You feel it every time Xaden goes on a mission, every time Liam doesn’t come back right away, every time you remember this is a war, and the people you love are not guaranteed.

“You scared him today.”

He doesn’t mean the fight, or the bruises or the blood or the way you collapsed in the ring. He means you, how you fought like you had nothing to lose, you didn’t care if you lost.

“I know.”

“You don’t even realize it, do you?”

You force yourself not to peek toward the door Liam disappeared through. “There’s nothing to realize.”

Xaden scoffs, “He looked two seconds away from losing his mind when he stormed out of here.”

“Liam always looks like that,” you deflect, focusing on the deep inhale it takes to keep from grimacing as you sit back on the bench. You’re sore, and exhausted, the adrenaline has faded, and you don’t have the patience for whatever lecture Xaden is gearing up to give you. “Don’t you have more important things to do?”

His gaze flicks to your ribs again, then back to your face, “Not more important than this.”

Xaden watches you for a second longer, then nods once. He takes a step back, but not before reaching out—knocking his knuckles lightly against the top of your head, the same way he has since you were kids. He rolls his eyes for good measure and tosses the stolen bandage in your lap before heading for the door again.

“Just don’t be stupid,” he says over his shoulder. “One idiot in the group is already too many.”

“Yeah, you would know, take your own advice.”

“Fuck off.”

“You first.”

He snorts, shoving the door open just as Liam walks back in, his arms full of supplies. Xaden claps him on the shoulder in passing like he hasn’t just made things significantly more complicated.

Liam frowns, glancing between the two of you. “What was that about?”

“Nothing,” You shake your head, rolling your eyes. "Xaden being Xaden."

He eyes you, then Xaden’s retreating, then you again. “Uh-huh.”

You click your tongue in annoyance. “Just patch me up, Liam.”

He sets the supplies down beside you, “Back to acting like the brat you are? Cute.”

You shift on the bench to make yourself more comfortable. “Shut up.”

Liam just huffs a laugh, shaking his head as he kneels in front of you again. His hands find your ribs as he inspects the bruising once more, less frantic worry, more familiarity, more him.

This is a problem.

You and Liam aren't supposed to be anything more—just best friends who know each other’s bodies as well as you knew each other’s tells in a fight. Fuck what people will think, you're not overthinking it thanks to Xaden’s little speech, but because you don’t know how to pull back.

You’re here, while Liam fusses over you like you’re fragile instead of a trained fighter who just made a very stupid decision, and you’re realizing each passing day that this might fuck you up for good.

“You’re lucky you’re pretty,” he mutters, dipping a clean cloth into the bowl of water he brought before carefully wiping at your skin.

The warmth in your chest spreads all over, as it does anytime, he looks at you. You roll your eyes and let him work, watching the crease in his brow as he focuses on cleaning the dried blood from your skin.

"Liam—"

"Quiet,” he mutters, but there’s no real heat to it. "Just—just let me do this."

You let your mouth close, pressing your lips together, feeling the sting of the split there.

Your fingers curl into the edge of the infirmary table, fighting against the pain in your ribs, against the pull toward him.

"I wasn’t trying to scare you."

His fingers twitch against your skin. "You did."

Something shatters into a million tiny in your chest. You’ve seen him furious, seen him exhausted, exasperated, amused, smug, cocky, even soft. You’ve seen every single version of him over the years, but this something else.

You lift your hand, fingers brushing along the sharp cut of his jaw, tilting his face toward you. His eyes snap to yours, blue and burning, you swear he leans into your touch like a puppy.

"I’m sorry," you say one more time for good measure, and you mean it this time.

Liam’s attention drops to your mouth, to the split lip he’d just cleaned, then back up.

You should pull away.

His mouth falls against yours, and you sigh dreamily against his lips, but it turns into a wince when the cut on your lip burns, and he pulls back immediately, cursing.

His thumb brushes over your mouth, “Sorry, baby.”

Liam has only ever called you "baby" in those moments—when things are hot, when it’s just the two of you, tangled up in ways you’re still trying to wrap your head around. This is different. It’s not the breathless, heated intimacy of the bedroom. He just called you baby without even thinking about it and it’s enough to make your chest ache.

You glance at him, watching his hands work, how calm he seems, how oblivious.

He has no idea.

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izzydaninja · 6 months ago

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Sonic Prime: Conflicted Heart - Comic

| Next Page > |

I apologize for my sloppy handwriting and horrible formatting. I'm not too happy about that part especially.

Dialogue: Sonic: "Nine, please. I just wanna go home." Nine: "And I just wanted someone to care!"

Well, didn't take as long to finish as I expected, though; that could be because I've been going near non-stop on this that last few days, and it's still rough. XD

I don't know; this idea was kind of sudden and didn't play out as well as I wanted it to, but it's better than I thought it might've turned out. Lol So, a win? Maybe?

Though, rough comics are loads of fun to do. I do want to try more in the future. But that'll have to wait until another sudden burst of inspiration like what happened for this one. Lol

And yes, I'm aware my style changed again... I noticed while I was still sketching Sonic. Da boy can never stay consistent for me, can he? ugh... but I still love 'im.

*No Stealing!* Thank you!

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avaawritess · 5 days ago

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Back to friends- Sombr

Bakugo Katsuki x reader

Js angst

Been feeling rather sad🙂‍↕️ yes I made ochaco the villain

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

You and Bakugo loved one another deeply, he showed his affection through random acts of service while you were more of a quality time person.

Loved sitting in the same room while he read a book and you napped or even when he cooked and you just watched him with the most adoring look in your eyes.

Everybody wanted what you two had.

That was until something got between you two. Like a brick wall that couldn't be broken, stuck there permanently.

It was three months? Maybe four when he came home. Disheveled,exhausted, angry. Like he was mad at the world.

The room filled with tension as soon as he stepped in the door, rough worn out boots getting thrown off his feet. The kind you told him to get new ones made. Gauntlets banging the floor with an agonizing sound almost as if it was ticking bomb waiting to explode.

He came in jaw clenched,posture stiffened. The wedding ring on his finger once brightly shiny,dimmed.

Almost falling off of his finger like a metaphor waiting to happen.

"Hi baby how was wor-" you began to say a smile placed graciously on your cherry lips. "Fine" he said in a gruff tone almost dismissive of your affection.

Your lips frowned as you got up from the couch sauntering over to him, you felt his arm in an affectionate way trying to calm him down. It worked before, so why not now?

"Stop" he said pulling away glaring down at you like you did something to personally offend him.

"What...what do you mean?" You asked wide eyed and stepping back lips quivering. Confusion etched on your now pale face.

"Cut the shit, you know what you did" he said almost as if he was pointing an invisible finger at you accusing you of something you'd never do.

"Katsuki I don't understand" you said biting your lip.

"Understand of course you don't," he says laughing bitterly,"Ochaco showed me the messages between you and your affair, I know y/n" he says.

"No wonder you tell me to have fun on my missions so you can get fucked by some low class guy huh? Useless slut" he sneered.

"What messages Katsuki I don't understand" you said almost begging him for an answer he didn't even have.

"We're over y/n this marriage was a waste and of course you dragged me into this shithole" he said.

When he threw the ring off it clattered on the ground, each sound a reminder of what once was.

That night you cried, sobbed even because the man you loved, the man you cherished believed a coworker over you?

Some girl that was in both of your highschool class. Always jealous of other girls.

After the papers were signed you left the ring on the table. A wave of sadness swarmed over you.

Years later after the divorce ( love skipping ahead)

You had a nice tiny apartment and you were still recovering not quite trusting any man or yourself just yet.

Suddenly a powerful yet weak knock was heard.

You opened it and there stood a tall brood tired Bakugo. His hair even worse, eyes bags under his eyes and almost tear stains on his cheeks,"look y/n I'm so-" this time you cut him off,"what the fuck, Bakugo you can't just show up randomly to decide to come check up on me." You said eyebrows sewn together.

"You can't just prance on in here like you deserve to.. maybe your sorry because you found out I was right but...you were my husband yet you believed her" your voice cracked.

Emotions poured over you.

"We had everything, and you threw it away because some chick told you differently? And to call me a derogatory word what the fuck" you said laughing the same bitter laugh he used for you.

"You know people say forgive and forget but I'd forget you before I even get the chance to forgive.... I don't wanna see your face...go" was the last words you uttered.

Uttered to the man who broke your heart.

Well is it better to forgive and forget?

Or to hate one with such a negative emotion?

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Authors note

Sorry for the shortness I keep just getting spurts of writing ideas.hope you enjoyed.

#bakugo #bakugo katuski #bakugou x you #bakugou x y/n #bakugou x reader #bakugou katsuki #katsuki bakugo imagine #bnha bakugo katsuki #mha bakugou #katsuki bakugo x reader #bnha bakugou #sad thoughts #angst and feels #angst angst angst #angst

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loulou-land · 2 months ago

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I Don’t Wanna Go, We’ve Been Here Before

Me: I need all the fix it fics right now. Also me: proceeds to write something that is very much NOT a fix it. Sorry 😅 this is basically Tommy’s pov of the morning after and a little exploration of what could’ve been going through his head. (Title from I Miss You, I’m sorry by Gracie Abrams)

Bucktommy | Angst and Sadness | 1.4k words | spoilers for S8x11

Tommy wakes up early.

For a few seconds, he just breathes it in—the warmth of an arm slung over his stomach, soft puffs of air against his neck, and yeah…the sticky feeling of drool soaking into the curve of his armpit.

God, he’d missed this.

Tommy had spent months convincing himself he’d done the right thing. Telling himself he was fine. That he had protected his heart, knowing it all the while for the lie it was. And when the ache got to be too much, too sharp and insistent to ignore, too dangerously close to begging—he reminded himself that Evan was better off without him. That it was better this way.

All of it, however, had gone out the window the second he’d seen Evan sitting in those booths. The way his eyes lit up, the teasing lilt in his voice, the flutter in Tommy's stomach just being near him again. How easy it was to fall back into their old rhythm, as though nothing had changed.Only Evan could make him feel like that.

And it had been a heady feeling. Which had admittedly led to this moment. One he couldn’t bring himself to regret just yet. Instead, he let it fill him with hope. This was his chance to show Evan that he wanted to try again, that this time he wouldn’t let his fears get in the way.

Tommy exhaled slowly as the thought brought something else to the forefront of his mind. He stared at the ceiling, thinking of their conversation last night.

Evan had mentioned Eddie had left for Texas.

And Tommy had felt hurt at the thought that he wasn’t even worth a simple text, but beneath that, he’d also felt a flicker of something he wasn’t proud of.

Relief.

It settled heavy in his gut, shame pressing down on him before he could even unpack it.

Then Evan had invited him over to see his new place, Tommy had said yes before he even thought about it. Before he could remind himself of all the reasons he shouldn’t. Once again, letting Evan lead him even if it meant going over the edge of something he wasn’t prepared for.

And now—now he’s lying in what he assumes used to be Eddie’s bedroom, Evan curled up against him like no time had passed at all.

It’s messing with his head. This whole thing is.

There’s a storm of thoughts bouncing around in his head—guilt, longing, hope, want, fear. The more he lays there, Evan breathing softly in his ear, the more it feels like too much. He needs to move, to do something, to escape the ugly voices trying to make him doubt himself.

So he slips out of bed, briefly stopping to kiss the mark above Evan’s eyebrow. Evan’s mouth settles into a small smile and Tommy feels his lips mirror it.

After getting dressed, he goes to the kitchen with plans of making breakfast, only to huff in exasperation at the sight of an empty fridge. Right. Change of plans. He remembers the corner store and walks there. As he goes down the aisles, he unconsciously picks all of Evan’s favorite things.

He tells himself he’s just being thoughtful. That this is all for Evan. Knowing fully well it’s as much for him as it is for Evan, fulfilling his need to take care of him, to make him smile at Tommy. Bringing with him the sunshine and warmth he so desperately misses.

When he’s on his way to the checkout line, a bottle of champagne catches his eye, and he adds it to the basket without hesitation.

Back at the house, he moves around the kitchen quietly, making breakfast like it’s muscle memory, thinking of all the breakfasts that came before this one. And he finds himself hoping fervently that there will be more of them in their future.

He grabs the bottle of champagne, popping it in the fridge. Wonders about celebrating.

Thinks about whether they’ll have anything to actually celebrate.

Tommy starts rehearsing in his mind what he wants to say when he hears a soft shuffling of footsteps.

“I thought you’d left.”

Evan’s voice is soft, a little uncertain.

Tommy looks up at him and his breath catches.

In the light of day, Evan looks even more beautiful than he had last night. All sleep rumpled and radiant, curls a mess, eyes still a little dazed.

And Tommy feels it all over again—this aching, terrifying need of wanting to jump. Of wanting to fall. Into Evan. Into them.

“Not without feeding you,” he says, trying for casual, trying not to show him the way that simple sentence gutted him.

Because he has left before. And they both know it.

Tommy turns back to the stove, heart pounding. Since last night, it’s been like floating—a little unreal, too good to be true that he gets this chance—a chance to undo the worst mistake he’s ever made. He tries to come up with a way to bring up the subject, when Evan starts talking.

It hurts, hearing Evan dismiss their night as a one off that doesn’t mean anything.

“Why not?” Tommy asks, thankful his voice comes out even, despite the nervous energy thrumming through his veins. “What are you doing Saturday?”

“You wanna try again?” Evan asks softly, eyes glinting.

“I mean, I’m not ready to move in or anything” He really should have rehearsed better what he was going to say.

“And you’re not, um, you’re not scared…I’m gonna break your heart any more?”

As he looks into Evan’s deep blue eyes, he finds himself answering, “Not as much.”

The truth is…he fears it as much as he did before. But he wants to try.

Tommy should leave it at that, should go into the reasons why he wants to do this again. Why he wants a second chance. Instead, he makes a joke. About Eddie. Something snide and stupid and half-meant.

He sees it immediately—the way Evan pulls back. The shift in the air. The sudden tension filling the room. Fuck.

Tommy tries to take it back. To smooth it over. “I’m just joking,” he says, and god, he wants it to be true. He doesn’t want to actually think about this. About Eddie and Evan.

“Eddie’s straight.” Evan throws back at him.

And he can’t help but scoff. As if Tommy hasn’t gone down this road before, falling for someone he shouldn’t have. Someone unattainable.

Thing is, Tommy doesn’t actually know or believe that Evan is in love with Eddie. But still the possibility exists. He didn’t realize just how long he’d been living with the fear of being traded for Eddie. Until now.

Evan’s looking at him with something cracked in his expression. Tommy wishes he could rewind the last ten seconds. To say something better. Or nothing at all.

But then—

“I don’t have to sleep with everyone I have feelings for,” Evan says loudly. “Just like I don’t have to have feelings for everyone I sleep with.”

Oh.

It hits like a bullet.

Tommy feels the cracks in his heart widen, feels something sharp split open his chest.

Of course. Tommy is the biggest fool. He’d known his feelings for Evan had always been stronger than the other man’s. But had hoped—had wanted there to be something there on the other side. He’d thought that if he jumped, this time there would be someone to catch him. That Evan would be waiting for him with open arms.

It turns out he’d always been falling all alone.

“Got it,” he says, and he does. He understands it all very clearly now.

There was never a chance.

It all comes rushing back, the nights spent awake missing Evan, the times he’d had to talk himself out of calling him, the late night drives by the loft, the happiness he’d gotten last night. He tucks it all back inside him, in a small box, in the back of his mind.

His face must be doing something, because Evan suddenly looks stricken.

“Whoa, um.”

But Tommy can’t listen to any more.

Not now. Not like this.

So he steps back. Makes his excuse about a shift later. Thanks Evan for last night.

And he leaves.

Walks away from Evan again.

And this time, he thinks, he won’t come back.

Because how many times can a heart break before there’s nothing left to break?

#911 spoilers #911 8x11 #bucktommy #tommy kinard #evan buckley #tommy pov of that morning #angst and feels #sad tommy #not a fix it #my fics

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imaginarytree · 4 months ago

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γραμμένο στα αστέρια

written in the stars

███████ had long since forgotten to dream

centuries of repeating the same tragedies over and over numbed him

a never ending cycle of misery he alone was trapped in but what he would never forget in any of them was you,his sol

███████ remembers once upon a time where he'd wake up next to you and gaze upon your beauty bathed in the morning sun for hours until you woke up and he would pepper you in kisses that would bring out the melodious laughter that would rival an angel's choir and your voice which to him was more alluring than a siren's call

He could never let himself forget that

the thought of tainting his memories with you and leaving them behind feeling like a cardinal sin that even the heavens wouldn't be able to forgive

he made a choice and he would make that choice over and over again if it meant he'd be able to hold you on his arms once more

watching everyone die over and over was painful but he would bare the burden of a failed hero more than he could bare being away from you

After all what good was a world if it didn't have you in it

"what good was a world if his own world was gone"

███████ wondered often what your reaction be upon learning this

Would you be afraid of him and shoo him away or would you lovingly caress him and hold him into your embrace as you comforted him from the harsh reality he faced just like you had always done in the past

On days like those he'd dreamed of what could have been

He dreams of a future he was robbed of

A future of a family he wanted to create with you

He would dream of a little girl that was a product of the unity between you both

a brazen and happy child full of life that would fill the empty halls with her laughter as she looked for him

she was beautiful and you were even more so

however not long the loneliness would hit him like a bucket of ice as some things could never truly be

███████ wouldn't give up however

He had a task to finish

A fate to Deliver

When he does he hopes you'd forgive him for making you wait so long for him in the other side

Until then he hopes the sun will shine for him once more

#phainon x reader #flame reaver of the deepest dark #flame reaver x reader #angst and feels #so much angst #no comfort #bittersweet #hsr phainon #hsr x reader

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kneelingshadowsalome · 2 years ago

Note

I’m falling out of obsession love with konig..will you do me the favor and respark my love for him i need an obsessed in love man to match 😓

Word count: 1.9 k

Summary: He comes to see you after a mission.

CW: Mild smut, angst, fluff, emotions. +18 only

A/N: This is part of the Just Friends universe, but pov is 2nd person (you instead of she/her). I'm not sure if this is what you asked for anon...but it's what you're going to get 🥹

Rain drums your window. You've left it open a crack, and should get up and close it, but you don't have the strength. You can't sleep, you can't get up: it's the wolf's hour and the mood is heavy like the rain clouds that have circled the base for hours now.

It's the first time you hear him breaking in. Well, technically speaking, he's not breaking in anymore, now that he has a key. But it always feels like he comes to see you when you least expect it.

The five-day mission has turned into a four-day and half a night mission, then.

You feign sleep and listen how he takes off his boots. He's illegally quiet without them for such a big man. His shirt meets the floor, then he opens his belt – you know he's about to come and ravish you, and for the first time since forever you are not up for it.

The bed lets out a terrible creak of a wail as he crawls next to you. You fear it's only a question of time before the old metal and wood give in under you two. It's basically a miracle the sturdy bunk hasn't yet broken into pieces from your love.

His length touches you first as he settles behind you. It's hot and hard, lean and sleek, like the rest of the man that soon surrounds you like a copper cable with a pulse. His hand is warm as it slips under the covers and under your shirt. Or actually, his shirt.

"I'm home," he half whispers the obvious. Calls your room his home… Or perhaps it's just you. You're his home now.

The hand drifts to your hip, and it's possessive: he always starts there. You win nothing by pretending to be the sleeping beauty, so your hand comes to rest on top of his.

"Did you have fun..?"

It's a bit of a sick question. But it is what it is. And what's more, he doesn't even answer it.

"I need a fresh pair, Engel," he says with an odd honey to his voice. "The last one is completely ruined."

You know he's talking about another pair of panties, a comfort object and a lucky charm he takes with him now that he's back in the field again.

The rain taps the window, and the darkness of the room is only pierced by distant hues of blue. The base is never dark, never fully asleep. His hand drags the shirt up, then stops on your ribs.

"You have my shirt on."

It's not a scolding, not at all. It's only a happy, shocked surprise.

"You… You left it here," you turn a little to look at him. You can see his lashes from the darkness of the hood as they drop: he's looking at you with tenderness, although the demanding flesh against the small of your back is far from tender.

"Mm. You have my shirt and I got your panties... A good deal, eh?"

His hand wanders further under the shirt, cups a handful of your breast. You can feel the cords of muscle bunching against you: abs that contract, thighs that press and lift yours, his cock that gives a taut pull between you two.

Your nipple is caught between hard fingertips, as he twists it like a volume control. Your abs crunch too, out of the sudden sensation that bleeds.

"Hey…"

"I can't concentrate on missions because of you," his voice drops another note or two. And now you are being scolded. But so, so tenderly still…

"Mh, König… Not–not tonight," you whisper, wondering if this man can even take a thing such as a simple no. He lets go of your nipple, but not your breast.

Not you. Never you.

"You have worries?"

You. You're my only worry.

Your mouth closes, draws into a line. You can't tell him.

“No… No.”

"Let me have you, angel. I've waited so long." His breath is growing heavier, the lean pulse against your back, thicker.

"I'll make you feel good," he tries to bargain when you're not responding. In a way, you want him too, but for the first time during your... acquintance, you would like him to just hold you. Without the need to throw yourselves off a cliff first.

"Not tonight." You move, then turn in his gentle, throbbing hold, and he almost draws his hand away. "Please, König…?"

"Ok," he says, but looks like he doesn't quite know what to do. Just...hug you? Go to sleep while holding you? It's a change in protocol, but he's willing to do it for you. For that knowledge alone, your hand slithers down, finds his length and wraps around it.

"I can help you? If you want?"

The rain is thin now, as it bats the glass. He lets you go and gradually leans back, falls to the mattress and allows you to give him a good, long stroke.

"My saving angel," is the only thing he says as he falls as slack as he can – a state which can barely be called relaxed – under your palm.

He's a needy man, and deprived since the last time you saw him. Which is why you know it doesn't take long. You barely see him in the electrically illuminated darkness, but you can feel how the choked sighs ripple across his body. You feel everything: the tight trembles, the density of the air around him. You hear the moist click as he swallows, the panting that rises. The occasional groans that sound like he's crying although he's not.

It's the only way he knows how to feel good, and someday, it just might make you cry. Even the sky cries for him, it seems, because a sudden gust of wind sends an entire sheet of rain against your window.

He's exceptionally quiet, probably because you didn't let him inside you this time. But then you remember he's usually this quiet only when he's emotional.

He's missed you...

That's what this is about – the ever demanding furnace of flesh. He wants to drown in you, burn until there's nothing left. It's been days, and he might've found some privacy to fantasize about you while ruining your lace, but it's no substitute for the real thing.

His hand flies on top of yours after you find that perfect angle, the one he likes. A harsh moan coats the night air, and shoots fireworks inside your stomach. He moves your hand up and down his cock like you can't do it right, but the connection, in truth, speaks of intimacy. The touch is affectionate. It says: 'we'…

Us.

Together.

He hisses, as if he's in pain. But he's just close, and you up the pace: his own hand is now only a loose, gentle cage around yours. He's so long, it seems like it takes forever to travel from the tip to the base, and you're trying to be quick and strong on top of it all. Just milk him well so he can sleep.

So that perhaps you can sleep.

He looks at what you're doing to him, then looks at you, and it's the vulnerability in that stare that makes you understand he feels equal to that rain. You're his only summer sun.

Then those lashes flutter, and his eyes turn to glass just before he comes. He spills all over himself with a long groan and a soul-ripping jerk, a giant coming undone under your palm and on your poor bunk bed that has seen so much already. The load is so generous you wonder whether he has even had the time to jerk himself off during the mission. If your innocent lace has barely been touched…

The last spurts are sadder, a few gushes that float to coat your hand, and he finally stills into some form of peace. He breathes in the night, relaxed and empty. You feel like you just worked on an emotional volcano, but he gathers himself quickly, raises to a half sit and tears his shirt off and over your head. Using it to clean himself and your hand, he throws it somewhere on the floor and pulls you on top of him.

Your breasts meet the solid chest, your thighs barely have enough time to go about his hips as he closes you in one of those bear hugs. The half-hard tip of him still throbs against your folds, and only then do you notice you're wet.

"I missed you," he sighs through the mask as you're held tight against his slowly settling pulse. He holds you exceptionally firm, squeezes you against him like you're his favorite toy. He tightens the hold around your middle until you are forced to let out a whimper. Only then does he loosen the hug and give out a gentle chuckle.

"Immer so gut… You feel so good. Always."

His confession is such a normal and yet, such a fragile thing to say, that you feel tears burning in your eyes.

"I missed you too," you say while trying to hide your tears from him.

"If you have worries, you can talk to me," he then says and starts to caress your back. The window is open, and the cool night air rolls in but in his embrace, you don't feel cold. You squeeze your legs and arms around him, feeling like a leech who never wants to let go. Finally, he's holding you, just the way you wanted to…

"It's nothing," you say, when in truth this man has you worried day and night. He's like a fridge you stock full day after day, only to find it empty every morning. And the things he gives you, the things he stuffs you full with… It's like having a cat who likes to fall asleep with you, a tame, purring beast who brings you fat rodents. If you don't praise him for them, he starts to hide them around the house until you wake up one morning to a terrible smell.

"You're the first who's ever hugged me," he mutters somewhere next to your ear. The golden fire inside your stomach turns into pity, horror and pain.

"Are–are you serious…?" You whisper in the darkness of his mask that's spilled all over your pillow. You know he has had women before you, but apparently, they have never attached to him like this. Like tiny little leeches to a bear.

"Didn't your mother hug you when you were little?"

He thinks on his answer for a second or two, maybe three. The fact that he has to think about it should tell you enough.

"No."

Then, "I can't remember…"

Your lip tugs, your lashes bat away the fire that burns. He's breathing calmly under you again, satiated by a simple handjob and a hug. Although it feels like he's the one hugging you while you're being held captive there on top of him… It feels like he doesn't even quite know what a hug is.

"She had her own troubles," he mutters, sounding like he's about to fall asleep. Even on the brink of oblivion, he defends the woman who didn't know how to hug her own child, because he can survive without touch. No matter what, he will survive.

His breathing starts to even, and your tears begin to fall. You think of moving from on top of him, to give him space and comfort to get some sleep. But it seems it's not an option, the way he holds you like a plush toy he will never let anyone take from him.

"I think I'm going to sleep now," he rasps, somewhere between awake and sleep. The rain has stopped, and you wonder whether it has only moved somewhere else, if it's now raining inside you. His hold of you tightens just before he slips to sleep.

"Don't let go, Engel…"

#könig fluff #könig x reader #könig x you #just friends fic #yandere könig #könig smut #angst and feels

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ashthewaterghoul · 7 months ago

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’Cause It Still Makes My Blood Run Cold To Remember What I Did Before - A Banana!Verse One Shot

In the pits, Fire Ghouls were nothing if not warriors; their worth was found in defending and protecting what they held dear while fighting the threat head-on. The latter part may not be possible right now, but if Alpha could keep them all safe, shield them from the torment they’d all been subject to, he would take the looming darkness and become it. His flames were strong enough to stay burning in the dark fog he consumed, yet it just killed him a little more every time he did it. Taking him apart stitch-by-stitch and unravelling him from his very soul outwards. As time went on, he had to wonder when that last stitch would rip open, and he dread to think what the result would be. Or, Alpha has a lot of feelings after mating with Dew, and having to be oh-so-cruel to him to keep him safe from Sister's torment.

Words: 2.6k

Relationships: Alpha/Dew, mentioned Air/Earth and Terzo/Omega

Tags: Angst, feels, nightmares, self-hatred, self-worth issues, mating bond, Alpha needs therapy, suicide by drowning shown in a dream sequence, suicidal thoughts, Alpha is an asshole, but he gets better kinda, one shot, era ii Ghouls wear veils.

Inspired by @anotherbananasong 's amazing universe! I'm like 99% sure this can be read if you're not familiar but obviously I'm going to recommend her blog!!

Title from 'Missing Limbs' by Sleep Token

~~~

Dew shot upright in a cold sweat that instantly evaporated away against his warm skin. His breathing was frantic, his heart beating from his chest and for the life of him couldn’t focus enough to feel the electricity thrumming along the bond that tied him to Alpha.

Alpha himself was in his room deep down in the catacombs. It wasn’t the deepest as that belonged to Lake’s subterranean lair, but it was still deep. Alpha too, was deep but in his own mind. His own loathing for himself.

Read below the cut or on ao3

Alpha did initially detest himself for ruining Dew’s life by mating with him - for desecrating something as precious as the little Fire Ghoul with the sheer and utter monstrosity that was his existence. Yet there was something so tempting and alluring about Dew’s flames dancing in his own soul that made him want to swallow his pride and just be a good mate, asshole-façade be damned.

But that façade would have to stay for a little while. That Satan-forsaken summons to Sister’s office that would damn him and his mate to years of pain that burned deeper than any flame ever could.

“If you even go near this mate-”

“I’m not scared of you, you old hag.”

“Oh, but you should be, Ghoul. He’s highly unstable right now. No one would question if he didn’t pull through.”

“If you hurt him…”

“Secondo and Terzo aren’t here to protect you anymore. Test me, if you’d like.”

And while Alpha would usually see that and indeed test someone, something about the liveliness bouncing across the bond in his soul made him realise he could never let Sister hurt Dew again. The forced transformation and killing their Papas were more than enough…

So instead, Alpha would hurt Dew. Bold displays of neglect and disinterest so there was no fuel to add to Sister’s bonfire of tyranny. He’d do everything he could to make sure Dew never fell for him, to push him away, to keep him safe.

The long nights Alpha would spend sobbing for what he puts Dew through were only mildly comforted by the fact that he was keeping Dew safe. That’s what a good mate did, right? They kept the other safe. So, in a perverse way, Alpha was being a good mate. But then, for a second, he would acknowledge the bond that bound him to Dew and his entire being would be wracked with the desolation and misery that Alpha left the little one in. The biting words, the harsh treatment, the shunning and dismissal and cruelty that Alpha would inflict in what was his best effort to keep Dew safe.

It worked, and he hated himself for it.

He translated it onto the rest of his pack too. He’d rip into River for being a cry-baby, he’d contribute to Air’s status as a walking mattress, and poke at Earth for choosing such a used-up Ghoul for his mate. He’d jab at the suffocating void of grief Omega was left in following the brutal demise of Terzo, his favourite Papa and paramour, and Lake... Well, Lake wasn’t really around enough for Alpha to cause much damage which, deep down, he let himself be thankful for.

When Earth beat him up as a “lesson” he just laid back and took it. He knew he deserved it. And he wanted it to be a lesson, he wanted to listen and be able to love Dew. But he couldn’t. Not without risking the little firefly he was trying so hard to protect. Ripping himself apart to keep Dew safe, that was all that mattered. And it certainly mattered more than any silly little feelings Alpha had.

When news had reached the Ancients that Sister had died, Earth and Air cried in relief that maybe the cruelty the Clergy had subjected them to under her rule could finally end. Alpha took a while before he realised the same could be for him and Dew.

From that point, he counted down the days until the little one had returned from tour. When he could feel the bond was less stretched with distance, and that Dew was home, he actually found himself smiling for the first time in… years, he realises.

Out of a habit he knows shouldn’t need to exist anymore, he sneaks from the catacombs in the middle of the night, and up to Dew’s room. Dew had stood in his doorway, vape in hand and looking completely annoyed by Alpha’s mere presence.

“Alpha, if you’re here to hatefuck, then I’m really not in the mo-”

But Dew is cut off by the most gentle, yet somehow most passionate kiss Alpha had ever given him. More gentle than their night together before Dew’s last tour with Terzo, or even the night they mated.

Alpha pulled back and both Fire Ghouls had tears in their eyes.

It took all of about two seconds before Dew pulled Alpha down by his veil and kissed him again. And Alpha did his best to make up for lost time. He was so gentle and tender with Dew; hailing him like a deity and worshipping him like one too. Treating him so preciously and delicately and with every ounce of love and care his body could muster. Words were never his strong suit, only when they were laced with his Fire and venom, so he said everything with his body instead.

The moment that Alpha silently opened up his side of the bond completely, for the first time ever in the years it had been there, and Dew could finally feel the outpouring of love and affection that Alpha had been holding for him this whole time, they both cried. The sheer relief on their souls from their bond not painfully weighing them down anymore made their hearts feel so full and their souls whole. Alpha’s eyes may have been misted over with tears, but he’d never forget the look on Dew’s face. He even took his veil off, and Dew cried even more. One smaller hand instantly went up into the larger Ghoul’s dark hair and he pulled him back down to kiss him, desperately holding onto him.

Alpha’s only words were a repeat of what he hoped Dew had always known is true, “You are so loved.”

And this time he dared to add, “And by no one more than me.”

But it wasn’t all smooth sailing from that point. Alpha didn’t know how to be a good mate. He was a shit stain on the universe, and he deserved to be nowhere near Dew. Even the deepest pits of Hell were too kind for him. He found himself slipping into old habits of lashing out, and pushing Dew away, refusing to let such a bright spark drown himself out with Alpha’s atrocious presence.

Often, Alpha contemplated walking down to Lake’s domain and asking him to take him to rest in the depths. He knows Lake would do it, and even if he didn’t, Alpha would throw himself down and let himself be taken by the current.

He thought there would be a certain beautiful irony that he would die surrounded by his beloved’s true element, taken from him too soon and too violently. Dew felt his Water be eviscerated by flames, Alpha would feel his Fire suffocated by Water and leaving Dew’s to burn alone by himself. Maybe that would leave a nicer life for the little one.

But as Dew fell asleep alone one night, that was exactly what he saw. He saw his mate as he was now; confused and scared and not knowing what to do in a whirlpool of distress and loathing - hating himself for how he’s treated his mate and pushing Dew away still. Dew saw him get up, and go down to see Lake.

“I can’t.” Alpha said, “Take me, please. I can’t live knowing what I’ve done to him.”

And Lake obliges. He stays completely unglamoured, fins and webbings out so he can have more power in the water. Alpha remains glamoured for the opposite reason. He wants to be weak, because he has been all along. He doesn’t deserve to be strong now, at the end when he wasn’t strong enough to stand up to Sister in the first place. Dew is the one that’s strong, not him. The little light there is down there fades as Alpha’s dragged deeper and deeper down, and his veil comes off and floats up to the surface. Alpha tries to reach for it, because it’s the same colour as Dew’s eyes. But Lake swims and pushes him down faster and faster and Alpha knows he doesn’t deserve that comfort either.

As Alpha’s lungs burn for oxygen, his chest spasms for relief, all he can think off is the panic and confusion he feels from Dew as he races down to the catacombs, only for Lake to later present him with his mate’s lone veil. And Alpha dares to ask Dew to forgive him before his last ember dies out.

As Dew woke, he felt as though it was real. That he’d just somehow witnessed his mate’s death through his unconscious. His mind was in such a state of panic that he couldn’t focus enough on the bond that told him Alpha was indeed still alive.

Dew didn’t bother to put anything on his feet as he raced out of his room in only his boxers and one of Alpha’s t-shirts that was more like a dress on him. He needed to see Alpha. Whether it was him or his body or veil, he had to see him.

He thinks his runs and sobs and shouts for his mate may have woken up Astra but he’d apologise to Air and Earth later. Alpha’s door was open and the Ghoul himself was part-way out before Dew’s heart could scream anymore.

“Dew? What’s wrong?” Alpha asked, having felt Dew’s frenzy and sadness bleed down the bond.

“D- don’t l- l- leave me!” Dew wheezed as he held onto Alpha for dear life, his sprint down to the catacombs combining with his panic leaving him entirely unable to breathe.

“I’m never leaving you again, little one.” Alpha promised as he held Dew, lifting him up so they could lay in his nest.

Dew couldn’t stop crying or get his breathing back under control and Alpha was at a loss. He remembered how he saw Earth snuggling into Air once, apparently it helps his anxiety. So, despite the size difference that would be comical in any other situation, Alpha wrapped his arms around Dew’s waist and laid on top of him, with his head on his abdomen and put his weight down so he acted as an assuring and grounding presence. It worked as Dew’s sobs quietened, and his breathing slowed to something more normal. Dew found himself fidgeting with Alpha’s hair and horns also, a mindless habit he didn’t even realise he was doing until he was back in his own body.

As Dew calmed down and explained his nightmare, Alpha’s fiery blood managed to run cold.

“It felt s- so real.” Dew whispered, a tear rolling down his cheek to join the rest, voice still shaking with adrenaline and emotions.

Alpha swallowed thickly, “It wasn’t, I promise, firefly.”

“Don’t l- let it be real, ever. Please, Alfie?” Dew asked him with big wet eyes.

Alpha raised himself up from his living-weighted-blanket position and looked straight into Dew’s eyes, a large calloused palm resting on Dew’s cheek.

“I won’t let it be real.” Alpha affirmed.

“I have y- you now, and I don’t want t- to lose you, ever. Th- the bond, and having you, I- I never want to go without it again.” The little one said. And he was so painfully little as he curled up against Alpha’s chest, a pointed ear over his heartbeat and a hand over his pec to feel his warm body and steady breathing.

When Dew’s adrenaline and post-breakdown-exhaustion caught up with him and took him back to sleep in Alpha’ arms, the larger Ghoul just hated himself more.

For it being something he so often thought about, dare he say fantasised about, and now seeing how it just being a nightmare to Dew hurt him so much, he only despised himself more for thinking he could ever leave Dew in that much pain.

Once he had promised that he would never make for a good mate, so he would never even try. Now, he doesn’t think he’d ever be able to forgive himself for all the hurt he caused.

Dew is the lighthouse in the storm that is Alpha’s self-hatred. Originally, he wanted to hate Dew. For making him feel noticed, for choosing him, for luring him in like the Syren he used to be. Then he wanted to hate Dew for giving him life again, a reason to live, for being the tinder for the dying embers of his soul. Dew became the reason Alpha’s flames could burn so so bright, but then he had to repay it by stamping out Dew’s own.

Dew had mentioned to Air he almost feels as though he’s Water again. Because he is just the most powerful tidal wave of love for his mate that he never lets up on, and he uses it to slowly corrode away the behemoth of a wall that Alpha’s put up.

And Dew is so happy now. His flames have been burning brighter than ever as they happily danced alongside Alpha’s. Alpha doesn’t think he could ever bring himself to hurt Dew again, which he knows is a good thing. But Dew forgave him so easily, even without knowing the threat of Sister’s cruelty was the reason behind it all, and Alpha knows it would kill him if he ever betrayed Dew again. Yet now he’s seen how Dew reacts to even just a mirage of his deserving demise; how could he ever even think about putting Dew through the real thing?

Alpha had desecrated his gift from Lucifer too many times, defiled his pure and beautiful soul with his horrid treatment. He wanted so badly to make up for it, yet he found himself completely unworthy. Despite the long and arduous process of healing they’d both go through, Alpha knows there is always going to be a very loud and obnoxious part of his mind that will always make him hate himself. And while Dew would be there to constantly adore and reassure Alpha - being the tsunami of love to drown anything else out - Alpha would often find himself listening to that obstinate part. Spiralling to the voice of unreason that told him to shut Dew out again because he truly didn’t deserve such a gorgeous little firefly to be his.

Alpha couldn’t decide what was worse. Dew finding someone who was actually worthy of him, or giving in and loving his mate in every way he deserves and more.

One shot master post can be found here!

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plussizefantasia · 1 year ago

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Horrible People

Tony Stark x Plus Size!f!Reader

Word Count: 3.2K

Warnings: Cyberbullying, allusions to a panic attack

Request: i just noticed you wrote for marvel and better off you wrote for tony. I was hoping you could write me a story about tony meeting a bigger girl and starting to date her and he finds out someone made fun of her in the tabloids and she gets insecure but he makes her feel positive again? it would mean alot really.

@lilacprincessofrecovery Happy Birthday! I wrote this really fast for you so I hope you enjoy it! Have a great day lovely!

Never in your life did you think you’d be walking the carpet at the MET Gala. Never mind the fact that tickets were 75k each and that was more than you made in a year, you weren’t on any kind of list that might’ve warranted an invitation. But Tony was.

Your wonderful and loving boyfriend of a year, Tony Stark, was definitely the kind of person that got an invite to the most exclusive event of the year. And because he loved you and knew that this was something you’d enjoy, he’d told his assistant to send an RSVP to Anna and to reach out to any designers who wanted to work with him.

The process of getting fitted for your dress was a unique one, Tony wanted you to be comfortable so he had asked the designer to meet with the two of you at his home in Malibu. That meant that you were wildly uncomfortable, standing in a mockup of a dress that was more luxurious and ostentatious than anything you owned, but at least you were doing it in your living room. The entire process from consultation to fitting to actually getting ready the day of was about six months, you had no idea that it took that long to get this kind of thing ready but you weren’t exactly surprised.

Tony had insisted that the two of you get ready in the same hotel room, mostly so that he could shower you in compliments all day.

“Look at you Pretty Girl, you look gorgeous.”

“Damn Baby, that color looks really good on you.”

“Are you sure we have to go? I could spend all night staring at you and have way more fun.” That one earned him a glare from you followed by, “Tony… I’ve been getting ready for three hours already. We’re going.”

Tony’s compliments really worked though, you felt amazing and the nerves that you had woken up with had dissipated at his relentless teasing and flirting throughout the day. Alas, they came back with a vengeance when it was time to actually leave for the carpet. Tony had escorted you down to the lobby where the two of you were told to wait while Happy and the rest of the security team established a path through the mix of fans and paparazzi that were crowded in front of the hotel entrance. When you were given the go-ahead, Tony placed his hand in the middle of your back and curled you into his side. He took measured but quick steps to get you into the car as soon as possible, not stopping for a picture or autographs even if the crowd was yelling for his attention.

Once you were seated in the back of the black town car, Tony kissed the back of your hand.

“That was the worst of it, Darling, from now everything will be smooth sailing.”

You didn’t know how he thought that walking up a long ass flight of stairs in the most elaborate dress you’ve ever worn while being blinded by flashes of cameras could be considered ‘smooth sailing’ but you knew that with Tony by your side nothing could really go that wrong.

Stepping out of the car and into the entrance of the event was like stepping into another world, people a lot more famous than you were everywhere, all dressed to the nines and laughing while talking to each other.

Tony��s hand in yours was grounding, and so was the little kiss that he gently placed on the side of your head, being mindful of the time and energy that went into your hair and makeup for the evening.

Eventually, it was your turn to walk the carpet. You were being lectured by a woman in a simpler black dress with a headset. Telling you that you had to walk fast enough to keep pace but not too fast that you run into the person ahead of you. She told you that everyone had time to stop for one interview and no time to dilly dally or you’d throw off the rhythm of the whole event.

You tried your best to make sure that no terror was showing on your face when you and Tony took your first steps out of the corral and onto the carpet. Immediately you were blinded by flashes and had to stop yourself from flinching. Meanwhile Tony looked like he was in his element, posing effortlessly in his themed suit all while never removing his hand from your body.

He subtly pushed you forward and made eye contact with you the man you didn’t move forward. He raised an eyebrow at you, “you okay?” His expression asked.

He leaned closer to you and whispered with his face turned away from the cameras, “One word and we go home, no questions asked.”

The warmth that spread across your face was thankfully covered thanks to the masterful makeup that had been applied. Tony’s words did the trick though. And with much more confidence than you had just moments before you stepped forward and saunter to the next spot that you had been told to go stand at.

A smirk spread across Tony’s face and he followed your lead, strutting along behind you and cheesing for the cameras.

After that, it really was smooth sailing. You and Tony took pictures together and apart, you walked the carpet flawlessly and he couldn’t have been prouder. You had a great evening, and you met some people that you five years ago would’ve screamed cried, and thrown up at the prospect of meeting let alone having an actual conversation with.

Once the main event had died down and most of the attendees were either heading home or to some after-party or another you and Tony had decided to call it quits as well, after all, he might’ve been a billionaire genius ex-playboy philanthropist but you were a normal human being and needed to be at work the day after.

The two of you were still immaculately dressed when he leaned over in the car with his signature mischievous grin, “Hey Pretty Girl, are you hungry?”

“What?” You laughed in reply

“Are you hungry?” He asked again his smirk not faltering.

“We can order room services when we get back to the hotel, Tony.”

“Or Sweetheart, hear me out. We could go get burgers. I know this great hole-in-the-wall spot and it’s only five minutes away.”

“Tony, neither of us is exactly dressed for hole-in-the-wall right now.”

“Who cares? I don’t, I’m hungry and I want to share a burger with my amazing and sexy girlfriend and a great place that I know. The only thing keeping me from doing that is her being hesitant.”

“You're being pushy you know that? But sure, let’s go get burgers.”

“Happy, change the course please, let’s go to Mc’Rory’s for a burger and a drink,” Tony called up to his forehead of security who had assigned himself and your driver for the evening.

“Want to stop at the hotel first boss?” Happy raised a single brow and made eye contact with Tony through the rearview mirror.

“Nope, just head straight there we’re hungry.”

“Oh-Kay.” Happy replied.

The place was a literal hole in the wall, after the space needed for the kitchen where there was only room for two tables, and You and Tony took up one while you waited for your orders to be done, Happy was sitting at the other, also waiting for his food but wanting to give the two of you some space.

“So Honey, did you have fun?” Tony asked

“I don’t know if fun is the word but I had a good time, I definitely don’t want to come back though.”

“Why not? I get invited every year I just have never had a reason to go before now.”

“What new and compelling reason did you have for this year?” You chuckled.

“I had a gorgeous date to go with who I wanted to show off.” He looked into your eyes and you were once again struck with how much love you had for this man and how much love he had for you. The world had not been kind to Tony Stark but you would spend the rest of your life trying to make it up to him.

“Well shucks, I guess I had a pretty swell date too.”

“You sound like you’ve been spending too much time with Mr. Righteous and his Boy Wonder.”

“I wouldn’t say that Bucky is Boy Wonder more like a broodier and more cyborg version of Steve.”

“And why are we talking about those dinosaurs?”

“You brought them up!”

“And now I’m changing the topic, did you get a chance to read through the article I sent you the other day?”

The two of you continued talking until your orders were placed at the table between the two of you. At which point both of you realized that it had been something like nine hours since either of you had anything decent or filling to eat and the conversation ended while you both pretty much inhaled your dinner.

You must’ve looked like quite the pair. Both of you dressed the way you were, in corresponding outfits covered in flora and fauna motifs while devoting a burger in a red booth. It was defined top ten on your surrealist moments' lists which has gotten significantly longer since you started dating Tony, but you wouldn’t have it any other way.

Your night ended very similarly to how it started. With Tony showering you with compliments in a hotel room, only this time you weren’t getting all dolled up. This time you were barefaced with your hair mussed up and comfy pjs covering your body. It made your heart flutter that Tony still thought you were beautiful even when you were dressed down to your most basic. There was no makeup trickery or shapewear smoothing your body at that moment, just you and all your imperfections, and Tony looked at them and saw nothing but beauty.

You crawled into the large bed and waited for him to turn off the lights and join you. He played down only seconds after you and pulled you so that you were halfway on top of him, your head tucked nicely into the dip of his neck.

“I really love you, you know that?” You whispered into the dark of the room.

“I love you too, so much Angel.”

The two of you fell asleep within minutes.

The next morning you were awoken to the buzzing of your phone against the wood of the nightstand, Tony’s phone vibrating just as viciously on his side of the bed.

You figured that it was pictures of the two of you groom last night and opened your phone to see all the high-quality images that were being posted everywhere of the two of you on the carpet. And you weren’t wrong, the images blowing up were of the two of you and they were from last night but they weren’t on the carpet. Apparently you and Tony had been pretty lax in your observation skills last night or you would’ve noticed the person taking your pictures outside of the burger joint. Because there it was, all over your phone. Pictures of you and Tony still in your fancy outfits pigging out on burgers with various captions, each more vicious than the last.

The one that really caught you off guard was on some celeb gossip page, “Tony Stark takes unknown to Met Gala: he can do better” It wasn’t the worst one there was by far. There were all kinds of ribs being made about your size, about the way you ate, about everything. It wasn’t until someone said the words that were always floating around in the back of your mind out loud that you really began to fall apart.

It was your gasping breaths that woke Tony up. He noticed you sitting upright in the bed next to him, phone in hand and tears streaming down your face.

“Woah, woah baby what’s going on? What’s wrong?!” He shot up too, getting on your level. You only handed him the phone unable to get any words out.

He looked briefly at the images across the screen at first not seeing the problem. It was a cute picture, very ‘the two of you’ to be dressed up and eating burgers in a dive like that but when he read the caption he saw red.

Your choked sob brought him back from the brink of rage but he filed the feeling away for later, he’d track down whoever had written the nasty words, the cameraman, the publisher. Anyone and everyone involved in making you cry would be paying for it later.

He pulled you into his arms and winced when you started to cry harder. As much as he wanted to get to the bottom of it you weren’t in a place to talk yet. He just had to take care of you until you were.

It was difficult marching the two of you out of bed without letting go of you but he managed, all the while smoothing a hand up and down your back and whispering praises into your head.

“Doing so good Pretty Girl, breathe, yeah just like that.”

“It’s gonna be okay, we’ll talk in a little bit.”

“Thats it, you’re doing so well.”

He guided you to the shower and turned the water to a warm temperature, not wanting to force you to feel anything too harsh at the moment.

Slowly and step by step he walked through your morning routine, washing your hair for you and helping you with your face routine.

When he looked into your eyes and saw a daft tenderness he knew that you were going to be okay, the both of you.

Even if he knew that it would make you upset he knew that the two of you needed to talk about everything, getting it out into the open was the only way that it wouldn’t come back to bite you later.

“Okay, Darling. I’m going to go get breakfast for us, you take your time getting dressed and when I come back we can eat and talk okay?”

You nodded, “Okay.” He hated how he could still hear the sadness in your voice but he pushed a kiss to your lips and grabbed his phone before making his exit. All you heard as he left was Tony on the phone, “Hap- I got a job for you” and the door was closed.

You let yourself breathe for just a moment longer before moving to do as Tony said, and getting dressed before sitting back down in the middle of the bed. You didn’t dare pick your phone back up, just sitting in silence until he walked back through the door holding a brown bag.

“I got breakfast burritos from that brunch place down the street okay?”

“Yeah. Sounds good.” You didn’t think you’d actually be able to eat anything.

There was a slightly tense silence between the two of you for a few moments as Tony gave you your food and then sat down across from you with his.

“I’m sorry” you both blurted out at the same time.

“Woah, sweetheart what are you sorry for?”

“I don’t know… for not being enough, for being too much. Take your pick.”

“Okay none of that pretty girl, you are none of those things you are just right, you are absolutely perfect let’s get that straight right now.”

“But- you saw-“

“Nug-uh what I saw was some random person who doesn’t know either of us, spewing hate behind a screen. I saw horrible people being horrible for no reason and that is not your fault Baby.”

“I’m still sorry, I saw how mad you were, I didn’t mean to make you upset.”

“You didn’t make me upset at all Babe, none of how I was feeling this morning was your fault okay? None of it.”

“Well- wait. Did you say you were sorry? Why the hell are you sorry?”

“I should’ve been watching better last night. I was just so focused on you and how relaxed I was feeling with you that I didn’t notice that asshole following us or taking our picture.”

“Tony. Thousands of people took our picture yesterday, you couldn’t have protected me even if you wanted to. I wanted to go remember?”

“You said you had a good time last night. Do you feel any different now?” The question caught you off guard.

“Well-no. I still had a really good time. I always have a good time when we’re together.”

“Then why does it matter what strangers on the internet think of us?”

“I mean- don’t you care that people think-“

“I’m gonna stop you right there. The answer is no. I don’t care what people think, not anymore. Not since I met you. You have this uncanny ability to make me feel like nobody in the world but us matters.”

“What if they’re right though?” You asked in a quiet voice.

“Right about what Baby?”

“What if you can do better? What if one day you wake up and realize that you’re settling.”

“There is not a universe out there where me being with you is settling. You’re it for me Sweetheart. You're all I’ve got, the light of my life. The yin to my yang, the peanut butter to my jelly, the wasabi to my peas.”

“You made that last one up.” You let out a soft laugh.

“Doesn’t make it any less true.”

“No, I suppose it doesn’t.”

You both smiled stupidly at each other.

“Hey Tony?” You asked.

“Yeah, Pretty Girl?”

“I love you.”

“I love you too, and so do they.”

You’re face adopted a look of confusion as Tony handed you his phone. On his screen was a couple of pictures he had posted of the two of you from yesterday. Pictures of you getting ready. Of you making stupid faces at him while getting your hair done, of the two of you in the back of the car on the way to the Gala, and one of the most beautiful pictures you’ve ever seen of yourself.

It’s a wide shot of the two of you, you’d just started walking up the stairs and Tony is two steps below you. In the photo, you’re looking back at him and have this gorgeous smile spread across your lips. Tony stands underneath you, adoration clear in his eyes as he reaches a hand up to meet your outstretched one.

It isn’t the beautiful pictures that catch your eyes though, it’s the millions of comments that the post has.

“Omg slay.”

“Get you someone who looks at you the way Tony looks at this goddess right here.”

“She looks so happy.

“They look so good together.”

“I can’t tell if I want to be here or want to be with her.”

That last one makes you laugh and you look up from the phone to see Tony looking at you with a soft smile on his face.

“So. Are we going back next year, if so I need to start looking for a designer that can one up this.”

“I’ll go anywhere with you as long as you keep looking at me like that.” You toss his phone back to him.

“I’ll look at you like that until the day I die, Gorgeous. You deserve it.”

“Yeah, I kinda do.”

#tony stark drabble #tony stark x reader #tony stark imagine #tony stark fluff #tony stark x plus size reader #tony stark x plussize! reader #marvel fanfiction #angst and fluff #plus size reader #plus size!reader #fanfic #x reader #requests open #requests wanted #angst and hurt/comfort #angst and feels

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harmonyrae · 2 months ago

Text

Vow

Synopsis: You're so careful, so calculated, but one bad investment could ruin you. A leather-clad knight on a Harley has a solution to your problems, but are you brave enough to take the risk?

AN: Inked Sequel. The “FMC” was technically in Inked, so she has a set hair color. That is the only physical feature that has any relevance to the plot. Cover images from Pinterest.

Content Warnings: A LOT OF PLOT & angst, smut is coming soon & it's juicy (prepare yourself), explicit language & sexual themes, alcohol consumption, vehicle accident & serious injuries, blood/vomit mentioned, needles & medical procedures (stitches), masturbation (f), 18+ MDNI

Word Count: 14.8k

It’s cold. So damn cold. Is your evol acting up again? You feel something wet coating your leg, it’s warm and it hurts. Fuck, it hurts a lot.

Your eyes flutter open as the warmth spreads from your shin to your thigh and continues up your right leg. You slowly turn your head and feel a dull ache along your upper back. It’s so dark, why is it so dark? Your hands reach up to rub your eyes, but come in contact with your helmet. You struggle to unhook the strap, panic slowly bubbling to the surface, and nearly cry out when you finally pull your helmet off. The helmet falls to the ground beside you and you tug your gloves off with your teeth.

“Where the hell am I?”

You try to sit up, gritting your teeth to distract yourself from the searing pain shooting across your back. When you finally look down at the damp spot on your jeans, you roll to your side to vomit. Blood. Your pants leg is completely soaked in blood. Wiping your mouth with the backside of your hand, you squeeze your eyes closed and shake your head.

“You’re a fucking doctor, pull it together.”

You know how shock works and that the sight of blood wasn’t what turned your stomach. You see more blood than this on regular Tuesday, it’s just your body responding to the trauma. You push yourself upright and reach down to try and tear away the bloody fabric. Before you can make any progress you hear a loud rumble behind you. You stop to look around, your eyes burn as the wind whips across your face. You finally realize what happened and where you are.

You look over your shoulder and see your bike on the side of the road, tires popped, the body scratched and broken and a streak of blood leading down to where you’re sitting. You try to look for any sign of what caused the crash, but you’re too far down the ravine. There’s another loud pop and rumble. You scramble to place yourself behind the tree next to you, biting your lip to suppress a scream. Your hands sting from the sharp rocks and sticks slicing through your skin. You lean back against the trunk and wheeze, trying to catch your breath.

What if it’s a cop? Or someone who knows you from the city? Your bike is registered with the police as belonging to a racer, and your attire wouldn’t help your case. They’d have to arrest you and then you could kiss your career goodbye. The hospital would have to fire you, you’d lose your apartment… What would your family think of you? What’ll happen to Ollie?!

You’re on the verge of a complete breakdown when you hear the low roar of, what you think, might be another bike. Something big by the sounds of it. You wrap your arms around yourself and hold your breath, trying to become invisible. Boy, that’d be a handy superpower right about now. The bike slows and the brakes whine as it comes to a full stop. The rider dismounts and walks through the broken glass to your bike. Just as you’re about to lean over for a peek, you spot your helmet, discarded on the ground a few feet in front of you. You have no time to consider your options, the snap of a twig alerts you to the rider's new location.

“Hello?”

A man, his voice deep and smooth as silk, cuts through the frigid night air. Another twig snaps, he’s closer. There’s nowhere you can go, but you’ve somehow convinced yourself that if you remain perfectly still, maybe he won’t keep looking for you or –

“Oh, hello there.”

Well fuck.

You glance up at the mountain of a man before you and instantly recognize his signature leather jacket and custom helmet. The brilliant red dragon hand painted with wings that turned to fire along the edges glimmers in the moonlight. Ryūō. You want to let out a sigh of relief, but he still had his helmet on, you didn’t, he’s seen your face.

A gloved hand reaches up to slide the visor up and reveal his eyes, his stunning eyes. You’ve never seen someone with ruby red irises before. And the longer you look into them, the more you feel like you’re falling. Usually having red eyes would be a cause for concern, but for him… they’re beautiful, ethereal, even. He gives you a once over before looking back at your helmet. When his piercing gaze returns to you, his eyes sparkle with excitement.

“Yuki onna. As I live and breathe.”

Wait, he remembers you? He crouches down and examines your leg. He unzips his jacket and pulls a switchblade from an inner pocket. You shift, trying to create distance and he raises his hands, the blade balanced between two fingers.

“Just wanted to see how bad it is. May I?”

You stare at him for a moment. You don’t have many options at the moment, so you nod, letting him proceed with opening the knife and cutting away the stained fabric from your ankle to your knee.

“Are you cold?”

Your eyes snap to his and you open your mouth to respond, but the sound of your teeth chattering shuts you up. You shake your head. He shifts, letting one of his knees drop to the ground to sit back on his heels. His expression laced with doubt, or at least you think it is from what you could see of his face.

“I’m just in shock. It makes you shake, I’m fine.”

He tilts his head, his brows knitting together.

“You a doctor?”

You nod and his brows unfurl to rise.

“Okay then, tell me what to do. Should I –”

“Don’t call an ambulance! I can’t… I can’t go to the hospital.”

He clears his throat, his eyes narrowing.

“I wasn’t going to suggest that. I have someone I can take you to, but I don’t want to make this worse before we get there.”

You push your shoulders back and suck your bottom lip into your mouth in an attempt to stop it from trembling.

“Oh…”

He points at your leg with his blade.

“So, tell me what to do doc.”

You rest your head against the tree and close your eyes, exhaling slowly.

“Okay, umm, is it an open wound?”

He shifts, leaves crunching under his weight.

“Yes.”

“Is it still bleeding?”

“It is.”

“Great… okay, I need you to cut the rest of that fabric away. Then make another cut to it, to make a long strip, you need to tie it around my thigh to slow the bleeding.”

The sounds of a knife cutting through fabric fill the space around you. His steady breathing, muffled by his helmet, is strangely comforting. You flinch when you feel his hand against your thigh. His steady hands pause for a moment, waiting for your permission to continue. You open your eyes, blinking back tears, and nod. He gently lifts your leg to pull the fabric underneath, lifting the strands on both sides.

“You need to make it tight.”

“How’s this?”

He ties the makeshift tourniquet securely and you groan, the fabric squeezing you to the point of discomfort.

“Perfect.”

“Do you have any other injuries?”

You rotate your shoulders and shake your head. He retrieves your helmet and carefully places it on your head. You’d usually protest, your hands are fine, but your adrenaline is wearing off. He secures the strap and leans down to look at you directly.

“Can I pick you up?”

Your stomach flips and you’re almost afraid you’ll vomit again. Swallowing hard, you nod again. He wraps an arm around your waist and tucks the other under your knees, lifting you off the ground with ease. You instinctively wrap your arms around his neck and let your head rest against his shoulder. He carries you out of the ravine to the road where his massive Harley is parked next to your poor Katana. He carefully sits you down and props your feet up on the foot pegs.

“One sec.”

He walks over to your bike, pulling it off the ground and dragging it to the bushes. As he walks back, he fishes his phone from his pocket, presses a button and tucks it back into his pocket. He swings his leg over and sits in front of you.

“Luke, I have a bike I need you to pick up and deliver to the shop. Ping my location. And bring Kieran to clean up. Make sure he checks the ravine. Call me when it’s done.”

He lifts the kickstand with his heel and walks the bike backwards a few steps. He shoves the key into the ignition and the engine roars to life. His hand pats his side and you lean forward slightly, holding onto his waist lightly. You can hear his soft chuckle as he shakes his head.

“You know better than that Yuki.”

The bike lurches forward as he takes off and you squeal at the sudden jolt. You’re forced to lean forward and wrap your arms around him. His firmness grounds you, the way his abs tense when he leans taking a turn becomes damn near hypnotizing. You close your eyes and focus on following his lead.

“Hey, I need you at the clinic. Injured biker. Maybe a broken leg? Yeah, be there in 5.”

“You never said who you were taking me to.”

He lets out a breathy laugh.

“You’re right. I didn’t.”

You wait for him to continue, but he remains silent.

“Well?”

“Don’t worry Yuki, he’s a good doctor.”

You scoff and squeeze your arms together making Ryūō laugh harder. You don’t have to live in suspense for too long, he pulls into the parking lot for a small apartment building after a few minutes. He parks his bike and dismounts, he gently lifts your bad leg and brings it over the seat. He takes off your helmet before leaning forward, expecting you to wrap your arms around him again. You roll your eyes, but comply. He picks you up and carries you into the building and straight to the elevator.

The inside of the building is opulent, with gold sconces and chandeliers, and art pieces look more expensive than your entire apartment. Looking over his shoulder, you realize the glass doors and windows are one-way glass. This doctor must value his privacy.

You watch the numbers above the elevator doors rise, pointedly avoiding the heat of Ryūō’s gaze. Which you can feel burning into the side of your face. The elevator finally stops at the top floor and you're carried into the penthouse. A comfortable living space, large kitchen, sliding doors leading to a balcony - nothing special. And then you’re brought to a room that makes you nearly swallow your tongue.

The dimly lit room is a fully stocked operating room. Machines lined neatly against the wall, cabinets you assume are full of supplies, an industrial refrigerator sits in the corner humming softly. You’re carried through another door into what looks like a recovery room. A soft bed, a vitals monitor, an ensuite bathroom, shelves stocked with surgical gloves, blankets and rolls of gauze. Ryūō sets you down on the bed and props your leg up.

“The bed I –”

“We have replacement sheets and mattresses, don’t worry.”

You shut your mouth and finally let your body relax. Every muscle screaming, every nerve completely shot. You close your eyes and hear Ryūō walk to the door and open it, stepping through to talk with someone on the other side. You lift your head and stare at the door - like staring at it will help you hear them better. A familiar muffled tone reaches your ears and you sit up, your hands braced behind you.

“She was nearly at the finish line too. I don’t know why no one else stopped, her bike was right on the side of the road.”

“Well, it’s a good thing you did or she may have bled out. She’s in recovery?”

There’s no way.

The door opens and Ryūō walks in, but the man behind him makes you want to scream.

“Zayne?!”

Zayne’s shoulders tense as he looks up at you. His eyes widen and his body becomes rigid. But just as quickly as the panic settles, it vanishes and he stalks over to the bed. His expression alone made you wish you had bled out on the side of the road.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

Angry Zayne usually amused you, but being on the receiving end was not so fun. You glare at him and cock your head to the side.

“I could ask you the same question.”

His brows furrowed and he steps back, taking off his glasses to rub the bridge of his nose. Ryūō approaches and leans against the wall next to your bed. His eyes lit up with curiosity.

“You two know each other?”

Zayne looks over at him and sighs. He puts his glasses back on and turns to face you again.

“Sylus, this is my sister.”

“You have a sister?”

Ryūō, or rather Sylus as Zayne referred to him, undoes the straps of his helmet. With his real name used, he doesn’t see a need for it anymore. As soon as he pulls it off, you wish he hadn’t. His eyes were stunning, but now seeing them with the rest of his face… You almost forgot about the pain in your leg. The sharp line of his jaw, his prominent nose, his heart-shaped lips set in a smirk - he’s devastating. He removes his beanie and runs a hand through his hair, the same silvery white as your own. He looks too young for it to be natural, but then again, so do you.

Sylus raises a brow and you realize you’ve been caught staring. You return your focus to Zayne.

“Zayne, what are you doing?”

He shifts uncomfortably, but then he catches sight of your leg and his anger melts into concern.

“Questions later.”

He motions for Sylus.

“We need to get her into the OR.”

“Zayne, you’re not going to perform surgery on me in an apartment, are you?!”

Sylus picks you up and you yelp. He smiles down at you and looks to be thoroughly enjoying your embarrassment. He walks back into the makeshift operating room and sets you down on the raised bed. Zayne washes his hands at the sink in the corner and puts on a fresh pair of gloves. He begins to examine your leg, completely ignoring your influx of questions.

“The skin is broken, but it’s just a cut, not a compound. Zayne, talk to me.”

Zayne puts pressure on either side of the wound and a trickle of blood oozes from the wound, dripping down your leg. You gasp and Zayne looks at you over his glasses. Typical.

“Zayne, seriously, you’re not –”

“Wouldn’t be the first surgery I’ve performed here.” He interrupts. “I won’t operate if I don’t have to, but I need to know how serious this is.”

You groan, wincing with every poke and prod.

“She needs an x-ray.”

Sylus is picking you up again before you can even comment. There’s no way they have an x-ray machine here, impossible. Sylus seemingly reads your mind.

“We have an MRI too. Impressive, right?”

He carries you into a room with a whole ass x-ray machine, the wall nearby lined with aprons. Sylus places you on the table and moves to let Zayne work. He drapes an apron over your stomach and hips, carefully straightens your leg, moves the detector under your leg and the collimator overhead.

“You know the drill.”

You cross your arms and look at the wall in the opposite direction. Zayne’s footsteps, joined by Sylus’s, exit the room and after a few minutes you hear the machine turn on. You force yourself to stay still and try your best to calm your racing mind. Zayne is the head of the Cardiothoracic department, why is he working as an underground doctor on the side?

“Turn to the right, if you can.”

Zayne’s voice echoes from a speaker somewhere in the dark room. You carefully rotate and let your leg rest on its side. Another brief moment of silence before the machine whirs. The machine shuts off and he and Sylus re-enter the room to collect you. Once you’re in the “operating room” again, Zayne leaves to get the x-ray results and Sylus goes into the recovery room and closes the door partially. You’re left alone with your thoughts for a moment and it takes all your willpower not to spiral.

“Is it done?”

Sylus’s muffled voice grabs your attention and you look up to see him in the partially opened doorway. You silently pray he doesn’t look over, because you’re absolutely staring now. He pulls his sweater over his head and tosses it in front of him as he talks on the phone, your mouth starts watering. Jesus, you really need to get laid or something, this is embarrassing.

His bare torso is like a canvas at an art gallery with all the ornate tattoos etched into his smooth skin. His arms were covered in what looked like traditional Yakuza tattoos, but they were somehow… softer. The lines are delicate, faded, merging to create something beautiful. The arm you could see has traditional Japanese waves and bright red maple leaves. When he turns, the lines of something almost geometric etched along his back, like wings, come into view. As he slides a t-shirt over his head, you spot the body of a dragon weaving down his side and over his stomach, disappearing at his waistband. You have a single moment to get your shit together before he re-enters the room and approaches you. You keep your eyes locked on your hands, picking at your fingernails.

“So, what should I call you?”

You force yourself to look up at him, putting on your best poker face before you give yourself away. But before you can speak, you see another tattoo and your brain shuts down. His sweater and helmet covered most of his neck, so now you can see it clearly, especially with how close he is to you. Down the center of his neck a traditional katana striking through the mouth of the lower half of an Oni mask. The mask is a gorgeous scarlet, surrounded by matching spider lilies.

“Like what you see?”

Shit.

You clear your throat and meet his eyes.

“Just admiring the tattoo… It’s nice.”

He smiles and dips his head to level with you.

“Just call me Yuki.”

Sylus opens his mouth to respond, but Zayne cuts him off.

“You’re extremely lucky.”

He holds the film up to the light and points to the hairline fracture along your tibia. You let out a relieved sigh. Zayne sets the film down and pulls his chair over to the table before carefully laying out a suturing kit.

“I still need to suture this and I recommend using crutches, but knowing you, a boot will suffice.”

He turns to wash his hands, slowly rolling up his sleeves. If you had a dollar for every time you’re rendered speechless tonight, you’d have enough to buy multiple overpriced coffees at the hospital coffee cart.

“Zayne?! What the fuck?”

Zayne dries his hands and wrists before grabbing a pair of gloves. He returns to the table and opens a new syringe to prepare the local anesthetic. Your eyes are locked on his wrists and forearms, you’re barely able to form a sentence.

“When… when did you… wha…”

Zayne looks at you, a small smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. He injects the anesthetic and begins to clean the surrounding skin.

“When did you get tattoos?”

He chuckles under his breath and sits back in his chair, looking down at his nearly blacked out forearms. Patterns of icicles and snowflakes stand out against the dark ink. The tattoos continue up to his elbows and, you assume, beyond. But his hands are completely bare and the starting line is perfectly lined up with the ends of his sleeves. How many other tattoos does he have hidden?

“A few years ago.”

You reach out to hit him, but he rolls his chair backwards to grab more gauze.

“Did you have them when I got my first one?”

He hesitates before rolling back over. He refuses to meet your eyes and you grab the pillow behind you, launching it straight for his head.

“And you let mom and dad lecture me about tattoos being ‘inappropriate for the workplace’ especially ‘within the medical community’ - and you said NOTHING!”

Sylus laughs, clearly enjoying the argument.

“No one knows. I don’t show them to anyone.”

“I know.”

Sylus’s shit-eating grin almost makes you forget yourself.

“Of course you know. You were there when I got them.”

Your eyes widen and you look between the two men.

“Wait, how long have you two known each other?!”

Zayne gently taps the skin around the wound and you shake your head. He begins threading the needle and conveniently ignores your question to focus. Sylus, on the other hand, is more than happy to give context.

“About six years ago now, right doc? A little incident helped our paths cross. Since then we’ve been associates, maybe even friends.”

Zayne glares at Sylus over his glasses.

“I wouldn’t go that far.”

Sylus gasps dramatically.

“Oh, I’m hurt, I thought we had something, doc.”

Zayne shakes his head and begins suturing the wound closed. His steady hands threading the skin and carefully pulling it closed. While you know it’s numb, you still wince at the sensation of something lightly pricking at your skin. Zayne keeps his focus on your leg as Sylus crosses his arms to watch him work.

“Tattoos, a clinic on the border to the N109 Zone, an illegal one at that. Who are you?”

Zayne’s jaw twitches, his movements remain slow and steady. He finishes a perfect line of sutures and looks up.

“I’m not the only one with secrets. You’re a racer? Illegal bike racing? If you get caught you can kiss your residency at Akso goodbye, and your career for that matter.”

You rub your hands down your face and shrug.

“Guess we both have alter egos then.”

He scoffs and stands to grab a roll of gauze. He bends your knee and places your foot flat on the bed and does one final clean before wrapping your leg.

“What were you thinking… you could have died.”

Zayne’s voice is clipped, but you can feel his concern. Your chest aches and you dig your nails into your thighs, none of this should be happening to begin with. With your adrenaline level and your wound addressed, the metaphorical fog clears and you remember what’s at stake.

“No no no no… fuck… I’m fucked…”

Zayne stops wrapping your leg to hold onto your knee, attempting to steady you. Your body shakes violently.

“Is she in shock again?”

Sylus hurries to your side and looks to Zayne for answers. Zayne presses the back of his hand to your forehead and reaches up to hold your face in his hands.

“Hey, hey, breathe, what’s going on?”

The time for shame was long gone, your career was hanging by a thread and now your life might be as well. Sylus leans on the bed and looks down at you, his stoic expression softened with concern.

“I… I owe someone.”

Sylus and Zayne share a look. You flop back onto the bed and cover your eyes with your arm.

“I started racing a few years ago. I was doing so well in amateur races that I got invited to the professional, high stakes ones.”

“The buy-in for those races… how did you afford that?”

Zayne was all too familiar with the financial struggle of residency. He not only lived through it, but started the Residency Relief program at Akso to help struggling residents.

“I did… really well in the amateur scene.”

“You gambled.”

You prop yourself up on your elbows, glaring at Zayne as he tapes over the gauze.

“And I made enough money to pay off my student loans and cover the downpayment for my apartment. The rest I invested in my bike and it paid off.”

“So what went wrong?”

You lock eyes with Sylus, his finger rhythmically tapping his cheek as he listens.

“There was a competition and I… I made a bad investment. I didn’t even place. When I found out who I really made the deal with… it was too late, I’ve been trying to pay him back.”

“How much?”

Zayne removes his glasses and crosses his arms. God, he looks like dad when he does that - it’s terrifying.

“I bet $250k…”

Zayne’s mouth drops open and Sylus chuckles.

“And let me guess, the bastard slapped a loser's fee and interest on top.”

You side-eye Sylus, of course, he would know the ins and outs of racing bets.

“The total came out to a little over $600k.”

“Fuckin’ hell.”

Zayne collapses back in his chair as Sylus whistles.

“How much have you paid back?”

You cover your face, you never thought shame or embarrassment could kill, but here you are, barely hanging on.

“He doesn’t do payment plans.”

“Who?”

Sylus’s voice is rough, darker than before. You drop your hands and look up at him. He doesn’t look away, his eyes burn straight through you. You barely know who Sylus is outside of who he presents himself to be as Ryūō. He rests his knuckles on the bed and leans forward, his nose almost brushing yours.

“Who?”

You clear your throat and try to maintain eye contact.

“Volkova.”

Sylus smiles. A sinister, venomous smile that sends a chill down your spine.

“I had nearly $500k saved and today’s race was supposed to be the last one. I was so careful, planning everything, I’d only have to make one double or nothing bet and I’d have enough to pay off Volkova and get caught up on bills. Maybe even have a little extra to chuck for savings. It was a track I’ve done before, turnout was lower than predicted, I was so goddamn close.”

“And then you crashed.”

You can’t stop the tears from spilling over. Sylus stands and crosses the room to look out the window. Zayne stands and rounds the bed to sit beside you. His arm wraps around your shoulders and he pulls you into a hug.

“I lost everything… I can’t pay… He’s going to…”

“He’s not going to do anything, I’ll write a check.”

You push against his chest so you can look him in the eye.

“No, you can’t. He’ll see your name and… he’ll come after you. Writing a check for that much, for me?”

“You’re worried he’ll extort me? I can give you cash.”

“He’s tracking my bank statements, he’ll see a massive cash out and realize I lost a bet. And then if I suddenly pay him in full he’ll be suspicious, he’ll find out, I know he will.”

“Did he give you a deadline? Maybe we can stagger the deposits?”

Your chest caves as you fall forward, Zayne catches you and holds you close.

“It’s… in a week. I’m… I’m sorry… I’m so sorry… god…”

Sylus’s voice startles you, the timbre of his voice making you shiver.

“I’m guessing he didn’t tell you exactly what will happen if you fail to pay?”

You peek over Zayne’s shoulder at him. He sways gently, his hands tucked in his pockets. His strong features bathed in moonlight. When you don’t respond, he continues.

“He’ll probably use you. If he knows you’re a doctor, he’ll probably make you his private, personal and permanent physician. Forcing you to be available to him at any given moment.”

You shiver at the thought of being dragged into some dark warehouse to dig bullet fragments out of wounds or ordering you to steal medicine from Akso.

“I have a solution for you.”

Both you and Zayne sit up and look over at Sylus, who finally turns to face you.

“Marry me.”

“What?!” You and Zayne shout in unison.

Sylus laughs, he rubs the back of his neck as he walks over to the side of the bed. You expect his expression to change, to make it clear his offer was a joke, but his jaw is set, brows relaxed - he’s serious? He places a hand behind you and leans down.

“We’d both benefit.”

Zayne stands and yanks Sylus back. He meets his gaze as an unnatural chill settles between them. You look over Zayne’s arms, the dark ink doesn’t hide the veins of ice forming, they spread down his wrists and over his hands. You see Sylus eyeing the crystals of ice forming on his sleeve where Zayne holds onto him.

“Doc, I assure you, it’s a business arrangement, not a plot to get into your sister’s pants.”

Zayne’s eye twitches as snowflakes start to subtly fall around the men. You shift to the side of the bed and try to stand up, indoor flurries are never a good sign, he’s about to snap. When your feet hit the floor, you stumble, your legs are weaker than you expected.

“Shit!”

The sensation of falling only lasts a moment before you are weightless, streams of black and red circle around you keeping you upright. The threads pick you up effortlessly and sit you back on the bed. Zayne rushes to your side and holds onto your shoulders, forcing you to sit back as he guides your leg back up on the bed. Sylus remains stationary, but you feel his eyes on you.

“What was that?”

“It’s his evol, are you okay? What were you doing?”

You shove Zayne back.

“Stopping you from making him into a popsicle!”

Zayne glares at you, he tucks his hands under his arms to hide the frost, even though he knows you’ve already seen it.

“Don’t tell me you’re considering it?”

“I don’t think I’m in any state to consider anything!”

Zayne’s expression softens, he knows you’re right. He hasn’t even addressed your blood loss or potential road rash across your back. He uncrosses his arms and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, gently holding your face for a moment.

“You’re right. I’m going to get an IV from the kitchen, we’ll talk about all of this once you’ve rested.”

Your brows knit together and you open your mouth, but Zayne already knows your question.

“Don’t ask. I’ll be right back.”

He leaves and you make a mental note to ask about the kitchen IVs later. You sense Sylus' approach, and you slowly look over to him.

“I’m serious, by the way. Think it over. I’ll be in touch.”

He turns to leave and you reach out to grab onto his arm. His muscles twitch and he stares at your hand before dragging his eyes up to meet yours.

“My… my bike?”

Sylus places his hand over yours. His warmth spreads through your fingers, up your arm and straight to your head. Your cheeks flush as he rubs his thumb over the back of your hand.

“It’s been delivered to the shop. And the crash site has been cleaned. No blood, or vomit, left behind.”

You pull your hand back, god, you want to crawl into a hole and never come out. Sylus’ raspy laugh doesn’t help things, your head spins just from his touch, and he wants to marry you? For business, of course, but… no, you can’t really be considering this? Right?

“Talk to you soon, Yuki.”

You’re dissociating again. Everything feels far away, sounds, smells, even your vision - it’s like you’re looking through a tube. Your nerves are so fried when a hand touches your shoulder you jump.

“Oh, sorry! Your eggs are burning hun.”

Yvonne’s soothing voice slowly draws you back to this plane of existence. Looking down you see your eggs are sticking to the pan in dark clumps. You jab at them with a spatula and it dawns on you, you didn’t put butter down first. You pick up the pan and carry it to the sink, dropping it into the empty side with a loud clatter. You turn on the water and a huge plume of smoke billows upwards as the cool water hits the hot pan. You cough, swinging your hand wildly.

“Shit…”

Yvonne rushes to the balcony door and slides it open before grabbing the newspaper off the kitchen table to fan the smoke outside. Ollie, your rambunctious Maine Coon, rushes out the door and jumps up on the railing.

“Ollie! No!”

You abandon the smoking pan to run after him, he’s too clumsy to sit on the railing like that. You approach him with your hands on your hips and he dips his head. He’s the perfect mix of black and white, his green eyes blinking slowly as he tries to guilt trip you into letting him stay. Not today. You pick him up and he stretches his front legs around your neck, his hugs will always soothe your soul.

“Come on ya big baby. You can be outside if you use your tower, not the railing.”

You plop him down on the top level of his cat tower and hurry back inside. Greyson is at the sink addressing the mess you made. He looks over his shoulder and gives you his best attempt at a scowl.

“What is up with you lately? You didn’t even turn off the stove!”

“I’m sorry… I’ve just… Not being at work has been messing with my head.”

Zayne convinced, or rather forced, you to take at least 3 days off to let the swelling in your leg go down before returning to work. No one questioned his approval for your time off and Greyson and Yvonne have been hesitant to ask what really happened to your leg. Your story about falling down the stairs at the gym was… less than convincing.

“Well you get to go back tomorrow, yeah?”

You nod and sit down at the kitchen table. Yvonne places a bowl of cereal in front of you and you give her an apologetic smile. She runs her hand through your hair and looks over at Greyson.

“How about we bring home dinner tonight? We can play jeopardy, Greyson, you still have the board from last time, right?”

He nods, carrying the pan to the garbage can to scrape the burnt egg into the trash.

“Yeah, I’ve written up some new prompts too.”

Greyson prides himself on the jeopardy game he created to help residents study for the boards. Even Zayne was impressed with the level of detail.

“Okay then! We’ll see you tonight. Call me if you need anything, promise?”

You smile up at Yvonne, she’s been your best friend since the very first day of your residency. This soft spoken, tiny woman was a powerhouse when she needed to be. She had worked at Akso as a nurse for about 3 years before taking an extended leave to attend medical school. She’d earned her place in the residency program before she even graduated. Greyson, an attending, had started dating Yvonne when she was still a nurse. They’ve been together ever since. Moving in with them was an… interesting decision, but you’ve never once regretted it.

“Shit, we’re gonna be late.”

Greyson rushes out of the kitchen and into his and Yvonne’s shared bedroom. Yvonne giggles and pats your shoulder.

“With how he drives, there’s no shot we’re late.”

You laugh while she follows him into the bedroom to finish getting ready. Ollie jumps up on the table and lays down in front of your bowl. He might have been the runt of his liter, but when he stretches he’s still extremely long, almost the width of the table. He gives you the saddest look and you know what he’s asking for. You finish your cereal and dip your finger in the milk, extending it to him so he can lick it off. His little chirp of satisfaction brings a smile to your face.

Greyson and Yvonne leave a few minutes later and you’re on your own. During your time off, you’ve tried studying or reviewing old case notes, but your current predicament was too distracting. How are you supposed to focus on your boards when your life hangs in the balance?

Ring Ring

Your cell phone chimes and your stomach drops when you see the caller ID. The only unknown caller you’re used to getting calls from is Volkova. And he called yesterday… Did he find out about the accident? Does he know you lost all the money you’d saved?

“Hello?”

“Good morning Yuki, how’ve you been?”

A voice deeper and rougher than Volkova’s flows through the phone. Your breath catches in your throat for a moment as you search for the right words. You hadn’t expected to hear from Sylus so soon.

“I’m… umm… I’ve been better.”

“I assume you’ve heard from Volkova?”

You grunt as you stand from the table to shuffle over to the couch. You flop down and cover your eyes with your hand.

“I – oof!”

“What happened?”

You start to laugh as you look down at Ollie who jumped up on your chest. He crouches down and tucks his front paws under, the ultimate loaf. You rub his ears and his motor starts, you’re sure even Sylus can hear him purring.

“It’s nothing, just my cat. Wasn’t ready for his chunky butt to land on my chest!”

Sylus chuckles, he sounds almost… relieved?

“But yes, I’ve heard from Volkova.”

“Four days, right?”

Goosebumps spread over your body. The threat Volkova made is still fresh in your mind.

“Yes, and according to him, I won’t like what happens if I don’t have the money.”

Sylus pauses. A tear drips down your cheek and you close your eyes to slow the flow.

“Have you considered my offer?”

You let out a shaky breath and hold onto Ollie, the steady rumble of his purring grounds you.

“I don’t get it, how does marrying you fix anything? I mean, I assume you have some kind of power if you think Volkova wouldn’t fuck with me if I’m with you. But then – I mean, what’s in it for you? I’m just a doctor! Not even an official doctor, I’m a resident. I don’t understand how –”

“Woah, slow down there sweetie. I can only answer one question at a time.”

His sudden switch up in nicknames renders you speechless. You close your mouth and wait for him to start filling in the blanks.

“You assume I have some kind of power?”

“Yes.”

“How familiar are you with the N109 Zone?”

“Not very, I mostly just know the city layout thanks to races.”

Sylus laughs, the sound is infectious. It’s a carefree laugh, you’re a tad envious.

“What do you know about Onychinus?”

“The gang?”

“I prefer ‘criminal organization’.”

You open your mouth to respond, but the only sound that escapes is a squeak. Ollie’s ears twitch and his eyes open half-way, he stares at your mouth as if waiting for a mouse to crawl out. You lift your hand to rake through your hair.

“Surprised?”

You nod, realizing a few seconds later that he, in fact, cannot see you.

“Ye-yeah. You… you’re…?”

“The N109 Zone has been relatively peaceful under my control, but now Volkova has weaseled his way into the racing scene. And apparently, is taking advantage of young women who’ve clearly never made high-stakes bets before.”

“Hey!”

“So you were aware he would charge you an outrageous losers fee and stack unrealistic interest rates?”

You can’t argue with him there. If you had known, you never would have made the bet.

“Volkova’s been in the game long enough to know a novice when he sees one. And you’re not the only one he’s doing this to. He’s crossing lines and staking a claim. In my territory. And that… just can’t happen.”

“So marriage…?”

“Marrying me puts you under my protection. You won’t be paying him a penny and unless he has a death wish, he won’t come after you. He needs to learn his place. And you need time to rebuild after the accident.”

“Rebuild?”

“I can offer you protection and stability while you get back on your feet, both physically and financially.”

“And I’m just supposed to be a pawn in your game with Volkova?”

“You’re already a pawn, I’m offering you a chance to become the queen. Protecting you from him is just one way you’ll be helping me regain control of the Zone.”

“What else do you expect from me then?”

“You’re a doctor, with a completely clean record. I have legal businesses who want to work with Onychinous but won’t sign a contract with my name on it. They’re worried it might ruin their reputation. You, however, can present yourself as an up-and-coming surgeon who wants to make the N109 Zone a ‘better place’ - they’ll sign in a heartbeat.”

“And no one will question why this completely clean ‘up-and-coming surgeon’ married the notorious leader of a ‘criminal organization’?”

“Of course they will, but if they know what’s good for them they’ll keep their mouths shut. And if you’re worried about your hospital friends, my public persona in circles where my real identity is a mystery, I’m just the owner of a successful Winery.”

“A Winery?”

“Who lives at his vineyard in the N109 Zone.”

Ollie’s automatic feeder turns on and the sound of his food trickling into the bowl wakes him up. He leaps onto the coffee table and sprints for the kitchen. You stand up and limp out onto the balcony. His plan is solid, his offer makes sense… no matter how many times you review it in your mind, you can’t find a reason to turn it down.

“Still with me?”

“Yeah, yeah… I just… I don’t want it to seem like… ugh…”

“It’s not about the money. I’m not buying you and you’re not a gold digger. We’re partners in this, business partners.”

The tension in your shoulders fade, the knot in your stomach uncoils, and you can finally take a deep breath for the first time in weeks. You’ve always been independent, determined to take care of yourself with zero help from anyone. Sylus wasn’t offering to fix it for you, you’d be helping each other. You’d never even considered getting married, your career was more important. But this was a business deal, logical, realistic, beneficial for multiple parties. It wouldn’t intrude on your career plan.

“Okay. Let’s do it. On one condition.”

“And what is that Yuki?”

“We revisit this arrangement yearly. If it’s no longer beneficial for both of us, we part ways. I’ll sign a prenup or whatever else you want if you agree that we’re not going to take advantage of each other.”

“Deal.”

You stare at your hands.

“So what now?”

“Give me a day to make arrangements. We won’t do anything ostentatious, it’ll draw too many wandering eyes. But we’ll want Volkova to hear about it and see us together, just so the message is clear. I’ll call you tonight. I suggest talking to your family, whatever story you come up with I’ll play along.”

“Okay, yeah…”

“Talk to you soon.”

He hangs up and you stare at your phone. When you decided to get into racing you never thought you’d end up here. You know would-ofs and could-ofs are pointless, but your whole life is about to change. You pull up Zayne’s number. Your parents have become more easy-going in their old age, they won’t like the idea of a shotgun wedding, but you doubt they’ll cut you off because of it. You’re their baby girl, they’ve always been a little softer with you. Zayne, on the other hand…

“Hello?”

“Hey Zayne!”

“Are you okay? Did your stitches rip?”

“No no, I’m okay. I need to talk to you. Could you come over for lunch?”

Zayne is silent for a while. You’re tempted to repeat the question, but he clears his throat.

“I can. I’ll put Greyson on call for me.”

“Okay, yeah! Umm… I’ll make some…”

You stand up and waddle into the kitchen, which still smells like burnt eggs.

“Actually, I’ll order something. Does noon work?”

He hums in agreement. Before you can say another word you hear the tell-tale sound of his pager. He gives you a hasty goodbye and hangs up, probably running down the hall to the OR by now. The possibility of Zayne being angry with you turns your stomach. He’s the most important person in your life, you can’t lose him.

Meow!

Ollie strolls into the kitchen and rubs against your boot. You stumble as you shift your leg away, he clearly doesn’t care that you’re unsteady because he just turns to rub your other leg. You bend over and pick him up, his legs wrap around your neck and you shove your face into his fur.

“Don’t worry buddy, you’re still my baby boy. Nothing will change that.”

He purrs and rubs his face into your hair. At least you’ll always have Ollie.

You’ve just set down the last box of takeout when your doorbell rings again. You shuffle over to the door and peek through the peephole. Zayne stands on the other side with a small box in his hands, his hair wet from the rain that started just moments ago. You swing open the door and invite him in.

“It was just sunny out 15 minutes ago! Where did this storm come from?”

Zayne sets the box on the entry table and shrugs his coat off, hanging it on the hook by the door. You pick up the box and lift up a corner. You see two cupcakes, decorated with a thick layer of chocolate frosting. Zayne smacks your hand away and takes the box back.

“The Italian bakery across the street from Akso added new items to their menu.”

He walks past you and sets the box down amongst the takeout boxes. You follow him and push a container towards him.

“Well, I got onigiri, udon and curry rice from Katei ryōri, they opened up a new location closer to us so Greyson and Yvonne have been ordering a ton. I had coupons for free nama donuts cause they’ve been ordering so much. So you can pick and choose, whatever you want, totally up to you and –”

“You’re rambling.”

Zayne sits down and opens the udon to put in a bowl. You sit across from him and pick at your fingernails. He watches you as he makes himself a plate of curry rice.

“I assume you wanted to talk to me about the Volkova situation?”

You nod.

“So, you’re accepting my help, yes?”

You shake your head. He sets the container of rice down, takes off his glasses and tucks them in his breast pocket. He links his fingers together and rests his arms on the table, leaning forward to stare at you.

“Zayne…”

“Please tell me you’re not considering Sylus’s offer.”

You bite your lip and dig your nails into your palms.

“I already agreed to it.”

Zayne’s face goes from stern to shocked to angry in rapid succession. He pushes his chair back and stands. He walks toward the door and takes his coat off the hook. You quickly stand and run - well more like quickly walk - to stop him. You grab his coat and hold it tight against you.

“Zayne please…”

“You’ve already made up your mind. I’m not sure why you couldn’t have told me this over the phone.”

His tone is eerily calm.

“Because you would have hung up on me and avoided me for weeks. I know you think this is a bad idea, but…”

“It is a bad idea.”

“I haven’t been able to think about anything else since the accident. I’ve tried to figure out a way to deal with this and Sylus’s offer makes the most sense.”

“How can you possibly think that? You don’t even know who he is!”

“I do! He told me. And this arrangement is beneficial for both of us, it’s like a business deal! It’s the most logical –”

“A business deal? You’re marrying him. You’re making vows. How can you think this is the best option? I’m right here, offering you a way out and you’re trusting him over your own brother?”

He reaches for his coat, but you hold tight. He rubs the bridge of his nose and retrieves his glasses, sliding them on before grabbing the door handle. He only opens the door a crack before you step in front of him and press your back against it, slamming it shut.

“Zayne please! I… I need to do this. You don’t have to like it, but I’m begging you, please, please don’t walk away.”

Zayne’s image becomes blurry as your eyes fill with tears. Your big brother has always been there for you, if he walks away now you’re not sure how you’ll handle it. He turns and walks into your living room, sitting in the armchair by the window. Ollie jumps up on his lap and he doesn’t even try to push him away.

“What will mom and dad think?”

You sit down across from him and quickly swipe a tear away as it falls.

“I’ve already talked to them.”

Zayne looks up with wide eyes. Ollie chirps as if he’s responding in kind.

“I told them I met someone and I didn’t mention being in a relationship because I didn’t think it would last given the pressure of residency. That he proposed and we don’t want to waste time or money on a big wedding. Mom’s surprised but happy and dad’s just glad he doesn’t have to pay for anything.”

“And what do they think he does?”

“Sylus told me he has a persona that owns a Winery. That his vineyard is in the N109 Zone and he’s very private.”

“And what are you going to tell mom when she asks about grandkids?”

“She’s always known I put my career first. That won’t change.”

“So you’re just going to marry him and what? Live a lie?”

And with that, your last shred of self-control disappears.

“You can’t say shit about living a lie! You have secrets that I still can’t wrap my head around! Tattoos? A secret clinic or, actually, a whole ass secret hospital that you use to treat racers and whoever else Sylus might bring to you! You can’t be serious, Zayne!”

Zayne looks down at Ollie on his lap. His nimble fingers stroke the center of his forehead, making Ollie’s eyes close.

“Sylus helped me a few years ago. I wouldn’t be a doctor if he hadn’t stepped in. I doubt I’d be alive. And you’re right, I do have secrets. I never wanted you to get too close because you have your whole career ahead of you. But now…”

He finally looks up at you, his anger long gone, replaced with fear. You’ve never seen him look afraid. He was always your brave big brother. Helping you manage your shared evol, teaching you how to use it to keep bullies away when you entered high school, protecting you from Wanderers or creeps on the street. But now, he’s afraid, and you don’t know why.

“Now you’re facing something equally as dangerous and I… I don’t want you to throw away your future.”

You lean forward and take his hand, ignoring Ollie’s disgruntled growls as Zayne stops petting him.

“I’m not. I’m making sure I still have one and that I’m the one in control of it.”

“And you think Sylus can give you that?”

“I do.”

Zayne sighs. When he looks up at you again, his fear has been locked away.

“I still don’t think it’s a good idea, but… I will support you. Just don’t come running to me when you realize what a pain in the ass Sylus is!”

You giggle and stand to wrap and arm around him. His stiff posture relaxes and he pats your shoulder.

“Let’s eat, I have a left ventricular remodeling in an hour.”

When Sylus informed you the wedding would be on Saturday - literally 2 days away - you may have panicked just a bit. And by a bit, you may have spiraled while on the phone with him and he had to talk you through some breathing exercises.

“We’re scheduled with Judge Bishop for noon. We’ll get the vows and paperwork out of the way and then around 5 the reception will start.”

“The reception?”

“Since we’re doing a private ceremony, a public reception is the best way to get the news out. It’ll also be a chance for you to celebrate with your friends and family - I don’t want our arrangement to drive a wedge in your relationships.”

You lay back on your bed and pull your blanket up to your chin. Ollie chirps at the sudden change in his sleeping arrangement. He quickly readjusts, curling into a ball against your back.

“Okay, vows at noon, reception at 5.”

“Tell you what, how about we meet for dinner on Friday night. We can go over the details in person. I have a few more things to finalize anyway.”

“Uhh dinner? Wh-where?”

Sylus is quiet for a moment.

“I’ll pick you up after work and we’ll go wherever you like.”

Work was unbearably slow - which is objectively a good thing in the medical field - but you’re miserable. Ever since you told Greyson and Yvonne about the wedding, they’ve been distant, even at work. When Yvonne finally stopped giving you the silent treatment, she nearly cried arguing with you over why you kept your “relationship” a secret from her. While she forgave you, you know she’ll be hesitant to trust you for a while.

Friday afternoon held the same pattern, the ER was slow, your appointments were postponed thanks to your leg and Yvonne and Greyson avoided you for the most part. Thankfully they sat with you at lunch to discuss the reception happening the following evening. And by the time your shift was over, Yvonne was hugging you and squealing about being invited to the vow exchange. She would be your maid of honor if you’d done things the traditional way, so she deserved to be there.

While you thought ahead and brought a dress to change into, you were almost tempted to just wear your scrubs. Why were you trying to dress nicely for him? He wasn’t marrying you for your looks - it shouldn’t matter. Right? Against your better judgement, you peel off your scrubs and carefully pull on a pair of thick black tights, adding a pair of leg warmers to protect your bandages from your walking boot. The black oversized sweater dress you toss over your head is one of the few dresses you own that you actually wear. Your phone buzzes on the bench next to you and you nearly drop your lipstick.

Sylus 𝘐’𝘮 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘵, 𝘶𝘯𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘱𝘪𝘤𝘬 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘶𝘱 𝘦𝘭𝘴𝘦𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦?

Me 𝘐’𝘭𝘭 𝘣𝘦 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘪𝘯 𝘢 𝘴𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘥, 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘨𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘥.

You stuff your scrubs in your backpack and pull on your denim jacket. The walk to the front entrance from the locker room wasn’t far, but you hoped you wouldn’t run into anyone who cared enough to ask why you were so “dressed up.”

The gust of cold air that hits you when you open the door makes your eyes water. Winter is fast approaching and you’ve barely had time to enjoy it. You even missed the first snow of the season thanks to an MCI that kept you in the operating room nearly 12 hours past the end of your shift. But it’s fitting, you getting married during the winter.

When you don’t see Sylus’s bike in the parking lot you stare at your phone, your finger hovering over the call button. Before you get a chance, he calls you.

“I’m not on my bike.”

“Oh, wait why?”

“I didn’t think you’d be too comfortable on a bike with that boot on your leg. I’m pulling up now.”

The call disconnects and you look up to see a blacked out Escalade pull up to the curb. The driver's door opens and you see the top of his head over the roof of the car, his hair nearly glowing under the fluorescent lights lining the entrance. He rounds the car and approaches the passenger side, opening the door for you. As you approach you notice there’s something different about him, and then you catch it, the sparkle of steel.

His ears are lined with various studs and small hoops, an industrial bar crossing the top of his left ear. A small septum hoop hangs above his lip, which holds two piercings of their own. Two silver studs sit on the outer edges of his lower lip. He raises a brow, bringing your attention to the piercing there as well. You can feel your mouth run dry.

“Is there something on my face?”

You roll your eyes to match his teasing tone.

“I just didn’t realize you had piercings…”

“I take them out when I’m racing, more comfortable. Now, after you…”

He motions towards the car and extends his hand for you. Accepting his help, you step up to the car. He places a hand on your waist and guides you onto the seat, bending to lift your bad leg into the car. He closes your door and returns to the driver’s side. Ignoring your pounding heart, you buckle yourself in.

“So where would you like to go?”

Sylus turns on the heat and you feel your legs warm. Heated seats? In a custom Escalade? Jesus. Suggesting a cheap burger feels out of the question.

“Uhh… well I don’t know what you like.”

“I’m not picky.”

“Well, maybe…”

You’ve only been to a handful of fancy restaurants in Linkon. And always as a result of a work related event: an employee appreciation dinner, the first year residency celebration and a Christmas banquet. Only one name comes to you and you pray you can remember what you ordered.

“The Linkon Grille?”

Sylus nods and pulls away from the hospital entrance. As he drives, you take this opportunity to examine him out of the corner of your eye. Sleek black suit pants, a red dress shirt with the collar open to showcase a stack of silver necklaces and his signature leather jacket. You’ve always wanted to ask why he wore a jacket with, what looks like, red and white lightning strikes when it didn’t quite match his alias.

“Is the lightning intentional?”

You’ve always wanted to ask, you had no intention of ACTUALLY asking, oh god. Sylus smiles.

“Not really. I liked how it looked, so I bought it.”

Might as well keep the conversation going.

“You wear it when racing, does it… relate to Ryūō somehow?”

“No. My helmet has Ryūō artwork, my jacket is just a jacket.”

“Oh…”

Okay, no more attempts at small talk, you suck at it. Thankfully, you arrive at the restaurant before you have to explain your silence. The valet approaches and Sylus hops out to open your door. He helps you out and hands the keys to the young man.

“Shit… I’m not sure if this place requires reservations…”

“How many times have you been here?”

You stare at the ground as you walk. Sylus laughs, but doesn’t stop. He opens the door for you and rests his hand on your lower back to guide you inside.

The interior was outrageously ornate - dark wood, armchairs instead of dining chairs, waiters wearing gloves carrying boxes of cigars to each table. You’re out of your depth here.

Sylus approaches the hostess and you don’t miss how she gives you both a once over and scowls before speaking.

“Hello! Do you have a reservation?”

You stare at your feet to hide your embarrassment.

“It’ll be under Ony.”

You look up at him to find him smiling from ear to ear. The hostess pauses for a moment before looking at her book. Her expression changes to sheer terror a moment later and her entire demeanor changes.

“Oh, Mr. Sylus! I apologize, I didn’t recognize you! Would you like your regular table?”

“That’s fine. Shall we?”

He extends his arm and you hook your hand around it. You follow the hostess to a private table at the back of the restaurant. Sylus helps you out of your coat and pulls your chair out for you. He hands your coats to the hostess who apologizes once again before rushing through a nearby door. A minute later a man in a three piece suit arrives with a bottle of wine.

“Mr. Sylus, I do apologize for Regina. Please accept this Pinot, free of charge.”

Sylus takes the bottle and traces his finger over the label. He smirks and hands the bottle to the man with a nod. He opens the bottle and pours two glasses.

“Just let me know when you’re ready to order and I’ll make sure Osvaldo prepares it personally.”

He sets down the bottle and bows before taking his leave. Sylus chuckles and you realize you’re completely zoned out, just staring at the bottle of wine.

“Maybe I should have mentioned I am an investor at this location.”

You pick up your glass and down the wine in one go, grabbing the bottle for a refill without hesitation. Sylus picks up his glass, twirling the stem between his fingers before taking a sip.

“I’ve been here once. I have no idea what to order and oh my god, this wine is expensive!”

You look at the label and recognize the brand. Just one bottle would set you back two months rent. You set the bottle down and push your glass away. Sylus leans forward and fills your glass himself.

“Please, indulge.”

“I can’t… I can’t afford this.”

“Sweetie… When you’re with me, you’ll pay for nothing. That’s part of our business arrangement.”

“Since when?”

“Right now. Correct me if I’m wrong, but I don’t think you’re a caviar and oyster girl.”

You wince, your last experience with oysters had not ended well. You shake your head.

“How about I order for you? If you don’t like it, I’ll order something new until you find something you like.”

Your cheeks warm, surely it’s just the alcohol. You nod.

“Benji, we’re ready.”

You look around, wondering who he is talking to and gasp when you turn around and see the man who brought the wine appear out of thin air. Sylus swirls the wine in his glass and keeps his eyes locked on you while he orders.

“We’ll both have the lamb chops over lobster mash with honey glazed carrots. And tell Osvaldo to make some fresh espresso, we’ll be having tiramisu for dessert.”

The man nods and rushes away. Just the thought of tiramisu makes your mouth water. You pick up your glass and take a small sip, taking a moment to savor it this time.

“So… tomorrow…”

Sylus smiles, he’s clearly enjoying the effect he has on you.

“Yes, tomorrow. Paperwork at noon, reception at 5. Do you have any questions you’d like to ask?”

“Yes… a ton actually… uh…”

“We have all night, sweetie. Take your time.”

You forgo your tiny sips and down the rest of your second glass. You reach for the bottle to refill while considering which question you want to ask first.

“The reception, where will it be held?”

“I own a club along the border to the zone.”

“A club?”

“Paradise.”

“You own Paradise?!”

“Is it really that shocking?”

“No, I just… I’ve heard about it from my colleagues and it’s… impressive.”

“I take it you’ve never been?”

You take another sip of wine, your body slowly relaxing as the buzz from the alcohol settles in.

“I don’t really go to clubs, or parties for that matter. My weekends are for sleeping and studying.”

“You and Zayne are very similar then.”

“Aha… yeah, now you’ll say I copied my big brother in becoming a doctor, right?”

Sylus frowns, he taps his wine glass.

“I wasn’t going to say that.”

You clear your throat and stare at your wine glass, wondering if you’ll be officially drunk if you chug this third glass.

“Is that what most people say? That you copied your brother?”

You nod and place your glass on the table, forcing yourself to make eye contact with your future husband.

“I skipped the same grades, went to the same medical school, was offered the same residency at Akso, where he works. I mean, we even have the same evol. It’s like I’m a carbon copy.”

“I disagree. You don’t look like him, that’s one difference.”

“I used to, when I was a kid. People thought we were twins.”

“Is that why you changed your hair?”

You tuck a strand of your ivory locks behind your ear, subconsciously twirling the end over and over.

“I… didn’t…”

His brows drew together and you chuckled.

“I have pernicious anemia. Basically, my body doesn’t produce the protein needed to absorb B12. Usually, the lack of B12 would cause hair loss, but in some rare cases it can cause premature graying. My hair started turning white when I was 10, but I had been dealing with symptoms for a year before that. I missed a lot of school because I couldn’t stay awake and I’d faint from dizzy spells. I was in the hospital for almost a month between figuring out what was wrong with me and then trying to get stabilized enough to go home. My hair has been white ever since.”

Sylus nods, his expression turning somber.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.”

“No, it’s okay! I mean, that time in the hospital is what made me want to become a doctor. My parents are both doctors, so I spent a lot of time in hospitals anyway, but as a patient I got to see the other side. I was like a puzzle. Watching everyone trying to figure it out was fascinating.”

“Are you okay now?”

“Oh yeah, I take vitamins and get B12 shots when I need to. It’s completely manageable. Just a horror show when you’re a kid, you know?”

He nods, but he doesn’t look up from his glass. You spot Benji rounding the corner and start to clap, making Sylus jump. He smiles as he watches you bounce in your seat as the food arrives. You almost whine when he pulls the wine bottle to his side of the table to keep you from grabbing it.

The tender lamb sits on a bed of lobster mashed potatoes, the honey glazed carrots perched on top with a healthy sprinkle of decorative herbs. The lamb is perfectly cooked, falling off the bone to swim in the savory potatoes. You can barely contain yourself, sighing loudly as you devour your meal.

“Oh… I like carrots!”

“That’s… great.”

Sylus sits back to watch you as you lift a carrot on your fork to look at it.

“Zayne doesn’t like them, I do, that’s another difference!”

He smiles, finally understanding your outburst.

“So I explained my hair, what about yours?”

Sylus runs a hand through his hair. He leans forward, resting his elbow on the table and his chin on his fist.

“What about it sweetie?”

“Why is it silver? And white? Silvery white. You’re too young for it to be natural.”

“My job is pretty stressful, it could be.”

You shake your head and squint at him.

“No, no. I can tell.”

“Well, I don’t know, if I’m honest. It’s been like this for as long as I can remember.”

“What about your parents? Will they be there tomorrow?”

Sylus’s smile falters and he looks down at his plate, lining the carrots up in a row with his fork.

“My parents are… gone. It’ll just be me and the twins tomorrow.”

“Twins! Oh… I’m sorry… I didn’t mean… uhh… wh-who are the twins?”

His gaze softens and he lifts a finger. You look over his shoulder to see Benji rush into the kitchen.

“Luke and Kieran. They work for me. They’ve become… like family, in a sense.”

“I look forward to meeting them.”

Benji reappears and sets two plates of tiramisu on the table.

“I can make a to-go box if you like ma’am?”

“Oh that would be lovely, thank you!”

He takes your plate and Sylus’s and disappears through the door once again. You reach for the plate closest to you, but Sylus pulls it away. You look up to glare at him.

“I thought we could practice for the cake cutting ceremony.”

“Oh! Uhm… okay… wait, there’s gonna be cake?”

“Of course. Chocolate with white icing and red roses. I thought it best to keep it classic. Unless you want something different?”

“That… that sounds beautiful. I… I honestly never thought about what kind of cake I would want. I never thought I’d get married.”

“Really? Why not?”

“Just… never thought about it. My career has always been my focus.”

Sylus places a plate between you and holds out a knife.

“Well, I hope you enjoy what I have planned for tomorrow regardless.”

You reach out and wrap your hand around his. You both guide the knife through the soft layers. You let go and pick up a dessert fork, watching him pick up a forkful first. You scoop up a bite and lean forward. Sylus moves the plate out of the way and extends his arm towards you. You carefully take the fork into your mouth while feeding Sylus his serving. The bitter espresso soaked ladyfingers melt on your tongue, the sweet cream so fluffy you could barely keep your eyes open.

Then you feel the fork in your hand move slightly. You finally break eye contact and look at his mouth, the corner tilting up into a smirk. You can feel his tongue circle the utensil, making sure every ounce of the delicious dessert is consumed. Your heart pounds in your chest and you lean back until the fork slips out of your mouth. He does the same and you stare at him for a moment, unsure what to say or do.

“You’ve got a little…”

He leans forward again and brushes his thumb over the corner of your mouth. You freeze, almost afraid he’ll feel how hot your skin is, or how your entire body is pulsing with your heart beat. He pulls his hand back to reveal a bit of cream on his thumb. You open your mouth to thank him, but you’re rendered speechless as he sticks his thumb in his mouth to suck the cream off.

“I think that went well, we just have to do it in front of a crowd tomorrow.”

You sit in silence, staring at his mouth. He tucks his bottom lip between his teeth and you watch the silver studs rotate slowly. He’s definitely aware you’re staring and doesn’t seem to give a fuck. He releases his lip and extends his hand to gently take hold of your chin. He tilts your head up until you meet his eyes.

“You think you can handle that, sweetie?”

You blink rapidly, trying to pull yourself out of your drunken, horny haze to reply.

“Yeah… yes. For sure.”

“I think you may have had too much to drink.”

You try to shake your head, but his fingers holding your chin keep you still.

“How about I get us a room? I don’t think I should drive.”

Your bleary eyes clear slightly and you sit back, pulling your chin from his grasp.

“You barely drank!”

“I have a relatively low tolerance. Buzzed-driving is still drunk-driving, you know.”

Benji approaches the table with your to-go box and gives Sylus a pat on the shoulder.

“Osvaldo is thrilled you ordered the tiramisu, he sends his thanks. Is there anything else I can do for you two tonight?”

“Yes, can you prepare my usual room and –”

Before Sylus can finish you wave your hands, attracting both Benji and Sylus’s attention.

“I… we are not… I’m not getting a room with you, I don’t… we shouldn’t…”

Sylus looks at Benji with a knowing smile.

“If you could replace the twins beds with a queen, I doubt she’d be very comfortable on a single.”

Your eyes widen as you slowly realize your mistake. You sit back in your chair and fold the napkin on your lap into a tiny square. You hear Benji’s footsteps fade and Sylus clear his throat.

“Sweetie? Did you not realize this restaurant is part of a hotel?”

You shake your head without looking up.

“I have a suite on stand by with a separate room for the twins when we stay here. I wasn’t going to force you to sleep with me.”

You quickly look up at him, embarrassed and unsure.

“No, I didn’t think… I… I’m not a prude I just…”

“I don’t expect anything from you. And I will never force anything on you. I want that to be perfectly clear. You never need to worry about that when you’re with me.”

Your throat stings as you try to keep yourself from crying. Damn, you’re emotional when you’re drunk. You grab your glass and down the rest of your wine, wincing at it burns the back of your throat. Sylus' smile returns.

“What about tomorrow?”

Sylus stands and extends a hand to you. After a moment of consideration, you take it. He helps you stand and places a hand at your waist to steady you. He walks slowly, making sure you don’t trip over your boot.

“I’ll wake you up with plenty of time to get ready. Don’t worry.”

He ushers you into the elevator and presses the penthouse button, of course it’s the penthouse. You roll your eyes and a wave of dizziness hits you. Sylus leans back against the wall and you lean with him, your back resting against his chest.

“I had your leftovers sent to the minibar, if you wake up and want a midnight snack. There’s also spare clothes in the wardrobe if you’d like to sleep in something more comfortable. Just call the front desk if you need anything else.”

You look over your shoulder at him and melt under his heated gaze. You find yourself staring at his lips again. Would it be uncomfortable to kiss with those piercings? Or would it feel… thrilling? The ideal mix of hot and cold with his tongue in your mouth and the cold steel on your lip. You rest your head back on his chest and sigh, you just want a taste… one… little… taste…

Ding

The elevator reaches its destination and silently swear, you had almost worked up the courage to close the distance. Sylus takes a step forward, forcing you through the door into the large penthouse entryway.

He guides you through the suite, pointing out the kitchen, the living room, the laundry closet and the door to the balcony. He stops in front of a set of doors and slides them open to reveal a small hallway. He points to the room on the right.

“That’s my room, if you need anything just knock.”

He opens the door on the left to reveal your room for the night. Sure enough, a queen bed was delivered and made up with a luxurious comforter and nearly a dozen pillows. He leads you inside and opens the door to the bathroom, a clawfoot tub catches your attention. If it wasn’t for this damn boot and stitches, you’d soak in that tub for an hour.

“Make yourself at home. I’ll see you in the morning.”

He lets go of your hand and waist and you instantly miss his warmth. You watch him leave, disappearing behind the door to his room across from yours. You hurry across the room to close the door and lock it. You’re flinging your sweater dress over your head onto a nearby chair and kicking your shoes off, using only a tiny bit more caution with your injured leg. Your tights follow and then your underwear.

You lay back on the bed and shiver as the silky blankets cool your bare skin. You pull the blanket to the side and slide under, propping your feet up to keep your legs spread. Your body moves on instinct, your mind is too fuzzy and filled with the filthiest images, you need to release the tension, now.

Your fingers slide down your naked body, pausing over your chest to roll your perky nipples between your fingers. One hand slides further, dipping between your folds and spreading yourself open. You shiver at the thought of Sylus’s fingers replacing yours. Those long fingers tracing your clit and sliding into your pussy with ease. You close your eyes as your fingers start to work your clit with urgency. His thumb wiping that cream off of your mouth, fuck, you wish you had grabbed his wrist and pulled him to you. To watch him stare at you with those hungry crimson eyes as you close your lips around his thumb and suck. You lift your other hand to your face and stick your thumb in your mouth, imagining it’s Sylus’s.

Your fingers dip into your throbbing pussy, which almost immediately sucks them in deeper. You pump in and out, rubbing against your clit with the palm of your hand. A strangled whimper escapes your throat as your tongue circles around your thumb. You’re so close, and you’ve only been at it for a minute. You imagine his lip rings brushing against your nipples as he kisses down your chest. Does he have piercings anywhere else? What if he does, what would they feel like? You bite your thumb as you come undone.

You lay there, sweating and sticky, letting your mind wander. You haven’t been attracted to someone for a long time. You’ve never let yourself get into a serious relationship. One night stands in college? A fuck buddy in medical school? Sure. But a relationship? Someone you see and talk to everyday? And yet, here you are, getting off to the guy you’re going to marry after knowing him for a week. What are you getting yourself into?

You went to sleep later than you intended, you wanted to wash your bedding - no way you’re letting the hotel staff find your mess and it somehow gets back to Sylus. You also took the time to shower and wash your hair. You were planning on doing a full body shower at home to prepare for the wedding, but the bathroom here had everything you needed.

When you finally fell asleep your dreams were full of Sylus. He wore a fitted tuxedo, his hair slicked back, a bouquet of flowers in his hand. You saw yourself in the mirror, a gorgeous white wedding dress, lace, tulle, the works. He handed you the flowers and adjusted your veil, twirling his fingers through your curls. Black and red roses lined the aisle of the church. Rubies hung from the ceiling, shimmering in the sunlight to cast intricate patterns on the walls. His voice calls out your name and the world stops spinning, it’s just the two of you. He holds your waist and you press yourself against him.

A series of knocks at your door bring you back to reality. You quickly get out of bed and wrap a plush white robe around you. Hobbling over to the door, you unlock it and open it a crack. To your surprise, it’s not Sylus.

“Hello Miss. I’m Veronica. Mr. Sylus wanted me to deliver these dresses. Tanya is here with your breakfast as well.”

You look over your shoulder at the clock on the wall, 7 am, you have plenty of time to go to your apartment and get the outfit you originally planned to wear. But you’re curious, what did Sylus get for you? You open the door and let the women in. Veronica wheels in a clothing rack, setting up in the corner next to the bathroom. She unzips each garment bag and pulls the dress out so you can see it fully. You sit on the bed and stare at the spectacle unraveling before you. The dresses, a small table unfolded and covered in plates of food. Tanya smiles at you every chance she gets and you try your best to return the pleasantries.

“I brought you a variety, you can pick and choose. Quiche, french toast, crepes, a fruit platter, coffee, juice - if there’s anything else you want, please just call the front desk. I’ll bring it right away!”

Tanya gives you one last smile, her eyes full of tears. She hurries out of the room and closes the door. Veronica laughs.

“Sorry about Tanya, she’s always wanted Sylus to get married, she treats him like a son. She’s a little emotional today.”

She picks up a bag off the bottom of the rack and pulls out a large makeup bag and curling iron.

You glance over at the makeshift vanity she’s setting up and quickly put down your glass of juice. You rush over to her before she can unload any more equipment.

“Wait, wait… Sylus, he… uhm…?”

Veronica places her delicate hands on your shoulders.

“Sylus hired me to help you get ready. He told me you might not want any help, but to offer it just in case. If you already have a dress, I can send someone to pick it up. Or you can choose one of these. They should all match the measurements I was given.”

You look over at the dresses then back at Veronica.

“Wait, how’d you get my measurements?”

Veronica smiles, her eyes sparkling.

“Sylus has a knack for that kind of thing.”

You wrap your arms around your waist and look around the room, trying to balance on your good leg. Veronica continues setting up her station and gives you space to think. You glance over at the clothing rack and decide looking can’t hurt. Up close, the dresses are divine - silk, chiffon, organza, lace, anything you can imagine.

“Feel free to try them on. Sylus asked for long dresses, but I can pin them up if they’re too long.”

You smile to yourself. Long dresses to hide the boot. He really thought of everything it seems.

You look through the dresses and find one that you love. While you can’t imagine yourself wearing it you decide to try it on. You take the dress into the bathroom and slip your panties on. Suddenly very thankful you decided to wash your intimates after the bedding was finished. You carefully drape the dress over your head and try to zip it up. When you’re finally done criticizing your short arms you open the bathroom door to seek Veronica’s help.

“Hey Veronica, do you think you could –”

You stop short when you realize Sylus is sitting at the breakfast table Tanya set up. His eyes light up when he looks at the dress you’re wearing and the butterflies in your stomach swirl once again. Veronica comes up behind you and zips your dress closed and ties a bow to secure the halter neck. She holds your arm and leads you to the full length mirror, which is right next to the breakfast table.

“You were right, this one does look spectacular on her.”

Veronica steps aside and you finally see your reflection. You’ve spent years laughing at those bridal shows and rolling your eyes at brides who cry over their weddings, but now you feel a little guilty for the mockery.

The soft white silk feels heavenly against your skin, the halter neckline is flattering to both your chest and shoulders. You turn to look at the back and smile as you spot your tattoo framed within the open back design. The dress is the perfect length, hovering off the floor so you don’t trip, but long enough to cover your unsightly boot. It’s not fancy or frilly, it’s no ball gown, but it makes you feel like a bride, even if it is just for a courthouse wedding.

“Do you like it?”

You run your hands down the front of the dress and sway, watching the mermaid base swish around your ankles. Sylus steps up behind you, his clothes from the previous night slightly wrinkled. You look at him through the mirror and he smiles, his eyes dropping to your back. You feel the ends of the bow shift away from your skin.

“It’s beautiful.”

You feel your cheeks flush and when you check in the mirror, sure enough, your cheeks are nice and rosy. You clear your throat and put your hands on your hips, feeling the fabric stretch over your curves.

“It’s a snow leopard, right?”

You nod, your smile widening.

“Yeah! It took me years to find the right hyperrealism artist and then I was hung up on what color blue I wanted for the background. Three six hour sessions later, I have my spirit animal with me forever.”

“Your spirit animal?”

You cross your arms and glare at him.

“Do I not give off vicious snow leopard vibes?”

He laughs, that same carefree laugh that makes your heart skip. He steps closer to you, his hands moving to rest on your shoulders.

“I’m not sure yet. What I do know is you look like an angel right now.”

You scoff, your bedhead and bare face could hardly be considered angelic. His hands squeeze your shoulders.

“I mean it. You look incredible.”

Your eyes stay locked on him as he circles around you. He stands before you, his hands sliding down your arms to hold your hands.

“This might be a business arrangement, but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t feel like a bride on your wedding day. And you’re certainly…”

He lifts one of your hands to his mouth and places a gentle kiss on your knuckles.

“... the most beautiful bride I’ve ever seen.”

You let out the most outrageous giggle, your hands instantly moving to cover your face in embarrassment. Sylus grabs your hands and stops you, so you quickly change the subject.

“Isn’t it bad luck for the groom to see the bride on their wedding day?”

He rubs his thumbs over your fingers, slowing down when he reaches your ring finger.

“Well, we’re hardly doing things the traditional way. But… I will leave if you want me to.”

He lets go of your hands and you reach out for him, grabbing his wrist.

“No… stay.”

Now it’s his turn to blush, his ears turn the lightest shade of pink and you silently celebrate not being the only one flustered in this encounter. He sits down at the breakfast table and puts a quiche on his plate.

“You should try on the reception dresses I picked out, so V can make alterations this afternoon.”

You look over at Sylus and then to Veronica, who casually walks out the door into the hallway.

“Reception dress?”

Veronica rolls another clothing rack inside and starts unzipping the garment bags. Compared to your wedding dress, these are… bold. Red velvet, purple lace, black silk. Long skirts, once again, to hide your boot, but a variety of necklines and cut-outs. Your wedding dress was intended to be classy and subtle, these… These are sexy.

“Sylus… I… these are…”

“All going to look incredible on you.”

You stare at him for a moment. Is this your life now? Designer dresses, penthouse suites, making grand appearances at his club while holding onto his arm? Not that you’re complaining, but compared to the life you expected… you're…

“Overwhelmed?”

Sylus’s voice cuts through the noise. His eyes shine as if they’re burrowing into your soul and you don’t look away.

“My world is complicated, sometimes messy. I’m sure being a doctor is like that as well.”

You nod, your fingers mindlessly tracing the lace pattern on the dress in front of you.

“What do you do when you’re overwhelmed in the operating room?”

“I… imagine I’m floating. On a cloud, just… blue sky, sunshine, a soft cloud under my feet. Everything is quiet, clear… peaceful. I just float.”

“Okay, then for today, let’s float together. No expectations, no danger, just… float.”

You turn back to the dresses in front of you and take a breath. You look at the dress you’ve been holding, a red velvet off-the-shoulder number with a black lace corset and lace gloves. If you’re going to step into this new world, you might as well step into it looking fucking hot.

(If you're tagged, you were on the Inked Taglist. If you'd like to be removed, just message me!)

Also, for funsies, this is what Sylus looks like in this fic. (The one on the right I made in Canva it's rough lol)

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