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pandapetals · 3 months ago

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The Whispers at Howlett Manor

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

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

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

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

word count: 28k

divider credit: @pommecita

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

────୨ৎ────

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Miss Langley.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

────୨ৎ────

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

────୨ৎ────

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

────୨ৎ────

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

────୨ৎ────

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

────୨ৎ────

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

────୨ৎ────

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then you saw him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

────୨ৎ────

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

────୨ৎ────

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

────୨ৎ────

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

────୨ৎ────

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

────୨ৎ────

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

────୨ৎ────

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

────୨ৎ────

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

────୨ৎ────

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

────୨ৎ────

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

────୨ৎ────

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

870 notes · View notes

bueckets · 2 months ago

Text

Going UP?

Pairing: Paige Bueckers x Reader

Description: From missed alarms to broken elevators, your Tuesday couldn't get worse, well, until it gets better. When a late-running grad student's desperate dash to save her thesis turns into an unexpected elevator encounter with UConn basketball sensation Paige Bueckers, she learns that sometimes the best assists come from broken machinery.

Armed with nothing but coffee-fueled anxiety and an encyclopedic knowledge of basketball analytics, you find yourself trading quips with college basketball's golden girl in a stalled elevator. What starts as a disaster turns into something else entirely when basketball theory meets practice, terrible jokes meet dangerous grins, and hot chocolate meets, well, everywhere except the mug.

They say love is a game of chances. But when you're trapped between floors with a girl who can bend physics on the court and make your heart run suicides off it, maybe it's worth taking the shot. Sometimes cupid doesn't use arrows. Sometimes he just breaks the elevator.

Featuring: One (1) very broken elevator Several questionably colored cocktails A security guard who's seen it all Basketball plays drawn in spilled Shirley Temples Analytics-based flirting And a whipped cream fight that definitely isn't regulation play

Coming soon to wherever meet-cutes happen in college sports. (Rated R for excessive basketball puns and gay panic)

WC: 8.1k (roughly)

Genre/Notes: uh, i tried to be funny, floofy, rom-com-ish? (i tried), smut at the end, someone gets their kitty ATE, proof read like 50%

Your sneakers pound against the cracked, patchy sidewalk of North Campus, dodging the construction zone that's been "two weeks from completion" since freshman year. The November air bites at your cheeks, sharp as broken glass, and your laptop bag repeatedly slams into your hip with each stride, probably turning your thesis notes into digital confetti. A gust of wind lashes at you, tugging at your jacket, your hair, your sanity, and sending a rogue candy wrapper tumbling like a lonely tumbleweed across the quad like some 50’s Old West showdown.

You'd woken up to three missed calls from your advisor and an email that made your soul leave your body.

Meeting moved to 9:15 AM. Please bring updated analytics models.

It's 9:12.

The universe is really testing you today. First, your roommate's cat knocked your phone off the nightstand, somehow managing to turn off all five of your alarms. Then, the dining hall’s card reader had the audacity to look at your student ID like it was written in crayon, leaving you to scavenge through your bag for exact change like a Victorian orphan. And now this.

You weave through the crowd of freshmen congregating outside the Student Union like they've never seen stairs before, your thermos of room-temperature coffee sloshing dangerously close to the lid. The wind whips a forgotten syllabus past your feet as you cut across the grass (sorry, campus maintenance), taking the "shortcut" that everyone pretends they don't use. You can practically hear the landscaping team groaning somewhere, shaking their heads at the worn-down dirt trail you and a thousand other students have carved into their perfect lawn.

Gampel Pavilion looms ahead, all glass and steel and architectural hubris. The morning sun hits it at an angle that makes it look like it's on fire, which feels appropriate given your current state of mild panic. You've spent so many hours in this building that the security guard, Mike, doesn't even look up from his crossword puzzle anymore when you scan your ID.

"Running late?" he calls out as you blast past his desk.

"What gave it away?" you shout back, already halfway to the elevators. Your sneakers squeak against the polished floors, leaving behind a faint trail of panic and shame— but most importantly, dirt.

The ancient LED display above the elevator shows it's on the third floor. You slam the up button approximately forty-seven times, as if that's ever made an elevator move faster in the history of vertical transportation.

"Come on, come on," you mutter, shifting your weight between feet like you're doing some demented speed-skating warm-up. Your laptop bag keeps sliding off your shoulder, and you're pretty sure your hair looks like you styled it in a wind tunnel. A strand falls into your eyes, and you blow it away with a frustrated huff. Everything about you screams disaster, and yet the elevator couldn’t care less.

The elevator dings. The doors slide open with all the urgency of a DMV employee on a Friday afternoon.

And there she is.

Paige Bueckers is leaning against the back wall of the elevator, one foot propped up behind her, looking like she just stepped out of a Nike ad. Her practice uniform is pristine, her blonde hair pulled back in a perfect ponytail that somehow hasn't gotten the memo about today's wind situation. She's got AirPods in, absently spinning a basketball between her hands like it's an extension of her body.

Your brain short-circuits.

Time seems to slow down as you stand there, probably looking like a deer caught in very attractive headlights. The elevator dings again, threatening to close its doors on your moment of crisis.

Fuck it.

You lunge forward just as the doors start to close, practically diving into the elevator like you're trying to save a ball going out of bounds. Your coffee sloshes, your bag swings, and you nearly face-plant into the corner.

Paige pulls out one AirPod, her eyebrows raised so high they might achieve orbit. "Nice entrance."

You straighten up, trying to salvage whatever dignity might be hiding in the corners of this elevator. "Thanks, I've been practicing."

The elevator starts its ascent with a concerning rattle that definitely wasn't part of the original design. You adjust your bag for the hundredth time, very aware that you probably look like you just lost a fight with a leaf blower. Meanwhile, Paige keeps spinning that damn basketball, the soft thump-thump of it between her hands matching rhythm with your still-racing heart.

Nine floors to go. Eight if your advisor hasn't moved offices again after the Great Coffee Incident of last semester.

You can handle this. You're an adult. A slightly disheveled, possibly caffeine-deprived adult, but still. Just because you're sharing an elevator with the university's basketball goddess doesn't mean you need to—

The lights flicker once. Twice.

The elevator shudders like it's having an existential crisis.

Then everything stops.

The emergency lights kick in, bathing everything in a red glow that makes Paige look like she's starring in a very stylish apocalypse movie. The basketball stops spinning.

"Well," she says, tucking the ball under her arm and giving you a smile that definitely doesn't make your stomach flip. "Looks like the universe has other plans for us this morning."

You look at your phone: 9:14 AM.

Your advisor is going to kill you.

"Oh fuck, fuck, fuck," you mutter, jabbing at the emergency call button like it personally offended you. "This isn't happening. This can't be happening."

The little red light blinks back at you, mocking your entire existence, as if to say, yeah, good luck with that, idiot. You hit the button again, harder this time, because maybe the elevator just needs some aggressive encouragement.

"I don't think that's helping," Paige says, watching you with a mix of amusement and concern. She's still spinning that goddamn basketball, the rhythmic thump-thump now feeling less like a heartbeat and more like a countdown to your academic doom.

"Yeah? Well, neither are you," you snap, immediately regretting it. Great. Now you're trapped in an elevator AND you've just been rude to Paige fucking Bueckers. "Shit, sorry, I just—" You run both hands through your already catastrophic hair. "My advisor is going to crucify me. Like, actually crucify me. She's probably got a cross picked out and everything."

Paige catches the ball mid-spin. "Dr. Martinez?"

"How did you—"

"The only professor I know who actually might own a cross for student crucifixions." She tucks the ball under her arm. "She made one of our freshmen cry last week just by looking at her."

"That tracks." You slide down the wall opposite her, your legs finally giving up on the whole standing thing. "God, I can't believe this. I've got my entire thesis presentation on this laptop, three months of analytics data that I haven't backed up because I'm an idiot, and now I'm going to die in an elevator with—" You wave vaguely in her direction.

"With?" She raises an eyebrow, and you swear there's a smirk playing at the corner of her mouth.

"With UConn's basketball savior who's probably missing practice right now because the universe decided today was a great day for some cosmic practical joke." You let your head thunk back against the wall. "Coach Auriemma's probably already got a hit out on me."

Paige laughs, and the sound does something weird to your chest. "Nah, Coach is more of a 'make you run suicides until you puke' kind of guy. Much less paperwork than murder."

"Fantastic. So I'll die from academic execution AND athletic retribution. Perfect way to start a Tuesday."

"You always this dramatic before 9:30?" She's definitely smirking now.

"Only when I'm trapped in elevators with pretty girls who should be at practice."

The words are out before your brain can catch up with your mouth. Your eyes go wide, and you seriously consider trying to pry open the doors and jump down the shaft.

But Paige just grins, wide and dangerous. "Oh, so you think I'm pretty?"

"I think you're deflecting from the fact that we're stuck in a metal box that's older than both of us combined," you say, proud of how steady your voice comes out despite the internal screaming.

"And I think you're deflecting from the fact that you just called me pretty."

You pull out your phone again, desperate for a distraction. "No signal. Perfect. This is fine. Everything is fine."

"Could be worse," Paige says, stretching her legs out in front of her. Her feet almost reach where you're sitting, and you absolutely do not notice how long her legs are. "Could be stuck in here with Dr. Martinez."

That startles a laugh out of you. "Jesus, don't even joke about that. She'd probably make me defend my thesis right here."

"Yeah? What's it about?"

You look up from your phone to find her watching you with what appears to be genuine interest. "You really want to know?"

"Well," she gestures around the elevator, "it's not like I've got anywhere else to be."

You narrow your eyes. "If this is some kind of pity conversation—"

"It's not." She cuts you off, her voice surprisingly firm. "I'm actually curious. Plus, you look like you might spontaneously combust if you don't talk about something other than being stuck in here."

She's not wrong. Your leg has been bouncing non-stop since you sat down, and you're pretty sure you're about to wear a hole in your bottom lip from biting it.

"Fine," you say, setting your phone aside. "But remember, you asked for this. And if you fall asleep, I'm using that basketball as a pillow."

Paige's eyes light up with something that makes your stomach flip. "Deal."

"Okay, so you know how current basketball analytics are basically just glorified box scores?" You shift to face her properly, your earlier panic morphing into the kind of enthusiasm that usually makes people's eyes glaze over. "Like, sure, we can track points and assists and whatever, but that's just the obvious stuff."

"And there's more than the obvious stuff?" Paige asks, settling in like she's actually planning to follow your inevitably chaotic explanation.

"So much more." You pull your laptop out, balancing it on your crossed legs. "Like, imagine being able to track not just who made the shot, but all the little things that made that shot possible. The way players move without the ball, how defensive shifts create spaces that don't show up in any stat sheet.”

Your hands start moving as you talk, painting invisible patterns in the air. Paige has stopped spinning her basketball, her eyes following your gestures with an intensity that makes you warm all over.

"It's like..." You pause, trying to find the right words. "You know how in chess, sometimes the most important move isn't the one that takes the piece, but the three moves before that made it possible?"

She nods, leaning forward slightly. "Like a setup play."

"Exactly!" You're fully animated now, previous elevator crisis temporarily forgotten. "But current systems don't track that. They don't see how Player A moving left makes Player B's defender shift just enough that Player C can—"

The emergency speaker crackles to life, making you both jump.

"Hello? Anyone in there?" The voice sounds bored, like stuck elevators are just another Tuesday morning inconvenience.

Paige reaches over and hits the call button. "Yeah, we're here. Two people."

"Alright, we've got maintenance heading up. Should have you out in about fifteen minutes. Sit tight."

The speaker clicks off, leaving you both in that red-tinted silence again.

"Fifteen minutes," you groan, letting your head fall back against the wall. "Dr. Martinez is definitely going to have that cross ready."

"Hey," Paige says, and something in her voice makes you look at her. "Tell me more about your system. How do you track all those micro-movements?"

You blink at her. "You actually want to hear more?"

"Would I ask if I didn't?" She's got this soft half-smile that does dangerous things to your ability to think straight. "Plus, you get all..." she waves her hand vaguely, "sparkly when you talk about it."

"Sparkly?"

"Yeah, like you're lit up from the inside." She says it so casually, like she hasn't just made your heart do a full court press against your ribs.

You clear your throat, trying to remember how words work. "Right. Well, um, I've been working with the computer vision lab to develop these tracking algorithms..."

The next fifteen minutes dissolve into a blur of technical explanations and basketball theory. Paige asks surprisingly specific questions, and you try not to look too pleased every time she leans in closer to see something on your laptop screen.

When maintenance finally gets the elevator moving again, it feels too soon.

The doors open on the fourth floor – your floor – and you scramble to pack up your laptop, suddenly aware that you've spent the last twenty minutes word-vomiting about analytics to one of the best basketball players in the country.

"Thanks for, uh, keeping me from completely losing it," you say, standing awkwardly in the doorway. "And sorry about the whole..." you gesture vaguely at yourself, "chaos."

Paige stands too, and even in the normal lighting, she's unfairly pretty. "Chaos looks good on you."

Your brain short-circuits. "Can I get your number?"

The words tumble out before you can stop them, and you immediately want to crawl into the nearest trash can. But Paige just grins, that dangerous one that makes her look like she knows exactly what she's doing to you.

"Tell you what," she says, spinning the basketball on one finger because apparently she's physically incapable of not showing off. "Come to Friday's game. If you can spot one of those micro-interactions you were talking about..." She lets the ball roll down her arm and catches it smoothly. "Maybe you'll find out if I give my number to random girls I meet in elevators."

She backs into the elevator, maintaining eye contact until the doors close between you.

You stand there for a solid thirty seconds, staring at the brushed metal doors like they might reveal the secrets of the universe. Or at least explain how you went from having a mental breakdown about your advisor to what definitely felt like flirting with Paige Bueckers.

Your phone buzzes: another email from Dr. Martinez.

Meeting rescheduled to 2PM. Bring coffee. The good kind.

You look back at the elevator doors, then at your phone, then at the ceiling.

Looks like you're going to a basketball game on Friday.

The security guard at Gampel's student entrance looks at your ticket, then at you, then back at the ticket with the kind of suspicion usually reserved for people trying to use expired coupons at Target.

"This is— courtside," he says slowly, like maybe you don't understand what those words mean.

"Yeah, I, uh,” You shift your weight between feet, very aware of the growing line behind you. "I got it in an email?"

It comes out like a question because honestly, you're still not entirely sure this isn't some elaborate fever dream. The past three days have felt surreal, starting with Dr. Martinez actually smiling during your rescheduled meeting (turns out that fancy coffee shop downtown does make a difference) and ending with an email from [email protected] that made you choke on your morning cereal.

The security guard squints at his scanner like it's personally offending him. "These are usually reserved for—"

"Is there a problem?" A familiar voice cuts through the growing awkwardness, and you turn to find Mike, your elevator-lobby guardian angel, approaching with his signature "I've seen too much student nonsense" expression.

"Got a courtside ticket here, but—"

"Oh, yeah," Mike says, shooting you a look that's somewhere between amused and knowing. "This one's good. Let 'em through."

You mouth a 'thank you' as you pass, and he just shakes his head, muttering something that sounds suspiciously like "kids these days" under his breath.

The student section is already packed, a sea of navy and white that ripples with pre-game energy. But your ticket directs you past all that, down, down, down the steps until you're so close to the court you can smell the fresh polish on the hardwood.

"This isn't happening," you mutter to yourself, dropping into your assigned seat—which is literally close enough to high-five players coming off the court. "This is fine. Everything is fine. You're just casually sitting courtside at a sold-out game because you got trapped in an elevator and word-vomited about basketball analytics for twenty minutes. Totally normal Friday night."

The woman next to you, wearing what looks like several hundred dollars worth of UConn gear, gives you a concerned side-eye.

"Sorry," you say, slinking lower in your seat. "I talk to myself when I'm having an existential crisis."

She just nods and shifts slightly away, which, fair.

The arena fills up quickly, the ambient noise growing from a buzz to a roar. You try to look casual, like you totally belong here and didn't spend forty-five minutes earlier having a breakdown about what to wear to a basketball game when you're sitting close enough to be on TV. (You'd finally settled on jeans and a UConn hoodie, figuring if you're going to have a gay panic on national television, you might as well be comfortable.)

The teams come out for warm-ups, and your heart definitely doesn't skip when you spot number 5 leading the layup line. Paige moves like she's got some sort of cheat code for gravity, each motion fluid and precise. She's got her game face on, all focused intensity and practiced routine, but then—

She catches your eye as she circles back to the line, and her serious expression cracks just enough to let through a hint of that dangerous grin from the elevator.

"Oh, I am so screwed," you breathe, and the woman next to you shifts another inch away.

The game itself is a blur of motion and noise. You try to focus on analyzing plays like you promised, looking for those micro-interactions you'd rambled about, but it's hard to think strategically when Paige keeps making passes that shouldn't be physically possible. Your laptop's probably having a stroke trying to track all these movements.

By halftime, UConn's up by twelve, and you've filled three pages of your Notes app with what started as technical observations but has devolved into increasingly incoherent capslock about various impressive plays. The latest note just says "HOW DID SHE EVEN SEE THAT CUTTING GUARD??? PHYSICS???? HELP????"

"Nice analysis."

You nearly drop your phone. Paige is right there, pretending to adjust her shoes by the bench but clearly smirking in your direction.

"I'm being professionally thorough," you whisper-hiss back, trying to ignore how your pulse is doing full-court sprints.

"Uh huh." She stands up, heading back to the huddle, but not before adding, "You look good in UConn blue, by the way."

You spend the entire third quarter trying to remember how to breathe normally.

The fourth quarter is when you see it—one of those perfect setup plays you'd theorized about. Paige moves left, drawing her defender, while simultaneously nodding almost imperceptibly to her teammate. The slight movement causes a chain reaction: the defense shifts, creating a gap that shouldn't exist, and suddenly there's a perfect passing lane that materializes out of seemingly nowhere. The ball flows through it like water finding the path of least resistance, resulting in an easy layup that looks simple but was actually three moves in the making.

You're on your feet before you realize it, pointing and probably looking deranged. "That! That's exactly what I was talking about! The head fake was the trigger but it wasn't even about the—" You cut yourself off, becoming aware that several people are staring at you, including the woman next to you who's now practically in the next seat over.

As the final buzzer sounds (UConn by 18), your phone buzzes with a new email.

From: [email protected]

Subject: Nice catch

Body: 617-555-0147

PS - Your "professional analysis" face is reaaaaallly cute. Even from ten feet away.

You stare at your phone long enough that the arena starts to empty around you, afraid that if you look away the numbers might disappear like some basketball Cinderella story. The woman next to you finally gets up, edging past with the kind of caution usually reserved for wild animals.

"Sorry about all the,” you gesture vaguely at yourself.

She just pats your shoulder with grandmotherly sympathy. "Honey, I've been watching basketball for forty years, and I've never seen someone have a gay awakening quite that enthusiastically. Good luck with number five."

You're still sputtering when she disappears up the stairs, leaving you alone with a phone number and the distinct feeling that the universe is either laughing at you or playing matchmaker.

Possibly both.

Nah— Definitely both.

After what feels like an eternity of staring at your phone like it holds the secrets of the universe, your bladder kindly reminds you that you stress-drank an entire large iced coffee before the game. Fucking wonderful. You glance at the concourse—and immediately regret every life choice that led to this moment.

The bathroom line snakes around the corner like some kind of hydra-headed monster, full of people who clearly had the same brilliant beverage ideas you did. You briefly consider just holding it and dealing with the consequences later, but your body has other plans.

"This is karma," you mutter, taking your place at the end of the line. "This is definitely karma for all those times I made fun of people waiting in long bathroom lines."

The girl in front of you snorts. "If it helps, I'm pretty sure we're all suffering from the same coffee-based poor judgment."

Twenty minutes. Twenty. Entire. Minutes.

You've gone through every social media app twice, responded to three emails you've been avoiding, and played enough Candy Crush to rot your remaining brain cells by the time you finally emerge from the bathroom. The arena is practically empty now, just cleaning crew and a few lingering fans.

Your phone feels heavy in your pocket, that number burning a hole in your mind. You pull it out, staring at the digits like they might rearrange themselves into instructions on how to text your elevator-meet-cute crush without sounding like a complete disaster.

To: 617-555-0147

Hey, this is your favorite elevator analytics nerd. Great game tonight. That fourth-quarter setup play was chef's kiss

You hit send before you can overthink it, then immediately regret every word choice. Chef's kiss? Really? Maybe if you run fast enough, you can catch up to your dignity before it leaves the building entirely.

Your phone buzzes before you can fully commit to your shame spiral.

From: Paige 🏀

some of us are heading to murphy's for dirty shirleys if you want to continue your "professional analysis" in person? promise there won't be any elevators involved

You nearly trip over your own feet.

Will there be a formal presentation required? Should I prepare slides?

just your sparkling personality and maybe an explanation of how you knew that play was coming before I did 😉

Bold of you to assume I wasn't just gesturing wildly at a mosquito

we both know you're too much of a basketball nerd for that. meet you there in 20?

You pause at the arena exit, looking down at your very casual, very not-prepared-to-go-out outfit. But then again, when has anything about this situation been normal?

Your eyes shoot back to your phone and your frantic typing begins once again.

Only if you promise to explain how that behind-the-back pass in the third quarter didn't break several laws of physics

deal. and hey?

Yeah?

the hoodie really does look good on you

Your stomach shoots to your ass and you stand there grinning at your phone like an idiot until Mike, doing his final security rounds, walks by and shakes his head.

"Don't stay out too late, kid," he calls over his shoulder. "These love stories always get complicated when they start in elevators."

"That was literally ONE MOVIE," you shout after him, but he just waves without turning around.

You look down at your phone one more time, then up at the now-empty arena, and can't help but laugh. Somehow, a broken elevator, an understanding security guard, and a basketball player with a dangerous grin have turned your disaster of a week into whatever this is.

Time to find out if Dirty Shirleys taste better when you're sharing them with a girl who can bend physics on a basketball court.

Murphy's is exactly what would happen if a sports bar had a baby with a college town dive and raised it on a strict diet of neon signs and questionable decor choices. The walls are plastered with enough UConn memorabilia to fill a museum, if museums were into collecting signed napkins and mysteriously stained jerseys.

Your stomach is doing Olympic-level gymnastics as you push open the door, immediately hit by the smell of mozzarella sticks and what you really hope is just decades of spilled beer. The place is packed with post-game energy, and you're pretty sure your heart stops completely when you spot Paige at a corner booth, still in her game-day warmups because apparently she just casually walks around looking like a Nike ad.

"Analytics nerd!" she calls out, waving you over with that stupid grin that makes your brain cells commit mass suicide. "We saved you a seat!"

The 'we' turns out to be a collection of players who could probably stack on top of each other and touch the moon. You slide into the only open spot—right next to Paige, because the universe is clearly not done testing your ability to form coherent sentences today.

"Everyone, this is the elevator girl who knows more about our plays than we do," Paige announces, and your face goes hot enough to fry an egg. "Elevator girl, this is everyone."

"I have a name, you know," you manage, trying to ignore how her shoulder is pressed against yours in the crowded booth.

"Yeah, but 'elevator girl' has a better ring to it," she says, sliding a violently pink drink your way. "Plus, it's technically accurate."

"So is 'basketball menace' but you don't see me—" Your mouth snaps shut as her teammates start cackling.

"Oh, I like this one," says a girl you recognize as KK Arnold, grinning like she just got early Christmas. "She's got bite."

"She's got analytics," Paige corrects, but she's looking at you with something that makes your stomach relocate to somewhere in the general vicinity of Jupiter. "Speaking of which, you never did tell me how you caught that play coming."

You take a long sip of your Dirty Shirley to buy time, immediately regretting it when the sugar content threatens to give you instant cavities. "Holy shit, what's in this? Pure pixie stick powder?"

"Don't deflect," Paige says, poking your side. "We've got a whole team of analysts and none of them caught it. So spill."

"Fine, but only because you bought me diabetes in a glass." You shift to face her, accidentally-on-purpose letting your knee rest against hers under the table. "It was your head."

Her eyebrows shoot up. "My head?"

"You've got this tell," you say, getting into it now because apparently basketball analysis is your ideal flirting language. "This tiny little head tilt you do when you're setting up something sneaky. Like a cat about to knock something off a table, but make it basketball."

The entire table goes quiet, then erupts in laughter.

"She's got you there, P," Ice wheezes. "You do look like a menacing cat sometimes!"

Paige is staring at you with a mix of indignation and something else that makes your chest feel too small for your heart. "I do not have a cat tell."

"You absolutely do," you say, emboldened by sugar and the way her eyes keep dropping to your lips. "It's actually kind of cu—"

"SHOTS!" someone yells, and suddenly there's a tray of something alarmingly blue being passed around.

"Oh god," you mutter, watching the liquid slosh ominously. "Is this what happens when a Smurf dies?"

Paige nearly chokes on her drink. "That's terrible!"

"Just like these shots are about to be?"

She leans in close—too close, definitely too close for your remaining brain cells to function—and whispers, "Good thing I like terrible jokes."

Your stomach shoots to your ass (and possibly into another dimension) as she pulls back with a wink that should be illegal in at least forty-eight states.

"I hate you," you inform her, grabbing one of the Smurf funeral shots because if you're going to have a gay crisis in a college bar, you might as well commit fully.

"No you don't," she says with absolute certainty, and the worst part is she's right.

You really, really don't.

The night dissolves into a blur of increasingly ridiculous drinks (who knew they made something called a "Husky Howl"?), basketball stories that get more elaborate with each round, and Paige's thigh pressed warm against yours under the table. You learn that she stress-bakes before big games, that she once tried to teach her dog to play basketball, and that when she really laughs—like, really laughs—she snorts a little and it's possibly the cutest thing you've ever seen.

At some point, Azzi starts drawing up plays on napkins with increasingly chaotic drink-fueled creativity. Aaliyah Edwards keeps stealing her pen to "fix" the defensive rotations, while Nika Mühl throws wadded-up straw wrappers at both of them, critiquing their "absolutely trash spacing."

"No, no, look," KK follows imaginary lines with her finger across the napkin, accidentally dragging it through a puddle of spilled Shirley Temple. "If we run this here, and then—" she grabs your arm— "you're the defense, okay? Stand up."

"I absolutely am not," you protest, but Paige is already pulling you up with that stupid grin that makes your knees forget how joints work.

"Come on, elevator girl," she teases, positioning you near the booth. "Show us those analytics skills in action."

"I hate all of you," you mutter, but you're laughing as KK tries to demonstrate some elaborate defensive scheme that mostly involves her spinning in circles while Aaliyah provides unhelpful commentary.

"Your footwork is trash, bestie," Aaliyah calls out, now using maraschino cherries to build what appears to be a scale model of the paint.

"YOUR footwork is trash," KK shoots back, then promptly trips over nothing.

"Ladies, ladies," Paige steps in, all faux seriousness undermined by the way she can't stop grinning. "Let a professional show you how it's done."

She moves behind you, hands settling lightly on your hips, and your brain immediately flatlines. "See, proper defensive stance is all about—"

"Get a fuckin' room!" Nika yells, launching another straw wrapper that hits Paige square in the forehead.

"Actually," Paige says close to your ear, and your stomach does approximately seventeen backflips, "I've got that new analytics setup at my apartment if you want to see it. You know, for research purposes."

You turn to face her, very aware that her hands haven't moved from your hips. "Research purposes?"

"Mhmm." That dangerous grin is back. "Purely academic, of course."

"Of course," you manage, trying to ignore the way your pulse is doing a full drumline routine.

"Oh my god," KK groans from the booth. "This is worse than when Aaliyah tried to flirt with that barista using coffee puns."

"Hey!" Aaliyah protests. "That was smooth!"

"You asked if she wanted to 'espresso' her feelings!"

"And now we're dating, so who's the real winner here?"

Paige rolls her eyes at their antics, but her thumbs are drawing small circles on your hips that are making it very hard to focus on anything else. "So? Want to help me with some late-night analysis?"

Your stomach shoots to your ass as you meet her eyes, finding them sparkling with something that definitely isn't just about basketball statistics. "I mean, it would be unprofessional to turn down a research opportunity..."

"GET OUT OF HERE," Azzi throws a cherry that sails completely wide of both of you. "Your gay panic is ruining my plays."

"Your plays were already ruined," Nika points out, helpfully redrawing the vodka-smudged X's and O's with what appears to be lip gloss.

Paige grabs her jacket with one hand and your hand with the other, tugging you toward the door. "Don't wait up, nerds!"

"USE PROTECTION!" Aubrey shouts after you, causing several nearby tables to choke on their drinks.

"I mean, analytics can be very dangerous," you say with mock seriousness as you step into the cool night air, very aware that Paige hasn't let go of your hand. "All those numbers flying around."

"Absolutely hazardous," she agrees, pulling you closer as you walk. "Better stick together. For safety."

"For safety," you repeat, hoping she can't feel your pulse racing where your fingers are intertwined. "And research."

"And research," she echoes, giving you that sidelong grin that makes your heart forget how to beat properly. "Though I should warn you..."

"Yeah?"

She stops under a streetlight, turning to face you with eyes that sparkle with mischief. "My elevator works perfectly fine."

Your laugh echoes off the empty street. "Damn. There goes my backup plan."

"I'm sure we can find other ways to get stuck together," she says, and your stomach relocates somewhere in the general vicinity of Mars.

As you follow her down the quiet streets of Storrs, your joined hands swinging between you, you make a mental note to buy Mike the biggest coffee gift card you can afford.

Broken elevators might just be your new favorite thing.

Paige's apartment is exactly what you'd expect from someone who's somehow both a basketball prodigy and a complete dork—there's a literal trophy shelf right next to a collection of Star Wars Funko Pops, and her UConn jersey hangs framed above what appears to be a very elaborate gaming setup.

"Nice lightsaber," you say, nodding to the collector's edition propped in the corner.

"Nice deflection from how your hands are shaking," she shoots back, shrugging off her jacket.

"It's cold outside!"

"Uh huh." She disappears into the kitchen, and you hear cabinets opening. "Want some hot chocolate? I promise it's better than those nuclear waste shots Aubrey kept ordering."

Your stomach does a weird flip at how domestic this feels. "Only if you have—"

"Mini marshmallows and whipped cream? What kind of monster do you think I am?"

You follow her voice to find her already pulling out mugs, one of which has "Ball is Life" written in what appears to be glitter pen. "The kind that owns a bedazzled basketball mug?"

"First of all, Nika made this for my birthday and it's a masterpiece," she says, grabbing milk from the fridge. "Second of all, you're just jealous of my sophisticated taste."

"Oh, absolutely. Nothing says sophistication like..." you pick up a container from the counter, "unicorn hot chocolate mix?"

She snatches it back, fighting a grin. "It's limited edition!"

"Of course, my mistake. Clearly I'm in the presence of a fine dining connoisseur."

The kitchen fills with the smell of chocolate as she heats the milk, and you try not to stare at how she's rolled up her sleeves, forearms on full display as she stirs. You fail miserably.

"See something you like?" she asks without turning around, because apparently she has eyes in the back of her head.

"Just admiring your hot chocolate technique."

"My technique is excellent, thank you very much." She turns, holding up a can of whipped cream with a dangerous glint in her eye. "Want to see?"

Your throat goes dry. "I feel like this is a trap."

"Maybe." She takes a step closer, and your back hits the counter. "But you've been analyzing my moves all night. Shouldn't I get a turn?"

You're about to say something witty—really, you are—but then she's shaking the whipped cream can and all your brain cells collectively abandon ship.

"Don't you dare—"

The words are barely out before she's spraying whipped cream directly at your face. You squeal (not your proudest moment) and grab for the can, resulting in a brief wrestling match that ends with cream basically everywhere except in the actual mugs.

"You're such a menace!" you gasp, trying to wipe cream off your nose while she cackles.

"Says the girl who called me out on my head tilt in front of my whole team!"

"That's different! That was professional analysis!"

"Oh yeah?" She steps closer, effectively pinning you against the counter. "Analyze this."

Your heart stops as she reaches up, thumb gently wiping whipped cream from the corner of your mouth. Time seems to freeze, your entire world narrowing to that point of contact and the way her eyes drop to your lips.

"Your technique could use some work," you manage to whisper, and she laughs—that real laugh, with the little snort that makes your chest feel too small for your heart.

"Maybe you should show me how it's done then."

Your stomach shoots through the floor as you reach up, threading your fingers through her hair (definitely getting whipped cream in it but whatever), and pull her down to meet you.

She tastes like chocolate and whipped cream and something uniquely her, and you can feel her smile against your lips as she wraps her arms around your waist, pulling you impossibly closer.

"How's that for technique?" you murmur when you finally break apart, both breathing a bit harder.

"Hmm." She pretends to consider it, but her eyes are sparkling and her hands are still firmly on your waist. "Might need more data to make a proper analysis."

"Oh my god, you're actually worse than me with the nerd references."

"You like it," she says with absolute certainty, leaning in again.

"Maybe," you concede against her lips. "But only because you're cute when you're being smug."

She pulls back just enough to give you that dangerous grin that started this whole thing. "Just cute?"

"And modest, clearly."

"I'll show you modest," she growls, and then she's kissing you again, deeper this time, backing you further against the counter until you're pretty sure your soul leaves your body entirely.

The hot chocolate goes cold on the counter,

The hot chocolate goes cold on the counter, forgotten in the haze of warm laughter and sticky fingers. At some point, her lips found their way back to yours, sweet and a little messy, and now you’re on her couch, knees bumping against hers as you both settle into an almost tentative rhythm. She pulls back just slightly, her forehead resting against yours, and her breath fans across your lips in short, uneven bursts.

“You’re trouble,” she whispers, her voice low and a little breathless, her hands sliding up your arms to rest on your shoulders, thumbs brushing the curve of your collarbone.

“You like trouble,” you fire back, and there’s just enough of a spark in your tone to make her grin.

“I really do,” she admits, and before you can respond, her lips are on yours again, slower this time, deliberate. It’s not the playful teasing from before—it’s something heavier, something that makes your heart stutter in your chest and your hands curl into the soft fabric of her sweatshirt.

Her fingers tangle in your hair as she shifts, nudging you gently until your back hits the cushions. She hovers above you, her knees bracketing your thighs, her ponytail spilling over one shoulder as she leans down to kiss you again. This time, it’s a little rougher, her teeth catching on your bottom lip just enough to make you gasp, and the sound seems to light something in her eyes.

“You’re killing me,” you murmur against her mouth, and she pulls back just enough to look at you, her grin sharper now.

“Good,” she says simply, and her hands are on the hem of your hoodie, tugging it up. “This okay?”

You nod, swallowing hard, and she doesn’t wait for a second invitation. The hoodie’s off in a flash, tossed somewhere behind the couch, and her eyes sweep over you like she’s committing every inch to memory. Her hands are warm as they skim over your sides, fingertips brushing against bare skin and leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake.

“You’re gorgeous,” she says softly, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, and the way she says it makes you believe her, even with your heart trying to beat its way out of your chest.

“You’re not so bad yourself,” you manage, trying to sound casual even as she leans back down, her lips finding the curve of your jaw and then lower, pressing slow, open-mouthed kisses to your neck. Your hands find her waist, and you can feel the strength of her beneath the soft cotton of her sweatshirt, her muscles flexing slightly as she shifts against you.

“Should we,” she starts, her voice trailing off as she pulls back just enough to meet your eyes. There’s a question there, unspoken but clear, and you answer it by pulling her back down, your lips crashing into hers with more urgency than before.

“Definitely,” you say between kisses, and that’s all the encouragement she needs.

Her sweatshirt joins your hoodie somewhere on the floor, and her hands are everywhere—your waist, your thighs, the curve of your hip. It’s all a blur of heat and soft laughter and the kind of clumsy, sweet desperation that only comes with two people trying to figure out how they fit together.

The couch is too small, the angles all wrong, and at some point, she pulls back just enough to breathe, “Bed?”

You nod, and then she’s pulling you to your feet, her hand sliding down to lace her fingers with yours as she leads you toward her room. There’s something about the way she looks back at you, her grin soft and a little nervous, that makes your heart ache in the best way.

The moment you’re through the door, she’s on you again, her hands sliding up your back as she kisses you like she’s trying to memorize every curve, every shiver. The bed is soft beneath you, and her weight is solid and warm as she follows you down, her knee nudging between yours as she leans over you.

“You’re really good at this whole ‘research’ thing,” you tease, and she laughs against your collarbone, the sound low and husky and so incredibly her.

“Don’t distract me,” she murmurs, and her hands are on you again, her touch firm and sure and just a little shaky in a way that makes your chest swell with affection.

And when she kisses you again, slow and deep, you think, for the first time all week, that maybe the universe actually got something right.

The mattress dips under her weight as Paige pulls back just enough to take you in, her hair falling loose from her ponytail, framing her face in a way that feels criminally unfair. There’s a glint in her eye now, something teasing but focused, like she’s about to run the most calculated play of her life.

“You look nervous,” she says, her lips curling into that sharp grin that’s been undoing you all night.

“I’m not nervous,” you lie, though your voice cracks on the last syllable like your body’s calling you out.

She chuckles, low and throaty, and leans down, her lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Good. Because I’m about to ruin you, and I don’t need you overthinking it.”

Before you can process what she said, she’s sliding down your body with deliberate slowness, her hands dragging over your sides, down your hips, and hooking around the waistband of your leggings. She raises an eyebrow, silently asking permission, and the second you nod, she pulls them down in one fluid motion, leaving you feeling bare and achingly vulnerable.

“Holy shit,” Paige mutters under her breath, her eyes locked on you like she’s just stumbled on a masterpiece at an art museum. Her hands settle on your thighs, thumbs tracing small circles that send shivers racing up your spine. “You’re so—” She stops, shakes her head, and looks up at you with that cocky grin. “Nah, I’m gonna show you instead of telling you.”

Her lips press to the inside of your knee, soft at first, but as she moves higher, her kisses grow hungrier, her teeth grazing your skin just enough to leave you squirming.

“Paige,” you breathe, your voice barely more than a whisper, but she just hums against your thigh like she’s savoring her favorite meal.

“Patience,” she murmurs, her breath hot against your skin as she shifts lower. “You’re not going anywhere, are you?”

Your response gets caught in your throat as her mouth finally finds you, and every coherent thought you’ve ever had promptly evaporates. Her tongue moves with the same precision she has on the court, all calculated angles and devastating accuracy, and it’s like she’s figured out exactly how to dismantle you.

“Fuck—Paige—” Your hips jerk involuntarily, but her hands hold you steady, her grip firm enough to keep you grounded while her mouth does the opposite.

She pulls back just enough to look up at you, her lips glistening, and there’s a wicked glint in her eye that makes your stomach drop in the best way. “Hang tight,” she says, reaching toward the nightstand.

“What are you—oh my God,” you gasp as she pulls out a vibrator, the sleek little device gleaming like it was made for moments like this.

Paige winks, all confidence and mischief, as she turns it on, the low hum filling the room. “You trust me, right?”

You nod, because at this point, you’d probably trust her to lead you into a cult if it meant feeling like this.

“Good.” She leans back down, her mouth finding you again just as the vibrator presses against you, and the combination is so overwhelming it almost knocks the breath out of you.

Your hands fly to her hair, tugging as the vibrations send shocks of pleasure racing through your body, and her tongue works in tandem, teasing and relentless. It’s too much and not enough all at once, and you can feel yourself unraveling, piece by piece, with every calculated movement.

“Paige, I—” Your words dissolve into a moan that would make your ancestors weep, your thighs trembling as she doubles down, her grip on you tightening.

“That’s it,” she murmurs against you, her voice low and full of something that sounds dangerously like pride. “Let go, baby. I’ve got you.”

And just like that, you do. The orgasm rips through you like a tidal wave, leaving you gasping and clutching at the sheets as your vision whites out. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you swear you hear yourself speaking in tongues.

Paige doesn’t stop until your legs are twitching, and even then, she presses one last kiss to your inner thigh before sitting back with the most self-satisfied grin you’ve ever seen.

“Did I just—” You pause, catching your breath, your voice hoarse. “Did I just have an exorcism?”

Paige laughs, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “If you did, I think I’m gonna need to start charging for holy services.”

“Fuck you,” you say weakly, though the way you’re still grinning probably ruins the effect.

She crawls back up to you, her body warm and solid as she settles next to you, her arm slinging over your waist. “Oh, you’re definitely going to want to do that next,” she teases, pressing a kiss to your temple.

And just like that, you’re laughing, still breathless and a little wrecked, but somehow more at ease than you’ve felt in ages. Paige grins down at you, smug but soft, and you think, maybe, that this is exactly where you’re supposed to be.

Sometimes the best love stories start with a malfunction.

Just don't tell Mike. He's smug enough already.

The End

857 notes · View notes

secretmaniacc · 11 days ago

Note

AAAA I love your writing so much!!!

HEHE I have a smut request for The Salesman

Backstory; Female y/n always see the salesman doing his job at the station. She even played with him one time and won however she never accepted the card. As the days goes by they will greet each other with a simple nod gesture or smile sometimes even small chat before he finds his new victim and she’s heading back home.

UNTIL

She overheard the two recruits Gi-hun hired (I forgot their names oops) planning to hurt the salesman (I know the plot they weren’t supposed to approach him but let’s pretend Gi-hun give them a task to kidnap and torture salesman hehehe)

So y/n ran back to the station and disrupted salesman while he was in the middle of slapping the poor homeless dude. Talking gibberish to him. He has no clue what the hell she’s talking about bc she’s out of breath from running and talking too fast. He’s just confused. When y/n saw the two men again approaching their way. She grabs salesman head and kissed him. [I hope you seen the scene of captain America and black widow kissing to display discomfort so the bad guys won’t catch them at the mall hahaha basically like that scene]

He pulled back looking even more confused. She said display of affection make people uncomfortable, as soon as she said that he looked up and saw the two men walking past them. Y/n felt embarrassed and ran home. In the middle of the night someone was banging her door. She opened it and…..SMUT TIME HEHEHE

Also I’m terribly sorry for my grammar English is not my native language :’)

[also if you do accept can you send me a message 🙈 ty heheh]

SLOW DOWN

pairings: the salesman x Fem!reader

Summary: A routine night at the train station takes a dark turn when you overhear two men plotting to attack the mysterious salesman you’ve casually crossed paths with before. Acting on impulse, you intervene in the only way you can—by kissing him to throw off his pursuers. What seems like a reckless moment of instinct pulls you into his dangerous world.

Warnings: language, violence (kinda), Dom!salesman x sub!reader, praising, whipped cream kink, kissing, mentions of blood, fingering, p in v, rough sex, unprotected sex, talking you through it.

Wc: 3k

A/n: you ask I deliver, hope you like it, not proofread <33

The sharp snap of skin colliding with skin echoes through the crowded station. You barely flinch. You've heard it before. Too many times.

Across the station, he stands on the cold tile floor—immaculate suit, polished shoes, that same unsettling grin. He raises his hand and slaps the man across from him again. Sharp. Precise.

Another one hooked.

You lean against the metal pillar, watching. You know this game. You’ve played it before.

It was a week ago.

The station hummed with the dull buzz of flickering lights and the occasional metallic screech of trains crawling in and out. You were late. Work had dragged on longer than usual, and by the time you reached the platform, the last train was dragging its heels. The air was thick with the scent of stale coffee and damp concrete.

That’s when you saw him.

The man in the pristine suit.

He stood out like a polished coin in a pile of rusted change. His black hair was slicked back, not a strand out of place, and that too-perfect smile stretched across his face like it had been painted on. He leaned casually against a pillar, holding two small folded squares of paper—one red, one blue.

He caught your eye, tilting his head slightly in acknowledgment. Then, with a subtle flick of his wrist, he gestured to the empty space across from him. His movements were practiced, smooth, as if this routine had been rehearsed countless times.

Curiosity gnawed at you before logic could interfere. You found yourself walking toward him, footsteps echoing off the concrete walls.

“Want to play a game?” His voice was smooth, almost melodic. He held up the two folded papers between his fingers, the colors dull under the harsh station lights.

“Seriously?” You eyed him warily.

“It’s simple. Flip my tile with yours. If you win, I’ll give you 100,000 won. If I win…” His smile widened, just enough to feel unsettling. “I slap you.”

You scoffed, folding your arms. “That’s it? No tricks?”

“No tricks.” His tone didn’t waver.

Against better judgment, you stood. The game was straightforward, deceptively so. The first round, you won. The second, too. His tile moving frantically under your strikes. His face remained unchanged, though, as if he expected this. Not a single slap coming your way. He handed over the cash with a flick of his wrist, the money slipping into your palm like silk.

Then came the card.

A brown rectangle with a circle, triangle, and square etched in black. He held it out casually, like an afterthought.

“What’s this?” you asked, fingers hovering over it.

“A bigger game. A chance to win more.”

His voice dipped, something darker coiled beneath his words. A chill crept up your spine. You smirked, flicking the card back at him with two fingers.

“Not interested.”

The card fluttered to the ground, but he didn’t look offended. No, he only chuckled, kneeling down and slipping it back into his pocket.

Since then, you saw him often.

Always at the station. Always playing his game with some poor soul desperate enough to take the bait. Your interactions became routine—brief nods, and smiles the occasional quip when you caught him mid-game.

But tonight was different.

You are leaned against a pillar, letting the cold seep into your back. The station was quieter than usual, the shadows thicker. That’s when you heard them.

Two men by the vending machines, their voices low but sharp.

“That’s him. The guy in the suit.”

“Yeah. Just like boss said. We follow him out, grab him, torture him, make him talk. He knows everything.”

Your stomach twisted. Shit.

Without thinking, you pushed off the pillar and sprinted across the station, boots slapping against the concrete. Your breath came in ragged gasps, the cold air burning your lungs.

He didn’t notice you until you were right in front of him.

“You need to leave. Now.”

His hand paused mid-slap, hovering above the cheek of a nervous man. Slowly, his head turned to you, one brow lifting.

“Excuse me?” His tone was calm, almost amused.

You leaned in, speaking low and fast. “Those two men by the vending machines? They’re coming for you. You need to trust me and leave.”

His eyes didn’t move, but something shifted in his posture. He blinked slowly, considering you.

“I don’t know what you’re saying”

Frustration flared. You glanced back. The two men were moving now, angling toward you both.

“Shit,” you muttered. Thinking fast, you did the first thing that came to mind.

You grabbed his face and kissed him.

His entire body stiffened, muscles locking beneath your hands. The world around you seemed to freeze. The station noise dulled to a distant hum.

You pulled back abruptly, heart pounding in your ears. His wide eyes stared into yours, utterly confused.

“Display of affection,” you muttered, wiping your mouth on your sleeve. “Makes people uncomfortable.”

His gaze flicked past you. The two men hesitated, awkwardly glancing away as they veered off in the opposite direction.

A slow, amused chuckle rumbled from his chest. He straightened, smoothing down his tie.

“Clever.”

Your face burned. "I’m sorry, I had to do that, but you need to get out of the station."

Without another word, you turned and bolted, weaving through the crowd and up the station steps. You didn’t stop until the cold night air hit your face.

---

It was well past midnight when the banging started.

You jolted awake, heart slamming against your ribs. Someone was pounding on your door, relentless.

You hesitated, fingers brushing over the baseball bat by your bed. But you decided to leave it, Slowly, you approached the door, peeking through the peephole.

It was him.

The man in the suit.

Your blood ran cold, before you unlocked the door cautiously, opening it just a crack.

“What the hell—”

He pushed the door wider, stepping in uninvited. That same unnerving smile stretched across his face.

“We need to talk.”

His tone left no room for argument.

You stared, unsure whether to slam the door in his face or listen.

“About what?” you asked nervously

His smile widened just a fraction.

“About why you tried saving my life.”

His voice was smooth, but something darker lurked beneath it. You swallowed, suddenly hyper-aware of how small your apartment felt with him standing there. He took a slow, deliberate step forward. And another. Closing the door behind him.

Instinctively, you backed up.

His eyes never left you, scanning you with unnerving precision. The thin fabric of your pajama shorts and the loose strap of your shirt felt far too revealing under his gaze. Like he was undressing you. Heat crept up your neck, but you couldn’t look away.

“You ran all that way... just to save me?” His tone was low, edged with amusement, but there was something sharp underneath. He tilted his head, taking another step closer, as you backed up again. "Tell me, was it bravery... or something else?"

“I—uh... I just thought—”

“You thought what?” he interrupted smoothly, still moving forward, now closing the space between you. “That I couldn’t handle a few men?”

You felt your breath catch. Your heel bumped into the cold tile of the kitchen counter. Shit. Nowhere else to go.

He noticed.

“I killed them, you know.”

Your eyes snapped to his face. The casual way he said it made your stomach twist.

“Oh, yes.” His smirk deepened. “It was... enjoyable.”

Your gaze drifted, almost involuntarily, to the dark stains on his shirt. Blood.

The air thickened. Your breathing turned shallow, chest rising and falling with each ragged breath. He was too close now.

His hands came up slowly—deliberately—and planted themselves on either side of you, caging you in against the counter. The cool edge of the countertop bit into your lower back.

He leaned in, close enough that his breath ghosted over the curve of your neck. His scent—metallic, faintly sweet, and something darker—wrapped around you. One of his hands slid, gliding over your waist, fingers curling to pull you forward against him, eliminating even the smallest sliver of space between you. And that’s when you felt him.

“You should be more careful who you save,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. “Not everyone is grateful.”

Before you could react, his hands shifted with unsettling ease, gripping your hips. In one smooth motion, he lifted you, setting you on the cold countertop. You gasped, instinctively gripping the edge, your legs parting as he stepped between them, locking you in.

His eyes bored into yours, and for a fleeting second, you couldn’t decide if it was fear or something else that sent a shiver down your spine.

“So, tell me,” he murmured, voice dropping lower. "Why did you really save me?"

His hand traced slowly along your thigh, barely touching, yet burning. You couldn’t answer. Your mind screamed for words, but your lips stayed parted, breathless.

And his smirk deepened, eyes flicking past you to something on the counter that you forgot to remove earlier. Slowly, he reached over without breaking eye contact. His fingers curled around the can of whipped cream, lifting it with casual ease.

Your brows knit in confusion. "What are you—"

Before you could finish, he brought the nozzle to his lips and pressed down. The soft hiss filled the air as the white cream curled into his mouth. He swallowed slowly, his Adam’s apple bobbing.

“Sweet,” he murmured, voice smooth and dark. His eyes dragged lazily over you, settling on your parted lips. “But it could taste better.”

Before the words could settle, his hand moved—calloused fingers tilting your chin up. His thumb and forefinger gently hooked under your bottom lip, coaxing your mouth open. The cool metal of the can brushed your skin, and a soft stream of whipped cream slid onto your tongue.

You barely had a moment to react before his mouth crashed into yours.

The kiss was fierce, and unapologetic. His lips moulded to yours, but it wasn’t enough—his tongue pushed past your lips, exploring every corner of your mouth, tasting the lingering sweetness, tangling with your tongue in a heated rhythm.

Your breath hitched, and your hands instinctively gripped his shirt, knuckles brushing against the dried blood you hadn’t dared to question yet. fisting the fabric as his kiss deepened. He groaned low in his throat, a sound that vibrated through you, spurring him on.

His tongue teased and stroked against yours, pulling soft, involuntary sounds from you. Every movement was calculated, demanding, as if he wanted to taste every bit of you, not just the sweetness on your lips.

When he finally pulled back, your chest rose and fell rapidly, lips slick and swollen. A trail of saliva between you.

But he wasn’t finished.

The can hissed again—this time against the sensitive skin of your neck. A cold trail of cream dripped along your pulse point, making you shiver.

Then his mouth was on you—hot and unrelenting. His tongue flicked over the sticky trail, licking it up slowly, savouring the taste of cream and skin. His teeth grazed your throat, nipping just enough to make you moan.

A low chuckle rumbled against your neck as his lips latched on, sucking hard enough to leave a mark.

His grip tightened around your waist, your legs wrapped around his hips without thinking, drawing him impossibly closer.

His breath ghosted over your ear, deep and rough.

“See?” he murmured, tongue lightly tracing the shell of your ear. “It tastes so much better this way.”

He was breathing closer to your ear, lingering over your neck for moments before his lips pressed against you again.

You moaned out softly to how he was kissing your bare shoulders, down to the blade of them, then back up, “damn it,” his notes were so low, “fuck”

“What?” you finally managed to say, pushing against him a bit, the feeling immaculate, you could feel how hard he is pressing against you, and you can barely breathe.

“you’re so fucking sweet.”

The tension is thickening around you, the heat in your bodies is too much to ignore, you couldn’t stand against it, you couldn’t stand against him, he was just so addicting in a way you couldn’t quite place.

The very instant you felt his lips on your skin again, the warmth of his body, you couldn’t hold it back. Arching your back, pushing thighter against him, you could rupture at how he was teasing at the hem of your shorts, “take them off.”

He pulled the fabric down frantically, a thud to the ground, before slipping his fingers below the lace material of your underwear, and you gasped, your body tensing close to his the very instant he came in contact with your clit, “so wet f’me”

You nearly moaned, huffing sweetly at his touch and the circles he made, “the things I have in my mind for you.” His hand gently started cupping your breast. He had you in such a hold now that you could barely move.

Your eyes almost rolled to the back of your head, it was the tension his voice held.

He let his middle finger inside you as far as he could reach, you spread your tight a bit further apart allowing him more of you.

“Mhm? Right there, yeah?” he growled, nearly moaning himself at the way you moved. “fuck, you’re so soaked.”

You couldn't even hear him properly. your mind wasn't working further than to what his hand was doing to you. He moved steadily in and out of you, curling his finger right where it would have you shaking. His thumb brushed across your clit every now and then, and you couldn't focus.

''Yeah,'' he muttered, nibbling at your earlobe, ''Be my beautiful girl and let me feel you.''

you reached out tangling your fingers into his black strands, and it didn't take long until you was a moaning mess under his touch. Your hips spasmed. Your breathing levelled heavier, and you gasped repeatedly. It was music to his ears, a never-ending orchestra.

''Now I want to know, do you want to continue'' he withdrew his touch from your core, forcing his hand down between you. “I won’t, if you don’t want to”

Without thinking your fingers intestinally wrapped around the loop of his belt, confidence build up as you tugged at it forward. “I want to.” You breathed before loosening his belt, the sound of clashing metal echoing through the kitchen.

He took over impatiently zipping his pants down, before freeing his throbbing erection from his boxers as he pushed the material aside.

Taking his cock in his hand and you moved with him. You was still facing him, your chest pressed against his front as he lifted your thigh, giving him everything he could need from you.

''To think I’ve always fantasized about this moment,'' he hissed as he dragged his cock up and down your soaked slit. Teasing by pushing forward and creating unbearable friction against your clit, ''I thought that after that night, I would never see you again, yet you kept showing up, flashing me those smiles, making my mind drive me insane, fuck—''

You exhaled, thundery. You couldn't shape a word at the pleasure he is putting you through even if you wished to do so. you simply whined. body shaking.

Pushing into you, a bit at the time, he bit down your bare shoulder, needing to ease his own tension, “You're like a cigarette at midnight—dangerous, burning slow, and impossible to put down."

He moved his hand over your hip, lifting your leg more, “And the worst part? You know it’ll ruin you—leave you hollow and wrecked—but fuck, you’re already leaning in, desperate for that first hit, craving the way it burns and numbs you all at once.”

You threw your head back, tensing your fingers into his hair as he fucked you on the countertop. It was hard. He fucked you roughly yet with so much passion. It was intimate, emotional. His body moved with yours— your body obeyed his.

“...and that’s the real addiction, isn’t it? Not the rush, not the aftermath—but the waiting. The wanting. Knowing it’ll destroy you and still craving every second before it does.'' He was speaking so low to you, plunging his cock in and out of you, forcing your body to take what he gave.

You whimpered, your fingers clawing at his neck now, ''please—''

He pushed harder. Forced his cock deeper, reached further.

''And not to speak about this fucking cunt...'' He moaned, drawing his tongue along the arch of your neck, ''I can't really blame myself if I get hooked, can I?''

you breathed out. Your eyes rolling, your back curling, ''Please. I can't take it—''

''One taste of this, and you're fucking addicting.'' The hand supporting your leg slid lower until the back of your knee rested in the curve of his elbow, and he spaced your thighs more, diving into you depths and losing his mind over how hot and tight you were around him.

''I'm—''

He was relieved by that. He could barely hold himself together at the tension between you, the fusion and mix of need and thirst of your bodies. He slowed his movements, not bucking his hips as roughly anymore, and you were close. So close.

''Fucking hell—'' He groaned against your shoulder again, burying his head into the soft spot of your neck. He came the second he felt you pulsating around him. The instant he felt your release around him, he came just as crashing down as you'd done.

Breathing heavily, he pulled out, stepping back just a bit as he dragged your worn out body forward. It was a moment, if so a short, little one, where your cheek rested against his chest, and his lips pushed into the top of your head. That tiny moment felt good. It felt calm and reassuring to both of you.

“thanks, for keeping me alive.”

#the salesman #squid game x reader #squid game smut #squid game salesman #squid game fanfic #squid game #salesman smut #gong yoo x reader #gong yoo #intimate #smut #i’ll cry

469 notes · View notes

chlmtsdoll · 2 months ago

Note

hear me out

reader and girl friends dancing and drinking at a nightclub after work when one of the girls says something like "holy shit, look at those two, they're hot"

when reader turns to look, she sees Patrick and Art laughing and having fun together

"i want the brunette one", one says, "are you crazy? look at the blonde, how hot he is", another responds.

"fifty bucks for whoever gets both"

reader smiles. it's showtime.

OH? IT’S GIVING SATC 🤭

This was supposed to be short but I got carried away I’m afraid ! 🎀 | 18 + smut, p in v unprotected sex, oral (m) receiving, heavy obnoxious flirting, kinda messy reader

When the club had been this crowded with a full dance floor and beautiful men nearly everywhere you looked, finally letting loose after a long work week with your girls was enough motivation to get the confidence pumping between the three of you.

Your friends were frozen. Facing the the bar area where this six foot blonde and brunette were standing, laughing like everything around them was funny. One had an infectious grin, hair untamed and a tight dark skirt that show cased his brooding arms. He was the tallest and had ‘a party girls wet dream’ written all over him. The other slightly more polished, could pass for the stereotypical Ken doll type with his charming smile, sterling blue eyes with golden locks combination. You couldn’t find why he would be here, he looked like the only interested in finding a wife type.

Either way, the two men had your thighs pushing against one another the second the girls began chattering about. And once you heard ‘fifty bucks for whoever can get both’ your ears were all game.

“Oh, I am so in. That brunette is scorching.”

“And ? Look at that blondes jawline, bitch.”

“Double the pay if they both finish.” You announce. Both of your girlfriend’s locks go up in the air as they whip around to see the smirk pulling at your lips. They quickly take upon one of their own as well.

“Oh… the competition just got serious.” One of them says.

“It’s been serious. Those guys are totally loaded..” The other comments.

Your eyebrow dips. “What makes you think that ?”

“Oh come on, what two guys that hot are going to come to the club and not be looking to spend their cash on a girl ?”

Her theory wasn’t too out of range. There was something quite different from the boys across from you all. Setting them apart from the other clueless guys around just trying to get as drunk as they possibly can. There was a more tamed and calculated aura to these two. Something that made them not only sexy, but stand out profoundly.

“..or, they could just be gay.” The other girl replies casually and the three of you burst into laughter.

“Oh my god, shut up!”

You giggle, slightly rolling your eyes to land on the two men occasionally eyeing the dance floor as if they’re considering joining in the crowd. And that’s when you caught the gaze of the one with the darker head of hair, he flashed you a smile that sent a thrill straight to your core. You tried not to blush so terribly your friends would be on to you and raise the stakes.

But you couldn't help but ponder if they’d been right too — not about the gay thing, but if they truly we’re packing bills.

And soon you found yourself worrying less about what was in you and your friends wallets, and whatever was in theirs.

“Okay. Let’s get in there. Game on.”

You and your girls were heading over to the bar, tight mini skirts and all with just the right amount of cleavage on display for your upcoming play date. And with hardly any nerves that you’d loose to the two, knowing you had it locked in with the way you just got checked out hard from the brunette all the way across the bar had your hopes high.

As you all were now getting ready to own that bar area, you let your friends have a try at playing with the men first — and it was certainly quite amusing to watch them try to flirt with both the blonde and brunette at the same time.

With fingers twirling in their hair, laughing a little too hysterically at whatever was said and trying to keep both of their attention, you wondered from observation if it crossed them that it wasn’t as easy as they’d think. One of the boys was either off staring at another cute girl or just looking for a drink when your friends hadn’t been trying to sweet talk them into a little more fun. The most they got was a couple flattering laughs from the two.. and you couldn’t help but chuckle yourself, their game play was adorable.

But they failed where you knew best. Multitasking.

So when it was your turn to get your head in the game, one of your friends walking past you in defeat from her attempt whispered, “totally gay.” in your ear post her rejection from the charming boys. You tried not to laugh in her face but you did crack and grin.

You were up next. And you wasted no time going in.

You played it all out in your head within a few minutes of taking note of the two and also of course where your friends lacked. It would be an easy job especially since you spent your week trying to sell to people at work. You knew charm like the back of your hand — soon enough you’d be making out with these guys in the back of the club in no time.

Hips swayed without any real effort as you found where the brunette had been standing nearby the vault of vodka and steely liquor at the bar. Purposefully leaning against the counter and close enough to his side for him to hear you call to get one of the bartenders attention, “Um- - could I get another drink ??” You attempted. But with it being rush hour, they'd all been too occupied.

And that’s when your plan started to make the magic happen.

The towering man beside you glanced over his shoulder at your presence, noticing you weren’t getting any luck with the attention of the bartenders and he inspected your soft and sweetened voice pretty quickly. But also with just how edible he thought you were from earlier, “what do you want, doll face ?” he turned to face you with a grin that was as overwhelmingly striking as they come. It could have made any girl want to drop her panties at the sight. And his voice sounded as if he knew that he absolutely could, “it’s packed in here, yeah ? I’ll get someone for you.”

If it wasn’t for your determination, you would have erupted into a melted pile on the ground after he winked down at you. “Oh- no, it’s fine. I’m sure my friends annoyed you enough.” You laughed lightly and he joined along with you.

“Nah, they’re cute girls… but I gotta admit, I was kinda hopin’ you’d be the one to come over and annoy me a little bit.” His eyes focused on the way your lips curled up into a swayed smile and your face was flustered quicker than the flashing lights on the ceiling. He could be bluffing. And he probably was. Even though that was supposed to be your job here — it was totally working.

You titter, “..really ?”

“Really.”

“Well than, I guess I stumbled into the right spot.” (You wanted to pat yourself on the back. You’d been farther ahead than you even assumed.) “What do they call you ?”

“Patrick, a hell of a fun time, Zweig. Your pick.” his tongue darted out to wet his lips before he took a swing of his drink, and you were all laugher as his green eyes followed you from over the rim.

This was when you could implement the gorgeous blonde to his right — eyeing off to a couple of girls on the floor. With your bottom lip pulled between your teeth, you step a little closer to Patrick, glance going from him to other handsome work of art beside. The space getting less and less personal between you two didn’t scare him either.

“Well, Patrick… who’s your friend- - ?” Your eyes darted to where he stood and the brunette hit his poor friend in the chest to get his attention on you, when he did, you noticed the uniqueness of his eyes up close. You could of seen it from across the bar — but this is another level. Some kind of otherworldly matter, it got you choked up for a moment.

He was about to make you bank.

“This is Art.”

Of course it is.

Your were trying not to drool as you took a little too long to examine the way Art leaned up with a miniature straw pressed against his pretty lips with a soft sideways smirk,

“I think he’s a cutie..” You sputter as you bit your lip with a cheeky smile. Trying not to get lost in Arts gaze — you had to remember the goal, get your head in the game to why you’d walked over here in the first damn place.

“I think you’re both pretty cute..”

“Yeah?” Patrick chuckled and grinned at his friend, they looked at each other like it had been some hidden kind of communication. Like they already knew what the other was trying to say telepathically. That was a signal to you that this was for sure a package deal — you’d have both of them tonight. Not only did they welcome it, but they’d probably been here for that exact motive.

Art gave you a little smile, “We had our eye on you the whole night honestly, so that’s good to know…”

There it is.

You laughed a bit and shrugged. Eyes following back to the darker haired one. “So I heard..”

“How come you aren’t out there?” Art nodded to the dance floor full of bodies, his eyes ran over you, “you’re a stunning girl.. no way none of these guys asked you to dance.”

You hoped to god you weren’t getting flustered. They’re just boys. Ones that you needed to be bedded by till the sun came up, but still.

“I’m- uh.. a bit shy.” (You weren’t. You had your fair share of men in and out of your apartment. Not as stunning as Art and Patrick although, so making them feel extra special wasn’t too much of a stretched truth.) “so it’s rare I even talk to guys.. but you two- - I just had to say something.” You giggled and they were leaning into your laughter with their own. You could swear you smelled Burberry cologne being sent your way from one of them, if not both. Maybe your friends had been right about the wealth.

Art and Patricks attention had been solidly on you. And you didn’t know if it was the way you decided to style your hair tonight, and the way you made sure to keep lustful but sweet eyes between them, or if your friends just sucked at flirting. But you were already yearning to keep this going.

It was time to throw them a curve to lock in their undivided for the rest of the night.

“Well- - I should get back to my friends, they probably think it’s way odd of me to even be over here..” you tittered with a soft goodbye smile as you began to turn away from the men and before you could even step away from the countertop, “wait!” was being called your way from over your shoulder.

A smirk was ridden on your lips once again. You turned back to face their pitch with curiosity.

“Stay a little longer?” Patrick asked of you with a beam.

“Yeah, let us buy you a drink.. what are you? An espresso?”

“No. Man, she’s a cosmo girl, trust me. You are- - aren’t you?” When the brunette corrected his friend, blue and green orbs focused on your answer in desperation you’d keep them a little more company. And you couldn’t help your decisive but giddy expression that was all too pleased with your work here.

“I am actually, yes.” You chuckled before taking a stand between the two tall and handsome men with much more than a quick fuck and collecting your rewards on your mind now. You actually sort of liked them. And that was rare with any man you’d meet doing an activity like clubbing, especially two of them.

As time went on, Art and Patrick were racking up on buying you drink after drink. As many as you wanted. Within as little as an hour that passed, you’d been with the two boys as if you’d known them your entire life. It could have been borderline love bombing with how fast you went from zero to a hundred. Both men simultaneously wrapping their arms around you from behind, laughing loudly as you’d been glued between the two of them. Even dancing in ways more than a couple flirts could have gotten you.

The boys were more than happy to keep tipping the bartenders with haughty smirks after getting you sparked up and hanging on their arms of course, even having one too many of their own. The three of you took it to the lounge area and your friends would be somewhere watching in disbelief and slight envy of how quickly you were able to get handsy with Art and Patrick.

You’d been passed back and forth on their laps as you chatted and even snuck a couple kisses by now. Totally giddy off their energy and the liquids they’d been giving you. The way Art had slipped his wallet back into his back pocket after buying you another drink, was a straight turn on to the point you’d been sticking sugary kisses to his neck as he did so with a couple playful bites, the man grinned at your bubbly essence. Your not so careful hands slid up his chest and slung over his shoulders, “Mmm- -You’re the sweet one aren’t you?” You giggle, finger tips run over his jaw and Art bit down on his peachy lip while he held on to your hips nice and easy, yet with a respectful distance. He couldn’t find the words to define the way he’d been enjoying the way you stroked his ego all night long.

“Don’t let him fool you. He’s actually a menace.” Patrick scoffed as he sat man spread in the seat across from you two with a cigarette in hand.

“Fuck off.” His friend defended lightly. It was the way you could tell he enjoyed the playful banter when Patrick poked at him tonight that solidified to you just how close they really were. You thought it was adorable.

“You two really do everything together, huh?” You toyed with Arts now loose collar, casually sipping on something clear with flirtatious eyes, and the man shrugged a bit as he glanced at the brunette across from him who was hiding a sardonic kind of look behind his glass.

“I mean, well- - somethings..” The blonde nodded with a soft smile, but you raised a brow. “Most things.” He corrected, he and Patrick narrowed eyes at one another. You noticed with a devious little hum at the way the blonde had still been holding back. It made your lips turn up with a grin, watching between the two as Art struggled to confess the obvious. “Okay. Yeah- kind of.. everything.” With a flustered look towards the brunette, Arts eyes trailed off with a sort of blush as you leaned into his shoulder. All close to the blue eyed man getting harshly coy now.

“That’s so cute. Like brothers..” you smiled in Patrick’s direction and he immediately let out heavy laughter.

“Not exactly.” The other man grinned. You tilted your head some, and looked at Art again with wonder in your eyes.

“Like.. lovers ?” Your eyes were wide as you focused on the blonde and he shook his head and drowned out his flustered expression with a swing from his glass. Patrick had smirked at your final conclusion, but still, the two gave you not a significant confirmation spite lingering looks and the newfound heat coming from Arts body.

Holy fuck

not just one, but both your friends had been right.

You were already one step ahead with more questions to coax out of the two if a bartender hadn’t interrupted with a new round of shots and your mind was quickly occupied as you ‘ooo’d’ at the tray being set beyond you. Patrick met your gaze and grinned. “Baby, come take one with me,” you were cheerfully being swapped from Arts lap to Patrick’s — bouncing over his way and also grabbing a shot with him.

A quick clink of your glasses filled the air along with your energetic giggles as the man who groped you with firmness in his lap contrast Art, drowned the substance at the same time. Patricks roaming hands were coarse and just as bold as he was when you straddled him after letting the liquor flow down your throat with ease, you wiped your stained lips with the back of your palm.

“Shit.. you took that so well, pretty girl..” Patrick took the glass from your hands, his hooded eyes stayed on you with a smirk. You brushed your fingers over the light stubble to his chin and leaned in close,

“I can take a lot of things pretty well.” You whispered so only he could hear with a smile, you scanned the area proudly as you were very aware of the show you’d been putting up all night. Patrick shifted in his seat with arousal, lips inches away from yours so you went in deep with a kiss.

The man groaned, “Is that so?” He pushed your hips farther into his lap as you’d been lipping off his jaw with a prideful giggle. You were messing with the hem of his shirt as you remembered you still had your own benefit of the deal to seal — getting the boys somewhere you could have your way with them. You came this far, why stop now when you’d been so close to victory?

“Mmhm… want me to show you how?”

Your words were music to the brunettes ears. His eyebrows rose as he watched you lean up with a grin, intertwining your fingers through his knuckles and Patrick stood as you were able to grab Arts attention too. Abruptly stripping him of his seat as well. “oh- - we’re going somewhere else..” the blonde rushed to follow where you’d been leading for a little more privacy. A secluded vip party section that you were a hundred percent not allowed in without a fee — but something about the trespassing turned you on even more. With a finger to your lips, you gave the two a silent “shh” along with your little grin and lustful eyes. They were all in with thrill and eager hands to get on you anyways.

You had gone to the nervously flattered one first. Taking his hands to wrap them around your waist, you stood on your toes to press your lips against his, carefully moving your jaw with Art’s and melting into the dance of it on instant. Your fingertips crawl through his butterscotch tinted curls like you couldn’t get enough. And Art went to a little bit of a risk, he didn’t stop his hands from slipping down to grip your ass beneath your tight skirt.

“Mmm.. easy blondie- -” you giggled with a soft push to his collarbone so he’d been a tad away from you once again, and Art finally let himself breathe with a mumbled curse coming from his lips.

You then made your way to the brunette beside him — but before you could even take your stance, the man pulled you in without a warning. Pressing his broad body against you as he collided his mouth with yours in one swift motion and your whimpers had been an immediate reaction by the way Patrick left sloppy kisses wherever he could. Down your neck, over the top of your chest. You grinned as you eyed the man next to him while Patrick tore into your skin.

You found the vile rising tent in Arts jeans quite cute.

You let your hand trail to where his button began and you undid it as quick as you could with the way Patrick had been holding your body like some kind of rag doll. Art helped you unzip them, and when Patrick had flung you around so your back was flush against his chest, your jaw was unleashed as you squealed.

“You really aren’t shy are you?” His voice was richer than before — full of the whisky and pent up from the foreplay of the last hour making you let out a loose laugh while the man pushed past your messy hair to kiss on your neck.

“I am- - but even the quite ones have our needs.. right, Art?”

The blonde let out a coy chuckle before his blush took over more of his expression and with that you had been hiking up your skirt to tuck your thumbs into the hem of your panties to pull them down your thighs. “Oh, shit.. shit” Art was already softly groaning as you used his undone belt buckle as leverage to get the lacy pair from your feet and he watched with overwhelming interest in the way Patrick caught your drift and started to get his own belt gone faster than you got them into that room.

“Fuck” Patrick, equally aroused, groaned when he had got his hardened dick out of his boxers. Your mind was so clouded from the tension of the way he grabbed on to your clothed breasts behind your top, rummaging to find your sensitive nipples — you were panting from the friction of his throbbing member that was far ready to fuck you senseless, just brushing against your upper thigh. You bit down on your lip hard as you looked up at the finely built man behind you who had a smirk stuck to his face before he toyed at your already slick pussy with his fingers.

“Go on… put it in- -” your drunken mind went fuzzy when the dark haired man started to slide through your walls, your hand went slapping against whatever you could reach in the confined space you’d been in as a full moan escaped you — your eyes fluttered from the way Patrick stretched you open on his cock. Keeping both hands on your hips so you didn’t fall over as your legs already begun to go weak. He didn’t even hesitate to plunge into you with a grunt. “I wasn’t- - even planning on.. fucking you tonight, but fuck, I knew you wanted it.” Patrick groaned out while he snapped his hips against your ass and you turned into a mess of whimpers. You’d been in a slight arch for his entrance, cunt clenching around his length so much so you were sure to turn into a stuttering mess within minutes.

Arts reddened cock was on your mind as he’d been right ahead of you just in reach of your sloppy fuck with the brunette. And as “Oh ! Fuck.. yes, yes” was being thrusted out of you, you still reached out to start stroking him. Art hissed on contact with your warm palms on his shaft like you’d been a pro. And he was gorgeous, eyebrows knitted away as he melted into your heavenly coax of his dick, stiff enough to cum right then just from the voyeurism of it all.

“Baby.. faster- - just like that..” Art groaned before putting a hand on your waist that was being rutted by his friend. You spit on your hand quickly before going back to use it on Art. Your legs were in fact giving out — but the bliss due to the man fucking into you was just too good to let go to waste.

“Patrick..keep fucking me- - mmm.. please, it feels so-so good.” You whine while your wetness sticks to the curve of your inner thighs, you could hear the man’s haughty snicker run through your ears. He was now digging his fingers into your hips, slowing his movements to watching himself pump in and out of your hole with rhythm.

“Hold still, sweet girl.. I’m gonna make you cum- -”

That wasn’t what you needed. But what the heck.

With Patrick pounding a couple cries out of you down the line, he'd been putting his hands roughly in your hair to push you over the ledge as you began to make a mess on his twitching cock. “Mmmh.. f-fuck- yes..!” You couldn’t give a damn at how loud you were being. Your creamy juices were left on the man as he wasted no time to pull out of you and start pumping away at his cock on your backside. Using the wall as a rest with his damp curls stuck to his forehead, he released ropes of his cum on to the dip of your back with a low grunt. By the time he tapped the last few drops on your ass, you had a teasing little hazy smile on your face and Patrick held you up again like used goods.

You got one down. You already knew with a few strokes of your tongue, Art would have that sweet release too. So you got on your knees without a question and attached your generous lips around the blondes member. He closed his eyes to feel the heated wetness of your mouth closing on him. “Oh god,” he panted as you suctioned your lips around his tip. Te naughtiest kind of sounds leaving you while you sucked a climax from Art at the same time. The feeling of his cock down your throat, mixed with the moaning through the moment his cum flows through, made your mouth feel totally full and fucked out. Art cursed at the way you looked so pretty taking him on your knees like this — but he thought you were far too comely to be down there for long, so as soon as you swallowed he helped you rise to your feet with a small stumble, but the man managed to keep you aligned as he grabbed hold of you with a soft grin.

“You’re too good, even drunk. I mean, shit..” Patrick panted as he observed your state. Just like before. Arms flung over Arts shoulders as you leaned into him with flirtatiousness.

“You fuck good.” You eyed him back, your voice was a little too impressed to the brunette, but he was appreciative of the acknowledgement. You had focused on the blonde again, whose chest was against yours, running your finger over his cheek in playfulness with a small giggle.

“And you have to play Ken in me next time..”

He looked down as he just couldn’t help himself but shy away from your compliment. “next time, huh ?” Art questioned with a soft chuckle, You nodded and kept your place temptingly close to the blondes lips. “Well then, we’ve gotta get you home first.”

After Patrick and Art insisted on paying for your Uber back to your apartment, they were also nearly begging for your number as well — and after a few waters to sober up, and a kind hearted snap of your seatbelt from one of the boys, you eventually did give in.

You nearly forgot you had a pay to pick up from your friends at your hangover brunch the next morning, and of course the girls wanted all the details about everything from the previous night while bills were paid to you gladly.

You planned on giving the two hot guys at the bar a handjob and couple kisses at the beginning. But exposing to your friends that you got to cum on Patrick’s cock while you jerked off Art and sealed your deal was an extra bonus as they both ended up being as sweet as they come.

Maybe two boyfriends wouldn’t hurt.

#challengers #art donaldson #patrick zweig #x reader #art donaldson x female reader #art donaldson x reader #patrick zweig x female reader #patrick zweig x reader #patrick zweig smut #challengers fic #challengers x reader #challengers smut #artrick smut #artrick #artrick x reader #chlmtsdoll writes

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cloverina · 2 months ago

Text

“VICTORIA’S SECRET.”

summary: you took sam into a lingerie store, in hopes he would be embarrassed… but he got revenge.

wc- 4,371

warnings- afab reader, slight humiliation, some degradation, voyeurism if you squint, cream pie, overstimulation is implied, spanking and if i forget any, lmk!<3

a/n- i have a 5 day trip to nyc in a few hours, so i probably won’t be active for that time period, im currently writing an anakin skywalker AND a scott barringer fic rn. ill be sure to finish them when im home:)))

"Sam, please don't be like this," She begged, turning on his arm as he rolled his eyes. "It's just a lingerie store. It's not like we're going to a pet cemetery or something."

He sighed heavily, his studded belt jingling against the metal rack of a nearby clothing store. "Fine," he grumbled, "but I'm not going to help you pick out your granny panties."

With an indignant huff, she shot him a glare that could've cut glass. "For your information," she said, her voice sharp as a knife, "I don't wear granny panties." She spun on her heel, her hair whipping around like a dark halo, and stormed towards Victoria's Secret, her favorite lingerie shop. Sam had no choice but to follow, his sneakers squeaking against the polished mall floor.

Once inside, the soft glow of the pink lights bathed them, the scent of vanilla and jasmine hanging in the air. She began to weave through the aisles, her eyes scanning the delicate lace and silk that adorned the mannequins. She couldn't help but feel a little thrill at the thought of Sam being in such a place, his discomfort was almost palpable. It was like watching a fish out of water, flapping around, trying to find its way back to the ocean of black band t-shirts and skinny jeans.

Her gaze drifted to the far corner where a royal blue set caught her eye, the exact shade of the streak in Sam's hair. It was a daring choice, she thought, but it had a certain allure that called to her. She picked it up, the fabric feeling like a whisper against her skin. The set was comprised of a push-up bra with a lace trim that would make her cleavage look like a secret garden and matching panties that had a cheeky little bow at the back. She couldn't resist a smirk as she imagined Sam's reaction.

Turning to face him, she held up the ensemble with a flourish. His eyes widened like a teenage boy's would at the sight of his favorite band's poster. She watched as his gaze took in every inch of the lingerie, his pupils dilating with desire. "What do you think of this one?" she asked sweetly, playing coy.

"Oh my god," Sam breathed, his baby blue eyes darkening with a hunger she hadn't seen before. "If you wear that, you won't need any other accessories," he managed to murmur, his voice hoarse with restrained lust.

Her smirk grew into a full-blown grin as she turned to face him, holding the royal blue lingerie set against her chest. The soft light played over the material, casting shadows that only served to enhance its allure. She could see his pulse quickening in his neck, his fingers itching to touch the silky fabric.

SUMMARY^1: She found a royal blue lingerie set at Victoria's Secret, the same color as Sam's hair streak. Presenting it to him, she playfully asked for his opinion. Sam's reaction was intense, his eyes revealing desire and his voice growing husky, suggesting she would look stunning in it.

"Well, if you insist," she said, sauntering towards the checkout. The color looked stunning against her pale skin, the blue a stark contrast to the darkness of her outfit. She knew it would look even better against the starkness of her bedroom walls. The cashier looked up, her eyes flicking between Sam and the lingerie with a knowing smile. She felt a thrill of excitement, enjoying the fact that she was making him squirm in public.

As she placed the set on the counter, Sam's gaze remained glued to it, his mind racing with thoughts of peeling it off her later. The cashier's eyes darted to him, reading his discomfort with a smirk before she scanned the tags and bagged it. The plastic crinkled as she handed it over, the sound echoing in the otherwise quiet store.

"Thank you," she said sweetly to the cashier, her voice dripping with the satisfaction of knowing she had Sam right where she wanted him.

Before she could even think of her next shopping destination, Sam's grip on her arm tightened and he began pulling her through the mall at a pace that was halfway between a brisk walk and a full sprint. She stumbled to keep up, laughing despite herself at his urgency. "What's the hurry?" she teased, glancing over her shoulder at his flushed face.

SUMMARY^1: She bought the blue lingerie set, enjoying Sam's evident desire. The cashier smirked at their interaction. He grew increasingly eager to leave, practically dragging her through the mall, his discomfort now tinged with excitement. She playfully questioned his rush, amused by his flustered state.

"You know what," he murmured, his eyes dark with something that sent a shiver down her spine. She playfully resisted, letting out a little squeal when he picked up his speed, dragging her out of the lingerie shop and into the bustling mall. The sound of their shoes on the tiles and the distant chatter of shoppers faded away as they approached the exit.

The cool air of the parking lot was a stark contrast to the warm, fragrant atmosphere of the mall. Sam's grip on her arm didn't loosen as they made their way to his car, a black sports car that looked as out of place in the suburban mall as he did in the lingerie store. He opened the door for her, his movements sharp and decisive. She slid in, her heart racing from a mix of excitement and the sudden shift in his demeanor.

He got into the driver's side and cranked the engine, the purr of the car vibrating through her body. She watched as he shifted gears and peeled out of the parking space, the tires squealing against the asphalt. She could feel the speed increasing as they left the mall behind, the scenery outside becoming a blur of colors and lights. It was only when they passed a street sign that she realized they were not heading towards her house.

Her eyes narrowed, and she turned to him. "Sam, you missed the turn."

"I know," he said, his voice low and intense. "We're not going to your place."

Her eyes widened. "What? Where are we going?"

SUMMARY^1: He bought the lingerie and hurried her out of the mall, his excitement palpable. Despite her playful protests, he led her to his black sports car and drove off. When she noticed they weren't going to her house, she questioned him, surprised by the shift in their plans.

He didn't take his eyes off the road, his knuckles turning white on the steering wheel. "My apartment," he repeated, and she felt his hand land on her thigh, giving it a firm squeeze. It was possessive, almost aggressive, and she couldn't help the way her body responded, heat blooming in her core.

Her heart raced as the car sped through the city streets, the lights flashing by in a colorful blur. She swallowed hard, trying to ignore the sudden dryness in her throat. "Sam," she began, but his grip tightened, cutting her off.

With each speed bump they hit, she found herself subconsciously shifting forward in her seat, her core grazing the side of his hand. It sent a jolt of electricity through her, and she had to bite her bottom lip to keep from gasping out loud. His eyes flicked to hers briefly, a knowing smirk playing on his lips before returning to the road.

"Sam," she whispered, her voice barely above the engine's growl. But the words she wanted to say died on her tongue when she saw the look in his eyes, a fiery determination that was as mesmerizing as it was terrifying.

He pulled the car into the underground garage of his apartment complex, the headlights cutting through the darkness like twin beams of white-hot desire. The tension in the air was thick, charged with the promise of something raw and primal. He parked in his designated spot, the engine idling for a moment before dying down to a quiet hum. His hand didn't leave her thigh as he unbuckled his seatbelt and turned to face her. "You wanted to play this game," he said, his voice a dark whisper, "now it's my turn to set the rules."

Her eyes searched his, looking for any sign of teasing or jest in his gaze. But she found only a fiery determination that sent a shiver down her spine. She knew she had pushed his buttons in the lingerie store, flaunting her sexuality without a care for his comfort. And now, she was about to face the consequences of her actions.

"I'm sorry," she offered, her voice small and meek. But the words were cut off by the sudden pressure of his hand moving higher, his thumb grazing the edge of her panties. She gasped, the fabric already damp with anticipation.

Sam leaned closer, his breath hot against her ear. "You're so wet," he murmured, his voice filled with a dark satisfaction. "And that's just from my hand? You're such a naughty whore for my hand, aren't you?" His words were like a slap to her senses, jolting her out of her momentary hesitation.

Her eyes flashed with a mix of shock and arousal as she processed his crude yet undeniably accurate assessment of her current state. She bit her bottom lip, her cheeks flushing with a mix of embarrassment and desire. He wasn't wrong; she was wet, and it was all because of his touch, his presence, the way he made her feel like prey to his hungry gaze.

Without another word, Sam opened the car door, the cool air of the garage brushing against her heated skin. He pulled her out of the car, his grip unyielding, and she stumbled slightly in her haste to keep up with his long strides. He slammed the door shut behind them, the sound echoing off the concrete walls as they made their way to the elevator. The fluorescent lights flickered overhead, casting eerie shadows that danced across his face, making his features look harsher, more predatory.

As the elevator doors slid open, he scooped her into his arms, his strength surprising her. She gasped as he carried her across the threshold of his apartment, the door swinging shut with a bang that seemed to reverberate through her entire being. The space was dimly lit, the curtains drawn to block out the city lights. The only illumination came from the flickering glow of a candle on the nightstand, casting long shadows across the room.

He set her down roughly on the bed, the mattress bouncing slightly beneath her. She watched as he moved with purpose, the tension in the air thickening like a storm cloud about to unleash its fury. He grabbed the bag from the lingerie store and tossed it to her. "Put it on," he ordered, his voice leaving no room for argument.

Her trembling hands reached into the bag and pulled out the royal blue set. She could feel his eyes on her as she unclipped her bra and slid off her pants, the fabric pooling around her ankles like a dark waterfall. The cool air hit her bare skin, making her shiver. She took a deep breath and slipped the panties on, feeling the soft lace kiss her skin before adjusting the bow at the back. The bra was next, the cups cupping her breasts, pushing them up to create a perfect view that she knew would drive him wild.

As soon as she had the lingerie in place, Sam was upon her. The studded belt hit the floor with a clank, the spiked bracelets following. His hands moved with an urgency she had never seen before, peeling off his black band t-shirt to reveal the toned abs she had only ever caught glimpses of. The sight of his bare chest made her pulse quicken, the anticipation building within her like a crescendo in a symphony of desire. He kicked off his sneakers and yanked down his jeans, his eyes never leaving hers, the intensity in them making her knees weak.

Her own hands were trembling as she watched him, the fabric of her new lingerie seeming to hum with the energy in the air. He stepped out of his pants, and she couldn't help but gasp at the size of his erection, straining against the fabric of his black boxers. With a smirk, he hooked his thumbs into the waistband and slid them down, revealing himself to her fully. She felt a warm rush between her legs, her body responding instinctively to the primal need she saw reflected in his gaze.

"On your stomach," he ordered, his voice a gruff rumble that sent another shiver through her. She complied, her heart hammering in her chest as she felt the coolness of the bed against her skin. He climbed onto the bed, his weight pressing down slightly, and she could feel the heat from his body radiating through the mattress.

He straddled her hips, his legs on either side of her. His hands were firm as they gripped her wrists, pulling them back until she felt the soft bite of the handcuffs snapping shut around them. She gasped, a mix of surprise and arousal, her eyes widening in the dim candlelight as she felt the cold metal digging into her skin.

With a smirk, he reached down and hooked his fingers into the waistband of her new lingerie. With one swift tug, he ripped the delicate fabric away, exposing her bare ass to the cool air. "Sam!" she exclaimed, the shock causing her voice to crack. "I just bought this!"

"I'll buy you more," he replied, his voice a low growl of dominance. "Now, be quiet." His words were a command that sent a shiver down her spine. She knew she had pushed him to his limit, and now she was going to pay the price.

With a smug smile, he tossed the shredded lingerie aside, revealing her bare skin to the cool air of the room. She felt exposed, vulnerable, and incredibly turned on. His hand trailed down her back, sending goosebumps along her skin as he caressed her curves. "You're so beautiful," he murmured, his voice a stark contrast to the harshness of his earlier tone.

The sudden sting of his hand smacking her ass took her by surprise, the sound echoing through the quiet apartment. She yelped, her body jolting at the sharp pain. He didn't give her time to recover, delivering another smack, harder this time. The heat spread through her cheeks, the pain turning into a warm ache that mingled with her desire.

Before she could even begin to protest, his hand clamped over her mouth, silencing her. The smell of his skin, a mix of leather and sweat, filled her nostrils as she felt his other hand positioning himself at her entrance. The anticipation was almost unbearable, a cocktail of fear and excitement. Then, without any warning, he thrust inside her, filling her completely in one swift motion.

The sudden intrusion took her breath away, the pain momentarily overwhelming the desire that had been building in her. She bit down on the hand that covered her mouth to stifle her cry, her eyes watering with the intensity of the sensation. But as the initial shock subsided, she felt her body begin to adjust, the pain morphing into a deep, primal pleasure that spread through her like wildfire.

"You wanted to act like a whore in the lingerie store," he growled, each word punctuated by a brutal thrust, "so now you're going to be treated like one." His hips pistoned into her, the force of his movements pushing her further into the bed. She could feel the fabric of the comforter bunching up under her, the material rough against her sensitive skin.

The sting of his words and the harshness of his touch were a stark contrast to the tenderness she had come to expect from him. But the fire in her belly grew with every smack and thrust, the pain mixing with the pleasure until it was impossible to tell where one ended and the other began. She managed to arch her back a little for him, lifting her ass up to meet each punishing movement, her eyes watering from the intensity of it all.

Sam's grip on her mouth tightened as she moaned, muffling the sounds of her pleasure. He knew he wasn't going too far; they had agreed on boundaries before, a safe word that could stop everything in its tracks if she ever felt truly uncomfortable. But she hadn't said it, and she wasn't using her safe action either—a subtle tug on his earlobe that signaled she needed him to ease up. Instead, she was responding to him like a wild animal in heat, her body writhing beneath him, her hips bucking back to meet his every move.

The room grew hot with the scent of their combined desire, the candle flickering as he pounded into her. He watched the way her body reacted to his touch, the way her breaths grew ragged and desperate, and he knew she was getting off on this. It was a heady feeling, one that made his blood sing with power and lust. He smacked her ass again, the sound ringing out in the quiet apartment, and she moaned even louder, her pussy tightening around him.

Her eyes watered from the pain, but she didn't protest. Instead, she arched her back more, pushing her ass up higher to meet his every thrust. It was the only thing she could do in her bound state, and she used it to her advantage, moving her hips in a way that had him groaning with pleasure. He could feel himself getting closer and closer to the edge, his grip on her wrists tightening as he picked up his pace.

He leaned down, his breath hot against her neck as he whispered obscenities into her ear. "You like this, don't you?" he murmured, his voice a dark caress that sent shivers down her spine. "You like being my little whore, don't you? My little fuckdoll.”

Her breath hitched, her body responding to the harshness of his words. She couldn't deny it; the way he talked to her, the way he used her, it all just made her wetter, made her crave more. She nodded, a silent admission of her desires, her eyes fluttering shut as she focused on the feeling of him inside her.

His whispers grew filthier, his breath hot and wet against her ear as he spoke of all the things he was going to do to her. His words painted a vivid picture in her mind, one that had her pussy clenching around him. "You're going to take it all," he murmured, his hips moving in a rhythm that was punishing and perfect. "Every inch of me, until you're begging for mercy."

The hand that had been clamped over her mouth moved down to her stomach, his fingers digging into her skin as he pushed down, forcing her to arch even more. The pressure was intense, and he felt something strange—a bulge, a sensation that sent a new wave of pleasure crashing through him. He realized that she was so tight around him, so filled to the brim with his cock, that he could feel it in her belly. The realization made him even harder, his body responding to the idea of being so completely claimed by him.

"Feel that?" he murmured into her ear, his breath hot and ragged. "That's what you do to me, baby. You make me feel like I own every part of you." He leaned down to kiss her neck, his teeth grazing the soft skin. The hand that had been on her stomach trailed down to her pussy, his thumb finding her clit. He began to rub it in slow, deliberate circles, his movements matching the rhythm of his hips.

Since her mouth wasn’t clamped shut anymore, she could talk. And talk she did, letting out a string of moans and gasps that grew more frantic with every stroke. "Sam, I'm close," she whimpered, her voice shaking. "So close." She could feel her orgasm building, a tension that coiled tightly in her belly, ready to snap.

Sam's response was to thrust even deeper, his pace quickening. His thumb moved in circles over her clit, the pressure just right to drive her wild. "Come for me," he ordered, his voice thick with desire. "Come on my cock, like a good little whore."

The words were like gasoline on a fire, setting her off. Her orgasm crashed through her like a tidal wave, her body shaking with the intensity of it. She cried out, the sound a mix of pleasure and pain as she felt him swell even more inside her, his own release imminent.

"Sam, I'm coming," she managed to gasp out, her voice hoarse from the effort of holding back. She could feel the muscles in her stomach tightening, her pussy contracting around his cock as the pleasure overtook her.

He responded by pounding into her even harder, his own climax approaching like a runaway train. With a final, desperate thrust, he emptied himself inside her, filling her with his hot seed. He groaned, his body shuddering with the force of his release. But he wasn't done. He kept moving, his hips jerking in a staccato rhythm, his cock still hard and demanding.

The feeling of him coming inside her was almost too much, but she was so lost in the haze of pleasure that she didn't protest when he pulled out, his cock glistening with their combined juices. He was like an animal in heat, insatiable and unrelenting. Before she could catch her breath, he had her flipped onto her back, her wrists still bound by the handcuffs.

Her legs were trembling, but she managed to spread them, giving him full access to her pussy. She watched as he stroked himself, his eyes locked onto her face, watching her every reaction. "Again," he growled, his hand a blur as he worked himself back to hardness. The sight of him was almost too much, so raw and primal.

He didn't waste any time, plunging back into her with a ferocity that left her gasping for air. Each thrust was a declaration of his dominance, and she reveled in it. He was so deep inside her, so deep she could feel him in her chest. The sensation was overwhelming, and she knew she was going to come again.

As she felt the familiar tightening in her belly, she reached for his hand, silently begging for release. He smirked, knowing exactly what she wanted. He leaned down and whispered into her ear, "Not yet, baby. Not until I've had my fill." And with that, he reached between her legs and found her clit again, rubbing it in time with his thrusts.

Her breath hitched, and she could feel the second orgasm approaching, a wild beast ready to pounce. She moaned around his thumb, her body writhing beneath his, her legs trembling with the effort of holding herself up. He leaned down to kiss her neck, his teeth grazing her skin as he whispered more dirty promises. "I'm going to make you come so hard you won't be able to walk straight for days," he murmured, and she knew he meant every word.

The pressure inside her was unbearable, the tension coiling tighter and tighter with every stroke. She could feel the head of his cock nudging against her cervix, and she knew it was only a matter of time before she shattered. His thumb moved faster on her clit, the pressure building until she couldn't take it anymore.

Her eyes snapped open, and she stared up at him, her pupils dilated with lust. "Sam, I can't," she begged, her voice barely above a whisper. "I can't hold on much longer."

But he was relentless, his strokes becoming more erratic as he chased his own release. She felt the tension in his body, the way his muscles coiled and flexed with each powerful thrust. And when he finally came again, it was with a roar that seemed to shake the very foundation of the room. He pushed deep inside her, his cock pulsing with the force of his orgasm, filling her up completely.

Her own orgasm was just as intense, the second one hitting her like a freight train. She bucked against him, her bound wrists tugging at the handcuffs as she screamed out his name. Her pussy clenched around him, milking him for every drop, and he groaned in response, his hips jerking with the force of it.

Finally, with a last, desperate thrust, he pulled out, and she watched as his semen began to trickle out of her, painting a white line down her thigh. Sam's gaze followed the path of his release, and she could see the hunger in his eyes as he took in the sight of her, trembling and used.

Without a moment's hesitation, he leaned down, his tongue darting out to catch a droplet of his own cum on her skin. She gasped at the sensation, the taste of him on her, and the realization of what he was doing. His eyes met hers, a wicked glint in them as he licked the trail of semen up to her pussy. He paused at her entrance, his breath hot against her sensitive flesh.

"Sam, what are you doing?" she managed to ask, her voice trembling with a mix of shock and excitement.

"Now, be quiet for me baby," he murmured, his tone a seductive blend of dominance and affection.

#hayden christensen #sam monroe #sam monroe x reader #anakin skywalker #hayden christensen x reader #anakin skywalker smut #anakin x reader #18+ mdni #coreellia #cloverinas fics <3

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raekensluver · 4 months ago

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betrayal's embrace

description: you and theodore nott have been in a relationship and everything was going perfect until one day theo comes to you, regret in his eyes and he tells you he made a mistake.

pairing: cheater!theodore nott x fem!reader

contains: angst, cheating (theo to r), your bestfriend is a shitty friend, arguing, mattheo and draco eavesdropping.

song rec: be alright by dean lewis- "and then you say to me you made a dumb mistake"

w.c: 1.3k

an: this song inspired me a little too much...

the slytherin common room lay eerily quiet, the fireplace crackling softly as it fought against the midnight chill. the dim light from the candles above-cast dancing shadows on the polished floor, and the emerald walls whispered secrets that only the ancient portraits knew. you sat curled up on a plush armchair, the cold leather sending shivers down your spine as you stared into the flickering flames. the emptiness of the room was a stark contrast to the tumultuous thoughts racing through your mind.

theo's footsteps echoed through the silence, each one a drumbeat of dread. your heart leaped as he descended the staircase, his eyes meeting yours. the weight of his gaze bore into you, carrying the burden of his confession. the space between you felt like a chasm that had suddenly opened, threatening to swallow the very air you breathed.

his usually confident stride was now tentative, as if the very stones of the common room might judge him. his eyes searched yours, looking for a glimmer of understanding or forgiveness, but all he found was a wall of cold, hard anger. the silence grew heavier with each step he took, until he was standing in front of you, his breath shallow and eyes pleading.

you felt the heat of betrayal burn in your chest, and your voice trembled as you spoke. "how could you?" the words were barely a whisper, but they filled the room like a shout. theo's face fell, his shoulders dropping with the weight of his own guilt. "i don't know," he murmured, his voice cracking. "it just…happened."

your anger grew, pulsing through your veins like molten lava. you shot to your feet, the chair scraping against the floor. "that's not good enough!" you yelled, your voice echoing off the stone walls. "you didn't just trip and fall into her arms!" you clenched your fists so tightly, your knuckles turned white.

his eyes searched the room, as if seeking an escape from the accusation in your gaze. "it was a mistake," he whispered, the desperation in his voice clawing at the edges of your heart. "i never meant to hurt you." but the words felt hollow, like a parchment torn in two.

you felt the rage building, a storm gathering strength. "you didn't just hurt me," you spat, the taste of bile rising in your throat. "you destroyed everything. my trust, my friendship…you shattered it all!" your voice grew louder, each syllable a shard of ice thrown at his chest. "what we had…it's gone. it's dead!"

theo took a step back, his eyes wide with fear. "please," he begged, reaching for you, but you slapped his hand away. "please, let me explain." his voice was raw, desperate.

you stepped closer to him, your eyes flashing with anger. "there's nothing to explain," you hissed. "you made a choice, and now you have to live with it." you turned away, your eyes burning with unshed tears. "i can't…i won't forgive you."

theo's hand hovered in the space where you had been, his eyes never leaving your back. "i know," he murmured, his voice a defeated whisper. "but i need you to understand. it was never about you. it was just…i don't know, a moment of weakness."

you scoffed, your voice thick with pain. "weakness? that's what you call it? that's a pathetic excuse, theo." you whipped around to face him, your eyes brimming with anger and hurt.

his expression crumpled, and he took a step forward, his hands outstretched. "i know," he said hoarsely. "i know it's not enough, but i'm sorry. i'm so, so sorry."

you stared at him for a long moment, your eyes unblinking. the flames in the fireplace danced, casting an angry light on his face. "sorry doesn't cut it," you said finally, your voice cold as ice. "not this time."

his eyes searched yours, looking for a hint of the warmth that had once been there. "what can i do?" he asked, his voice barely audible. "anything. i'll do anything to make it right."

you took a deep breath, the scent of the fireplace mixing with the sharp tang of your own anger. "it's not about making it right," you said, your voice steely. "it's about fixing the mess you've made."

his eyes fell to the floor, and he nodded slowly. "i know," he murmured. "i just don't know how."

you looked away, the fire's warmth offering no comfort. "start by telling me why," you said, your voice tight. "why her? why now?"

theo swallowed hard, his adam's apple bobbing. "it's complicated," he began, but you cut him off with a sharp gesture.

"don't you dare give me that," you snapped. "i've had enough of your complications. it's simple. you cheated."

just as the tension in the room reached a boiling point, the sound of approaching footsteps interrupted the volatile silence. mattheo and draco appeared at the bottom of the staircase, their expressions a mix of confusion and concern as they took in the scene before them. mattheo's eyes widened at the sight of theo's distress, while draco's gaze shifted between the two of you, his eyebrows furrowing in curiosity.

"what's going on?" mattheo asked, his voice tentative.

you didn't even look at them, your eyes remained fixed on theo. "this is between us," you said, your voice tight with anger. "leave."

mattheo took a step back, his eyes wide with shock. "but-"

"i said leave!" you snapped, the words cutting through the air like a knife. "this doesn't concern you."

mattheo and draco exchanged a quick glance before reluctantly backing away, their footsteps retreating up the staircase. the moment they were out of earshot, the dam holding back your emotions shattered. tears streamed down your face, each one feeling like a piece of your soul breaking away. "how could you?" you choked out, your voice trembling with pain. "how could you do this to me?"

theo's eyes filled with despair as he watched you crumble. "i didn't mean for it to happen," he whispered, his voice thick with regret. "it just…it just did."

you wiped the tears away, your face a mask of anger. "you didn't mean for it to happen?" you echoed. "you didn't mean to kiss her? to touch her? to betray me?"

his head hung low, and he nodded, his voice barely a murmur. "i didn't. i swear. it just…it just happened. i didn't think about you. i didn't think about us."

you felt the anger coil tighter in your chest, your fists clenching at your sides. "that's the problem, theo," you said, each word punctuated with a searing pain. "you didn't think. you didn't care about the consequences. you didn't care about me."

his eyes snapped up to meet yours, filled with a desperation that only made your anger burn brighter. "i did care," he insisted, his voice a broken whisper. "i do care. you're everything to me."

but his words felt like ash in your mouth. "not enough," you spat, turning away from him. "not if you could so easily throw it all away for a fleeting moment with her." you stumbled out of the common room, your legs shaking with the effort to hold you upright.

as you made your way to the stairs, you collided with draco and mattheo, who were lingering awkwardly in the shadows. their expressions were a mix of shock and sympathy, and you knew they had heard every word. "move," you said through gritted teeth, pushing past them.

mattheo reached out to grab your arm, his eyes filled with concern. "are you okay?" he whispered, his voice thick with the same shock that mirrored your own feelings.

you yanked your arm away, the anger still burning in your eyes. "i'm fine," you lied, your voice shaking. "just…leave me alone."

you didn't wait for their response, you didn't want to see the pity in their eyes. you took the stairs two at a time, your heart racing as you reached the portrait hole leading to your dormitory. once inside, you slammed the door shut, the sound reverberating through the corridor like a gunshot. the portrait swung back into place, leaving you in the welcoming embrace of darkness.

edited 8.20.24

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yandere-sins · 4 months ago

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Angel Shot

This was just a quick warm up before breakfast after I doomscrolled social media :) If you don't know what an "Angel Shot" is, feel free to google it, it's actually a very nice concept.

Warning: Yandere, Fem!Reader, Non-Con Touches, Alcohol, Force Feeding Drinking, Refusal of assistance to a person in need, Humiliation

»»———————— ♡ ————————««

"An 'Angel Shot', please."

The languid polishing of the beer glass came to a slow halt as the bartender processed your order. Your heart was beating so hard that your chest began to hurt from the pressure. The older gentleman looked up, staring straight into your soul with eyes that had lost all their sparkle and all the usual energy one possessed. Those were the eyes of someone who had seen too much in his life and fought too hard to survive.

He reminded you of the self you'd be in the future.

Curling your sweaty palms into fists on top of the counter, you opened your mouth again, repeating, "Angel Shot." Although it was much quieter this time, barely audible over the loud live music and talking patrons in the bar, you knew he heard you.

This was your only chance. You didn't care why that criminal took you to his favorite bar instead of letting you go. Didn't know why he'd care about going out to drink and socialize after you cried out all your anger. He'd just been sitting on the couch without so much of a reaction while you screamed and raged, pleaded, and sobbed, only to get up and announce you were going out, grabbing you by the arm and dragging you with him.

The bartender finally set down the glass, pulling the toothpick from between his lips before facing you, recognizing your presence with his attention. "No such thing here, Sweety."

You watched as his gaze fell over your shoulder, and he gave a short nod to someone behind you. Even though you didn't need to turn around to know it was that psycho who had forced you into his car and made you share his bed ever since, you still glanced back, catching his eyes on you, gaze never wavering. Even as he pushed a hand of party mix into his mouth, he kept staring, a knowing grin spreading as he wiped the crumbs from his lips.

"Nothing personal, Love," the bartender drew your attention back to him. The sound of glasses being set in front of you—a large one obviously filled with beer and a small shot glass with transparent fluids swiveling inside—was what made you focus on him again. Toothpick back in his mouth, the bartender held out a piece of paper towards you, nudging it for you to grab.

"Can't make the boss angry."

And with that, he left to tend to other people along the bar. Tears threatened to well up again in your eyes as you stared at the paper, folding it open to reveal a rankly written 'Angel Shot' on it. You stuffed it between your skin and waistband, not wanting the "boss" to know what it said.

Grabbing the two drinks, you had no choice but to bring them over to the table, his smirk widening at the sight of you serving him. You thought about dumping it all over his head, or at least his crotch, so it would look like he pissed himself and stir up a commotion. But if even the bartender, a savior of lost souls, refused to help you because he was too afraid of your captor, then you doubted anyone here would be on your side.

Setting down the drinks next to the criminal, you banged your hips into the table as his hand fell to the back of your thigh, not expecting the sudden touch. It roused some heads, but once they glanced in your direction and then at him, they all lowered again.

"Thanks for the drinks, Babe," he chuckled, hand driving ever higher on your leg, his pointer stretching away from the others to dig into your supple ass cheek before he ultimately grabbed it with his whole hand.

You swatted at his hand, pushing it down. Shame betraying your expression, you whipped around, ready to complain that you were in public, when this fiend hooked a finger under your waistband and pulled you roughly forward. Your feet threatened to stumble over themselves if not for another arm snaking around your midriff, catching you mid-air, and pulling you onto his lap.

But to your horror, the second you regained control of your body, you felt his finger curl beneath your waistband, the scrapping of paper against your skin unmistakably.

"No, wait!" you gasped, trying to push the note down and pull his hand out of your clothes, but he was quicker. Curling his pointer around the paper, he tugged it out and leaned back in the chair, causing you to go after him to retrieve the message by climbing entirely on top of him. Too late did you realize your mistake, his free arm tightening around your back and pressing you down with force so you couldn't escape, couldn't bring any distance between your bodies, rendering you caught.

"What do we have here?" he teased, and for some reason, you thought he already knew. With only one hand, your captor managed to unfold the piece of paper, leaning his head back to read it. "Ah~" he hummed, sounding almost satisfied. "Clever girl."

With that, he simply let go of the paper, allowing it to flutter to the ground without a care. You watched it sink, your feelings betraying you by shooting helpless tears into your eyes as you felt all your effort being in vain. The paper may have drifted down gently, but it was as if a ton of weight was crushed down on you simultaneously.

"Now, now. You're supposed to have fun. Drink, dance, enjoy some time away from home."

"How could I—"

"Ah, ah, no talking back. Have a drink and be merry."

Swatting his hand against your rear, you jolted, fingers curling into his shoulders where you had found hold. This situation was so infuriating, the way you could do nothing against that bastard. You watched him briefly turn away from you to grab one of the glasses, the cocky, self-assured smile never wavering while you felt your own face go through the first four stages of grief.

He held up the shot glass in front of you, the undefined liquid gently swaying inside, but you tightened your lips, refusing to take what he was giving you. "Angel Shot for you. That's what you wanted, right?"

The mockery wasn't lost on you, and it must have shown as the criminal's grin widened. Then, suddenly, he sighed, shaking his head. His next words were quieter, but the impact was tremendous. He'd not let you argue this.

"Don't be a party pooper," he mumbled. "Everyone's watching, enjoying the show. Let them welcome you to the gang in their own way."

Still, you refused. He held it up for a few more seconds before sighing again. Things happened quickly as he loosened his arm around your waist, only for his hand to shoot up to your head, fingers burying into your hair. With a swift chug, he poured the liquor into his mouth before crashing it against yours. There was no doubt what he wanted to do, the fluids burning against your lips as you tried hard to keep it outside.

But the next thing you knew was your nose being pinched, a gasp escaping you as the burning sensation spread all over your mouth. It hurt all the way down your throat, bitterly and angrily, as the alcohol raked against the sensitive skin of your mouth. You'd never tasted anything so foul, disgust twisting your gut.

It was only made worse by the probing tongue licking up the remnants of the alcohol, perhaps spreading it further. Your head was wrangled by the grip on your hair until your body was bent and bowed in a way that allowed your captor to thoroughly abuse the position you were in, never breaking the toxic kiss as long as he wanted. Breathing was hard; everything hurt. Tears streamed down your temples and forehead, following the gravity while your head was strung upside down.

You didn't enjoy a second of it while your captor only groped you harder with his free hand, letting a low groan rumble from his to your chest. You wished you could have thrown up in his mouth, but it was simply impossible to do anything. When he finally released you, with only one arm around you and gripping your ass to steady your body, you coughed and gagged while he peacefully sat back, picked up the beer, and took a few sips.

Stupidly, you didn't think twice when you were offered a random glass from somewhere, your mouth and nose burning with the aftermath of that shot. If there was no chance of immediately evacuating someone who asked for an Angel Shot, shouldn't the shot not at least have been water to not enhance the predicament of the poor person suffering from it? You didn't even know what it was that had assaulted you so, but it did seem to have amused the crowd, their cheering and applause finally catching your ears.

Eager to stop the pain, you took a swig of the drink that had been handed to you, the disgusting, volatile taste of beer spreading over your tongue. This time, you could stop and spit, not enough to throw up, but at least enough to cause some laughs and "Ew!"s to erupt from the bar patrons.

You pushed the glass back into your captor's hand, not caring if the fluids swapped onto his clothes or anything, as you pushed yourself away. From your excursion to the bar, you knew where the bathroom was, but all you heard were the whistles of the people around you and the laughter of your captor as you stormed off with more tears sullying your face.

This was only the beginning of the torture, you assumed. The lack of knowledge of why it was you that he kidnapped and why he was treating you so cruelly was slowly tearing apart your mental stability, but at least in the bathroom, you'd be able to cry in peace and regain some composure. And most importantly: wash out your mouth from the filth they served at this rundown bar.

"Don't take too long," you heard your captor shout after you, and you shot a glare back over your shoulder as you reached the bathroom door. He was grinning, watching you as he sipped his beer. There was a stain on his clothes, and although small, that victory soothed some of the fury you felt. But his eyes were burning embers. There was a fire in his gaze as he fixated on you, never looking away, barely blinking. You didn't understand how he could feel this passionate while being in a place so void of excitement, but it gave you goosebumps.

You said nothing as you slipped through the gap in the door, but the last thing you heard was, "Bartender! One round of "Angel Shots" for the bar!"

Followed by the roaring and cheers of the crowd, letting you know that no one here was on your side.

#yandere #yandere imagines #yandere headcanons #yandere scenarios #yandere fanfiction #yandere writing #yandere stories #yandere oneshots #yandere oneshot #yandere drabble #yandere x reader #yandere x darling #Yandere TW

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utterlyotterlyx · 8 months ago

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The Girl Who Cheated Death

Azriel x Fem!Reader

Summary - There was no one in any universe who would dare to approach you without fear, that is until you meet a certain Shadowsinger. Once stone cold and vicious in your own right, you soon come to realise that perhaps all it takes is a pretty male with hazel eyes to set you free.

Warnings - kinda dark reader, stone cold, lots of sass, swearing, drinking, mentions of physical abuse, mentions of trauma, some subtle sexual tension, everyone being afraid of the reader because she's giving death vibes x

Word Count - 8.9k

Physical descriptions are present in this fic.

Based on this ask! Thank you @cleverzonkwombatsludge for the request 🫶🏻

"Can I offer some criticism?"

"If it's constructive..."

"You're an idiot," the unwinding braid at your side loosened more with each twist of your fingers, and to your right, through the reflection of the recently polished vanity mirror stood Amren, your closest friend that you had gained when you had first moved to the Night Court one hundred years ago.

It had been no accident that you and Amren had met, in fact, she had been the one to seek you out after a rather intriguing show you had directed at Rita's. Amren watched man after man almost break their necks to look at you, the most beautiful resident of the Night Court, and in all of Prythian. Hair that reminded Amren of a black widow swayed behind you in perfectly loose curls, it was sinfully dark and shone in the faelight, shimmering so brilliantly that Amren had thought that threads of silken web were weaved between each glossy black strand.

Amren also remembered the dress you had worn, it was short and tight, the fabric hugged every curve of your body and kissed the thighs that were connected to those incredible taut calves. If looks could kill then the Night Court would certainly fall to its knees.

It wasn't what you looked like that caught Amren's attention, however. It was the way that every single person in that room shrunk away from your stare, a stone iced glare that was void of any life, all that lay in them was ire and boredom, which quite perfectly summed up what you felt about life in general.

The firedrake sought you out, coming by the gallery you had opened in the city which held an array of carefully collected artworks and mysteriously rare antiques, just to get a glimpse of you, to see the one who had been the first to pique her eye in centuries. Amren had not been disappointed by you. There was something about the way you carried yourself that attracted her to your aura, the perfect posture and slightly hooded eyelids that encased walnut orbs that glimmered gold in the sun. That wasn't all, no, it was also the way you spoke, so sultry and dark, but there was a certain elegance your words. A siren luring souls to the darkest depths of the ocean floor.

Rhys had once suggested that you'd never truly age considering you never smiled. That had earned him a rare small quirk of your lip, and he considered it to be his greatest achievement of his life to date.

It had made sense that the Night Court had been the place where you had chosen to settle, it had moulded very well with you, to the point where Day had become an infantile dream that was floating away in your subconscious. Forgotten.

Despite being a collector of sorts, Amren had soon found out just how far your talented talons stretched, you were incredibly well versed in old dialects, ancient symbols and traditions, a talent that Rhys had soon asked Amren to take advantage of since he was too afraid of you to ask you for aid himself.

Seemed as though the terrifying High Lord of the Night Court was actually scared of something.

"How exactly am I an idiot?" Amren enquired with darkened orbs that kept on glancing downward to the scars that littered the bare spine from the licks of Illyrian whips. They were slightly raised and pallid in comparison to the rest of your healthy glowing hue.

Untethering the last of your braid, you ran your nails over your scalp and pulled slightly, shivering at the relief that surged through you as your hair fell unbound down your spine. All the taut tension in your body quickly evaporated. Silently, you turned on your seat to face your friend, "You're asking me to revamp my evil lair to make it more welcoming for your odd little family," you said incredulously and unblinking, "You're an idiot."

Amren wasn't exactly asking you to make your own home more appeasing to the Inner Circle, she simply meant the private office that Rhys had bestowed to you for whenever he needed your help with something, and it had become a place that you frequented often. It was located in the library of the House of Wind so that your nimble fingers had access to all of the books and ancient texts they needed.

The only settling thing about that office was the view of the golden valley of Velaris, of the snow-capped mountains that loomed to the north. Everything else filled any resident with dread. Tall well-loved candles were scattered about the space, cloths stained with millennia old text hung from the ceilings, tomes lay splayed open on the desk and centre table, each depicting some form of terror. To you, your work was fascinating, studying the origins of evil and all of its forms, to others it was petrifying.

It wasn't odd to find the firedrake confined in your apartment, whether you be with her or not, glass of red in hand and reading some sort of research text. Amren often didn't even glace up at you when you entered your own home, all she noticed was your shadow gliding across the room, drowning out the golden candlelight.

"Rhys would spend more time with you if you did. He's actually really insightful, he could help you with your study."

"Why would I want to spend time with him?"

A poor attempt from Amren to try and push you into a monotone civilian life yet again.

"Fine," Amren rolled her coiling silver eyes and tutted, "Are you ready? Rhys doesn't like to be kept waiting."

Irritation was rife in her voice, you clasped a dainty blood diamond around your neck and allowed your shoulders to drop, "I don't particularly care for your High Lord's time." Rhys was not your High Lord and he knew it, he knew that you couldn't be ruled over and would never answer to anyone but yourself. A queen of her own kingdom. But one he very much wanted to keep on his side.

"Y/N," Amren bit, and you too tugged back the smirk that was quaking in the corners of your mouth.

Meeting her fiery gaze in the mirror, you rolled your head to the side in one swooped graceful motion, "I'm teasing, Amren." Rising from the bench before the vanity, you felt the silken hem of your dress brush against your feet. It was a simple garment, black buttoned up fabric, a deep v-neckline that showed the beginnings of your cleavage, short and soft floating sleeves that cuffed above your elbows.

Smirking with approval, Amren moved to the front door of your ornately beautiful apartment, a personal haven of yours that was vastly different to the office at the House of Wind. Brunette carpets thick enough to sleep upon covered the space, the walls were a shade of milked coffee, warm and inviting, and the ceilings were a soft cream and coved with intricate carvings. A large fire bundled into the far wall at the centre of a wall of windows, before it was a onyx seating area of plush deep seated sofas and armchairs.

It was charming. One of the best views of Velaris was from your living room window.

Leaving your home with the click of the lock, you followed after Amren, falling into place beside her as you walked up the winding paths to the House of Wind. The feeling of people's eyes trailing you had become something you'd become rather accustomed to, they were astounded by your beauty, amazed by how someone could look so breath-taking yet so horrifying.

The House of Wind was as it always was, incredibly luxurious in its own right and shivering at your entrance. It wasn't like the house didn't like you, it just struggled to adjust to your energy, it was starkly different to the usual joy it mostly held.

The echoing voices halted when you rounded the corner, your scent of jasmine and sandalwood soaring through the air, infecting their oxygen. Violet eyes appeared before you within a couple of moments, always wary, always laced with the tiniest bit of fear, "Thank you for meeting with us."

"Well," your eyes sliced across the room, absorbing every face and feature and feeling somewhat intrigued by a face you had never seen before. Tall and tan, shadows swirling at his shoulders, large wings that he had mindfully tucked behind his back, and shiny black hair that fell over his forehead. Rhys stood before you waiting for you to speak, your eyes found his and you hummed, tapping your finger against your clothed thigh, "Anything for the firedrake."

A chortled scoff flew from Cassian and Rhys stepped aside slightly to expose you to the general who soon choked on the air, "Something funny, Cass?" Rhys asked with a smirk, he motioned for you to find a seat and make yourself comfortable.

A deep rooted velvet armchair called to you and you moved to it, paying little attention to the hazel eyes fixated upon you. "No, not at all," Cassian sent you a tight-lipped smile which made Nesta grin, enjoying his discomfort nearly as much as you.

Flames danced in your eyes, the fire burning brightly in the fireplace that welcomed your gaze as though it was a mirror. Turning your head, you folded your hands over your thighs, feeling the exposed skin that lay there from the seamless slit in the fabric.

"How about you skip whatever small talk you were going to offer and get to the point, Rhysand?"

Widened pupils possessed Nesta's gaze, she leaned back into her seat and smirked, a wickedly feline feature, and spoke, "I like you."

No words left your lips, you held her gaze and felt your darkness bubble at her determination to withstand your stare, but she soon stood down; though, she continued to watch you, noting your posture and the way you held yourself. Nesta was in awe.

And she wasn't the only one.

"Straight to the point as always, y/n."

"Am I supposed to be anything but?" Rhys sighed, a headache already forming at his temples from your dry sassing. Perhaps he needed some of that powder that Elain had gifted to Azriel last solstice.

The High Lord pinched the bridge of his nose and slid his hand to rest on Feyre's knee, a sweet gesture, "We need your help with some particular text that none of us can translate. If anyone is going to be able to decipher it then it would be you."

"What text?"

Boredom coiled in your gut, "It's the story of Koschei, we believe that there may be a key hidden within the text that could help us to defeat him." The coil loosened and your eyebrow twitched, and a dark spot to your left caught that millisecond-long expression, sliding back to its master and humming in his ear.

Koschei was a death-god, a personification of evil. To have your hands on such a text would more than aid your research. It would make you infamous in the underworld of Prythian.

"Is it in my office?" Rhys straightened and nodded stiffly; rising to your feet, you brushed down the pleats of your skirt, "I'll take a look."

Before you could move from the room, a gentle clearing of a throat sounded from behind you, beckoning and hesitant. Slowly, you turned around, noticing how Rhys was now standing, "I would like Azriel to help you with this. I believe that your collective talents will be able to decipher the message faster."

Of course. The illustrious Shadowsinger that you had never had the displeasure of meeting. Azriel, Spymaster of the Night Court.

"Studies have shown that I didn't ask for your opinion, High Lord," if anyone else had used the mocking tone toward his title they would have been misted on the spot. But not you, never you. Rhys was too afraid that Hell would rise from your ashes and devour the continent if he even tried it.

A cool kiss slithered around your ankle, and when you peered down you found a shadow curling there, caressing your skin and shivering in delight. Your eyes followed the tendril back to its owner who was clearly mentally scrambling to pull his shadow back to the others. Hazel collided with molten gold and you found yourself yearning for the shadow to return.

"I have to insist," his voice wavered and it didn't go unnoticed by you.

Amren sucked in a breath, shrinking further into her spot wedged between Mor and Elain, knowing that she told had told Rhys multiple times to never order you to do anything.

"What do you fear, Rhysand?"

"I think that you'll find that the word fear is not in my vocabulary," he doubled down and you couldn't blame him, he was an alpha protecting his territory.

Ticking your head to the side, your eyes dragged up his body, and you smirked, a real one that made his blood chill, "Perhaps. But it's in your eyes," not giving him a chance to respond, you turned to Azriel, finding him looking up at you with an almost bewitched possession in his eyes, "Stay out of my way."

Not another word was spoken as you stalked from the room, the only sound being the footsteps of Azriel who had speedily followed after you. Neither of you spoke on the descent down to the library, even that vast space of aged excellence watched you enter; you almost floated across the room, a grace in your steps that Azriel had never seen before, and it had him needing to know more.

How Azriel had never met you astounded him, he would certainly remember a face like yours. It was one that held the power to haunt his dreams.

As promised, the texts had been left on your desk, and you moved to them instantly, tracing your fingers down the bound leather spine and examining the golden embossment, picking apart the symbols in your mind. Rounding the large oaken desk, you pulled the text with you, opening the cover and not even flinching when it thudded against the desktop.

Thick waves fell over your shoulder and you mindlessly tucked them back from where they had originated, not caring about the effect it had on the Shadowsinger who noted how your fingers grazed against your collarbone on its return to the ancient pages before your insightful eye.

"I've never been in here before," a weak attempt to strike up conversation with you. Azriel had heard much about you from Cassian and Rhys, of how awful terrifying you were, how you intimidated every single person that crossed your path and seemingly enjoyed the terror of it.

Azriel understood it, there was something about you that was unnerving, that he could understand why people were uncomfortable in your presence, but he only found himself in wonderment of it.

Without looking up, you turned the page gently and muttered, "Why would you? It's my office."

Displeasure was prominent on your tongue, the taste of it swelled in the muscle but you didn't allow it to be vile, you pulled the bile back and silently choked on it.

Azriel drank in the room, the begging to be lit candles and the large arched windows, the aged tapestries of history that were clearly too valuable to display in your gallery, "The creation of the cauldron," the words pulled you from the text and your gaze narrowed in on the Shadowsinger rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet with his hands folded neatly at his back.

"How do you know that?"

The Shadowsinger circled to face you and took a tentative step to the edge of the desk, "I've seen a couple of the same markings in a cave. This is the original?"

"Yes," there were many deplorable things you had taken part in to secure your collection as the most impressive in the entire universe, some things you weren't proud of, others, you were very much so.

"How did you get it?" Azriel admired the piece, a depiction of Prythian's creation that no one would ever guess was as important as it was, all because they couldn't read the first language of the fae.

Sitting back in your seat, you placed your magniscope on the surface, an ornate tool used by curators and researchers alike to read between the lines of existence, and watched him, "There are some things in this world that would make even your blood burn, Shadowsinger."

The way you said his name had a shudder flickering down his spine, your tone was sultry and low, like you knew of his darkness and had decided that it was a star in comparison to whatever lived within you.

A golden glow shrouded the room from the setting sun kissing the mountain peak, it washed over you, its light glittering your skin with shimmer, turning your eyes into burnished gold. The blood diamond around your neck cascaded speckles of its hue across the ceiling, and your chest rise an fell with even, calm breaths.

Forgetting the reason why he stood before you, Azriel allowed himself a moment to examine you, the beautifully loose hair that swam down that perfectly curved spine, the eyes and cheekbones, the full lips and the indents of your collarbone. You were by far the most incredible thing he had ever seen.

The stolen moment wasn't one that escaped your eye, a gentle heat pooled at your cheeks and you had no option but to look away, clearing your throat and pouring your attention back into the text in front of you.

Coiling the magniscope in your fingers, you hovered it over the written symbols on the page, moving it in line with every line and swirl you could see. It was a heavy object, and you hadn't been surprised when Amren had mistook the glass orb as a bookend.

"What do you know of Koschei?" Azriel found a place in the seat opposite you, his shadows danced from his shoulders and began to inch toward you, and he made no move or command to stop them.

"There are many legends," you began, craning your neck to peer at the top of the adjacent page, "Attacking his physical body won't harm him, he has split his soul into parts and placed them in other living creatures or sentient objects. Destroy the objects and you have a better chance of ending him."

Azriel angled himself forward, propping his elbows on his knees, "How do you know that?"

Again, without looking up, you spoke, "When you spend a lot of time in the Underworld of this continent you pick up a few things. You also learn how to decipher the truth from the lies."

Another gentle turn of the page.

The taupe scribing possessed the faintest words written in a pale gold ink, so miniscule that any other magniscope wouldn't be able to see it. Though yours wasn't just any ordinary magniscope, it was forged with the stardust of a fallen star, a star that used to burn the brightest in the northern skies.

"You know of the Underworld?"

For a moment, your gaze flickered upward, golden pools peering through your long thick lashes, "Very well."

It wasn't surprising that you had dabbled in the darkest reality of the continent, your knowledge was not cheap, and it wasn't knowledge that you could gain from books alone. Azriel wondered how many souls you had stripped from the earth on your quest for knowledge, perhaps it would cause his count to pale in comparison.

"I could only imagine what someone would do for this level of knowledge," his voice lingered, questioning, requiring to know every corner of the mind locked within the female in front of him.

"Are you trying to compare body counts, Spymaster? If so, I assume I would be disappointed with your lacklustre attempts."

Then you were back on the text, scribbling words down in the notepad to your left without even glancing to it, focused to the point where no letter strayed from the lines. But you still felt his eyes on you, waiting, scouring your face and trying to figure out why exactly he had never crossed paths with you before considering your occupation.

"Don't you have some doe-eyed damsel to go and rescue?"

Even with the fleeting few minutes spent with the Inner Circle, you saw how Elain Archeron looked at him, all love-sick and hopeful. Elain was a perfectly mundane being, content with all things bright and pretty. It was sickening.

Biting back the urge to roll his eyes at the thought, Azriel shuffled into his seat, seemingly getting more comfortable, "No."

"Shame," you mused, impressing Azriel with how you scribed, analysed and spoke all at the same time. A very powerful mind was dwelling within you, and it had his attention.

Azriel was finding your dry words quite amusing, though he was spending his time sat before you in silence, sketching every inch of your face and body to his memory.

A soft tug pulled at your brows, and if Azriel wasn't fixated upon you then he surely would have missed it. He let a minute pass, a minute where the pace of your analysation quickened alongside the rate of your writing. Again, your hair fell over your shoulder, clearly bothering you but you couldn't move it, not when you were so entranced, and it took all of his will to not do it for you.

Questioning you on your findings, your eyes held a certain twinkle to them as you explained your theory. That Koschei had in fact fractured his soul and implanted the pieces of it within other living creatures and objects, and that to hunt those objects down was the only way to be able to banish him from the world.

"Run and tell your master," you told him after you were done explaining how to find the first host of Koschei's soul, "I'm sure he will be thrilled with your input."

Which was very little, Azriel hadn't done anything other than invade your space and make himself far too comfortable, but he didn't argue, he simply stood from his seat and bowed, taking your hand in his marred digits and raising it to his lips, brushing them against your knuckles and thanking you before leaving you to your silence.

The ghost of his touch lingered on you skin, as did the licks at your calves from the shadows he hadn't cared to reign in upon his exit.

It was then that a small yet foreign warmth pooled in your chest, you rubbed the spot gingerly and sighed, returning to reality and shaking your head back to sense. Finding peace in the confined corners of your mind.

The next instance where you found yourself in Azriel's presence had been one warm afternoon in the library.

Velaris had been scorched by the sun, the summer breezes swept across the city, and you had decided to wear a simple grey dress that afternoon, it was lightweight enough to flow in the gentle caress of the wind but still managed to keep to your usual elegant yet sharp style.

Since that insisted couple of hours in your office a couple of weeks ago, you were ashamed to admit just how much your thoughts drifted to the Shadowsinger you had seen lurking in the corners of your consciousness. The darkness was lingering in the farthest reaches, as if it didn't wish to be discovered by you but couldn't steer itself away.

The ladder beneath your feet creaked as you reached across the shelf, tongue stuck out of the side of your mouth as you strained slightly, your fingers barely brushing against the spine of the book you needed. A familiar cool presence washed over you, trailing up your skirt and arms and extending from your fingers to remove the book from the shelf and place it in your awaiting grasp.

Peering back to the ground, you saw Azriel stood at the foot of the ladder with his hands resting at his sides; balling the skirt up in your fingers, you used the railing the lower yourself back to the earth and paused in front of Azriel who had a brow quirked in curiosity, "Thank you."

"You're welcome," his voice matched your own but he found himself faltering when you went to walk by him. His voice called out to you, "I just wanted to let you know that we found the first host."

You paused your steps and turned, "And?"

"It's destroyed," and clearly the gravity of it weighed on him, he had to have known that Koschei wasn't exactly going to make the objects easy to destroy, but it still didn't mean that it wasn't traumatising.

Understanding what he meant, at the life he had just taken to protect to continent, you took a step toward him, an olive branch of sorts, "Are you alright?"

Itching with confusion, Azriel nodded slowly, "I didn't think you cared."

You shrugged, nonchalant, and scuffed the heel of your sandal against the floor with your gentle kick, "I don't."

Azriel hummed, a serene grin tugging at the corners of his lips, "I think that you do," Azriel took a step forward and noticed how your back straightened and shoulders rolled back.

The book became plastered to your chest, "Whatever you think is of little concern to me."

Two weeks had passed, two weeks of not only searching for the first host of Koschei thanks to your wildly impressive knowledge, but two weeks of Azriel doing all he could to gain your attention. It had been difficult to see you at Rita's, swaying to the music without a care in the world beside Amren, and not be able to touch the skin that seemed as smooth as honey.

His shadows had been following you, reporting back to him of how you spent your days cooped up in your apartment reading or in your office analysing another ancient text. They reported no men, nothing untoward or damning, they simply whispering to him how pretty you were. They had been bewitched by you, utterly obsessed with everything that you were, and he couldn't blame them.

Turning on the balls of your feet again, you entered your office, leaving the door open in silent permission that Azriel basked in as he followed you inside, "I'm trying to talk to you, y/n."

A soft hum vibrated against your lips. Placing the book once glued to your chest on the centre table of the room, you faced Azriel once more. The office was cold, as was every chamber built below the main infrastructure of the house, and Azriel wondered how you could be so at home within it.

It was entrancing how a room so dark and full of evil texts and passages could make you look so ethereal. The glossed black hair he had often dreamt of running his fingers through was tied back in a loose thick braid, whisps of hair fell from the vines of it and settled over your eyes. Ornate jewellery twinkled in the pale sunlight, swirls of gold encased your fingers and wrists, and a coiled necklace that resembled a scaled serpent glided around the base of your neck.

"What would you like me to say? I did tell you how to find the first host so that you could destroy it. I don't require updates, Azriel," the movement of your tongue as you said his name for the first time had his resolve withering.

"Well, I suppose we'll have to warm ourselves by the glow of your I told you so."

Then, as though the sun was blessing the earth after eons of slumber, your lips widened into a grin, one big enough to expose your perfectly white teeth and Azriel felt the dark storm clouds in his soul splinter. A golden threat soared through him, reaching out to you and entwining itself with the thread bristling at your centre.

Sculpted fingers drifted over that spot in your chest that had become increasingly hard to ignore and you inhaled sharply. Azriel's pupils had dilated, they were wide and frenzied, and his hand was outstretched to you.

The smile on your face dropped.

"You're my mate," Azriel nodded at the words you had managed to utter, the same ones that had become lodged in his throat.

Heat prickled at his skin, nerves seeped into his bones. You were so unreadable, and Azriel was scrambling his thoughts to clear so that he may be able to figure out how you felt about it. About being fated to be his.

Azriel had learnt from Amren how unaffectionate you were, how much you hated anyone touching you. It was because of the Illyrian camps you had visited in your younger years where they had thought you a witch, and had punished you for it in a barbaric way; the evidence still lingered on your skin in long angry streaks, and Amren had admitted that night is what spurred on your need to understand the roots of evil.

It was understandable, to spend a lifetime studying the one thing that had ever truly hurt you. For what reason, Azriel didn't know, but he liked to think that it was to cause evil to cower in your presence.

Silence shrouded the room like a disease, infecting and poisoning everything in its path, and Azriel way becoming increasingly worried about how your smile had dropped. Was he truly that repulsive to you? He could only ever dream to be mated with someone like you, someone who welcomed death like an old friend and would entertain it in an eons long waltz, someone who was poised and elegant but so brilliantly lethal that it made even him shudder.

Taking an unsettling step toward you, Azriel loosened a breath when he saw that you hadn't retreated, his eyes were trained on you as he took another step, and then another, until his shadow danced with you own, "I'm your mate."

Rhys and Cassian would be mortified of the news, Azriel was sure that Rhys found you terrifying in the same way that Cassian found Bryaxis. No of that mattered though. Not to him. Not when he now belonged to a female as striking and dangerous as the blood in his veins.

A faint blush crept up your cheeks at the proximity, the tendrils connected to his essence peered over his shoulders seemingly apprehensively thrilled that it was you stood before them, "Yes, you are."

Azriel's gaze drifted down to your lips and left dragged back upward to your eyes, "Can I touch you?"

A part of you froze at the desperate question. You hadn't let anyone touch you in years, you couldn't remember the last time you laid with a male or female, you couldn't remember what a simple even felt like. Amren had never even tried to get too close to you let alone anyone else.

In the first vulnerable emotion you had ever let anyone see, you sheepishly nodded, eyes boring into his own and he didn't break his stare as his fingers twitched toward you, ghosting along your skin and melting at the heat they found there. Mindlessly, you shifted when his palm lingered a whisker away from the slope of your neck and his eyes became stitched with concern but softened when you had won the fight against your fear to stand still once more.

Azriel's hand lowered, resting against your skin that was softer than his imagination could ever fathom. His thumb drifted down the column of your throat and you swallowed, hard.

"You don't have to accept this or me," he told you, his voice tantalisingly cooing to you in a hush above a whisper, "But gods, y/n. I really hope that you do."

Azriel saw through you then, through that façade you wore like a medal. And he found what saw to be quite heart-breaking. Stood before him was a woman, one that possessed a brilliant mind and equally captivating beauty, but beneath it all was the girl who was brutalised so badly that she vowed to never allow another person close again.

"You're my mate," you spoke with a certain conviction that hadn't graced your words the last time, Azriel watched your lashes flutter, and he felt his soul singing when those eyes found him again, "I'm not letting you go."

Gracefully, your fingers curled around his wrist, your index finger sleeping just over the faint beat of his pulse, just where his marred flesh faded to memory, "You accept it?"

"I- yes, I do."

Jasmine and sandalwood drowned his lungs, and he would have died happy just to be able to say that he knew what your shampoo smelt like. Papaya and coconuts. He gingerly ran his fingers through your hair, noting how much you loved the feeling of it as you shivered in his arms. Azriel pressed a dainty but tender kiss to your brow, and it had you realising that maybe you were allowed to give yourself this one thing that the younger version of you had always dreamt of.

Azriel hadn't tried to push you further, he knew that the moment of allowing someone to touch you, to hold you, was far more momentous than finding your mate.

Instead he asked you a simple question, it was more of an offering than anything. To spend time together away from the prying eyes of his family, so that you may become comfortable with one another before allowing anyone else into it. You had agreed. Eagerly.

So the next few weeks drifted by, afternoon walks along the Sidra, morning breakfast drop-offs at your office, after hours visits to the gallery where you would tell him of your adventures and how on some occasions you barely survived. Azriel was in complete awe of you, he sat beside you on your love seat completely captivated by you, his fingers tracing small circles into your thighs and his shadows curling through your hair. And that smile, gods, that smile could make even the most poised male lose all sense. It was bright and gleaming, and your skin glowed with the happiness of it.

Then you had decided to break the news to the Inner Circle, and as you stood before those doors oozing with grandeur, you felt nerves pinch at your skin, "Are you ready?" Azriel's fingers were tangled with yours and he bowed his head to place his lips on your bare shoulder.

"Yes." Azriel gave your hand a gentle tug, willing you to move from your spot located just behind him.

The aura of the house had shifted, now, it was inquisitive, glancing to the mirrors and then back to your hands to see if what it was seeing was real. Laughter echoed at the end of the hall, your scent had usually silenced them by now, but not this time. Now that your scent was mixed with Azriel’s it seemed much less threatening. Pity.

Turning the corner, you became startled by the smash of a glass, shards of it glided along the floor and fell at your feet. Looking up, you found Mor frozen in place, wide eyes and bewildered. The rest of the room craned to attention, collectively moving their eyes from Mor, to you, and then to Azriel, and then to your entwined fingers.

It took a minute, but you could have sworn you heard the bell ding in Cassian’s empty brain, “Oh shit,” he rose to his feet, wings flaring slightly as a wide grin gripped his mouth.

Rhys appeared before you both, gaze lowered in surprise, clearly trying to picture a timeline in his mind. The High Lord looked to his Spymaster, “Are you-“

“Mates?” Azriel finished incredulously, knowing that your moulded scents had already infected the room, and turned his head to you, orbs gleaming and adoration speckled on his cheeks, “Yes.”

Elain Archeron had sank into her seat, doing her best to not pay attention to you in particular whilst her stomach churned with the scent seeping into her bones. Subconsciously, you moved closer to Azriel, a slightly territorial action that made him smirk.

It had been a brief conversation that you had suffered through, the one where Azriel had made it very clear that the situation with Elain was brutally one-sided. Azriel had only sought to be nice to her, to help her to adjust to her new body and life because she was Feyre's sister and Feyre was his High Lady, and she had taken his kindness for something much more than what it truly was.

Leading you to the velvet armchair that you would usually slither into, Azriel sat and motioned for you, turning you in his hands so that his touch never left your thighs, and pulled you to his lap. A bashful smile formed on your face and you could feel the eyes of the room on you, equally as confused as shocked.

"Since when?" Nesta had asked after sipping from the goblet of red wine between her fingers, the liquid staining her plump pale lips, and she used her thumb to wipe a singular droplet before it ran down her chin. Her eyes held an emotion you couldn't quite make out, Azriel had admitted that Nesta was just as unreadable as you at times, but the way his digits dug into your flesh told you that what the eldest sister was feeling was an assortment of jealousy. Not toward you, toward him.

"The bond snapped just over a month ago," Nesta hummed and burrowed herself into the cushions, pouting slightly, like she was an infant who had her favourite toy taken from her grasp. "We wanted to explore it before we properly accepted it or told anyone."

That made Elain's doe-like stare move from the floor to your mate who was sat with you on his thighs rubbing small circles into your shoulders, "So you haven't accepted it?"

Your jaw clenched at the question, the question that was perfumed with the last splatters of hope, "If you're asking if we've fucked yet, Elain, then no, we haven't. Does that answer your question?"

Azriel's fingers moved to play with the ends of your hair, knowing that the sensation of slight tugging over your scalp relaxed you infinitely, "I only ask because I know how physical Azriel can be. Surely you've heard the stories?" Elain feigned innocence, Feyre sighed from her seat and glanced to you apologetically, silently begging you to not tear her sister apart.

In fact, you had heard the stories. Trying to ignore the gossip of the city was difficult considering how used you were to eavesdropping into certain conversations in the underworld. So, unfortunately, you had heard about Azriel's many lovers, and you'd be silly to not feel insecure of it, but you wouldn't let her see that. Ever.

Craning your neck to the side, you smiled, your iced gaze slicing into her and making Elain shrink under the weight of it, "With all due respect, which is none," you leaned to the side, accepting the goblet of wine that the house had presented to you in premature thanks for the forthcoming words you were about to utter, "Your existence gives me a headache, so please go and find somewhere else to be."

Rhys' eyes widened but he suppressed the smirk forming on his face, hiding his lips behind his fist and closing his eyes. Not even Feyre or Nesta spoke up over it, they clearly knew better than to challenge you. Cassian however didn't really care if Elain saw his joy at your words, he had been growing more tired each passing day of her pining affection toward his brother, and now he understood why Azriel had withdrawn further from the female over the last few weeks.

It was because of the unique female before their very eyes.

The middle sister went to open her mouth, to retort something that wouldn't even irk you, but Amren shushed her, halted the words in her throat and willed her to die with them, "Don't even try it," Amren served you more than her own court, finding a kindred spirit within you, and she would shame herself if she let Elain speak to you as if you were nothing.

Elain would never understand someone like you. She wasn't worthy of it anyway.

No one had ever tried to understand Amren, not really, they thought her too complicated to be worth it. As long as they brought her pretty jewels and respected her then there was little else to worry of in their eyes. But you, you had understood her instantly and had found a particular solace with her, like you were peering through a mirror and she was your reflection.

Sipping the potent liquid in your goblet, you bowed your head to her, quietly thanking your friend for halting the small spat before it escalated and ruined the evening entirely. Tonight was not about Elain and her fragile feelings, it was about showing the Inner Circle who now owned your heart.

So, the middle sister vacated the room feigning a migraine, and the aura instantly lifted. A soft smile formed on your lips when your eyes landed on your mate, your entire face relaxed; entwining your fingers with his, you blushed when he pressed his lips to your knuckles and dragged your index finger down his cheek.

The Inner Circle watched on, knowing that they had never seen Azriel so taken by anything. They feasted on the sight of his shadows purring through your hair, on your colliding smiles, and how your gentle words to one another were contained in an ornate bubble around your bodies.

As the evening continued, you found yourself quite enjoying their company, you sat bundled into Azriel's embrace, finding comfort in the arms that were wrapped around you whilst Cassian spewed war stories, bragging at his prowess.

"Not to brag," you began with a smirk, "But at least eight men have described me as 'terrifying', and two of them are in this room. Choke on that ego, Cassian."

Nesta's grin turned feline and excitement bubbled in the pit of her stomach. What she wouldn't give to spar with you, to have your legs wound around her and that tense gaze splitting her in half. From the whisperings of Prythian, it was very clear that you had done some rather diabolical things in order to obtain certain artifacts that had been locked away in your most prized and personal collection. So prized that its location was unknown. She could only imagine what trinkets you possessed, and the things you had witnessed.

"What about Azriel?!"

The Shadowsinger shrugged, his hand resting on your thigh and squeezing the flesh there, "I've only ever been entranced by my mate, Cassian," Azriel drawled, sipping the amber liquid swirling in his rocks glass like molten bronze, "It's you and Rhys who are afraid of her."

"If it's any consolation, I don't blame you."

Cassian frowned, turning to Nesta and asking, "Are you scared of her?"

"No," she answered a little too quickly, so quickly that you had quirked your brow at the sound, "I find y/n to be quite exciting."

"Exciting?" Cassian moved to Feyre and asked the same question, his manhood decaying when she too said that you didn't scare her, "Mor?"

The blonde who could not rival your beauty had always watched you from afar, and had always enjoyed how you made males squirm. Mor rose her glass to the stars and stated, "Bring every man you meet to their motherfucking knees, y/n."

"Amen to that," Amren tipped her glass in response, downing the rest of the thick red sap and finally feeling at home in the presence of her family thanks to you, and she eternally thanked the male sat beside you for being able to breathe some light into the storm cloud that was your mind.

"Mother above," Rhys grumbled, the women in his life uniting and itching to wreck havoc. The action of Rhys swiping his hand down his face, dragging the skin slightly toward in frustration, made a deep chuckle float from your lips, so serene that Nesta likened the sound to a siren call and found herself drawn to it. "Did I just make you laugh?" Rolling your eyes, you nodded at the High Lord who turned toward his mate, "This is the best day of my life," then back to you, "Does this mean that we're friends?"

Rhys waited expectantly, childlike orbs pleading to you with their innocence. You had no friends bar Amren and you were content with that. It meant that you only had one thing to lose. But as Azriel laid his hand on the small of your back, gaining your attention and giving you an expression of promise, the resolve of your solitude cracked, "Why not?"

The door to the River House flew open, a sudden shrill chill soaring through the air from the wild winds battering against the city, no doubt spurred on by your fury.

Many months had passed, and in that time you had truly blossomed, sure you still wore the mask of the devil on your features in public, but when you were with the Inner Circle, a group of people you now proudly belonged to, that mask drifted away like ash in the autumn breeze; and when Azriel was beside you, it felt as though warmth and happiness was all that you ever knew.

Much to Elain's upset, you and Azriel had officially accepted the bond and had locked yourselves away for four weeks to make the most out of every single moment together, and Rhys had been understanding enough of the bond between you both to not drag your mate away on another mission. The bond between you and Azriel was something that Rhys had never seen before, not even between him and Feyre.

"She tastes like every dark thought I've ever had."

The ceremony itself had been astonishing.

The women of the Inner Circle had spent the better part of two days dressing your apartment for the occasion and Feyre had made it quite clear that the upcoming ceremony was going to make theirs look ridiculous in comparison. Rhys was split between jealousy and awe when he saw it.

No one had ever stepped into the apartment beside Amren and Azriel, he had decided to move into the apartment after your return from the four-week sabbatical at the cabin, it was as though you were gifting them with the last part of you, allowing them to see what they could never fathom.

Faelights were strewn across the ceiling, curling around the arched windows that displayed the golden valley of the city in a way Rhys had never been able to appreciate before; tucked between the vines of the lights was fresh foliage, an array of green hue ferns caressing fully blossomed white roses and pale blue peonies. Sprigs of cedar and rosemary had been wove between the foliage and flowers alongside splinters of sandalwood, filling the room with the physical aspects of your scents.

Only the Inner Circle had been invited, and as you were dressing in your room with Amren, you could hear Nesta whining of her foolish jealousy of having to watch Azriel marry you. Amren had simply raised a brow and smirked at you through the mirror as she finished securing your veil to the back of your head.

There was no one you would want to share the moment with other than her.

Amren had blindfolded you, leading you through the home so that the gift wouldn't be ruined just so that you could get ready together, for the most important and deserving night of your life.

The dress that you had meticulously chosen was the most incredible garment Amren had ever seen, so much so that the first time you had tried it on in front of her, she had nearly cried at the beauty of it; and there you now stood, twisting in the mirror and running your hands down the hem of your veil and then your hips. The dress was made entirely of white lace that you had imported from the Day Court, an off-the-shoulder neckline and sleeves that kissed your wrists, it was elegant and graceful, and made the freckles of your trauma glow like shooting stars.

A gentle knock had sounded at the door and Rhys stepped in, taking one look at you and finding his breath catching in his throat. "You look amazing," he breathed, approaching you with his hands deep within his pockets.

The High Lord had been honoured when you had sheepishly asked him to walk you down the aisle; Rhys had found himself consumed with the need to protect you, after seeing your guard disappear, he saw who you truly were, a woman who just wanted to be loved and protected, and ready to allow other people to do it for her after spending so long doing it herself.

"Are you ready?" Inhaling deeply, you nodded and turned to him, noting the outstretched hand before you and feeling your usual anxiety bubbling in your gut. Rhys, realising that he shouldn't have done something so bold, went to retreat but halted when you took a small step toward him, reaching your fingers out to his palm and sliding them into his grasp.

Azriel was right, your skin was a smooth as honey.

A gentle smile of triumph later, you spoke, "I'm ready."

It was that moment that Rhys was begging you to remember as you barrelled through his house, no doubt heading straight for him in the confinements of his office.

He could feel your anger slam through the walls, your footsteps sounding up the staircase and stopping at the top of the hall, a pause to remember just how much you liked him before stalking down the hall and bursting into his office. Rhys cringed, knowing what was coming as you strode to his desk and slapped your palms flat against the wood.

"If you ever," you pointed your perfectly manicured finger in his face, "Send my mate back to me in that state again. I. Will. Destroy. You."

The snarl of your words sent a shiver coursing down his spine, and in that moment you were the y/n he had met one-hundred years ago. Cold. Distant. Almost demonic.

In his defence, he hadn't sent Azriel on an overly dangerous mission, it wasn't his fault that his Spymaster was ambushed in The Middle. Azriel's spilled blood was entirely his own fault in Rhys' eyes, "I didn't mean for him to get hurt, y/n."

The rushed footsteps of another sounded in the hall, and when Rhys looked past your deeply heaving form, he was relieved beyond compare when he saw a bruised Azriel approaching, "Angel, it wasn't his fault. I was distracted," his voice grew louder as he paced closer to the pair of you, appearing at your side and turning your head in his fingers to face him, "I was thinking about you and I didn't hear them coming."

Watching your shoulders drop, Rhys sighed and wiped away an invisible bead of sweat from his brow, sitting back down and continuing his viewing just as you tilted your head to the side and popped out your bottom lip.

"You were?" Azriel's eyes softened and he dipped his gaze to meet yours, "That's the most romantic thing you've ever done. You were attacked because you were thinking about me, you actually bled because you were thinking about me?"

Rhys could only watch on perplexed at your words, you threw yourself into Azriel's arms, muttering small apologies for brushing against the bruises littering his abdomen, "She's crazy."

The Shadowsinger could only huff, too entrapped by you to really reprimand him, "Yeah," his eyes opened lazily, brimming with exhaustion, "But she's my crazy."

Azriel's shadows curled over your shoulders and shuddered, crying to be as close to you as possible, like they were trying to entwine with your soul so that you one day may carry them with you wherever you walked. In whatever world.

A bond like yours was made to topple temples and shatter worlds, it was made to transcend time and space; and as you wrapped an arm around your mate and led him from the office, not without sending one more warning glare to the male you had come to love as a brother, Rhys knew that no matter where either of you went, there would be no place that you could travel to where the other would not follow.

Author’s Note

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