#{Impulsive Inky Chaos | IC Impulse}

[solo---soul]

Meanwhile at the Nataga house..

> “Weeeeeeeee!!!”

> “Weee he he!”

A certain ink and human are busy riding laundry baskets down the stairs to the basement at the top speeds they can achieve.

[antonfm]

can     u     believe     that     a     whole     entire     day          after     the     rp     opens          ,          i     finally     have     my     shit     together     enough     to     post     an     intro          !          can     u     fuckin     believe     it          !          anyways          ,          i’m     elliot          (          she/they          )          ,          i’m     20     n     i’m     a     supreme     dumbass     who     needs     2     get     their     life     together     on     so     many     levels          .  .  .          it’s     fine     though          !          completely     fine          !          totally     n     utterly     fine          !!!

(          timothee     chalamet          &          cis     male          )          who          ??          these     days          ,          it’s     all     about     anton     olivier          ,          who     comes     from     manhattan          ,          ny          ,          and     is     making     headlines     as     an     actor          .          he     currently     has     a     fan     count     of     45.9k          ,          no     thanks     to     the     rumours     of     them     being     vainglorious          !          but          ,          on     the     other     hand          ,          his     most     devout     fans     say     he’s     actually     retiary          .          last     i     heard          ,          he     caused     quite     a     buzz     when     he     was     caught     leaving     multiple     lovers’     houses     despite     being     in     an     allegedly     ‘     committed     ’     relationship          !          it’s     no     wonder     they     remind     me     of     inky     black     as     a     beautiful     contrast     to     stark     white          ,          tastes     of     fake     blood          &          bourbon     dancing     a     mistimed     tango     on     your     tongue          ,          stacks     of     literary     classics     like     small     mountains     on     your     living     room     floor          ,          abandoned     chastity     ring          (          ruby     red     gemstone          ,          isn’t     it     ironic          ?          )          ,          heat     -     slick     kisses     smeared     to     the     corner     of     your     mouth          ;          dark     academia          /          technicolour     ghost     disappearing     in     the     middle     of     a     crowd          ,          slipping     into     the     back     of     a     lecture     theatre     abound     with     rapt     attention          ,          pressing     bruises     into     not     -     yet     -     ripe     fruit     for     the     thrill     of     watching     it     wilt     beneath     satin     touch          .

𝔩𝔞𝔶𝔢𝔯     𝔬𝔫𝔢     .          rudimentals          .

full     name:     anton     françois     olivier     . nicknames,     aliases:

ant     .

mon     cher     .          (          by     his     mother     .          )

age:     twenty     -     three     . date     of     birth:     october     fifteenth     . place     of     birth:     manhattan         ,         new     york     city     . nationality:     american     . ethnicity:     caucasian     (     french     )     . spoken     languages:     english          ,          fluent     french          (          spoken     in     household     more     commonly     than     english          )          .

zodiac     sign:     scorpio     . hogwarts     house:     slytherin     . myers     -     briggs:     infp     -     t     .

career     claims:     charlie     heaton     ,     some     of     bill     skargsard’s     stuff     .          (          i’ll     write     his     imdb     page     later     .          )

𝔩𝔞𝔶𝔢𝔯     𝔱𝔴𝔬     .  ��       physicals          .

height:     six     foot     three     . weight:     157     lbs     .

complexion:     pale     ,     scarily     so     .     nothing     medical     about     it     ,     just     a     natural     pallid     sheen     to     sharp     features     .     a     small     ,     light     dusting     of     freckles     over     the     nose     and     cheeks     and     forehead     .      face     shape:     heart     -     shaped     ,     incredibly     angular     .     sharp     cheekbones     and     jawline     ,     square     and     dashing     in     a     sinister     kind     of     way     .     very     thin     ,     very     gaunt     .      facial     quirks:     in     some     lights     his     left     eye     is     ever     so     slightly     lighter     than     the     other     ,     but     it’s     a     trick     of     the     light     .

hair:     black     ,     naturally     so     (     your     mother’s     hair     )     .     has     a     slight     natural     wave     that     sometimes     springs     to     a     loose     curl     .     recently     ,     you’ve     grown     it     out     so     that     it     curls     around     the     nape     of     your     neck     and     falls     into     your     eyes     .     typically     ,     strands     are     tucked     behind     your     ears     unless     they     fall     out     of     place     .     soft     ,     incredibly     so     --- -     cherry     blossom     shampoo     and     conditioner     ensures     that     . eyes:     bright     blue     ,     cobalt     .     golden     rings     around     the     pupils     ,     with     green     and     hazel     flecks     throughout     .     lashes     are     unfairly     long     and     dark     ,     a     prettily     sooty     smudge     against     the     high     ridge     of     your     cheekbones     .     brows     are     dark     and     expressive     ,     unruly     ,     arched     ever     so     slightly     .     dark     indigo     bags     underneath     your     eyes     aren’t     an     unusual     sight     ,     results     of     too     -     long     nights     and     a     strange     work     schedule     . nose:     your     mother’s     button     nose     ,     small     and     straight     and     ‘     lovely     ’     according     to     your     rabid     fan     base     .     nothing     much     to     say     about     it     otherwise     .     you     considered     piercing     it     when     you     were     fifteen     and     going     through     it     for     unknown     reasons     .      mouth:     relatively     normal     lips     ,     slightly     plusher     lower     lip     but     that’s     not     saying     much     .     chewed     ,     bitten     ,     chapped     like     nothing     else     /     favourite     flavour     of     burt’s     bees     is     pomegranate     .     teeth     are     white     ,     straight     ,     pretty     good     teeth          ;          indents     of     which     often     find     themselves     deep     in     that     lower     lip     .

scars:     none     of     note     .     the     typical     petite     white     scars     of     childhood     across     knees     and     elbows     ,     but     nothing     too     serious     . tattoos,     piercings:     none     .     there     are     plans     in     the     works     ,     but     currently          ?          nothing     . more     body     modifications:     again     ,     nothing     .     bitch     is     boring     .

𝔩𝔞𝔶𝔢𝔯     𝔱𝔥𝔯𝔢𝔢     .          biographicals          .

not     quite     your     typical     tale     of     boy     -     meets     girl          ;          art     gallery     curator     curator     watches     broadway     ‘     ingénue     ’          &          falls     head     over     heels     in     an     infatuation     that     borders     on     obsession     but     is     returned     tenfold     .     adele     st     .     croix     can’t     believe     her     luck          (          moved     to     manhattan     just     two     years     previously          ,          resumé     builds     beyond     belief          ,          engagement     to     a     big     name     is     imminent          !          )          and     pierre     -     louis     olivier     has     never     been     so     deeply     in     love     before          .          the     courtship     is     wonderful          ,          twilight     walks     in     the     park          ,          regular     dates     at     terribly     romantic     restaurants          ,          soft     kisses     on     random     stoops     and     rough          ,          impassioned     kisses     on     your     own          .          the     engagement     comes     in     1995          ,          &          a     year     later          ,          marriage     is     a     cover     story     and     a     four     -     page     spread     in     all     the     glossy     tabloids     your     mother     loves     to     collect          .          

your     conception     comes     as     a     shock          ,          of     course          .          neither     wanted     children     so     early          ,          just     a     year     into     their     marriage     but     the     very     first     time     that     your     mother’s     silky     -     smooth     hands     rest     on     the     then     -     flat     expanse     of     her     belly     it’s     over          .          unspoken     talks     of     termination     that     weighed     uncomfortably     heavily     on     unmoving     tongues     are     quashed          ,          replaced     by     fluttering     anticipation     of     a     child          .          your     impending     birth     is     announced     three     months     after     your     parents     find     out     they’re     expecting     you          ,          &          soon     enough     your     own     infantile     chunk     of     their     upper     east     side     penthouse          (          a     grandiose     wedding     present          )          is     carved     out          ;          decked     in     earthy     tones     and     warm     creams          ,          pastels     of     all     shades     and     joy     woven     into     each     choice          ,          you     are     a     source     of     joy     to     rival     the     sun          .

birth     is     almost     perfect          ,          only     one     day     past     your     due     date          .          naturally     your     first     breath     is     a     noisy     one          ,          wailing     and     crying     and     oh          ,          how     they     adore     you     already          !          adoration     seeps     into     your     bones     from     the     first     time     mother     holds     you          ,          presses     a     kiss     to     your     head     and     breathes     in     that     lavender         ,         fresh     -     linen     new     baby     smell          .          from     that     very     first     moment     love     is     ingrained     into     every     single     pore          ;          love     is     what     you     breathe          ,          what     you     feed     on          ,          what     you     see     the     world     through          .          your     mother     and     father     are     almost     sickeningly     in     love          ,          true     dotage     in     its     finest     form     and     later     in     life     you     suppose     you’re     lucky     to     have     grown     up     with     such     a     wonderful     idea     of     what     true     romance     is     meant     to     look     like          .          they     love     each     other          ,          and     they     love     you          .

childhood     is     wonderful          ,          if     you’re     perfectly     honest          .          it’s     a     blur     of     ice     cream     at     fancy     parlours     after     your     mother     picks     you     up     from     school          ,          renting     movies     and     getting     wonderful     takeaway     and     laughing     until     your     sides     ache          .          it’s     freshly     -     laundered     uniforms     that     just     look     so     damn     precious          ,          school     ties     in     immaculate     windsor     knots          .          (          schools     are     all     catholic          ,          of     course          ;          some     things     die     hard          ,          but     your     mother     and     father’s     commitment     to     their     faith     dies     harder          .          )          church     on     sunday     mornings          ,          followed     by     brunch     and     a     movie          /          picturesque          ,          absolutely     perfect          .          ignore     the     paparazzi     trailing     behind     you          ,          though          .          ignore     the     fact     that     despite     everything          ,          a     childhood     dripping     with     luxury     and     privilege     is     not     really     a     normal     childhood          .          normal     children     don’t     dress     in     such     expensive     clothes     in     their     free     time          ,          normal     children     don’t     understand     the     complete     and     utter         hedonism     that     you’re     enabled          .          

it’s     only     a     matter     of     time     before     you     find     your     calling          ,          though          .          you     are     fourteen          ,          already     a     gangly     mess     of     too     -     long     limbs     and     charming     smile     and     curls     that     melt     even     the     iciest     of     glares          .          you’ve     sat     in     the     backs     of     theatres     while     your     mother     rehearses     for     your     entire     life          ,          and     stepping     into     the     harsh     spotlight     itself     feels     like     home     in     a     way     you     can’t     possibly     describe     in     either     of     the     tongues     that     crowd     your     mouth          .          your     first     performance     is     macbeth          ,          and     you     dominate     like     nothing     else          ,          tragic     figure     with     a     mouth     of     steel          .          for     the     next     few     years     of     your     high     school     education     you     always     score     the     leading     role          ,          not     through     anything     but     the     sheer     force     of     your     talent          .          acting     is     second     nature     to     you          ,          a     comfortable     set     of     skins     you     fall     into     like     it’s     nothing          ,          like     they’re     nothing          .

sixteen     when     you     get     your     first     gig     ,     a     guest     appearance     in     some     established     police     procedural     ,     but     it’s     a     rush     like     nothing     else     .     one     gig     leads     to     another     ,     and     another     ,     and     another     !     it’s     not     until     you’re     hired     by     netflix     to     do     their     biggest     hit     ,     some     then     -     untitled     sci     -     fi     horror     80s     thing     ,     that     you     take     off     like     nothing     else     and     god     ,     it’s     like     nothing     you’ve     ever     known     .     blockbusters     are     offered     to     you     after     your     second     season     airs     ,     you     find     yourself     in     cameos     in     fucking     marvel     movies     ,     &     yet     nothing’s     quite     as     thrilling     as     horror     .     something     crawls     under     your     skin     the     first     day     you     shoot     stranger     things     ,     and     it’s     stuck     ever     since          ;          you     make     a     good     archetype     ,     the     dopey     yet     helpful     boyfriend     ,     the     white     knight     .     you’re     barely     nineteen     when     you     decide     what     your     avenue     is     and     make     a     conscientious     decision     to     stick     to     it     .

and     now          ?          your     imdb     page     glitters     ,     cacophany     of     roles     quite     unlike     each     other     ,     bad     guy     and     good     guy     and     killer     and     saviour     ,     all     crammed     in     together     .     didn’t     think     you     had     time     but     somewhere     you     met     someone     ,     fell     in     love     ,     started     dating     ,     all     that          ;          but     that     bleeding     ,     genuine     heart     of     yours     can’t     be     contained     ,     falls     in     love     five     times     a     day     ,     catches     itself     upon     the     hooks     of     others     and     impulse     control     is     a     long     -     forgotten     acquaintance     .     newspapers     call     you     a     heartbreaker     ,     but     you     never     break     hearts          ;          you     simply     leave     your     scent     on     bedsheets     and     heartbeats     alike     ,     prettiest     kind     of     ghost     .     sometimes     you     play     up     the     ‘     arrogant     heartbreaking     dipshit     ’     spiel     for     interviews     but     with     you     ,     what     you     see     is     what     you     get     :     passionate     ,     driven     ,     emotional     .     a     fervour     .     a     lover     ,     a     romantic     ,     altruistic     kinds     of     chaos     .     the     prettiest     kind     of     confusion     ,     all     wrapped     up     under     that     surname     .     oh     darling     ,     you’re     the     nicest     kind     of     sweet     nightmare     and     you     don’t     even     know     it     .

𝔩𝔞𝔶𝔢𝔯     𝔣𝔬𝔲𝔯     .          wanted     connections          .

the     committed     relationship     .

the     string     of     lovers     he’s     been     seeing     .

exes     ,     on     any     kinds     of     terms     .

school     friends     from     forever     ago     .

co     -     stars     .

rivals     !!!!

literally     anything     PLEASE

[autumnspritesworld]

WangXian Week Day 1

Here’s my ficlet for the first day of @wangxianweek! There’s a happy fluffy ending I promise

firsts | longing | modern au

tell me there was worth, in all the ways that it would break

(read it on ao3)

before

Years have passed, and Lan WangJi still thinks of a dead man at night.

Wracked with equal amounts of self-loathing and bone-deep longing, he spends those dreadful hours between nine p.m. and five a.m. wishing, regretting, pondering, fantasizing. It’s nothing short of torture - but what could he do to avoid it? It’s not like there’s anyone awake in these hours for him to talk to, to try to keep his mind off of all these ghostly feelings. It’s not like he can decide not to retire to his bed at night, in favor of simply staying awake constantly; he may not sleep well, but he does sleep some, and although the nightmares still plague him regularly, he’d turn into a walking corpse within a week if he completely forewent sleep. 

And it’s not like he can forget about Wei Ying, either. It’s not like he can simply find someone else to fill the gaping hole that the Yiling Patriarch left in Lan Wangji’s heart. No, Lan Wangji has long since made peace with the fact that he will likely die alone. It’s what he deserves - after all, Wei Ying had to die alone, as well. All because Lan WangJi failed to protect him.

At night, he replays all those critical moments in his mind, those points of no return, and he keeps himself awake thinking of what he could have done differently. Maybe if he hadn’t pressed Wei Ying so frantically to come back with him to the Cloud Recesses on the night Wen Chao died, Wei Ying would have ended up there of his own volition eventually. Maybe if he’d gotten to Wei Ying quicker on the day Jiang YanLi died, he would’ve been able to stop him from using that infernal Tiger Seal. Maybe if he’d hidden Wei Ying away better after he used it, if he hadn’t gone back to Gusu to accept his well-deserved torture, if he’d dodged his punishment just once in his life, he and Wei Ying could’ve made a life together, even as fugitives.

Some nights, he thinks of what he could have done, and he cries. When this happens, he doesn’t cry quietly - he always feels as if something, some beast made of grief and fury and regret, is trying to claw its way from between his ribs; deep, heaving sobs wrack his body for hours on end, and he is always powerless to stop it; he can only thank the gods that his jingshi is relatively secluded, and it is not likely anyone will hear him.

It’s mostly during those moments that he anticipates the moment when he will finally break. Because surely, life is not sustainable under such an emotional weight as the one that is slowly smothering his mind and heart. Sometimes, he thinks he comes close - he hasn’t a clue what it will be like to cave under the pressure at last, but whatever this caving consists of, he has come within a hair’s breadth of it. And every time, he has managed to stay sane - whether by some sort of primal self-preservation instinct, or simply by panicking, he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know if he wants to break, to let his feelings, memories and wishes finally crush him, but sometimes he wonders if that’s where things are headed.

There are times when he functions just fine - during the day, mostly, when he has to stuff down the screaming beasts and ghosts inside him and hide them behind the stoic mask of the Second Jade of Lan. He thinks he must present a good front, because no one treats him as if anything is wrong. But he has no idea when he became such a good actor; because no matter how busy he is, how serene his face appears, he is constantly thinking of him. 

His smile - the one he had when he was a boy of fifteen, long before war corrupted them all; his quick wit, enough to stun and infuriate elders from every Sect; his longing for justice, even when things were at their bleakest for him. His playful banter with little A-Yuan, his dedication to the remnants of the Wen Sect, his unshakable confidence that everything would be all right in the end.

His sculpted body as he stood in the cold springs beside Lan WangJi when they were teenagers; when Lan WangJi felt, for the first time, stirrings of desire for another. His long neck as his head tilted back, allowing a small, glistening drop of wine to roll down from his lips, tracing a heavenly path down the column of his throat that Lan WangJi yearned to follow with his own tongue. The way his lips had tasted, soft and tentative, uncertain and sweet against his own, that day on Phoenix Mountain when Lan WangJi had, regrettably, caved to his more primal impulses.

Lan WangJi thinks of these moments at night, and he imagines even more. He imagines Wei Ying being alive now, and he imagines him reciprocating Lan WangJi’s terrifying, all-encompassing feelings. He imagines Wei Ying pulling off his forehead ribbon again - this time with intent in his eyes, pressing his lips to the skin it covered the moment before. He imagines spending these long nights with the warm body of the only man he has ever loved by his side. And some nights, he fights the urge as long as he can, until his ache is so deep that all he can do is guiltily take himself in hand as he imagines himself repeating that stolen kiss in the field over and over and over - their kisses growing more heated, their hands and lips wandering, Wei Ying calling his name again in that infuriating, devastating way of his -

- and when he spills over his fist on those nights, he almost always snaps back to reality to find tears blurring his vision and fingers of ice gripping his heart. How sick can he be, thinking about a dead man this way? He’s unhealthy, he knows that. This is further proof - he cannot move on, he never will, he’s doomed to endure these lonely, sleepless nights until the inevitable night he finally breaks - whatever that may entail.

after

It’s been a long time since Lan WangJi has been back in his jingshi, so maybe that’s why he’s suddenly finding himself having trouble sleeping. He’s actually slept remarkably well these past few months, in comparison to the last decade of torturous solitude.

He’s almost happy to be awake now, though. His body associates this room with pain and restlessness - to be here with Wei Ying finally, finally by his side makes him think that, maybe, he can start patching those dark memories over with new ones.

The new memories will be of soft moonlight trailing in through the window, falling over a pale shoulder and long, elegant neck, glistening over inky black hair and illuminating the blessed rise and fall of his lover’s breath beneath the sheets. Recollections of moments where Lan WangJi came close to losing himself give way to ones of bite-marks and bruises blooming softly over Wei Ying’s skin, of the little sounds he lets out as he dreams, of the natural scent of him that Lan WangJi forgot about until it started suffusing whatever Mo Xuanyu’s own scent had been.

Lan WangJi shifts forward to wrap his arms around Wei Ying’s middle and to press his lips below his ear. Wei Ying stirs, heaving a sigh; soon enough, he turns around to blink blearily at Lan WangJi.

“Lan Zhan, you’re awake?” he rasps, his lips stretching in a yawn.

“Mn.” Lan WangJi tucks a strand of hair behind his beloved’s ear.

Wei Ying furrows his brow, making Lan WangJi’s heart melt a little more. “Why?”

The corners of Lan WangJi’s lips quirk upward. “I’m happy.”

“Happy about what?”

So many people would have been satisfied with HanGuang-Jun’s brief, curt answers, his unwillingness to speak more than necessary. To many, it makes him appear wise, powerful - sometimes more attractive, even.

How he’d missed Wei Ying’s refusal to take him at first glance, again and again. The incessant questions, sometimes meant to tease, sometimes from genuine curiosity, always out of love - they are what Lan WangJi has to look forward to now, every day for the rest of his life.

He leans forward and presses a lingering kiss to Wei Ying’s lips. 

“Mmm,” Wei Ying hums when they break apart. A sleepy smile spreads lazily across his face, and his half-lidded eyes say more than all the words in his vocabulary probably ever could.

And this is where we complement each other, Lan WangJi thinks to himself, you challenge me to open up, and I’m the only one who can render you speechless.

Wei Ying shifts closer, tucking himself in where he fits perfectly, right under Lan WangJi’s chin. They twine their bodies together in the way they’ve become accustomed to, and Lan WangJi falls into a better slumber than he’s had in years.

[deborahwilsonbooks-blog]

Regency Romance: The Lady’s Masquerade - Part 1

Hey there, my name is Deborah Wilson, an author of regency romance. I have a short novella to share with you guys. ☺

If you’re looking for gentle, yet a undemanding sort of romance in the charming depiction of the Regency and Victorian period era, this novella could very well fit the bill nicely.

Synopsis:

Lady Delia Scarborough will not let her sister’s murderer go free. Every clue points to Kieran Dearborne, the Duke of Cowanfield. But their mutual attraction throws her plans into chaos. 

Can Kieran’s love save Delia from danger, or is her fate already sealed?

Check it out below ...

P R O L O G U E

May 1805

The storm had been threatening for days. Later, they would say that it was one of the worst storms of the last decade. The road would have been inky black, with nothing to mark the perilous turns. Were the driver and team reliable? Was Lissa afraid?

Probably not, Delia decided. Her little sister might have been dreamy, and perhaps she was inclined to leap before she looked, but no one would ever have called her a coward.

The storm would have broken quickly in the night, rolling down on the carriage like an ancient and terrible wrath. The horses ran along the road, eager for shelter, but then a thunder clap deafened them. One reared, taking its mate with it, and the carriage tilted on two wheels. For a moment, just a moment, there was a chance it would right itself. But no.

The horses, the slick road, the darkness… It was all too much. The carriage rolled, the wooden shell cracking like an egg, the timbers as sharp as teeth and—

"And as she was loved, so she will be loved, and as she wept, so now she brings tears..."

Delia realized that she must have made some kind of sound. All around her, bonneted heads turned toward her subtly, some in concern, some for gossip's sake, and all unwelcome.

Behind her black veil, Delia lowered her eyes, mutinous until she felt her father's hand fumble for hers. There was a palsy to his grip that had gotten worse when the news came to them of Lissa's death, and she squeezed his hand hard, wishing she could give him some of her strength.

She was Delia Scarborough, the daughter of the Marquess of Winsbury, who had fought at Marseilles and even farther afield. She was the descendant of eight generations of noblemen who had all served their country, loved their families, and died doing what they knew was right. She would not disgrace herself at her sister's graveside, no matter how hot her eyes felt or how thick the lump in her throat.

She almost made it. It was only when they began to lower her sister's casket into the ground that a small voice piped up in the back of her mind, a dusty memory.

Delia, it's so very dark, can I sleep with you?

Suddenly, it was as if the very air had been knocked from her lungs. Delia wavered, and for a moment, she was certain she would simply faint from the weight of the grief that dropped upon her.

She had a sudden mad impulse to insist that they stop. Lissa hated the dark; she hated the crawling things that burrowed through the earth. They could not do this.

The only thing that kept her back was the sight of her father, positioned in his elegant wheeled chair at the head of the grave. The marquess's sorrow ravaged him, left him a frame of a man rather than the full one he should have been, and Delia took a deep breath.

I will survive this. This is as hard as it ever gets. I will walk through this, and on the other side, I will have vengeance for Lissa.

That night, after the mourners had been seen off, the curate paid, and her father seen to his bed, Delia retired to her room earlier than usual. For a moment, she wanted nothing more than to crawl off to her familiar bed, placing her round spectacles in their accustomed place, and hope she dreamed of Lissa in some happy land.

Instead, she carefully laid her black crepe gown over the top of her chair for her maid, and she went to her closet where she removed a gown of drab serviceable gray linen. It was one of four, the other three already packed in her small worn bag. They were identical to one another, and only the excellent fit saved her from looking like a servant who worked below stairs.

Dressed in the gray gown, Delia pulled her brown hair down from its fashionable braids and pulled the fine strands straight back from her face, scraping it all into a large bun at the nape of her neck.

When she examined herself in the mirror, she found no trace of a marquess's daughter, not even the eldest bookish girl who had few marriage prospects and little interest in looking for one.

I look like a governess. The thought satisfied her, and again, she glanced at the white handkerchief that she had seldom let out of her sight since she had received it from the wreckage.

It was clutched in Miss Scarborough's hand, Miss Delia. She hung on to it so tight, we could barely pry it out.

Her baby sister had held on to it as she lay dying on a lonely road heading north. Their driver was killed in the same accident, but of the man in the carriage with her, the one who had booked it, who had held her sister's arm as if they were already married, there was no trace.

The inn where they had spent the previous night had thought they were husband and wife, and if they had made it to Gretna Green, they would have been.

Delia's thoughts were ice-cold.

Imagine. In another world, I would be scolding Lissa for her insane recklessness and meeting my new brother-in-law. I would have no idea that he was the kind of blaggard who would seduce a girl and leave her to die in a wrecked carriage.

She wondered if Lissa would have called for him in her last moments, if she would have brought the handkerchief to her lips in prayer, listening for his return.

It didn't matter now. Her sister was dead, and the man who had caused her death was still alive. He was missing a handkerchief, however, and that was careless of him, especially as the initials on the corner and the meticulously stitched crest identified him as swiftly as an actor's spotlight on Drury Lane.

Delia slipped out of the home she had lived in all her life, avoiding the creaky floorboards and the reluctant doors. There was a note for her father left folded on his bedside, and there was a man in the village who was willing to take her to Hove, where she could find her way onto the Royal Mail coach.

Folded tightly into a tiny package at the bottom of her bag was the damning handkerchief, and as she made her way into the night, Delia's thoughts were grim.

You are going to pay for what you did to my sister, my lord Duke of Cowanfield.

C H A P T E R    0 1

"All right, that one was worse than the first. Cross her off the list."

"Before I do, exactly what reason can you give for your dislike? She had excellent references, and she wasn't so hard on the eyes either.”

Kieran Dearborn, twelfth Duke of Cowanfield, glared at his best friend, who was seated at the secretary with his quill held imperiously over a list with a diminishing number of unrejected names. Hiring a governess was woman's work, but where he could find a woman to do this for him, he had no idea.

"I didn't like the look of her. She looked shifty, as if she might give Alice laudanum on days where she was feeling too tired to deal."

Neil Marsh, the Earl of Cottering, raised an eyebrow. "Really? You've been reading too many of those lurid broadsides. They do that in the slums, not in the finer houses."

"Oh, yes, and I'm sure that all London gentlemen are the pictures of restraint when it comes to the gambling table and all London ladies are as faithful to their husbands as old dogs are to their masters."

Neil laughed. "Well, I suppose that you know something about that, don't you, Cowanfield?"

"Shut your mouth about that. We don't talk about that in front of her."

They both glanced at the divan set alongside the window, where Alice Dearborn slept as deeply as it seemed only a three-year-old could. She had pale blond hair, as unlike Kieran's own dark hair as possible, but the moment he had seen her green eyes, twin to the ones he saw in the mirror every morning, there was no doubt in his mind that she was his.

Along with that realization had come a sudden rush of desperate and protective love unlike anything he had ever felt in his dissipated thirty-two years. She was his; he had to protect her, nurture her, and see her grown... and he had no idea at all how to do it.

The governess had been something that finally occurred to him after Alice had cried herself out on her first night at Brixby Hall, the ancestral home of all Dearborns. The little girl had fallen asleep in a pile of tears and wails, and still, Kieran couldn't leave her alone. He sat in the darkness of the nursery, holding her tiny soft hand, and tried to figure out what to do next.

Neil, when next he spoke, was more sympathetic, but his voice was firm. "She is a child, not some rare and delicate bird from the southern lands that will die if she is splashed with cold water. She needs to be cared for, and unless you are hiding depths of which I have been heretofore unaware, you need to find someone to do it. I suggest that the next woman who comes in, as long as she does not have an obvious affiliation with a London street gang, should do the trick."

Kieran started to snap something that Neil probably did not deserve at all, but they were saved by the butler coming in and announcing the next woman on the list.

Well, she's definitely not affiliated with any London street gangs.

As a matter of fact, she embodied the very spirit of a governess, perfectly erect in carriage, her brown hair scraped back into an unworldly bun and a pinched look to her face as if she never smiled.

The spectacles gave her an owlish look, and Kieran might have laughed out loud at how perfectly a governess she looked before he met her eyes. They were a pale gray that flashed with a kind of silvery light he had never seen before. For some reason, looking into her gaze soothed something in him he had never before known was jagged.

Well, hello, beautiful, something in him whispered, and then, almost against his will, he noticed her lush figure under the painstakingly fitted but plain gown she wore. It was hard to imagine a pin out of place on her, and briefly, Kieran wondered what it would take to make her look unsettled or even in the least rumpled.

At Neil's polite cough, Kieran looked up to see that the object of his attention was giving him a rather stern look. If she had felt that brief electric shock between them, she gave no sign, and he hastily sat up straighter.

"This is Miss Delia Jones, late of Hove, aged twenty-two years. She has served as a governess in a single home since the age of eighteen, the residence of Lord and Lady Heatherford, overseeing the needs of their three daughters."

Neil looked up briefly from the sheet he read from, fixing Kieran with a sharp eye. "Her reference looks beyond reproach to me, Cowanfield."

Kieran glared at his friend, and then turned back to the young lady in gray. Delia seemed too fanciful a name for such a stern creature, or at least it did if you discounted her extraordinary eyes.

"Well, Miss Jones, what have you to say for yourself?"

"I say that I hope very much I will be suited to the post you offer, your grace. I know that every situation is different, but given the nature of your advertisement, I have some hope that we may suit."

Her voice was pitched lower than he had expected. The slightly husky timbre gave her an air that was at once grave and oddly sensual, and he shook that thought off in a hurry. It had apparently been too long since he had gone carousing in London if he was entertaining a fascination with a governess.

"And why do you think that you might suit?"

"You were looking for someone who would broaden your child's horizons in the ladylike arts. As you can see from my character, I have instructed the Wembly sisters in history, deportment, dance, penmanship, French, and art. They are well-launched into Society, and the only reason I left was because their youngest was a son, and therefore had his own tutor."

"And it has nothing to do with the 200 pounds a year that I am offering."

It was a ludicrous sum to offer a governess, who might ordinarily make a tenth of it, but Kieran had thought it would bring out the best. Instead, it had brought out a mix of real candidates and fortune-hunters, and he was beginning to be jaded about the whole thing.

Instead of being flustered or offended, Miss Jones only inclined her head slight.

"Of course, it does. I can see that you are willing to pay into the idea of giving your daughter the best foundation on which to base her life. I am confident that you will be satisfied with my work and that you will not have cause to regret that sum."

She was so self-possessed that she made Kieran feel oddly ashamed of himself. It was hardly a feeling he enjoyed, and so he shrugged it off.

"You're very assured for one so young."

"If I were not, I would not be here applying for this position."

Neil laughed, a bright sound in the quiet tension of the room. "Well, she is certainly fit to instruct you, Cowanfield. That's obviously clear."

Kieran glared at his friend, but he could hardly argue with him. He searched for some reason to deny her, something that he didn't like, something that would make him toss out her application just as he had all the women who had come before her.

There was nothing there, and that in its own way was shocking. He nodded, almost reluctantly.

"All right. I'm willing to see how you do with Alice."

Miss Jones nodded, looking at him expectantly. "I would like to meet her and to ensure that we are a good fit, my lord."

He nodded toward Alice, who was still sleeping in a sprawl of limbs and silk on the divan. He supposed she was easy to miss, given the fact that she looked like nothing so much as a frilled pink cushion.

"There she is."

For the first time, Miss Jones looked surprised. Her gaze traveled from the toddler to Kieran and back again.

"My lord, how old is Alice?"

"I suppose I should have said in the paper, but she is three. Is there some problem?"

Miss Jones pursed her lips, as if she were fighting with herself on some inward matter. "She is terribly young for a governess. At her age, children are still inclined to be with their nurses."

Kieran scowled, already not relishing the idea of interviewing yet more women.

"What is the difference?"

Miss Jones shot him a particularly scathing look. "Your grace, my repertoire includes French and dance. Miss Alice very much seems as if she needs to be taught how to handle stairs and how to play with a kitten."

Kieran tilted his head at her. "Are you trying to talk yourself out of the job?"

For the first time, Miss Jones looked disturbed. She seemed so diligent that he wondered if there was a chance she would give up the job simply because she was not the best person for it. Somehow, it made him want to hire her all the more.

"I am not, but—"

The topic of all the talk had apparently had enough sleep. All three adults in the room turned when she uttered a small cry, and then, to Kieran's shock, she tumbled straight off the side of the divan. Alice hit the ground with a surprisingly loud thump. For a moment, she simply sat in her own surprise, and then her round pink face screwed up for a scream.

Kieran was ready to rush over and to scoop her up to make sure she was not injured, but Miss Jones got there first. Kneeling down by the weeping child, she assessed her with a cool eye.

"All right, Alice, let's look you over and see if you are hurt. Stand still please."

The woman's cool and firm tone stopped Alice's tears dead in their tracks, and she looked up at her new governess with surprise.

In return, Miss Jones gave her a sunny smile and though Kieran knew he should be more worried about his daughter, he found himself drawn to the sheer sweetness of that smile, the way it made the stern young governess look positively pretty.

She's not such a long way off from beauty, truly...

Alice stood still, hiccupping a little as Miss Jones checked her for any bumps or injuries.

"Well, there we go, my girl. You're just fine, nothing but a bit of surprise to worry about."

Alice looked uncertain, but Miss Jones reached out and tapped her nose gently.

"Wouldn't you rather play than worry about crying?"

That elicited an immediate grin from Alice. "Can we go outside?"

Her voice was soft and babyish but clear, and Kieran felt a tug at his heart.

Miss Jones rose from the floor, turning toward Kieran with a slightly hesitant look on her face.

"She wants to go out. Is that something you—"

"You can do it. You're her governess now."

Miss Jones looked at him, that same slightly flushed expression on her face. "Your grace—"

"It's decided. She may be too young to have a governess, but call yourself whatever you want. You will be taking care of her."

C H A P T E R    0 2

Later that afternoon, Delia unpacked her meager belongings into the governess's bedroom and wondered what in the world had happened.

I thought I would be working with an older girl, one closer to thirteen or fourteen. I had not expected such a little child.

The advertisement, she now realized, was placed not by a woman who would know such things but by a man who had no clue how a nursery was run.

It was mere chance how she had found the advertisement in the first place. She read the paper every day, but it was the address that had leaped out to her. She had spent every day since discovering the handkerchief from her sister's death researching the Duke of Cowanfield. His country address at Brixby Hall had lunged out at her like a tiger from the page.

From there, the references were forged, rather expertly if she said so herself, and then she had made her way to Hove to travel out to Brixby Hall.

Now that she was assured the job, she had to wonder at her reluctance to take it. She had put a great deal of time and effort into coming to Brixby Hall specifically for this reason, but now that she was here, her feet were getting increasingly cold.

Alice is simply so little. Where in the world is her mother?

Her gaze darkened as she thought of the man she had met that afternoon seducing Lissa while he had this little girl at home. Had Lissa known about this child or who her mother might have been? Surely, the mother was dead, or was she simply gone?

Delia shook her head, willing to put her questions aside for now. The important thing was that she was where she needed to be, and soon enough, she would be free to do the investigative work that she needed to do.

She was still lost in thought, however, when a humble little knock came at the door that connected her small suite to Alice's far larger bedroom. She looked up, and then crossed over to open the door.

Alice looked up at her hopefully, her small hands clasped in front of her. "Do you want to draw?"

Despite her resolution to stay detached and to only use her position to investigate, Delia could feel herself melt a little looking at Alice. There was something at once so hopeful and so very lonely about her that it broke Delia's heart.

"Of course, poppet. Why don't you show me where your pencils are kept?"

Alice guided her to a drawer full of scrap paper and lead pencils. Delia would have been pleased enough to watch her, but the little girl pressed paper and pencil on her as well.

Well, I suppose if I keep her entertained and cared for, I will not ruin her.

Alice was concentrating so hard on her drawings that the tip of her tongue protruded from her mouth, and when Delia looked down at her paper, she could see the little girl was drawing distinctly human shapes.

"Can you tell me about your drawing, Alice?"

Alice smiled at her shyly and pointed at one figure, blond and floating close to the top of the page.

"That's Mama. Mama lives in heaven now. We used to live in Shefford, but then Mama got sick and left."

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that."

Alice nodded, and even if there was a troubled look in her eyes, she moved her finger to another figure, this one wrapped in a bubble of some sort with what looked like stick ponies in front of it.

"After Mama went to Heaven, Grandmother and Grandfather talked about sending me to a workhouse or to an orph'nage."

"I see..."

"And then Papa came and took me away in a carriage. He yelled at Grandmother and Grandfather for a long time, and then we came here."

Her finger traced a rectangular structure Delia assumed was Brixby Hall, and she went on to make little lumpy shrubs all the way around it.

Workhouse? Orphanage? What kind of grandparents would think of such a thing when a child was so young and her mother so newly dead? Delia had heard some people were simply so poor that there was no other recourse than to farm the children out, but somehow, she did not think that Alice's parents were in that number.

"I'm glad your Papa came to get you, Alice."

"I am, too! We went into his carriage, and sometimes, he let me pet the horses."

Her obvious awe for the carriage horses made Delia smile. She wondered, just a little wistful, if there had ever been a time in her past when everything could be fixed by petting a carriage horse.

"Well, thank you for telling me that, Alice."

"S'okay."

"I did not yell a lot at your grandparents, Alice."

Delia jumped a little, looking up in alarm. The duke leaned against the door jamb, casual in shirtsleeves and trousers. He watched them both with a considering look in his eyes.

"You did, Papa. You yelled a lot."

"Hm. Perhaps I did, darling, but that was only because I was so concerned for you."

Again, Delia felt that uncomfortable surge of attraction for this man, the one who had ruined her family. It had first struck her in their strange interview, but now she felt it again.

In another time, another place, she might have passed him the street without thinking anything except how handsome he was. He was as dark as his daughter was fair, but his eyes gleamed green like those of some large stalking cat. He was tall and lean with a natural athleticism and grace, and obviously, he could walk as quietly as a cat when he wished to do so.

Belatedly, Delia realized that she was a servant in the presence of her lord, and she rose up before dipping in a curtsy. "Your grace."

The duke waved her off, coming into the room to stand behind them at the table. "Don't bother with that sort of thing while you're in the house. No one has the time for that nonsense."

Delia frowned. "It is hardly appropriate for Alice to allow servants to become so very familiar with her and her family."

The duke gave her a slow lazy smile that made her stomach do a slow roll, and alarm bells went off in her head. Was this how it had been for Lissa?

"And I say it is fine. You're her governess or her nurse or something like that. You'll be taking care of her. The only way it would be a problem is if you intended to abuse her trust. You don't intend to do that, do you?"

"Certainly not, your grace!"

Alice looked up at the pair of them, a tiny wrinkle between her fair brows.

Kieran looked down at her fondly.

"What's the matter, Alice?"

"Why's... why's Miss Jones calling you that? Does that mean she doesn't like you? Grandmother and Grandfather called you that."

Kieran grinned. "And they certainly didn't like me. I don't know, Alice, maybe it does mean that Miss Jones doesn't like me."

He turned to her with a surprisingly innocent look on his face. "Is that what you are saying, Miss Jones?"

Delia felt her face flush with heat. She knew she was being teased, but it didn't seem to matter.

"I'm not saying that I don't like you at all, your—"

"Well, if you like me, then certainly we must find you something else to call me. You ought not use the same terms of address as someone who dislikes me. Alice, don't you agree?"

"Yes, Papa! Miss Jones should call you something else!"

"I see that I am outnumbered, even if this is not at all appropriate!"

For some reason, both father and child seemed to find her comment ridiculously funny. She might have been angrier, but Alice leaned against her sweetly, and she felt her pique run out.

"You could call him Papa."

"Certainly not, Alice. That is a title for the two of you. He is not my papa. I have one of my own far away from here."

"Try Kieran."

She blinked at the mention of the duke's Christian name. Suddenly, what had started off as a ridiculous joke at the governess's expense turned into something else. It was simply not done for a governess to call a duke by his first name. It would not even have been allowed to her as a marquess's daughter, not without a great deal of scandal.

"Yes, call him that! Not your grace!"

Alice seemed so enthusiastic that Delia didn't want to refuse. She turned to the man who was supposed to be her most hated enemy.

"All right. But only in the house and not in front of guests. Someone must teach Alice how to behave in company."

"Whatever you like, of course."

"Well, good. Now that that's settled—"

"I'd like to hear you say it."

"What?"

"My name. I would like to hear you say it."

There was something strangely vulnerable in those green eyes, and again, she felt that strange tug at her heart. How long had it been since he had heard someone say his first name?

"All right. Kieran."

Instead of coming out as brisk and businesslike as she intended, it came out wistfully, almost like a sigh. Even as Delia blushed, Kieran broke out into a smile, his hands shoved deep into his pockets.

"Well, there, that's fine."

"Papa and Miss Jones are friends!" Alice seemed enormously pleased by that fact, dropping her pencil to clap loudly in delight. Delia wished that her own feelings were that clear.

"I... I suppose we are."

"Well, we will be living with one another for some time, so I should hope we are. We dine at seven in this household. Make sure that Alice is presentable then, and that you are as well."

"Kieran?" How did that name already slip past her lips? Why was she so comfortable using it already?

"I have a hankering to dine in the family style tonight, and of course you will join us... Delia."

It was one thing to be asked to use the duke's first name. She told herself it probably had more to do with Alice's comfort than anything else. It felt like quite another to hear her own name on the man's lips. She wondered if he had said Lissa's name like that, and a chill ran down her spine.

"I did not give you permission to use my name."

Instead of coming out stiff and icy as she intended it to, it came out slightly cross and humorous instead. She almost couldn't blame him if he smiled at her.

"Then it is a very good thing that I am simply going to take the liberty on myself instead. See you at seven."

He was out the door, and Alice was babbling about all the lovely things she had gotten to eat since she came to Brixby Hall, from cakes to toast to cucumbers. Delia listened with half an ear, and she realized that in just a few hours, she would be dining with the man who had abandoned her sister to die on a dark road.

I cannot let him sway me with sweet words. I cannot. I will not.

C H A P T E R    0 3

There was a time when Kieran had eaten nearly every meal out. Brixby Hall kept an excellent cook, but most of the time, the only people she cooked for were the servants. Kieran's lifestyle kept him out on the town at all hours, and he patronized many fine restaurants.

Ever since Alice had come to live with him, however, he never went to restaurants anymore, and he had even come to enjoy the comforts of eating in his own house.

Tonight, he was, strangely enough, looking forward to dining with his daughter and her very odd governess.

She really was a bit of a conundrum, Kieran decided. On one hand, she looked stern enough to keep a battalion of Roman soldiers in line. On the other, there was the look he had seen on her face when she was drawing with Alice. He had listened with a stone in his heart as Alice had described her grandparents. Some part of him had hoped that she was too young to remember the things they had said about her and how she needed to be farmed out.

To hear her talking about it so matter-of-factually was terrible, but then he had heard her speak of him, and well, also of the carriage horses, but he felt ten feet tall.

He had wondered, before entering the room, what Delia had made of all of that. He had been ready to throw her out on her ear if she said anything that made Delia feel the least little bit unhappy, but the soft look on her face convinced him that he had made the right choice in governesses.

A footman announced Miss Jones, and Kieran stood, expecting to see Alice and belatedly mindful of Delia's admonitions about propriety. To his surprise, however, Delia was alone.

"Alice?"

"I'm afraid she rather wore herself out. After you left, we went for a walk in the garden, and she was thrilled dash about seeing and experiencing everything. Just a few minutes ago, she fell into a deep sleep, and I thought it best not to wake her."

Kieran raised his eyebrows. "That's good. She has been up at all hours and sleeping during the day."

Delia gave him a rather severe look, but he supposed that having a toddler up with him at four in the morning was hardly a good impression.

"She should be sleeping at night and awake during the day, your grace. She is a child, not a bat."

"And I asked you to call me Kieran. Maybe you are no better at listening than she is."

To Kieran's delight, instead of looking cowed or apologetic, Delia only tilted her chin up stubbornly. "Alice is incredibly biddable. You only need to ask her to do a thing and she does it. I think the problem must be laid at your door."

"Ah. Well, I will certainly take that into consideration."

She gave him a look that told him precisely what she thought of that, but she nodded.

"I wanted to tell you that, and to bid you a good night."

"Delia. Stay."

She turned to look at him with surprise and a touch of wariness. He realized belatedly that it was certainly a strange situation, a governess being asked to dine with a lord without his child present.

He frowned.

"I'm not going to do anything untoward, I promise you. If you do not like the thought of dining with me, you may leave, but I had thought to talk about Alice."

The moment he mentioned his child's name, her brow smoothed out, and she allowed him to pull out a chair for her. Kieran felt a twinge of guilt, because the offer initially had more to do with enjoying her company,y than it had to do with Alice.

Ah well. I suppose I'm not so virtuous as all that, but it is true; we do need to speak about Alice.

Dinner was a simple meal of roast and boiled vegetables, and after the servants had set the plates on the table, they were alone in the family dining room, a more intimate affair than the grand dining room.

Kieran noticed Delia watching him as she cut into her meat, something wary in her gaze. Still, she had decided to stay when he had given her the option to leave, so he supposed that counted for something.

"I heard Alice telling you about the fight I had with her grandparents."

"She said you yelled a rather lot."

"As a matter of fact, I did. Believe me, I started out reasonably enough. I did lose my temper when they brought up the idea of payment."

Delia frowned. "What?"

"They'd been ready to give Alice to a poorhouse or an orphanage, but when I arrived after discovering that her mother had died, they wanted me to pay for her, as if she were a leg of lamb."

Delia drew her breath in hard, and her silver eyes went ice cold. At that moment, if Alice's grandparents had seen her look, Kieran thought there was a chance they might have just handed Alice over immediately.

"How dare they, that little girl is their own flesh and blood."

"And mine, which I tried to remind them of. In the end, I gave them six hundred pounds and told them never, ever to contact me again or to try to seek out Alice."

"And they agreed?"

"Readily."

Delia shook her head, and she still looked as if she would like to go find those people and wring their necks. "How terrible of them. I am so glad you were able to rescue Alice from those vultures."

"I'm not telling you this to pat myself on the back. I need you to understand how things stand with Alice, and where she came from."

Delia stiffened. Something in her changed, and Kieran could not tell what.

"Your grace—"

"Kieran."

"Kieran, then. I do not need to know about... about your family situation. I am not at all sure that it is appropriate to—"

Kieran's dark look made her stutter to a stop. "I'm afraid you do. Alice is very special to me, and I would not have her harmed for all the world. However, she is a little girl with something of a difficult past, and it would be altogether too easy for someone who did not know to say something hurtful to her. Do you understand?"

Delia nodded, and even if she looked a little nervous still, she seemed to genuinely see why he was telling her all of this information.

"All right. I want what is best for Alice as well. Tell me what you wish."

It flashed to Kieran's mind how very different Delia was from the women he tended to meet. Whether they were debutantes in the ballroom or women in the brothels, they could never ask him enough about himself. They were looking for leverage, for intimacy, for information they could use to better themselves and draw closer to him. Delia was nothing like that, and he had never known that it would be such a relief to be with someone like that.

"I met Alice's mother some years ago when I was out in the country on some business. She worked at the inn in Denby that I was staying at. I was hoping to acquire some property in the area, though I suppose that is hardly relevant."

Kieran paused, thinking that the next part was surprisingly difficult to say. One did not speak of such things with women. He had barely done more than outline the situation to Neil.

"I came back to my rooms one night and found her waiting in my bed."

He glanced up at Delia to gauge her reaction, and he was startled to see not censure nor contempt but instead confusion.

Well, she's been in service for the last five years. She might actually be that innocent.

"She was, er, there to offer me her favors. Do... do you know what that means?"

Delia gave him a narrow look. "Please, Kieran, I am not a child. I have at least a rough idea of why she was in your bed. I have read books."

The image flashed through Kieran's mind of Delia tucked into bed on a winter night, her nose not more than four inches from the page and a becoming blush on her cheeks. He imagined her lips slightly parted, and then he pulled his mind away. He had truly become a lecher sometime in the past few days; that was the only explanation for it.

"Ah, yes. Well. We kept up our assignation for the four weeks I stayed at the inn, and then we left things with a kiss and smile."

Delia's eyebrow raised. "And... she was content with that? That was all she desired from you?"

Kieran shrugged. "We did not speak so very much. She came to my room willingly. I gave her gifts that she did not ask for or turn away. What more needs to be said?"

"A great deal, I would think, but please, continue."

Now he could see a faint blush on Delia's cheeks, but as truly charming as it was, he was not telling this story to titillate a pretty young woman.

"Well, I went back to London and thought no more about it for almost four years. Then I got a letter in the mail from that same girl, telling me that she was dying and I must come and take our daughter."

"You mean she never told you about the fact that she was pregnant?"

"Believe me, if I had known, I would certainly not have left it that long before I met my child. The girl herself was clever and wild, and I could not guess her motives. Perhaps she thought I would not believe her, or perhaps given that her parents owned the inn and had money, she felt secure despite the scandal. I have no idea.

"In any case, I flew back to Denby just as they were putting her into the ground, and there I found Alice."

For a moment, something flickered across Delia's face, anger or grief or something similar. She trembled, and without thinking of what he was doing at all, Kieran reached out to take her hand. She flinched, and then she squeezed it hard before pulling away, the image of a proper governess.

"Please, go on."

"There was no doubt in my mind that Alice was my child after I saw those eyes. They run in my family, and she looks very much like the children of some of my more distant cousins. Even with that, I might have left her to stay with her grandparents, if they were loving caregivers, but—"

"But they certainly were not. Yes."

Kieran sighed. "So, I bought my daughter from her own blood, because I could not do otherwise, and here I am. And I told you all of this because I do not care how competent you are or how good your references, if you make my daughter regret her birth or the circumstances of her coming to live with me for one moment, I will shout you into the street."

He had no idea how Delia was going to react to all of this. It was a strange story, and the potential for scandal was intense. She might have been disgusted with all of it or contemptuous or cowed by his threat, but instead, she only laughed.

The laugh sounded almost reluctant, and it was a lighter sound than Kieran might have expected from her speaking voice.

She looked shocked at her own laughter, raising her hand to cover her mouth, and then she shook her head.

"Rightly so. I would think that any good father would want to protect his daughter the way that you are looking to do."

Kieran tilted his head to look at Delia a little more closely. "You do not have the reaction I thought you might have."

"I did not expect you to be so involved a parent, so I suppose we are even."

Kieran wondered if he should take offense to that but given the parenting he had seen in the ton, where children were left to servants to raise and parents saw their well-behaved and utterly silent children only at mealtimes, he supposed that she had a point.

When Delia spoke next, it was not about parentage or bastardy. Instead, she spoke of getting reading primers from a special firm in London, to see if Alice might be persuaded to read more quickly. Kieran was certainly pleased to discover that she took her position seriously, but still, he was slightly disappointed not to hear more about the reading that she had apparently done...

C H A P T E R    0 4

A week later, Delia collapsed into her bed exhausted, staring up at the ceiling blankly

My goodness, how in the world did my own nurse get on when there were two of us and not just one?

Alice was a lively little girl, and once she had become comfortable with Delia, she never stopped wanting to play with her, to show her things and to simply be with her. Delia guessed that the little girl had been starved for love and attention ever since her mother died, and though Kieran wanted the best for her, he was fairly hapless as to how to handle that.

A real nurse, Delia decided, would have pointedly told Kieran that fathers were an unusual presence in the nursery, perhaps even a disruptive one, but Delia had not had the heart to do so.

After all, I am here to learn all his secrets and to make sure that nothing about his situation escapes my notice. This is a good way to do that.

That was her excuse, but deep in her heart, she knew that it likely had far more to do how Kieran could sit and watch Alice babble for hours and how he took such a serious interest in teaching her to recognize her letters. It was still a work in progress, but Alice's mind was as limber as soft clay, holding all the impressions that Kieran and Delia left on it.

Outside her window, a distant storm rumbled. There was meant to be a soaking rain in the morning, but until then, the air was still and hot.

Today had been especially trying, with Kieran called away for shipping concerns in London and Alice fretful and nervous about the unusual summer weather. More than once, Delia had had to ask her to sit still on a stool, away from her toys and drawing pens, and simply breathe to calm down.

Poor little mite. I want to crawl out of my skin a little bit as well.

Delia made a face, thinking of how little progress she had made. She had come to find information linking the Duke of Cowanfield to her sister, but so far, she had only managed to do an excellent imitation of a nurse.

Well, no time like the present to get to work, is there?

It occurred to her suddenly that on a night like this, most of the servants would have taken to their beds to try to sleep out the heat, leaving the upper portion of Brixby Hall completely empty. Kieran himself—really, when had she started thinking of him as Kieran, even in her thoughts?—was not due back from London until tomorrow afternoon. That meant that this was the perfect time for her to start her investigation.

She rose from her bed, but the idea of reaching for her heavy gown and putting it on again made her despair. It would be fine to go in her light sleeping shift. She could always claim that she wanted a drink of water and was only going to bed, after all.

Delia was careful to avoid the creaking floorboards in her room that might wake Alice up and tell her it was time to play again. They had only recently convinced her that sleeping at night was far superior to sleeping during the day, and Delia was loath to disturb that.

I am not a nurse, I am the daughter of the Marquess of Winsbury. I am here to find my vengeance.

The stern reminder did not prevent her from peeking into Alice's adjoining room to make sure that the little girl was still sleeping, however. Shaking her head at herself, Delia padded to Kieran's study.

Like most of Brixby Hall, the study itself was large, elegant, and to Delia's eye, relentlessly masculine. Dark shelves filled with serious tomes lined the walls, and save for a little ornamentation in the molding and above the door, it was plain, almost stark.

She knew that Kieran kept a journal of sorts on his desk. He noted the events of the day, partially for business, partially as a memory aid, and he had mentioned that he had kept it for years. That meant that there was a chance Lissa was in it somewhere, and it would be a good place to start.

The journal was a handsome thing with an embossed leather cover and crisp thick white pages, and it rested neatly squared up at the corner of Kieran's desk. She noted how it was positioned, and opened it to the bookmark, paging back.

With a strange and almost guilty pleasure, she saw that she and Alice were the primary topics of the past week, and against her will, she smiled at the entry from two days ago.

July 11

-Meals with A & D

-Played at war with A, and D served as my military council

-A shows a talent for strategy and D for treason

Well, perhaps it hadn't been fair to gang up on Kieran with Alice, but in the end, she and Alice had ended up triumphant and claimed a basket of strawberries as their prize. Alice had even proved gracious upon victory and insisted on sharing the strawberries with her father.

What in the world is wrong with me? I'm not looking for pleasant memories with the man.

Determinedly, she flipped further back in the journals. Though she was determined to find evidence of Kieran anywhere near where she and Lissa had lived with their father, she couldn't stop herself from briefly looking over the time he had spent in Denby, convincing Alice's grandparents to give her up. The entries were terse to the point of confusion. Kieran mentioned travel and the address of the inn. Underlined in one entry, without any explanation, was a notation for the sum of six hundred pounds.

That's how much Alice's grandparents demanded. Delia shivered as she touched the page and could almost feel Kieran's fury bleeding through the ink and paper.

She went further back and hesitated briefly on June 18th, the day of her sister's funeral. There was nothing there, only some household notes about servants and requests for time away, and she felt a brief stab of the old anger coming up again.

She went back to May, when Lissa would have started the affair, and for a moment, she only sat and stared. The pages carefully pre-numbered for the last two weeks of May were empty, completely empty. Their blank smoothness woke in in her an urge to mar them, to tear them with a pen knife and her own nails until she calmed herself.

Did you not want any memory of her? Did you want to make sure that someday, someone like me wouldn't discover what you had done?

Delia's rage had been blunted over the last few days of watching Kieran act the doting father with Alice and with Alice's own sweetness. For a short while, she had been able to forget her grief and her rage and simply take care of Alice. Now she could see what a fool she had been and how she had been fooled.

What was I expecting? He had an affair with an inn girl and never saw her again. He only knew about his own daughter because he was told in a dying woman's letter.

She paged back to the beginning of the empty entries, and what she saw took her breath away.

13 May

-asked coachman to prepare team for long journey

-sent ahead to secure lodgings in Anniston

-preparations for extended stay

Anniston was the town closest to her father's property. Lissa had gone there frequently for sewing supplies, ribbons, and sweets. Sometimes, she dragged Delia along, and Delia felt a deep pain in her heart, thinking of how impatient she had always been when Lissa insisted on her presence.

Couldn't I have been a little more patient with her? Even a little? All she wanted was to spend time with me.

She stared at the ceiling until her breath came easier. There was no time for grieving now.

She heard the step in the hallway just as she was putting the journal back where she found it, squared up and in the corner. She was just thinking that she should find some dark corner to hide in when the door opened, and in the doorway stood Kieran.

Delia froze, in her shift, a candle in her hand, as guilty as a thief with her hand in the till.

C H A P T E R    0 5

As it turned out, Kieran hadn't had to go all the way to London. The ship's captain had shown up at the halfway point, as he had family in the town, and there they had been able to conduct the pertinent business. Kieran might have been more irritated if it hadn't meant that he would be back home in half the time.

On the carriage ride back to Brixby Hall, Kieran had to laugh at himself a little. There was a time when he wouldn’t have been so eager to return to his ancestral estate in the country. Now, the pleasures of London seemed to pale to bleached white when compared to spending the day with Alice and Delia.

I'm sure that at some point, the newness will wear off, and then I will find myself bored with life in the country and doting on my daughter... but damned if I can tell when that would be.

The only problem was that he was hoping to pick up a decent set of paints for Alice in London, and now he would have to send away for them.

If he were honest, Alice wasn't the only person for whom he had considered purchasing gifts. If there was one thing he was familiar with, it was presents that would delight a pretty girl, but as the carriage had rumbled ever toward London, he’d realized that that expertise was entirely wrong.

Delia had no need for beautiful jewelry or expensive scents from Paris or Milan. She wouldn't thrill to a new hat trimmed with ostrich feathers, and he could see the look she would shoot him over the top of her spectacles at the idea of receiving a pair of leather dancing slippers.

Books then, or perhaps a modiste to come and make her some new gowns. Hers are so very gray.

He was bone tired in the carriage, but when he finally gained the house, Kieran realized that he didn't quite want to sleep yet.

I can read for a little while, perhaps...

He had not expected to see a candle burning in his library, and he certainly had not expected to see Delia, clad in nothing but her shift, standing there holding it, a guilty look on her face.

"And what in the world are you doing here?"

His mind flashed from simple theft to Delia letting in thieves from her London gang to arson and to how grieved Alice would be to lose her, and then sense asserted itself. This was Delia.

"I was on my way back from the kitchen for a drink, and, well, I thought I would get something to read."

"That explains the shift, I suppose."

"You know, a gentleman might not mention it and might allow me to make my way back to my room without any odd or pointed questions."

"Is that what a gentleman would do?"

"I am sure of it!" She spoke with such indignant conviction that Kieran laughed, stripping his own light linen jacket from his shoulders.

She jumped a little when he stepped closer, but after he draped the black jacket around her, she pulled it close with all the dignity of a queen offered her regalia.

Kieran thought abruptly about the time she had mentioned reading before, when they had been discussing what went on between a man and a woman in bed, and he couldn't stop himself from grinning.

"So, you were looking for something to read?"

Something about his tone must have irritated her, because she stood up very straight and glared at him.

"I was, and now I will be returning to my rooms."

"But you have not yet found anything to read. Shall I help you?"

Delia hesitated, looking momentarily unsure, and Kieran closed the study door behind him, setting his own candle in a small depression in the wall. It was cunningly outfitted with mirrors, and the dancing candle flame set a reflection of light throughout the room

"Perhaps I can help you. It is, after all, my study."

"You needn't trouble yourself..."

"I would like to take the trouble. What do you like to read?"

Delia seemed to come to a decision, and she offered him a smile that was small but seemed genuine.

"Truthfully? I like just about everything. I like romances, of course, but I also like adventure novels, of the kind that they write for young boys. I like history and science, and I even like reading about mathematics if the writer is good at what they do."

Kieran laughed with delight at her answer. "Quite the little scholar, aren't you? Have you read all your life?"

To his delight, Delia drifted closer to him, perhaps to hear his quiet voice more clearly, perhaps simply because she wanted to. He abruptly became more aware than ever that she was only in her shift and his jacket; a thin and nearly transparent layer of cotton lawn and another layer of fine linen were all that stood between her soft skin and his hands... or his mouth...

"I have. I'm afraid I wasted many days when I should have been out playing or interacting with others in my rooms with my nose buried in a book. My mother was quite in despair."

The slight hint of melancholy in her tone wiped away Kieran's thoughts about seducing her over one of the books that were kept on the very top shelf, behind a completely innocuous copy of the works of Marcus Aurelius. He coughed slightly, wondering when he had become such a lecher.

"Well, let's see, I have plenty of adventure, not much romance, I am afraid, and plenty of history as well..."

She came closer just as he turned toward the shelves, and somehow, somehow, they ended up standing with less than four inches of space between them, Delia's back to the shelves and Kieran looming over her. He noticed that her hair, usually scraped back in a bun, was in a plait now, and soft wisps escaped to frame her face.

Without thinking, he reached up to tuck one errant lock behind her ear, and then almost as if hypnotized, he cupped her face in his hand. Her skin was terribly soft under his palm, and when she looked up at him, her spectacles slid down her nose, revealing her wide gray eyes.

"Your eyes look darker in this light, like a storm instead of a pool of quicksilver."

"Kieran..."

He wasn't sure whether she meant to urge him on or to push him back. Her voice trailed off, and underneath it, he heard a breath of longing, something with its own gravity, and heedless, he was falling.

The moment his lips touched hers, something in him was set on fire, like a burning beacon. She felt like passion, like life, like a flower blooming alone in an empty desert. He knew, somehow in his mind, that she felt the same thing, that she needed this as much as he did. When he felt her small hand reach blindly up for a handful of his shirt, grabbing the fabric and hanging on, he thought that there wasn't anything he wouldn't do for her.

Kieran wasn't sure which of them deepened the kiss, but then he was tasting her mouth more completely, her head tilted back so he could sweep his tongue between her soft lips. She was perfect... and then she pulled away.

He almost reached for her again, but then, in the candlelight, he could see her spectacles were askew and her eyes behind them were wild.

"We cannot do this! I cannot… Oh. Oh, goodnight, Kieran, I can't..."

He started to ask her what was wrong, but she snatched up her candle and pelted from the room, taking his jacket with him.

Kieran stared after her, every bone in his body telling him to run after her. Then he thought of what it would look like, the lord of the manor racing after the governess in the middle of the night, and he cursed.

C H A P T E R    0 6

Delia came awake to the feeling of little fingers prying at her lips. She sputtered, sitting up, and with confusion, she saw that it was Alice, sitting beside her and looking at her with concern.

"Why, Alice, what are you doing in my room? Did you have a bad dream?

"I'm not in your bedroom. Why are you wearing Papa's jacket?"

Delia awakened all the way, and her memory came back with a rush. Her face reddened when she thought of what had almost happened in the study, what actually had happened. She felt as if she was being torn in a dozen different directions. One part of her was still brutally and terrible enraged by the evidence she had found in Kieran's journal. It wasn't anything a court would accept, and it would prove nothing at all, but it was more proof than she’d had before. It told her she was on the right track and that she had to keep digging.

The fact that she had kissed Kieran, or allowed him to kiss her, was something else.

The other part of her, the part that she couldn't ignore no matter how hard she tried, wanted more of that. The moment Kieran's hands had ended up on her body, all she could think was how right it had felt. He felt warm and sweet and perfect, and it was as if everything in her life had been leading up to this.

She had no idea what would have become of them if she hadn't pulled away, if the realization that she was in the dark with a man she had only met a week ago hadn't struck her like a ton of bricks.

"Er, well, I am wearing your Papa's jacket because I was cold last night. We were talking in the study."

Alice frowned at her. "But it was so warm last night..."

"Temperatures drop in the dark, and I was out of bed, wanting a drink of water. I was being very silly. Not like you, sweet girl, who stayed in bed all night."

Oh, I certainly hope this won't convince her that it is all right to go roaming after dark...

"And it is time for us to get dressed anyway, so I shall put Papa's coat over this chair for him. I shall get dressed, and I shall help you get dressed. How does that sound?"

It sounded just fine to Alice, and by the time Delia was once more securely dressed in drab gray, and she had helped Alice into a sturdy blue dress that she could wear outside to play, Delia was feeling much better. She sent to the kitchen for some breakfast for the two of them, and they were just finishing when there was a knock, and then the door opened.

Kieran looked, Delia thought with some dismay, more handsome than he had any right to after being up as late as he had been. He wore black trousers that clung to his long legs, and the dark gray waistcoat over a gleaming white shirt only served to make his hair look even darker.

"Papa!"

Alice left her breakfast and pelted over to be picked up, and Delia didn't have the heart to tell her that that was far from proper table manners.

"Oof, there's my sweet girl." Kieran hefted her up into the air before bringing her in for a close hug. "I missed you yesterday.'

"I missed you, too, Papa, but Delia let me draw, and we drew you pictures..."

As Alice chattered on about the pictures they had drawn, Delia met Kieran's gaze over Alice's shoulder. If she had guessed what she might have expected after the previous night, she might have predicted glee or triumph, or worse, some kind of terrible secret lust. Instead, Kieran looked as cautious as she felt. Somehow that made her feel a little better.

I am only relieved because he does not expect anything. It is only because I need him to believe that I am nothing more than what I pretend to be.

Eventually, Kieran brought Alice back down to the floor, where she scampered for the drawings that she had made for him.

"I was thinking perhaps we could go for a picnic today."

"A picnic, your grace?"

His title popped out automatically, an attempt, perhaps to put some kind of distance between them, something to remind them both of who they were.

Kieran frowned. "No."

"No?"

"No. You are not going to retreat back to calling me by my title whenever we are uncomfortable with each other."

"Are we uncomfortable with each other?"

"I don't know what to call it. I was hoping a picnic today might clear some things up."

"All right. But please do not bring anything disturbing or inappropriate up in front of Alice."

Instead of being angry at the reprimand, Kieran smiled crookedly.

"Wouldn't dream of it. After all of this, it is still nice to know that you are on the job."

* * *

By mid-morning, the barouche was waiting in front of Brixby Hall, and Alice was eager to go out into the summer day. It had rained hard early that morning, and everything was left gleaming and green. Even Delia, who had felt a certain amount of apprehension about going out with Kieran, felt something in her ease and loosen for being out in nature.

Instead of having a groom drive them, Kieran had stepped up to the driver's seat himself. As Alice chattered about plants and animals, Delia glanced at Kieran's broad back in front of her, wondering what he was thinking.

The picnic was delicious, and Alice was allowed to run and play in the meadow close to the blanket they had spread out if she did not go very far.

"My family came here to picnic when I was a boy. It was something we did quite often in the summer before my mother died."

"I did not know your mother was dead."

"My father as well. I was just barely of age when my father died, and I was given the entire duchy to take care of."

Other men might have been self-pitying when they said those words, but Kieran was matter-of-fact.

"I was ready for the duties, but I do not think I was ready for... for well, the loneliness."

"A loneliness that never dissipates no matter how many people are around you."

She could sympathize. She had felt much the same ever since Lissa had died. Lissa could fill a room with her bright chattering, but whenever someone was in pain, she turned into a stone-silent listener, listening so hard it was almost as if she trembled.

"Are you quite well?"

"Hm?"

Kieran frowned, sliding a little closer to her. She almost pulled back, aware of how powerful their connection could be, but when he laid his hand on her brow, his touch was as kind as hers was for Alice.

"You look slightly unwell."

Delia laughed a little. He had no idea. She shrugged.

"Perhaps I am a little unwell."

"Did my talk of family bring back some bad memories?"

"I—"

It was on the tip of her tongue to simply say of course not, that it was only the heat of the day and the sun that had made her a little distracted. That was the sensible thing to say, after all.

"I... Not bad memories, perhaps, but sad ones."

Kieran hesitated. She thought that he would simply nod and change the subject. Men, even ones as beloved as her father, were not so very sanguine when it came to women's emotions. Instead, Kieran turned to her, and the look in his green eyes was kind.

"Would you like to tell me? Sometimes unburdening yourself can help you heal. I certainly know that Neil had to listen to enough drunken rants from me after my mother died when I was sixteen."

Delia frowned, distracted. "Sixteen is too young to go on drinking binges."

Kieran shrugged. "it is the way of the quality, I am afraid. I do not do so any longer, if that is any consolation, and I certainly will not teach Alice to follow in my footsteps. But you may keep your counsel if you like. I only wished to tell you that if you did not wish to do so, you did not have to."

Again, the smart thing would have been to brush him off or to fabricate some story that he would believe. She knew painfully well that she was in a precarious position, hidden in his household like a spy. However, when she opened her mouth, it was mostly the truth that came out.

"Well, I have... had... a sister. She was only a few years younger than I am, but we could not have been more different. She was brilliant, lively as a cricket, and very beautiful and desired. I was... well, you know me."

Kieran snorted. "The sun and the moon are different, but still no less beautiful than the other. And I think I do know you. Did you get along well?"

"Less well than might be hoped for. I know I was impatient with her from time to time, and I know she was exasperated with my lonely ways. Then, the summer before I went into service, she fell in love."

"I take it from your tone that this was not a happy thing."

"It was for her. For weeks, she was walking on air, happy about everything and smiling as if she had some great secret. Our father was ill often, you understand, and he was not really present to keep her in check. I thought she was going all moon-eyed over some village romance or other, harmless enough because she was a good girl."

"But that wasn't it."

"No. She fell in love with a lord. I did not discover this until much later."

"A lord?"

Delia raised her eyes to look right at Kieran, wondering if she could see the ghost of the night her sister had died in his eyes. Instead, she only saw concern, a slow anger, and a kind of compassion that made her blink.

"Yes. He made her a passel of promises and whisked her away from us. She... she turned up dead, accident and not foul play, but... but she is gone."

Delia had meant to tell her story as coolly and as calmly as possible. However, now she found that where her sister was concerned, there was nothing cool or calm about her. To her horror, the tears came, and after a moment, when they looked like they would not stop, Kieran drew her under his arm.

It was obscene, being comforted by the man who had caused her sister's death, but she couldn't resist giving in to the tears she thought she had so cleverly locked away.

"Is Delia hurt?"

Alice's voice from behind her was frightened, and she felt a wave of guilt come over her for scaring the little girl. Before she could turn around to explain, however, Kieran spoke up.

"Delia's fine, poppet, only a little sad. You can keep playing if you like."

"I don't like it when Delia's sad."

Instead of going back to play, Alice sat on Delia's other side, one chubby hand patting her thigh as comfortingly as the three-year-old knew how to do.

"There, there," she declared, obviously repeating something she had heard someone say once upon a time.

"Thank you, that helps."

Somehow, it did.

To be continued . . . FIND OUT MORE ON THE NEXT POST - 

The Lady’s Masquerade - Part 2

[hereliesbitches--me]

Oh how wrong did Lucifer rub her. 

To so carelessly assume -- to think he could simply INVITE someone into their relationship at their most intimate time -- for something so casual as a threesome.

The world around her reflected the cold feelings that swam inside her bones. The air sparked with tension, the room chilled and the lights died til all there was was she who lived in the dark. On her face, she wore her wrath plainly with a scowl, but her body expressed something else entirely. It was hard to tell what it meant ; If it was out of bubbling anger , or out of the anxiety that shook her core like ice in her veins. It was all a matter of interpretation as the Angel held herself tightly, her claws digging into her arms. What remained a clear message, however, was the disdain that burned with a hateful fury within her glowing irises as she looked upon him. Lucifer certainly needed no words from the Queen to know just what it meant, when it was so scarcely used. 

“ Now you LISTEN to me, Lucifer, and you listen well ,”  She speaks low in her throat, deep in her chest. A rumble of warning for the Devil to heed. A rare sound indeed, for a woman who seemed to constantly run on jokes, motherhood, and tenderness. These were words charged with VENOM  that dripped from her grimacing fangs poking out on her lips. Her muscles twitch with the ache of impulsive violence rising in their fibers.

“ Don’t you EVER speak for me.. on ANYTHING sexual of nature..ESPECIALLY pertaining to us..” Rosie pronounces every word, stresses every syllable with careful precision , as she takes slow, predatory steps forward.

KILLJOY,  he called her.  For what? Because she refused?

It feels like a stabbing, wrenching pain in the pit of her stomach. Every step closer she comes, every inch she closes in, suddenly she feels more and more repulsed by him. In her hands, she feels the aching of the clawing joints with a desire to be flexed. To be used. The urge to violence..  To Strike him. To hurt him in the way he hurts her. She wants to pull at his ears she once thought cute, to rip out the eyes that shine like stars... ruin the face that seemed to have swayed her heart. Because now to look at him brought nothing but pain. Was their family nothing to him? Was he always just thinking of his next fix or chaos and sin? 

  The Devil will always be the Devil. He cannot stay true.    It isn’t in his nature.

Rosie stopped. It feels like a loaded gone in her every nerve.. her every feeling, alive in the shape of the inky void swimming in her very being.. hungry, restless. Waiting for its time. Breathe, don’t forget to breathe.  In, and out. In, and out. Stay in control. 

More than a foot shorter, nearly two, but in her rage it did not matter. The flames of hate burn and ravage for only minutes, before they smolder and burn out into the cold smoking remains. Til all she is is Ash.  The resentful grimace softens ever slightly, twitching in a subtle pain as sorrow washes over her tightened joints.  Did he see it? The gloss that suddenly washes over her eyes, the reddening of her face as she held back to tears?

What did it even matter? She couldn’t stop him if he wanted to.

Being angry was tiresome.. and it burned her out just as quickly as it would a candlelit flame. Rosie exhaled slowly.. silent through the nose, her lips never parting as ever muscle falls limp. It meant nothing. You are nothing. 

A lifetime did not change her mind’s processing and perception of herself. A loser to be replaced. A killjoy who didn’t know how to let loose. These were all the things she was.  The angel falls away and  retreats back slowly.. the burning hate fading now to a simple look of disappointment and heartbreak. Betrayal, as the Devil was always good at. Rosie can’t seem to find any words to say.. tired of looking at his face, tired already by her own thoughts and emotions. She sighs again, softly, but loud enough to be heard, and turned away to shuffle back to their bedroom with nothing more. On her exit, grants him only one last statement,

“ Think what you want of me.. but you bring anyone into this house, into our family home that does not belong here,

I’ll Kill them. And I will hurt you.”

@fcllenstcr

[solo---soul]

> "Aw he's so cute! What's his name?"

Impulse gasps softly her tail starting to sway back and forth eagerly.

> "I should introduce Lime to both of you!"

> "You had an egg too?" A certain inky snake seems quite excited at this revelation.

* Yeah… he’s a handful, but he’s a pure boy so far…

[ Anubis is currently nuzzling into Revak’s vest, gripping sleepily to his apparent new dragon dad. ]

[mostthingskenobi]

CHAPTER 5: DEMONS -- The Dark Side of Obi-Wan Kenobi - Part 2

SUMMARY: Obi-Wan performs his first meditation and encounters a host of internal demons. He struggles to navigate through his mind's haunted wilderness.

Hope you all are enjoying the story so far. This chapter is dark (and sad) but that's what you're here for, right? ;) Sorry, not sorry!

I'm a huge fan of classical mythology and astronomy. I reference something called a star cycle. It's not a Star Wars thing but considering Star Wars is based on the monomyth (i.e. Joseph Campbell's Hero with a Thousand Faces) and incorporates a lot of Greek mythology, I thought it was fitting - especially since many constellations tell mythological stories.

For those of you who aren't space nerds ;) an asterism is a prominent pattern or group of stars, typically having a popular name but smaller than a constellation. The best example I can think of is Orion's belt. It's a group of stars contained within a larger constellation.

OK, enough of my nerding out. Onward!

--------------------

CHAPTER 5: Demons

Coruscant – Jedi Temple

Obi-Wan was finally alone in his room. The sun had set hours ago and his star cycle, the asterism that contained his birth planet and a constellation that told the story of a war hero taken by the gods as a servant, was only an hour from its zenith. He had put off his meditation all evening, finding it difficult to face his inner demons. He sat cross-legged in the dark on a large round cushion that allowed him an excellent view of the glittering cityscape. He watched rows of traffic weave between spires and skyscrapers, marveling at their speed and quantity. The millions of vehicles looked like steady rivers streaming across the city; Obi-Wan found their undulation calming.

He had avoided his responsibility long enough. He settled himself, resting his wrists on his knees, tightening his abdominal muscles to support his lower back, rolling his shoulders and neck until they were comfortable. Ignoring the ache pulsing in the scar that stretched across his eye, he used the mesmerizing view to slow his breathing, drawing air in and out in a consistent flow. As his oxygenated blood increased his ability to focus, he closed his eyes and began shutting down his external senses, journeying deeper and deeper into his mental abyss. The universe slipped away; stars, planets, souls, past, present, and future sped by as he sunk lower into his calm inner sanctum. He directed the Force that swirled around him, culling it into his center, holding it tightly in one single point.

Without opening his eyes he could sense that his surroundings had changed; he recognized the muffled ambience and temperate atmosphere of his internal sacellum. There was no chaos here, nor trauma nor conflict; this sanctuary was a neutral space, free from evil and purity, empty of emotion and temptation. It was the perfect place to begin his introspection; it was the core of Obi-Wan Kenobi’s power.

Rather than stretching out into the Force, he pulled everything inside himself. He concentrated his energy into a small spot located right behind his eyes, distilling his consciousness and breath and senses into silence. The absence of thought and feelings allowed him to find balance and control. When he felt substantially centered, he took one final cleansing breath then opened his eyes.

The space around him was dark and shadowy, mottled with patches of milky starlight. Before him stretched a narrow path, twisting and turning through an inky forest; gnarled black trees spread as far as the eye could see, strange twinkling lights flitting between their shattered branches. Obi-Wan stood and walked to the spot where the trail entered the wood. Once he went in, there would be no turning back. If he wanted to heal and recover his place as a Jedi, he would have to face whatever lived in this wilderness.

He stepped off and began his trek, letting the meandering path guide him, never able to see or intuit what waited around a blind curve or beyond a hill’s crest. Eventually, the trees thinned and moonlight filtered through the scattered canopy. He could see snowcapped peaks silhouetted against the darkness far off in the distance. Obi-Wan did not recognize any of his surroundings; his subconscious seemed to be meshing several planetary landscapes into one massive wilderness. He wondered at the forbidding crags and ancient trees, trying to remember what systems he might have visited that influenced his internal terrain.

The path curved away from the mountainous view and began following a lazy stream back into the foliage. This part of the wood was older, less dense, and the treetops soared higher, more than forty feet above the forest floor. Obi-Wan stopped to take in the dark beauty and the cathedral-like timber vault that spread overhead.

He was standing still, his head tipped back, staring up into the leaves when he suddenly heard a sound that made his blood run cold. Muffled but persistent, someone just behind him was gasping for breath, choking on dry sobs.

Terror rattled through his body and his limbs felt numb; now that the moment had arrived, he was not sure he had the courage to face his inner darkness. A raspy, agonized voice was fighting to speak. “Obi… Obi-Wan… help me…”

Kenobi recognized the voice even before he forced himself to turn around. There on the forest floor, Qui-Gon Jinn lay on his back in a dark pool of blood, his arms and legs sprawled in all directions.

“Padawan… where are you?”

Obi-Wan’s chest heaved violently as he tried to steady himself. This isn’t real. It’s just my fear. He stood over his dying master, unable to move, trembling from head to toe. Panic was rising in him faster than he could control. I can’t live through this again…

Qui-Gon looked up at him with desperate eyes. “Obi-Wan…” There was a massive wound in his chest; he could barely get the words out. “How could you let this happen to me?”

The brutal accusation shocked the younger Jedi. “Let this happen?” He could not keep his voice from shaking. Why would I let this happen?

Seeing his master in such a piteous state made Obi-Wan’s heart lurch. Real or not, he refused to simply stand by and watch Qui-Gon suffer. He sank to his knees and pulled his master into his arms. “It’s alright, Qui-Gon. I’m here.”

“Young one… help me…”

He stroked the older man’s cheek, looking into his familiar gentle eyes. Theed is where my life changed irrevocably, he thought. It was the worst moment of my youth. “I’ve got you now, Master.”

“Where… is… Anakin?”

Anakin? The question was like a slap in the face. Why always Anakin? Why never me? “I… I don’t know,” Obi-Wan responded quietly.

“You promised me…”

“I trained him, Master, just as you commanded…”

“Then why isn’t he here? Why isn’t he here with me?”

“I’m here with you…”

“But you are not the chosen one… You are just a disappointment…”

Obi-Wan felt his restraint slip as his insides gave a sickening twist. Was this his own mind playing tricks, or was this truly his master’s opinion of him?

Quick to anger, impulsive, headstrong, the cold voice in his head whispered.

“I’ve tried, Qui-Gon, I promise.”

“You… are weak…”

Cold, unfeeling, aloof…

“No, I’m not. You were impossible to please.”

“You were an inferior Padawan.”

Obi-Wan pulled Qui-Gon tighter. “Don’t say that, please,” he pleaded.

Empty, abandoned, unworthy…

“Master, you were all I had.”

“I wanted to care for you…” Qui-Gon’s breath was beginning to give out. “…but Anakin is the chosen one…not you… Never you…”

“Master?” Obi-Wan clutched at Jinn, their foreheads touching. “Please don’t leave me again.”

Qui-Gon reached up and touched Obi-Wan’s cheek. “What… have you… done?” He fell back, dead.

“No!” Shaking violently, Obi-Wan wrapped his arms around his master.

His mind was reeling, desperately trying to sort out the truth from his emotional projections, but that line was becoming more and more blurred. Why was he plagued with incessant doubts about Qui-Gon? Why was he never certain that his master respected him or cared for him or trusted him? Why could he no longer trust the memories he carried in his heart?

Because, in the end, all it took to sway Qui-Gon’s loyalty was a little slave boy with a high midichlorian count. Never mind the decades Obi-Wan had spent as his student, the affection, the obedience, the hard-won place he had earned at his master’s side. Initially Qui-Gon had not willingly accepted Obi-Wan as a Padawan; the Force brought them together against Qui-Gon’s wishes, and some less than subtle nudging from Yoda. He had not been an easy master; in the beginning he had been reproachful and inclined to moodiness. It took months, even years before Qui-Gon fully opened his heart to the boy.

Then, in an instant, Anakin had taken Obi-Wan’s place. Qui-Gon had practically forced his Padawan aside in pursuit of some witless prophesy about The Chosen One. Kenobi had tried to be gracious, tried to suppress his jealousy – he knew it was unbecoming of a Jedi – but, in all honesty, his master had wounded him deeply.

Now, in this oppressive forest, as he once again held Qui-Gon dead in his arms, Obi-Wan finally admitted he was infuriated. He had always told himself that it was his own fault, that he had done something to push Qui-Gon away, but he finally internalized that his master had forsaken him, cast him aside without a second thought. Obi-Wan felt incredibly guilty for being angry with a man he loved and revered, but he had to speak the truth to himself, he had to concede that Qui-Gon’s rejection had been awful to experience. His master had probably not intended to hurt him, but Qui-Gon’s carelessness had crushed Obi-Wan.

He lay down his master’s lifeless body and stood. There was no closure to be had in a twisted memory such as this. He still felt culpable in his master’s death; admitting his anger did not relieve that burden. He had to move on…

“Kenobi…”

Obi-Wan froze where he stood. He knew that voice; it sent ice up his spine.

The trees rustled behind him and he felt a dark force approaching, seeping out of the shadows and stalking toward him on claw-like feet.

“…I knew I would find you here.”

Fighting his instinct to run, Obi-Wan’s hand reached for his lightsaber but he was startled to find he was not carrying his weapon. This is just meditation, Kenobi, he chastised himself. No need to do battle inside your own head!

He tried to turn around but Maul was already directly behind him, gently placing his hands on Obi-Wan’s shoulders, holding him in place.

The Dathomirian leaned down and whispered into Kenobi’s ear. “Standing over your master’s bones yet again.”

Obi-Wan clenched his jaw. “You’re not real.”

Maul barked a strange loud laugh. He wrapped one powerful arm around Obi-Wan’s chest and pulled the Jedi back against him. “Oh yes I am.”

Kenobi’s pulse skyrocketed, his vision blurred, and he felt dizzy as overwhelming terror bloomed across his nerves. Maul had made him suffer deeply, put him through unthinkable torture; being in the Sith’s presence immediately elicited all of Obi-Wan’s learned fear. He was paralyzed with anxiety, suddenly unable to move a muscle to defend himself.

“You will never be rid of me, Jedi. I know all your weaknesses. I will be your undoing.” Maul cupped a hand under Obi-Wan’s chin and pulled his head back. “I’m inside your mind now. There’s nowhere left for you to run.”

The Sith suddenly spun Obi-Wan around to face him and brought a knee up into the Jedi’s gut. He brutally punched Kenobi in the face then threw him across the forest floor.

Obi-Wan’s ears were ringing. He lay in a heap, unable to move for many minutes. When he finally propped himself up on his forearms, he saw that he was alone. Qui-Gon and Maul had disappeared.

A ragged bolt of lightening suddenly pierced the night sky, followed by a terrifying clap of thunder. Massive black storm clouds charged across the horizon bringing a torrent of drenching rain. Obi-Wan watched the storm rush toward him, lifting his face to the sky as the downpour broke through the tree canopy and engulfed him. He was soaked through in moments.

He dragged himself up and looked for cover, eventually making his way to a large pile of boulders that stood under a cluster of heavy branches. He pressed himself against the rocks, pushing his dripping hair out of his eyes. Raindrops splashed off his nose while mud thickened under his boots; the shelter was hardly satisfactory.

Obi-Wan was nudging deeper into the darkness under the ancient tree trunks when he suddenly lost his footing and slipped sideways, tumbling through a masonry archway concealed behind the boulders. He lay facedown on a stone staircase that descended into the confines of the earth.

He hesitated for a moment. This meditation had already overwhelmed his emotions; he had seen enough for one night and was ready to escape this nightmare, but the Force had obviously led him to this cavern for a reason.

From deep in the darkness spreading before him he heard a faint voice. The subterranean grotto distorted sound, making the disembodied words unintelligible. The sound sent a shiver up Obi-Wan’s body. He was reluctant to experience whatever dreadful encounter this cave hosted; he would much rather be back in his room on Coruscant.

The rain started coming down even harder, chilling Kenobi to the bone, drenching his clothes until they became heavy and awkward. Reluctantly deciding in favor of better shelter, Obi-Wan headed down into the underground den, taking each step slowly and silently. The eerie echoes implied there was a vaulted chamber at the very bottom. As he approached he could see it was lit by lamp droids hovering in the air.

With only five steps remaining, the mysterious voice suddenly cried out, freezing Obi-Wan where he stood. It was a woman, alone and miserable.

“I hate the Jedi!” she screeched, her words rent with emotions and accompanied by a sob. “And I hate you, Obi-Wan Kenobi!”

Obi-Wan’s legs gave out and he sank to the steps, pressing his back against the stone wall.

Satine.

“I thought you loved me…” the sudden emotional outburst seemed to drain her strength, her voice becoming tired and weak. “I thought you loved me…” She was crying heavily now. “Oh, Obi-Wan,” she mumbled over and over.

He knew it was not real, he knew whoever was down there retching their heart out was not actually Satine, it was just a projection of his mind; but the verisimilitude was unnerving. Obi-Wan knew he did not currently have the fortitude to face her, not even a false Satine, so he closed his eyes.

This torment was not like the others he had face on tonight’s journey. When Qui-Gon died, Obi-Wan had been a victim of circumstance. When Maul captured him, he had fallen into a carefully laid trap. He had tried to do the right thing in both instances. But with Satine, things were different. He knew, as he sat there listening to her sobs, that he was overhearing the heartbreak she felt the afternoon he abandoned her on Mandalore. He had caused this agony. When they were young they had fallen madly in love, but when the time came to make a decision, he had chosen to remain a Jedi. He had been inexperienced and confused; their last words had been spoken in anger, and he had broken Satine’s heart. He boarded a transport with Qui-Gon and never looked back.

“Why didn’t you stay, Obi?”

Her voice was right in front of him. He looked up, startled.

Satine, beautiful and sad, stared down at him. She looked exactly as she had the day he met her, vulnerable, angry, and desperate for kindness. When they met, she had just lost her parents, her family home had been occupied by mercenaries, and she had been forced into hiding, on the run alone with two strange Jedi. Obi-Wan felt as though he had fallen back through time.

“I wanted to stay,” His voice sounded shy and apologetic.

“But duty always comes first,” Satine said unsympathetically.

“I’m so sorry, Satine…”

“Don’t,” she shouted. “I don’t want to hear your lies or excuses.” She suddenly slapped him in the face. Then she struck him again. And again and again, an unending barrage raining down on him…

…Obi-Wan’s eyes sprang open. He yelped, throwing his hands out to catch himself as he fell off his seat; he sprawled across the floor, landing on his face. Shaking his head, he righted himself and looked around the room. He was back in his quarters in the Jedi temple, the endless traffic lines still spiraling across the city outside his window. The sky was dark so he glanced at his chrono; the sun would rise in about an hour and a half. He was shocked to find he had been meditating for nearly the entire night.

A nagging sense of dread remained rooted in his core, a parting gift from the visions he had just wandered through. He went to the kitchen and splashed cold water on his face. He knew he should take time to reflect on what he had just seen, he should work to recognize and organize the themes that presented themselves to him during meditation, but, in truth, he had absolutely no wish to revisit any of what he had just seen. The anxiety he currently felt was enough to make him consider never meditating again, and he certainly could not imagine going to sleep. He knew that as soon as he surrendered control of his consciousness, these horrors would take over and haunt his dreams.

He felt chilled to the bone, as though he had actually been out in a rainstorm. He grabbed a blanket out of the bedroom and, wrapping it around himself, pulled a chair over to the panoramic window in the living area. He sat down, tucking his legs up under himself then he plastered his eye on the horizon, counting the minutes until the sun rose.

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NEXT CHAPTER: We'll see how well Obi-Wan is dealing with Yoda's training regimen (not well at all...). Anakin fights a losing battle to protect his friend.

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READ IT ON AO3 - Kudos and Comments Welcome :-)

READ CHAPTER 1: Disturbance

READ CHAPTER 2: Waking

READ CHAPTER 3: The Voice

READ CHAPTER 4: The Council’s Lackey

CHAPTER 5: Demons

CHAPTER 6: The Downward Spiral

CHAPTER 7: The Change

CHAPTER 8: Forbidden

CHAPTER 9: The Prophetess

CHAPTER 10: Doubt

CHAPTER 11: The Push

CHAPTER 12: The Fall

CHAPTER 13: The Horrible Truth

CHAPTER 14: The Only Way

CHAPTER 15: Asunder

CHAPTER 16: Master

[solo---soul]

> ¨Wow it really doesn´t feel like I´ve been around a whole ´nother year now! Time really flies huh?¨

[solo---soul]

Shades of the Heart - Closed Rp

Continued from here.

@inverted-prism

Impulse carefully took the box. Even before she opened it she loved whatever was inside because she knew whatever it is would be full of love. Upon opening the nicely wrapped parcel with upmost care her face lit up with delight at the contents. She held it in her hands for a moment, just staring at the locket as her eyes teared up before putting it on and hugging her girlfriend tightly.

> “I’ll never take it off...”

Of course she did something special for Prism too but let’s wait for the moment of hugging to settle first.

[solo---soul]

New Tagssss

(( I don’t like my old ones as much anymore rip. I plan to go through and change them all when I have time. ))

{Harmonious Serpentine Fighter | IC Solo}

{Brave Hearted Fuzzball | IC Phalene}

{Empty Winter Flame | IC Fate}

{Determined Antlered Killer | IC Algidus}

{Impulsive Inky Chaos | IC Impulse}

{Fallen Flower | IC Amaranth} {Spotted Friend | IC Splash} {Mother Dearest | IC Eva} {Science Dad | IC Hydra} {Deer Death | IC REDACTED}

{Behind The Scenes | OOC}

{Timeline Peekaboo | Dash Commentary} 

{Behind The Monsters | Musings Memes And More}

[solo---soul]

In comes Prism very obviously holding something behind her back. Looks like someone's got the Valentine's day spirit! ~ @inverted-prism

The inky snake quickly conceals something using the trunk of her tail with an embarrassed expression.

> “O-Oh! H-Hey Prism! I didn’t know you were going to be stopping by!”

@inverted-prism

[solo---soul]

Meltan and Melmetal for everyone?

Literally everyone but Fate takes this adorable little baby! Unfortunately no one really seems to want Melmetal. Impulse gives the big boy a friendly leg hug however!

Impulse: 

6/6 Caught!

Solo:

4/6 Caught!

Phalene:

1/6 Caught!

Fate: 

1/6 Caught!

[solo---soul]

A certain ink’s eyes are glued to her phone helplessly watching these events play out beyond her reach. 

> “..ᴾʳⁱˢᵐ...”

[solo---soul]

[TXT]: Hey love, uh,,, probably random thing to say, but if a spider monster in pastel goth attire with way too many fucking hair clips comes knocking at your door, you uh. don't have to answer. just trust me.

[TXT]: I don’t suppose the spider monster your talking about happened to be extremely flirty and way too good at making suggestive comments would they?

[TXT]: Cause Solo’s been curled up in the corner hissing uncontrollably for the past half hour. 

[TXT]: Like a flustered tomato.

[TXT]: If tomatos hissed.

[TXT]: Oh ya it’s me Impulse by the way! :D

[solo---soul]

If Impulse was around, she'd hear her name being called out from behind her, the voice coming from a blue ink spider that seemed very ashamed of herself. "...Impulse?" ~ @inverted-prism ((this has been long since due lol))

Impulse would stiffen dropping the things she’d been carrying and quickly turn around. Her eyes wide with surprise would begin to tear up and her usual cheerful grin was instead replaced with a frown of worry. Within seconds she darted forward embracing the spider tightly.

> “W-Where have you been? Are you ok? I haven’t seen or heard from you for so long I-I was worried something happened or you just d-didn’t want anything to do with me anymore and-”

And she’s rambling now. Seems someone was certainly missed.

@inverted-prism

[solo---soul]

🎨 (With Impulse with Ink safe paint)

> "H-Hey!"The ink hissed in surprise as she was splattered with paint before giggling and flicking some back at him.