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letthemkook · 2 months ago

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Vigil J.jk - Part 1

Pairing: Obnoxious Rich Boy Jungkook x Powerless Reader Genre: Dark Romance, Obsession, Angst, Forced Proximity Themes: Power Imbalance, Class Difference, Emotional Manipulation

Warnings: Yandere!Jungkook, Hesitant MC

Intro: He’s the heir. You’re the help.

You were taught to serve.

Jungkook was never taught limits.

Now he wants you,

and he doesn’t plan to ask twice.

Part 1: King’s Pawn Opening

The Jeon estate is as beautiful as it is terrifying.

Your mother has worked there since before you could walk — cleaning, cooking, tending to guests she’s never allowed to speak to unless spoken to first. And since you were about ten, you started helping her on weekends and summers.

That’s when you met him.

Jeon Jungkook.

Heir to the Jeon fortune. Golden boy of Seoul’s elite. Tall, stunning, filthy rich, and the single most infuriating person you’ve ever met.

Even as a child, he looked at you like you were something to command.

“You missed a spot,” he’d say, pointing at nothing just to watch you wipe the same section of floor twice.

“You walk too loud.”

“Don’t touch that. That’s mine.”

It didn’t matter that you were only a year younger. In his world, you were beneath him. A servant’s daughter. A fixture of his house. A thing he could control.

You hated it.

You hated him.

But you never said no.

Your mother made sure of that.

“Do what the young master says,” she whispered whenever you flinched at his voice. “Don’t make trouble. Don’t give them a reason.”

So you obeyed.

Every. Time.

Even when he stole your notebook and made you beg for it back. Even when he told his friends you were his little housemaid and laughed when they called you cute. Even when he made you sit outside his room and wait for him just so he could hand you a candy and say, good girl.

By the time you’re both eighteen, you’ve almost perfected tuning him out.

Almost.

Until he changes.

It starts with small things.

“You forgot to say good morning,” he says one day, standing in the kitchen in his silk robe and bare feet. “Don’t be rude.”

Then: “Why didn’t you smile when I came in? You only smile for my mom now?”

Then worse: “I want a hug.”

You stare at him. “What?”

“A hug,” he says, stepping closer. “You know, arms around me, warmth, that thing people do when they like each other.”

“You’re insane.”

He shrugs. “You’re obligated.”

Your voice wavers. “I’m not.”

He smiles — slow, amused, dangerous.

“No? So you don’t care what happens to your mom’s job?”

You freeze.

His grin widens like he loves watching you fall silent.

“Come here,” he says, voice dipped in honey. “I won’t bite. Unless you want me to.”

You hate him.

But your feet still move.

And when his arms slide around you — warm, possessive, firm — he sighs like he’s finally getting something he’s waited years for.

“See?” he murmurs into your hair. “You’re so good at doing what you’re told.”

You stay stiff.

He pulls back, but not far. His hands rest on your waist now, too familiar, too much.

“Next time,” he says, eyes dropping to your mouth, “you’ll kiss me good morning too.”

You jerk back. “You can’t—!”

“I can,” he interrupts calmly. “And I will.”

Then he steps past you like nothing happened, calling over his shoulder:

“See you tomorrow, baby.”

And the worst part?

You will.

Because you can’t say no.

Not to Jungkook.

Not in this house.

——-

Jungkook is insatiable.

It’s like the moment he realized he wanted you, he stopped pretending it was anything less than obsession.

Now, every time you step foot in the Jeon estate, you brace yourself.

Because it’s never just “can you grab that” or “clean this up” anymore.

Now it’s: “Come sit with me while I finish my homework.” “Put your head here—on my shoulder. No, I said here.” “I want a kiss. Just one. Hurry up, I’m busy.”

It’s always phrased like a joke.

But the threat is never far behind.

Like the time he dragged you into the home theater room after his parents left for a business gala.

You were just there to drop off laundry, but he was sprawled across the velvet seats, arms out like a prince waiting to be adored.

“Stay,” he said without looking up. “Movie night.”

“I’m not allowed to—”

He cut you off with a lazy smile. “What are you gonna do, say no? Want me to go tell my mom your mom’s been slacking?”

Your hands clenched at your sides.

He patted the seat next to him.

You sat.

He draped a blanket over your legs. Ordered your favorite snacks like he hadn’t memorized them years ago. Let you pick the movie. Rested his hand on your thigh halfway through like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You didn’t move it.

Couldn’t.

Your chest was tight with so many feelings you couldn’t name: fear, fury, and something awful that tasted like want.

Now it’s a routine.

He texts you whenever he wants you. Calls you “baby” or “puppy” like you’re something docile. Something owned.

Today, it’s worse.

You’re wiping down the dining room table when he walks in with bedhead and a smug smirk.

“I didn’t get my kiss this morning.”

You pause, eyes on the glass in your hand.

He steps closer.

“Don’t make me ask twice.”

Your jaw tightens. “There are other people here.”

“So?”

Your heart races.

He corners you slowly, hands sliding onto your hips like he’s done it a thousand times. His breath brushes your cheek. You feel your pulse jump and you hate that he feels it too.

“C’mon,” he whispers. “Just one. Be good.”

And the worst part?

You are.

You tip your chin up, cheeks burning, and press the quickest kiss to the corner of his mouth.

He hums, satisfied.

But then his hand catches your jaw.

“Mm-mm. That’s not what I asked for.”

You look up — breath caught.

He leans in, pressing a slow, real kiss to your lips. Deeper than it should be. Longer than it needs to be.

When he pulls back, your head is spinning.

“That’s better,” he whispers, thumb brushing your lip. “You’re learning.”

You step back like you’ve been burned.

He just laughs and walks away like he didn’t just take another piece of you with him.

He gets jealous over the dumbest things.

You don’t even realize it at first — you just mention offhand that the new intern in the kitchen, Minjae, helped you carry in groceries this morning. He’s seventeen, like you. Polite. Smiles a lot.

And you say it without thinking.

Without fear.

You’re getting too comfortable.

Because later that day, when you go upstairs to organize the study like your mom asked, Jungkook is already there. Sitting behind the desk like it’s a throne, legs spread, fingers tapping slowly against his knee.

He doesn’t say anything.

Not at first.

He just watches you.

And when you finally break the silence with a small, “Did you need something?”, he leans back in the chair and says flatly:

“You like him?”

You blink. “Who?”

He tilts his head. “Minjae.”

You freeze.

He smiles — cold.

“So you do.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“But you smiled when you said his name earlier. You never smile like that when you talk about me.”

You exhale, trying to keep calm. “Jungkook, I—”

He stands.

Walks toward you slowly, like a lion circling prey. You instinctively step back until your spine hits the bookshelf.

“You’re not allowed to act like you’re mine,” he says, voice low, “and then make me feel like I’m not yours.”

“I never—”

He cuts you off by slamming a hand next to your head on the shelf, leaning in close.

“You really think it’s cute? Making me jealous? Making me wonder what you’d do if someone else told you to kiss them?”

“I didn’t—”

“Apologize.”

You stare up at him, heart pounding, anger and fear tangled in your throat.

“For what?”

“For making me feel like I wasn’t enough.”

That stings.

Because he always makes you feel like you’re the one who doesn’t measure up. But now he’s turned the table. Like youowe him something.

You can’t win.

So you whisper, “I’m sorry.”

He leans in closer. “Say it like you mean it.”

“I’m sorry, Jungkook.”

“For what?”

“For… making you jealous.”

He smiles now — a dark, satisfied kind of smile.

“Good girl.”

Then his hand wraps around your jaw, not rough, but firm, and he kisses you again — hard this time, claiming. Frustrated. Not because he wants to comfort himself, but because he wants to remind you who you belong to.

When he pulls back, his voice is soft.

“Next time you so much as smile at another guy, I’ll make sure you regret it. Got it?”

You nod, lips tingling, stomach twisting.

And he kisses your forehead like you’re something delicate — a precious object in a glass case that only he gets to touch.

“Don’t make me jealous again, baby. I don’t handle it well.”

You ignore his texts.

Just for one morning. One blissfully quiet, carefully calculated morning. No "Good morning, baby." No showing up when he calls you to “help” in his room. No kissing his cheek in greeting like a trained pet.

You stay with your mom in the kitchen instead, head down, helping prep trays for the garden luncheon his mother’s hosting.

You laugh at something Minjae says.

You smile when he compliments the way you arrange the pastries.

And for a few hours, you feel normal. Like a regular girl working a regular job in a house that doesn’t own you.

But the high doesn’t last.

Because Jungkook notices.

Of course he notices.

He walks into the garden mid-luncheon, hands in his pockets, sunglasses perched on his head like a crown, expression unreadable — except for the dangerous stillness in his eyes when he sees you standing beside Minjae.

You freeze.

He doesn’t say a word.

Just turns around and walks back into the house.

You feel it like a command.

And sure enough — ten minutes later, one of the butlers approaches you.

“You’re needed upstairs,” he says, not meeting your eyes. “Young Master Jeon requested you.”

Your blood runs cold.

You follow the hall to Jungkook’s room, heart hammering.

He’s sitting on the edge of his bed when you walk in, a water bottle in his hand, jaw clenched like he’s waiting for an excuse.

“Hey,” you say carefully.

He doesn’t respond.

You try again. “You wanted me?”

He stands slowly. Walks toward you.

“Where the hell were you all morning?”

“I was helping—”

“With Minjae?” he snaps. “Laughing? Smiling like he earned it? Ignoring me like I don’t own you?”

Your voice shakes. “You don’t own me.”

His laugh is bitter. Cold.

“You think you get to say that? After everything I’ve given you?” He steps closer, his voice low and furious. “You think you can just ignore me?”

“I wasn’t—”

“Take your hoodie off.”

You blink. “What?”

“My hoodie. You’re wearing it. Take it off.”

You hesitate. He glares.

You pull it off slowly, standing in your tank top beneath it, exposed in more ways than one.

He tosses the water bottle aside and grips your waist, backing you up until your knees hit the bed.

“You’re going to apologize,” he says.

You shake your head. “I already did yesterday—”

“No. I want you to show me you’re sorry.”

And before you can react, he opens the door — wide — revealing Minjae standing at the end of the hallway with a tray in hand.

Jungkook calls over your shoulder:

“Come back later. She’s busy.”

Then slams the door.

You stare at him in horror.

“You—!”

“I warned you,” he says calmly. “Don’t make me jealous. Don’t ignore me.”

“You humiliated me.”

He shrugs. “Now we’re even.”

You feel rage build in your chest, humiliation and helplessness mixing like poison in your throat.

But he just leans in, brushing his lips over your temple.

“You don’t get to pretend I don’t exist, sweetheart. Not anymore.”

And when he kisses you, it’s punishing.

A punishment he expects you to accept.

Because he always gets what he wants.

And what he wants — is you.

#yandere #jeon jungkook #jungkook #bts imagines #bts #love #dark romance #yandere jungkook #servant

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noirscript · 4 months ago

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the lion's claim, pt. 3

PAIRING: King Callixto x Servant Reader

Warning/s: Yandere. Not-so-detailed Smut. Nothing else. 🫠

Description: After a fleeting taste of freedom, you were traded between kings—claimed, but never freed.

Note: This has around 10k words in it. Will divide it into parts. We're still here. See you next week... 🫠

Masterlist | Series Masterlist | Commission | Tip Jar

The tension from the encounter lingered even after Callixto had pulled away, his parting words hanging in the air like a noose. Home.

You swallowed hard, pressing your palm against the cool marble pillar behind you, grounding yourself as you tried to steady the erratic rhythm of your pulse. The room was still, silent, save for the faint rustle of the heavy curtains as Callixto moved toward them.

Your body felt impossibly warm despite the chill of the evening air. His closeness had left behind something unseen, something you couldn’t shake.

You inhaled slowly, bracing yourself. “And where will I be staying for the night, Your Majesty?”

His footsteps halted just short of the curtains, his posture composed but rigid. He did not turn, but his voice carried across the room with effortless authority.

“Here.”

You stiffened.

He gestured subtly to the adjoining chamber—the private quarters prepared for his stay in Aurelian’s palace. The room beyond was dimly lit, the large bed draped in heavy silks, a basin of steaming water set near the hearth. Aurelian had been a gracious host, it seemed.

You wet your lips. “Your Majesty, surely—”

“Are you incapable of sleeping under the same roof as me?” he asked, finally turning his head just enough for you to catch the gleam of his golden eyes.

You swallowed. “That is not what I—”

“I have no intention of touching you,” he said, voice calm, controlled. “Not tonight.”

You didn’t miss the implication.

Your stomach twisted, but you knew better than to argue. Not here. Not when there was no real choice.

Slowly, deliberately, you stepped past him into the chamber.

The air inside was warm from the roaring fire, the scent of burning wood mingling with the faint trace of lavender oil—another courtesy from Aurelian’s attendants, no doubt. You stood stiffly near the center of the room, your fingers twitching at your sides.

Callixto entered after you, his movements slow, methodical. He did not look at you immediately. Instead, he removed his cloak, draping it over the back of the nearest chair before undoing the clasps at his sleeves. His rings caught the firelight as he rolled his cuffs to his elbows, revealing the lean, corded muscle of his forearms.

You tried not to watch.

Tried not to let yourself feel seen.

But then—

His gaze lifted.

And he did see you.

Not in the way Aurelian had, with amusement and indulgence, but with something deeper, heavier. His golden eyes swept over you—not as a ruler inspecting his prize, but as a man seeing the marks of time and distance on the thing he had been denied for too long.

And then, they drifted lower.

The fabric of your dress clung to your frame, and despite the layers, there was no mistaking the soft, unmistakable swell beneath it.

His expression did not change.

But something in the room did.

The air thickened, the weight of his silence pressing into your skin.

Your fingers curled against your palms, but you refused to look away.

It was Callixto who moved first.

Slowly—too slowly—he stepped closer, his boots soundless against the thick rug beneath him. He did not reach for you, did not demand anything. But when he finally spoke, his voice was quieter than before.

“How long?”

You swallowed hard, your throat suddenly too dry. “Nearly six months.”

A pause.

A breath.

And then—

His fingers twitched.

You barely saw the movement, but it was there—subtle, restrained, like a man resisting the urge to reach for something just beyond his grasp.

His eyes flickered, darkening at the edges. “You should undress,” he said, the words slow, deliberate.

A rush of heat flooded your cheeks. “Excuse me?”

He tilted his head slightly. “You need to bathe. Or do you intend to lie awake in discomfort?”

You hesitated.

He was right, of course. The journey had left your body stiff and aching, and though you had grown used to ignoring your own exhaustion, your child had not.

Still, something about the way he said it, the way his gaze lingered on you—calculating, knowing—sent a prickle of unease up your spine.

“I can do it myself,” you murmured.

“I am aware.”

But he did not leave.

He stepped back just enough to give you space, his gaze still fixed on you.

Waiting.

You inhaled sharply before turning away, moving toward the basin of steaming water near the fire. The small table beside it held a neatly folded robe, along with a vial of oil and a comb.

Aurelian’s attendants had been thorough.

With careful fingers, you began undoing the ties of your dress. The fabric loosened, slipping from your shoulders, pooling at your feet in soft folds. The warmth of the fire licked at your exposed skin, but the awareness of Callixto’s presence was far worse.

You did not turn.

But you knew he was watching.

The sound of his breath, controlled and measured, was the only indication of his restraint.

You stepped into the basin, the water lapping at your thighs as you lowered yourself in. The heat soothed your aching muscles, the weight of the day melting into the steam.

And yet—

Your body remained tense, your mind far too aware of the golden gaze still lingering behind you.

Then, finally—

A rustle of fabric. The quiet creak of a chair.

Callixto had sat down.

Not beside you. Not looming over you.

But watching.

You closed your eyes, exhaling slowly. “I thought you said you had no intention of touching me tonight.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then, low and amused—

“I don’t.”

You opened your eyes, shifting just enough to glance over your shoulder.

Callixto sat in the chair near the fire, his posture relaxed, but his gaze—his gaze was anything but.

His golden eyes, unreadable yet unrelenting, swept over your bare shoulders, the curve of your back, the way the water rippled around the swell of your stomach.

And then, softly—

“But that does not mean I will look away.”

A shiver curled down your spine, despite the warmth of the water.

You turned back to the basin, your heart hammering against your ribs.

Callixto did not move.

Did not speak again.

But the weight of his gaze remained.

Unyielding. Unforgiving.

And you knew, with absolute certainty—

That this would not be the last time he watched.

The steam curled around you like a veil, shielding everything but the weight of Callixto’s gaze.

You should have been used to the way he looked at you—like something his, like something inevitable—but this was different. He was not just looking. He was seeing.

The bare expanse of your back. The delicate curve of your shoulder. The water lapping at your stomach, rippling with every measured breath.

You swallowed, staring at the reflection of the fire against the surface of the water, willing yourself to ignore him. To ignore the way the heat prickled at your skin, not just from the bath but from the unwavering presence behind you.

For a moment, there was only the quiet crackling of the fire.

Then—

“Turn around.”

Your fingers gripped the edge of the basin.

His voice had been soft, but there was nothing gentle about the command.

You inhaled, steadying yourself. “I won’t entertain whatever this is, Your Majesty.”

A slow exhale. The creak of leather as he shifted in his seat. “This,” he murmured, “is me looking at what is mine.”

A shiver coiled down your spine, unbidden and unwelcome.

Your grip tightened. “I do not belong to you.”

Silence.

And then—

“You carry my child,” he said, voice dark and low, his words curling around you like a brand. “What part of you, exactly, do you think is still yours alone?”

Your breath caught.

Slowly, cautiously, you turned your head just enough to look at him over your shoulder.

Callixto sat where he had before, posture relaxed, one arm resting against the chair’s armrest. But his golden eyes—they burned. The flickering light of the fire danced across his sharp features, casting deep shadows beneath his lashes, along the line of his jaw.

His gaze did not waver.

And he did not look at your face.

His focus remained lower—on the gentle curve of your stomach, barely visible beneath the rippling water.

The sight of it—the quiet confirmation of what he already knew—drew something out of him that you could not name.

Something raw. Something possessive.

Your pulse pounded in your throat. “Say what you want, but you cannot claim something just because it exists, Callixto.”

His gaze lifted, meeting yours.

“Can’t I?”

Your stomach twisted.

You turned away quickly, as if that alone would sever whatever thread he had just tightened around you. The warm water felt suffocating now, the heat of the room too thick, too heavy.

You reached for the vial of oil beside the basin, pouring a few drops into your palm, focusing on the familiar motion—rubbing the fragrant liquid into your skin, letting the scent of lavender and chamomile soothe the pounding in your head.

But even then—

You could still feel him.

Watching.

Waiting.

You had never felt more exposed, more vulnerable than you did now. Not when he had taken you from your home, not when you had first stepped into his court.

Because then, you had been fighting.

And now—

Now, you weren’t sure what you were doing anymore.

After a long, unbearable silence, Callixto finally moved.

Not toward you. Not away.

Just enough that the chair creaked beneath him, just enough that you knew he was still there.

Still watching.

Then, after what felt like an eternity, he spoke again.

“You will leave the water before it cools.”

Another order.

You exhaled sharply. “Is there anything else you’d like to dictate, Your Majesty?”

A pause.

Then—

“Yes.”

You turned your head slightly, just enough to see him from the corner of your eye. “And what would that be?”

Callixto leaned forward, his elbows resting against his knees, his gaze never leaving you.

“When we return,” he said, voice quiet but certain, “you will sleep in my chambers.”

Your chest tightened.

“I will not—”

He cut you off. “You will.”

The finality of it left no room for argument.

You clenched your jaw. “And if I refuse?”

His golden eyes gleamed, dark and unreadable.

“You won’t.”

The certainty in his voice sent a shudder through you, the weight of his claim sinking into your bones.

You hated that he was right.

Hated that no matter how much you resisted, you knew—

There was no escaping him.

Not now.

Not ever.

⋅ ─ ✧ ─ ⋅

The warmth of the bath had done little to soothe your nerves. If anything, the moment you stepped out of the water and into the cool air of the chamber, the weight of Callixto’s presence became even more unbearable.

He had not moved from his chair, had not looked away, had not once wavered in his silent possession of this moment. The robe left for you was soft, luxurious, but it felt too thin, too insubstantial under his gaze. Still, you wrapped it around yourself as tightly as possible, knotting the sash with firm fingers before forcing yourself to face him.

His golden eyes traced the lingering dampness of your skin, the way the fabric clung to the softened curve of your body. He did not reach for you, but his desire was evident, coiled tight beneath the surface, waiting.

Callixto exhaled through his nose, slow and measured, before rising to his feet. The firelight cast long shadows across his frame, sharpening the defined lines of his shoulders and chest. He had long since discarded his outer tunic, leaving only the soft linen of his undershirt clinging to his form. You tried not to watch, tried not to feel seen, but the moment his gaze lifted, you knew there was no avoiding it.

“Come,” he murmured.

You stiffened. “I can sleep elsewhere—”

“Come.”

It was not a demand laced with cruelty. It was something worse—a certainty, a promise.

You hesitated before stepping forward. The space between you and Callixto disappeared too quickly, and before you could pull away, his hand found your waist, his palm pressing warm and steady against the curve of your body. You stiffened, not in fear, not in resistance, but in something else entirely.

Something unexpected.

Something dangerous.

The press of his fingers, the solid warmth of him so close—it was unbearable. Not because you did not want it, but because you did.

Your breath caught as his other hand found the tie of your robe, tugging it just enough to loosen the knot. He did not remove it completely, only enough for his palm to slide against your stomach, for his fingers to brush over the soft skin stretched taut over the child you carried.

His child.

Callixto’s jaw clenched, his fingers flexing as he took in the sight of you up close—the reality of your body now, changed, swollen with him. His expression did not shift, but something in the room did.

The air thickened, the weight of his silence pressing into your skin. Your fingers curled against your palms, but you refused to look away. It was Callixto who moved first. Slowly—too slowly—he sank to his knees before you.

Your breath hitched, your fingers twitching at your sides as you stared down at him. He pressed his forehead against the curve of your belly, his hands smoothing over the swell of it, thumbs tracing slow, reverent circles.

Something inside you cracked.

You had spent months resisting him, months carrying the weight of his absence, of your own fear, of the unknown. But now, as his warmth seeped into your skin, as the steady weight of his hands pressed against your body, something inside you gave.

You barely registered the moment he rose to his feet, lifting you effortlessly before carrying you to the bed. The sheets were cool against your skin, but the moment he lay beside you, pulling you into the circle of his arms, the heat of him consumed you.

And then—something else took hold.

A slow, smoldering ache curled low in your belly, deep and primal, something that had been dormant for too long. You shifted, pressing your thighs together, but the movement only made it worse.

Callixto inhaled sharply, his grip on you tightening. You had not meant to move against him. But you had. And now—he knew.

His breath fanned against your throat, his hands steady on your waist, unmoving. Waiting.

Your body was no longer your own. It had recognized him, accepted him. And it wanted.

Your breath came faster, your skin too warm, too sensitive. The feel of his fingers splayed against your stomach, the slow rise and fall of his chest against your back—it was too much. Your hips shifted again, this time deliberately.

Callixto’s fingers dug into your skin. His breath stuttered against your neck, but still, he did not move, did not take.

You swallowed hard, your voice barely above a whisper. “Callixto…”

A shudder ran through him.

His lips ghosted over the edge of your jaw, not quite a kiss, not quite a restraint. “Say it again,” he murmured.

Your stomach tightened. You turned in his hold just enough to meet his gaze. His golden eyes burned with restraint, dark and desperate, something waiting.

You had spent so long resisting him.

And now, you weren’t sure if you could anymore.

So, you said it again.

“Callixto.”

And then, the last of his control snapped.

The shift was immediate, as if the name alone had unlocked something inside him.

Callixto moved before you could think, before you could second-guess the inevitability of this moment. One hand cradled the back of your head, the other splayed over your hip, anchoring you beneath him. His breath, warm and uneven, fanned against your lips as he hovered close, his golden eyes dark with something that had been held back for far too long.

You should have pulled away.

You should have.

But when his lips finally brushed yours—soft, slow, almost reverent—you found yourself arching into him instead.

The first kiss was careful, restrained, but the second—gods—the second was devastating. He kissed you like a man who had been starving, like he had been denied something that was his, and now that he had it, he would not let go.

His fingers tightened in your hair as he deepened the kiss, and your body responded before your mind could catch up. A slow, desperate heat curled through you, blooming from the ache that had been lingering at the edge of your awareness for weeks.

Your hands moved, sliding up his arms, over the firm muscle of his shoulders. He was solid, warm, familiar. Your body knew him.

Callixto groaned low in his throat as you shifted, pressing closer. His grip on your hip flexed, fingers pressing into your skin as if reminding himself that you were real, that you were his.

“You feel it, don’t you?” he murmured against your lips, his voice rough with barely restrained need. “Your body knows exactly where it belongs.”

Your breath hitched as his hand slid down, tracing the curve of your belly before settling on your thigh, his thumb brushing over sensitive skin. It was maddening—the slow, deliberate way he touched you, like he was relearning every inch of you, like he was rediscovering something that had never truly been lost.

A small sound escaped you, something between frustration and desperation, and Callixto laughed—a deep, low sound that sent heat curling through your spine.

“Impatient?” he mused, pressing a lingering kiss to the corner of your mouth. “I thought you wanted to resist me a little longer.”

You hated that he was right. Hated that every ounce of resolve you had spent months building was unraveling beneath his touch. But the worst part?

You didn’t want to fight it anymore.

Not tonight.

Not with him pressed against you like this, his body solid and warm, his hands on you like he had never stopped touching you, like he never would stop.

Your fingers curled into his hair, tugging him back to you. “Shut up, Callixto,” you whispered against his lips.

His golden eyes darkened, his breath catching, and then—

Then, he ruined you.

⋅ ─ ✧ ─ ⋅

The morning sun had barely begun to crest over the horizon when you sat at the small writing desk near the window, your fingers hovering over the parchment. The ink on your quill threatened to drip onto the pristine page, a silent reflection of the hesitation tightening in your chest.

You had been awake for hours.

Or perhaps, you had never truly slept.

Callixto’s warmth still lingered against your skin, his presence overwhelming even in sleep. The remnants of last night were written into your body—the aching satisfaction, the way he had held you afterward, possessive even in rest, his arms wrapped tightly around you as if to prevent even the thought of escape.

But now, as the dawn broke and reality settled in, you knew there was one last thing you had to do before leaving Aurelian’s palace behind.

Your fingers tightened around the quill. Then, slowly, deliberately, you began to write.

✾

To the one who once stood at my doorstep,

I do not know what you have become in these halls, nor do I know if you are still the woman I met in the rain. But if there is any part of you that remains, then I leave you with only this—

May the gods grant you the strength to endure. And if not… then may they grant you a way out.

I hope you never need this letter. But if you do, then I hope it is not too late.

May fortune favor you, and may you never forget that once, for even a moment, you were free.

—Yours in fleeting kindness

✾

You stared at the words, your heartbeat steady but slow, as if your body understood the weight of this more than your mind did.

There was no certainty that she would ever see it. No guarantee that she would even care.

But you had done what you could.

Folding the parchment carefully, you sealed it, running your fingers over the smooth wax before tucking it into the folds of your robe.

It had to reach her.

And there was only one man who could ensure that.

⋅ ─ ✧ ─ ⋅

The kitchen was already alive with movement, the scent of fresh bread and roasting meat curling into the air. The warmth of the ovens chased away the lingering chill of morning, wrapping around you like something almost safe.

You found him near the hearth, arms crossed, barking orders at a younger cook who looked seconds away from dropping the tray he was carrying. The head chef had not noticed you yet, too occupied with ensuring that his staff did not make a mess of his kitchen.

When you finally stepped forward, he turned, brows already furrowed. “You again? Shouldn’t you be off riding into the sunset with your king?”

You exhaled sharply, handing him the folded parchment. “Give this to her.”

He eyed it, unimpressed. “You assume I deliver messages now?”

“She will read it if it comes from you.”

A pause.

Then, begrudgingly, he took the letter, tucking it into the pocket of his apron with a muttered curse. “Tch. Fine. But if I get thrown in the dungeons for this, I’ll be haunting your ass.”

A ghost of a smile tugged at the corner of your lips. “I’ll take my chances.”

His expression softened just slightly, though he still huffed. “Hurry up and go. The last thing I need is more trouble in my kitchen.”

You hesitated. Then, quieter, “Thank you.”

He grunted, already turning back to his work. “Don’t thank me yet, girl. You’re still leaving one hell of a mess behind.”

You said nothing as you stepped back, letting the sounds of the kitchen swallow you whole.

By the time you reached the courtyard, Callixto was already waiting.

⋅ ─ ✧ ─ ⋅

The carriage rocked steadily, the rhythmic clatter of wheels against the road filling the silence between you. The drawn curtains plunged the space into near darkness, save for the dim flicker of the lantern swaying gently from the ceiling. The enclosed space felt suffocating, thick with something unspoken—something his.

You could not see Callixto, but you could feel him.

He had not spoken since the gates of Aurelian’s kingdom had disappeared behind you, but his presence consumed every breath you took. You had spent months away from him, months thinking you had escaped, months believing there was still a choice left to make.

You had been wrong.

Your fingers curled against your lap. “I left something behind.”

A pause. Then, low and unreadable, “What was it?”

“A letter.”

Another pause, this one heavier. “For whom?”

You inhaled. “For her.”

The carriage hit a small rut in the road, rocking slightly, but Callixto remained utterly still. You could not see his reaction, but the weight of it settled in the dark, stretching thick between you.

You forced yourself to continue. “I had to. She deserved to know—”

“I know exactly what she was to you.”

His voice was quiet, but there was nothing soft about it.

The carriage swayed again, and you heard the slow creak of leather as he shifted. Not forward. Not reaching for you. But something about the movement sent a sharp awareness through your spine.

You swallowed. “I only meant—”

“You meant to remind her that you still care,” he murmured, his voice slow, measured. “That you still think of her.”

A long silence.

Then, after a breath, he exhaled through his nose, a quiet sound that sent a shiver down your spine.

“You would have done the same for anyone, wouldn’t you?”

Your fingers clenched in your lap. “I don’t know.”

A quiet hum. “Yes, you do.”

Something about the certainty in his voice left no room for denial.

The seat beneath him creaked again, another slow shift, but this time, he did not stop himself.

You sucked in a breath as the darkness around you moved—a sudden shift in the air, a presence pressing forward.

Before you could react, before you could shrink away, Callixto was there.

The warmth of his body enveloped you before his hands ever touched you, a suffocating heat in the chilled space of the carriage. And then, just as you began to draw back, his hands found your waist, slow but unrelenting, fingers curling over the soft swell of your stomach.

You stiffened. “Callixto—”

“You think kindness is something that will protect you,” he murmured against your ear, his lips ghosting over your skin. “That it will save you. That if you leave enough of it behind, it will matter.”

Your breath stuttered.

His hands flexed against you. “But kindness will not save you from me.”

The words were spoken softly, a whisper in the dark, but they slammed into you harder than any cruelty ever could.

Your pulse thrummed wildly beneath your skin, your body betraying you as his grip tightened, drawing you flush against him.

“You may have left a letter behind,” he murmured, his breath fanning against your jaw, “but you will not leave anything else.”

One of his hands left your waist, rising to your throat, not squeezing, not restraining—just resting. His thumb brushed over your pulse, slow and deliberate, as if feeling the rapid beat beneath it.

“Not your words.” His fingers traced along the column of your throat. “Not your body.” A slow slide down, over your stomach, pressing possessively over the swell of his child. “And certainly not this.”

The finality in his voice left no room for argument.

This was not a threat.

It was a vow.

You exhaled, unsteady. “And if I tried?”

The leather of his gloves creaked as his grip tightened, slow and unyielding.

“You won’t.”

No rage. No cruelty.

Just absolute, unwavering certainty.

The carriage rocked forward, the road stretching endlessly ahead.

And in the suffocating dark, his arms wrapped around you, holding you firm, keeping you still.

This was only the first night.

There were still six more before you reached his kingdom.