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hellinistical · 29 days ago

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God! Xavier x Nymph!Reader PART TWO, PART ONE HERE

synopsis: You are a nymph of Artemis—wild, untouched, and bound to the hush of sacred woods. But peace is a fragile thing beneath the gaze of gods. The swan came first. White as bone. Then the dreams followed—a man with kind, blue eyes and a ring that will not come off. Now the moon grows colder. The swan is gone. But he is not

trigger warnings: obsessive tendencies, non-con, dubious consent, forced marriage, one sided enemies to lovers, pnv, oral (fem and male receiving) fingering, body worship, nipple play (fem receiving), stalking, character deaths, tit sucking, spit, nectar as lube, rimming, drugging, manipulation, gaslighting, xavier probably has a breeding kink what do i know, virgin reader, unprotected, marathons, headlock/choking, fighting ala lovers quarrels, bodily mutilation (not to reader), kidnapping. somno.

word count: 14.6k total: 30k special dedication: @ivohex, @ryoskuna a/n: it's actually bothering me so much that i only recently figured out the color thing and i keep telling myself that ill fix everything so it matches but its just too late for that jdsjfdf ANYWAYS this has been like...a month or more in the process? i really forgot cause of school but yeah! this is the third installment of the mythos and is very loosely based off the myth of daphne and apollo! collection! please enjoy!

The Temple of Artemis was carved into the side of a mountain, kissed by mist and draped in ancient ivy. Wildflowers burst from its marble seams, and at its heart, a colonnade of silver-veined stone rose toward the heavens. Every pillar was inscribed with the names of nymphs long passed—etched in graceful, sweeping script. The wind here carried secrets and the scent of myrrh, tangled with the musk of damp earth and olive leaves. No birds sang too near it, but wolves often sat in quiet vigil, eyes gleaming in the shadows.

Inside, the light was softer—filtered through high, rounded windows. The ceiling was domed, painted with constellations. Bowstrings and quivers lined the altar like relics of war. It was holy, but not gentle. Sacred in the way a knife is—sharp and unwavering.

And she—your lady—sat upon her seat of white stone, carved in the likeness of a running stag. Artemis. Beautiful. Unmoving. Untouched.

A younger nymph knelt behind her, weaving braids into her moonlight hair with practiced ease. Another rested by her side, plucking grapes from a golden dish and pressing them gently between the goddess's lips. They moved like water around her, reverent and silent.

Artemis opened her eyes, moon-pale and cool as river frost.

“So.” Her voice rang like a bell struck with tempered steel.

Artemis tilted her head slightly at your words, eyes narrowing with a grace that felt more like judgment than curiosity. Her hand lifted—not as a command but more like a signal to the nymph braiding her hair, who paused mid-weave.

“My lady,” you had said, and it came out too small. Too brittle.

A pause. Then Artemis leaned back, her posture elegant but firm, the edge of her throne catching the sunlight like a blade. Her lips curled—not in a smile, but something far more unreadable.

“I wonder,” she said slowly, “if you still call me that out of loyalty... or out of guilt.”

She gestured subtly, and the nymph with the grapes withdrew, as if sensing the sharp tension in the air. The silence after her words was cavernous.

“Well?” she asked. “Are you here to confess, or to lie?”

Your throat tightens. The scent of myrrh and burning cedar fills the air, cloying, ancient—watchful. You dare not look at her, not when the temple’s columns seem to lean in closer, not when even the doves have gone still in the rafters.

“My Lady,” you murmur, staring at the marble floor as if it might part and swallow you whole, “I only seek to repent.”

A pause. Then a scoff—small, sharp.

“Repentance,” Artemis echoes, her voice low, but not soft. “How convenient, now that you’ve tasted ambrosia laced with sunfire. Tell me—” her voice rises, barely — “would you still be on your knees if you had enjoyed it a little more?”

“I swear on my honor it did not go to those lengths.”

Artemis rose slowly, the younger nymphs beside her scattering like leaves on the wind. She descended the steps of her dais with the grace of a predator, bare feet silent on the polished stone.

“Your honor,” she repeated, stopping just in front of you.

You could feel her presence like a pressure in your chest—immense, divine, unyielding.

“I have seen nymphs burned for less. Changed for less. What makes you think your honor weighs more than theirs?” Her voice was not cruel, but it was cold—chilled with centuries of betrayal, of wayward girls turned myths and trees.

“I believe you,” she said finally, though her tone left no warmth to cling to. “But belief does not cleanse what’s been touched. Nor does it undo what has been marked.”

Her gaze dropped for just a moment—to your hand, where the ring, however faintly, still shimmered with divine heat.

Your blood ran cold, and your breath caught.

“My Lady-” “I am not your Lady.”

The words struck deeper than any wound Xavier could ever deal. Not your Lady. You had fought for her, wept for her, bled under her moonlight—and yet now, all of it crumbled like ash in the wind.

Your knees nearly gave out beneath you. “But... I swore myself to you,” you whispered, voice raw. “I belonged to you.”

Artemis’s jaw tightened, her eyes reflecting the cold, silver light of her dominion

You shook your head, eyes stinging. “I didn’t mean—he tricked me, it was—”

“Willing or not, you let the sun slip past the trees. You let him brand what was mine.”

Silence fell like snow.

Then softer, quieter: “And I cannot trust what is not wholly mine.” Her eyes did not waver.

Behind her, the younger nymphs stood tense, still, unmoving as statues.

You could feel the judgment not just from Artemis—but from the wild itself.

If Xavier was a god who was always told no, then his sister, Lady- no, just Artemis- was a goddess who had never been told so.

That contrast slices clean—sharp and bitter.

If Xavier was the god who had tasted denial, who grew obsessed with yes because it was withheld… then Artemis was the goddess whose will was law, never challenged, never questioned. She didn’t ask for obedience. She embodied it. Her word was truth. Her silence, condemnation. Her love, possession.

Where Xavier came craving affection warped by longing, Artemis offered belonging forged in severity.

“My Lady!” Phaedra speaks- her voice echoes through the temple.

Artemis rose.

The air changed when she stood—thicker, sharper, as if the world itself bowed under the weight of her divinity. The shadows clung tighter to the temple columns. Even the birds outside seemed to quiet. Her silver gaze cut through Phaedra like the tip of a blade.

“You forget your place,” she said.

Phaedra stiffened. But she did not speak.

“You are not her shield,” Artemis continued, tone icy, clear. “You are not her equal.” She looks at you. “You are not mine.”

That last word came with a thunderous finality.

The goddess turned her attention fully to Phaedra, stepping forward, her robes whispering across the marble floor like drawn silk over skin. “You speak as if you understand loyalty. But tell me—do you think your sisterhood outweighs my will?”

“My Lady—”

“No,” Artemis said sharply, and the single syllable held the weight of storms. “You are a nymph. A creature half-formed. Too close to immortality for mortals, too close to mortality for gods. You forget what that makes you.” Her eyes narrowed. “Disposable.”

The words rang out like an arrow loosed into a still heart.

She turned to you now. “And you,” she said. “You think repentance is enough? You think sorrow absolves the fact that he touched you? That you let him?”

The silence in the room thickened, heavy with judgment.

“You were mine,” she said again, quieter now, but not gentler. “I chose you from the riverbanks and the wild groves. I gave you purpose. And this is how you repay me? With moon-eyed dreams and weakness?”

You couldn’t speak. Not yet.

Artemis exhaled, sharp as winter. “You want pity. But I am not your mother. I am not your friend. I am goddess.”

She turned away. “And if I must remind every nymph in my service what that means, so be it.”

Before anyone could move—

A searing pain bloomed at your finger.

It was sudden, brutal—like molten metal had kissed your skin. You gasped, the sound ragged, stumbling back as your hand shot to your chest, clutching the burning spot beneath your gown.

The ring.

The ring was glowing beneath the fabric, branding your skin with heat so intense your knees buckled. You collapsed onto them with a choked cry.

Phaedra rushed forward—only to be held back by a single lifted hand from Artemis.

The goddess didn’t turn.

“You see?” she said coldly, still facing away. “You bind yourself to gods and wonder why you suffer.”

Your breath came in broken fragments. The pain didn’t stop. The ring pulsed with each beat of your frantic heart, a rhythm that wasn’t yours. It was his. It had always been his.

The gold burned brighter now, as if in defiance.

“Remove it,” Artemis ordered. “Now.”

But your fingers trembled around it. The band was too tight. Too hot. Too fused.

“It won’t—” you choked, voice breaking. “It won’t come off!”

Artemis turned then, slowly, her expression thunderous.

“Then I will cut it off,” she said.

Phaedra stepped in front of you first, her arms spread wide. “Don’t—”

Thea followed without hesitation, her brow furrowed in fierce defiance. “She’s one of us!”

But Artemis was already moving—blade drawn in a blur of silver light.

The world split in a flash.

A sickening thwick.

A scream.

But the pain was not yours.

Blood spattered across your dress—warm, immediate, real.

Thea crumpled to her knees beside you, clutching her hand as it burned- searing with the light of the moon, her breath ragged as blood dripped from the place where her ring finger had once been.

You stared in horror. Your ears rang.

She had taken Thea’s.

The goddess stood still, the blade still humming with divine power, her face unreadable.

The weight of her command crashed down like thunder.

"I said, move."

Her voice held no room for defiance, only decree. And when Phaedra didn’t obey fast enough, Artemis kicked her aside—unceremoniously, cruelly—sending the nymph sprawling with a sharp gasp. Thea whimpered behind her, still clutching her maimed hand, eyes wide with betrayal and pain.

And Artemis strode toward you.

You didn’t think.

You ran.

You turned on instinct, barefoot on stone, stumbling over roots and branches, gown snagging in the underbrush. Behind you, her footsteps—light as air, relentless—followed like a predator through the trees. Like moonlight itself chasing a shadow.

“Y/N!” Phaedra’s voice, distant. “Run! Just run!”

Your lungs burned. Your legs screamed.

And somewhere, somewhere, you could’ve sworn you heard a quiet laugh carried on the breeze, warm as sunlight and laced with gold.

Your breath comes in ragged bursts, sharp and shallow like broken glass sliding down your throat. Your feet pound the earth with a weight that feels like lead, each step a searing brand on your soles, fire licking up your calves. The forest blurs around you—twisting branches, sharp roots threatening to trip you—but you push forward, heart hammering like a war drum, muscles screaming in rebellion.

Behind you, the goddess’s footsteps are a stark contrast: deliberate, almost effortless. Artemis moves with the serene grace of a predator who knows no fatigue, her strides long and unhurried, matching your frantic path without breaking a sweat. The very air seems to bend to her will, cool and still where your heat burns bright.

She’s not chasing—you know that. She’s waiting. Waiting for your strength to falter, for the fire in your legs to turn to ash. The thought stings sharper than any blade.

How could she be so cruel? The thought crashes through your mind like thunder, sharp and unforgiving. She was supposed to protect you — to shield you from harm, not become the storm itself.

Tears sting at the corners of your eyes, hot and bitter, threatening to spill over as your feet slam into the dirt with desperate force. The ache in your chest tightens, a fierce, raw ache that matches the burning in your legs and the pounding in your heart. Every breath you draw feels like a battle against the weight of betrayal. Truly, this whole experience had been an ordeal far beyond your strength—an unraveling too vast for you to contain. Each moment had chipped away at the very foundation of who you were, leaving you raw and exposed. You had been thrust into a world of gods and fury, where trust shattered like brittle glass and protection turned to pain. The weight of it all settled heavy in your bones, heavier than the pounding of your feet against the earth.

You duck under a low-hanging branch, breath ragged, heart pounding louder than the thrum of your racing feet. Your boot slips in the mud, a brief, heart-stopping slide — and then a sharp thwack splits the air. An arrow pierces the branch you just slipped beneath, shaking the leaves with the force it landed.

It missed you by a hair’s breadth.

The open field stretches before you, the moonlight casting long shadows across the grass, silver and ghostly. Your breath comes in sharp bursts, legs burning from the run, but the laughter — soft, cruel, and empty — follows you, echoing through the night air.

It’s not amusement you hear. It’s something darker, unhinged. A twisted melody laced with menace.

Artemis’s voice cuts through the tension like a blade, cold and sharp. “I will have the both of your heads, dear brother.” She scoffs, almost like the idea of mercy had once been laughable—once. The ground feels too soft beneath your feet now, as if it too wants to surrender you.

Hands wrap around your waist, and despite your struggling, the arms around you are unyielding—too warm, too steady, too calm in the chaos. Hands drag across your waist, anchor at your knees, and suddenly, the earth is no longer beneath you.

You scream, a raw sound, and thrash wildly—elbows flying, knees kicking, teeth bared.

“Put me down!” you snarl, panicked.

But he doesn’t. The grip only tightens, firm like iron wrapped in sun-warmed silk.

“Easy, dove,” Xavier murmurs into your ear, voice far too composed for the moment. “You’re not dying for her tonight.”

And this—this moment—being cradled like some helpless thing in the arms of the god you’d once cursed, fleeing from the goddess you once called your protector, it all but solidifies it.

Your place is no longer among Artemis’s huntresses.

Not after her blade swung for your throat. Not after she struck down one of your sisters. Not after Xavier, golden and uninvited, became the only hand to reach for you.

Even as you hate it. Even as it burns. Even as you still love her.

Something had struck your leg—hard—a rock, a root, a thrown blade, you don't know. You only know it hurts, sharp and deep and cruel. The pain ricochets through your entire body.

You scream through your teeth, biting down hard into Xavier’s shoulder, the taste of salt and sunlight filling your mouth—an impossible flavor, searing and bright. It burns—not from his skin, but from within you, as if your soul had bitten something forbidden. His blood isn’t mortal. It’s heat and starlight. It singes the inside of your mouth. He hisses through his teeth as your bite sinks deep into his shoulder, and beneath your lips.

You sob, not from shame, not from fear, but from the overwhelming grief. Something had been ripped from you—Artemis, your sisters, your faith. You had never chosen Xavier, but now the Hunt no longer claimed you either. You don’t let go.

Not when your leg is searing. Not when your heart feels torn down the center. Not when your soul screams with a grief you don’t understand.

Because something has been ripped from you. Your place. Your sisterhood. Your Lady.

Xavier doesn’t fight you off. He lets you bite, his breath ragged, voice quiet and rough. “Better to scream,” he murmurs. “Better than silence.”

The world spins. Adrenaline floods your veins. And you realize… you’re crying.

Tears fall hot and angry, scalding your cheeks like wax. There are too many thoughts. Too many feelings.

Loss. Fury. Shame. Mourning.

You had once belonged to the moon.

And now, the sun held you.

And yet, the world goes dark.

As if the sun itself blinked shut. As if Xavier’s grasp could not hold back the crushing tide of exhaustion, or the ache that clung to your very soul. The pain fades—not because it leaves, but because your body begins to shut it out. Your limbs go heavy. Your breath slows. Your grip on his shoulder loosens, teeth slipping away from burned skin slick with blood.

You fall.

Not from his arms, but into something deeper.

Into nothingness.

The last thing you hear is his voice, soft like dusk, threaded with something unreadable.

“Rest now. I’ll keep the night away.”

But you do not believe him.

Not really.

You were born beneath the hush of twilight, when the moon first pierced the canopy of trees and kissed the forest floor in silver.

The petals of your bloom were still soft around your ankles, slick with dew and trembling with newness. The world was impossibly large, impossibly loud—and yet, the hush of it too, the reverence of wind weaving through the leaves, calmed the thunder in your little chest.

Zephyrus, gentle and ever-curious, circled you like a breath of laughter, warm as midsummer. He did not speak, but the way the grasses bent in waves and the way your petals dried told you he had touched you. Chosen you. The west wind had seen you first.

Above, Artemis’s moon glowed proud and pale, casting your reflection into the pool beneath you—your hair like damp moss, your eyes wide and brimming with a light too old for your body. You did not yet have a name. Only longing.

Around you, the forest pulsed with magic. Owls blinked from their branches. Hares stilled in soft underbrush. The wild knew you. You were one of them now.

And when the Lady of the Moon stepped from the shadows, barefoot and radiant, silver bow slung across her shoulder, you knew what worship felt like. She did not smile, not exactly, but she touched your cheek with fingers carved of starlight, and said,

"Another sister to run with the wind."

Your petals fell away, and you rose into the world, unsteady but not alone.

Your gaze lifted, trembling, to meet hers. Moonlight crowned her brow like a halo, and yet her eyes—oh, her eyes—were not cold like stars. They were ancient and aching, as if she had seen a thousand blooming nymphs and would see a thousand more with the same serene sorrow.

Your lips parted, not knowing what to say, what to call her. The forest seemed to hush further, waiting with bated breath.

She stepped closer, her silhouette draped in mist, silver embroidery dancing along her tunic like tiny constellations. One hand reached out—bare, warm, real—and cupped your cheek, tilting your face up.

"I am Artemis," she said softly, voice low and clear, like riverwater over stone. Her smile was gentle, but it did not ask.*

"And you answer to me."

The vow rooted in your bones like an old tree suddenly remembering how to grow. The petals at your feet withered into earth. Somewhere, an owl cried your name for the first time.

And so it was.

When you wake, it's to stillness.

No crackling fire. No singing. No pain gnawing through your skin like rot. No blistering heat licking at the edges of your nerves. The absence of it all is almost more startling than the presence ever was.

You breathe in.

The scent is sweet—wildflowers and sun-warmed grass, faint whiffs of thyme and crushed lavender. Your fingers curl slightly into the bedding beneath you, and only then do you realize what you're lying on: wool. Rams wool. Not coarse, sheared scraps, but impossibly soft, cleaned and combed until it feels like cloud against your bare skin. Like something from myth.

Your limbs don’t scream in protest as they should. No aches. No bruises. No stinging reminders of the arrow or the blade. Only the strange weightlessness of rest. Of being healed… or changed.

You sit up slowly, instinctively covering your chest with one hand—only to find a silken cloth already draped across you, fastened with care.

There’s a light breeze, barely disturbing the veil over the arched window to your left. Through it, sunlight filters in golden and gentle—less like the punishing heat of Xavier’s presence, and more like a memory of summer. You realize then, uneasily, that you’re not in a tent. Not in the woods. Not even anywhere you recognize.

This couldn’t possibly be Elysium.

You weren’t dead. At least, not in the way that counted. You were sure of that—no river Lethe had touched your lips, no ferryman had asked for coin, and your body didn’t hum with the hollow, perfect stillness that haunted the blessed dead. You felt too much.

Still, your surroundings were too pristine. Too untouched. You weren’t used to comfort like this—not without some sort of cost.

Your gaze sweeps downward on instinct, cataloging yourself.

And then it halts. A breath catches. A double take.

The ring is gone.

Your hand flinches as if it’s been burned. The bare finger aches, phantom-like, the skin pale where the gold once bit into you. You turn your hand over and over, searching—was it a trick? Had someone pried it off while you slept? Or—

No.

It’s not there. Truly gone.

The weight that you hadn’t even realized had settled in your chest begins to shift—too heavy to be called relief, but too strange to be despair.

A soft knock at the door echoes through the quiet room—a measured, deliberate sound that carries a false kindness beneath its tone.

"Are you well, little huntress?" The voice is smooth, practiced, a velvet thread laced with something sharp underneath.

Your heart quickens. Every muscle tenses as the weight of the question settles in the air.

You steel your nerves, voice steady despite the turmoil inside.

“What happened to the ring?”

Xavier’s lips curl into a slow, small smile. “I took it off.” He says it like it should answer everything — like that simple act unravels all your questions, your fears, your pain.

The door creaks open softly, and there he is: utterly beautiful, every inch the god — golden hair that catches the light, eyes like molten blue fire, a smile both tempting and cruel.

You hate it. Hate him.

He keeps his distance. “I haven’t touched you, if that’s what you’re wondering.” he looks soft, even as he closes the door behind him, standing before you. “I’ve healed your wounds. You…you won’t have to worry about my sister.”

You narrow your eyes at him, arms wrapped around yourself beneath the wool. “And why would I believe you?”

Xavier exhales through his nose — a soft sound, not quite a sigh, not quite a laugh. “Because I could’ve done anything while you slept. And yet... here you are. Whole.” He gestures vaguely toward you, his hands open, unthreatening. “I kept my distance.”

He stays near the door, as promised, bathed in the pale morning light. His posture is relaxed, but his eyes are alert — watching for a flinch, a breath, anything from you.

“You won’t have to worry about my sister,” he repeats, slower this time. “She’s been... persuaded to turn her gaze elsewhere.”

Your stomach knots at that, and your voice comes quieter. “Persuaded how?”

His lips twitch, and for a moment you see the sun beneath the skin.

Xavier’s smile sharpens, not with joy but with something darker—vindication, maybe. Pride. A flicker of something ancient and vengeful beneath his golden skin.

“She has no choice but to look elsewhere,” he says, the words like silk draped over stone. “She hasn’t much of a face to look with.”

The air stills. You feel it in your gut—that awful truth beneath his calm tone. He had done something. Something irreversible. You think of Artemis, proud and cruel, but still your goddess once. Her hand raised against you, yes—but her hand had also cradled you once, called you hers. Had he—

“What did you do?” The words spill from you like venom.

He tilts his head, eyes unreadable. “I warned her. I asked. I offered peace.” A shrug. “She refused.”

Xavier’s expression doesn't change. He says it like he's commenting on the weather.

“And her face?”

He meets your gaze, unblinking. “It’s gone.”

A terrible silence settles between you, thick as honey and twice as suffocating. There’s no triumph in his voice. No remorse, either. Just a cruel, quiet fact.

Your breath catches. You almost ask how, but part of you already knows.

You stare at him, the words rattling in your skull.

Heat.

You swallow. “You… melted it off.”

He doesn’t deny it.

Xavier’s gaze lifts to the high windows, where sunlight slants in — too warm, too golden, like it knows what it’s done.

"It'll grow back," he murmurs, almost to himself. "She won’t die."

As if that makes it any better. As if peeling the face off a goddess is just a scratch. Just something that grows back.

You blink at him, numb. “And what if she comes for me again?”

Xavier's expression softens, but not with pity — something older, more possessive. “She won’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do. Because this time, I took something from her too. And gods are petty things — she won’t risk what’s left of her pride chasing you.”

A beat.

“She already lost you.”

Your chest twists at that. Not just at his words, but at the quiet truth you’d known all along — that leaving Artemis had never really been a choice. That you’d been slipping from her long before the ring.

There’s a rustle, quiet but undeniable — the sound of shifting weight, a breath held between action and restraint.

Then the bed dips.

You don’t have to look. You already know it’s him.

Xavier slips in beside you, the heat of his body a sunlit pressure against your back. Not touching — not yet — but present, like an orbit pulled too close.

Your breath stutters. "I’m only here to keep you warm," he says softly.

You swallow hard, staring at the ceiling, at the softness of the ramswool covers that swaddle you like a lie. “You said you wouldn’t touch me.” “I’m not.” “But you’re here.” He exhales a quiet breath. “Where else would I be?” A pause. "Anywhere but here," you whisper. But the words fall flat between you — because you’re not sure you believe them either.

His back presses gently against your chest, like he’s always belonged there — like your shape was carved around his presence before you ever realized it.

“I can’t do that… you know that,” Xavier murmurs, the words curling at the shell of your ear, warm and honey-slow. A god’s whisper. Heavy with intention.

Your breath stalls. You hate how your body won’t move. Not out of pain. Not out of injury. But out of something else — something twisted between memory and magic. Between guilt and longing. A spell? Or worse — a truth. “You could try,” you manage to say, though your voice is hollow, brittle at the edges. “You could just try to stay away.”

He’s quiet for a beat. Then, without turning, he speaks again — velvet laced with steel:

“I did. And you kept dreaming of me.”

You flinch — whether in anger, shame, or something more fragile, you don’t know.

“You said no,” he continues, gently. “And I listened. I backed away. But you... you let me in every night.”

His hand finds yours beneath the covers, and he brings your knuckles to his lips, pressing a soft kiss against them. The kiss lingers, almost reverent, like he’s trying to claim something delicate — your consent, your trust — without breaking you. You can feel the quiet weight behind the gesture, the patience and the promise tangled up in it. But still, your body trembles with the tension between wanting to pull away and not being able to.

"Allow me to undo that which woes you, huntress."

The words slither into the quiet space between you like incense smoke, intoxicating and deliberate. He speaks not with urgency, but with conviction—like someone who believes his touch could mend something deeper than skin.

But it’s a dangerous kind of tenderness. The kind that forgets the line between healing and control. Your fingers, still trapped in his, twitch. You don’t pull away—but you don’t grip back either. “You can’t,” you whisper, throat tight. “You are what woes me.” His grip does not tighten, but it lingers—steady, warm, and unwanted. At your words, his lashes lower briefly, eyes shadowed like the briefest eclipse.

“We both know,” he says softly, “that is not all.”

His lips are warm—too warm—against your shoulder, and the ghost of the kiss spreads like heat in your spine. A mimicry of comfort. A manipulation shaped like mercy.

"Let me aid you, then."

The words settle in your ear like silk-laced venom. He's not offering freedom. He's offering surrender, dressed in golden kindness. The splinter in your chest throbs, a quiet reminder that he’s buried deeper than you meant him to be.

You inhale sharply but say nothing.

Because what could you say? That part of you had leaned toward him—not in love, not even in desire—but in exhaustion. In the craving for something to hold onto when your goddess turned her blade and your sisters screamed.

And now? Now you're just so tired. His lips travel—slow, deliberate. A kiss here…a kiss there. Featherlight, reverent. Almost apologetic.

Up.Up.Up—to your jaw.

His breath ghosts along your skin, and your body hums with tension, dread, something unspoken that simmers beneath your ribs. His fingers curl under your chin, tilting your head up with unbearable gentleness—so gentle it almost feels cruel.

He treats you like glass. Like something sacred. Like something that won’t shatter from this.

You aren’t sure if you’ll cry or scream or lean in.

"Beloved... my love... oh sweet nymph, let me adore you."

Each word is punctuated by a kiss—between your collarbones, the base of your throat, the line of your jaw. Xavier speaks like he’s in a trance, as if worshipping you might burn the sin from his soul. His mouth is warm, so terribly warm, and every syllable he murmurs coats you like syrup: sticky, golden, hard to wash away.

And still, you do not move.

You cannot move.

He presses another kiss just beneath your ear. "You’re trembling."

You are.

Your mind screams—at him, at yourself, at the gods who let this happen. Yet the moment still hangs, suspended, dripping in heat and honeyed devotion. You can smell the sun on him. You can feel the madness beneath his breath.

You remember Artemis’s blade. You remember her rage. You remember your own name.

Your voice comes quiet, but firm: “You mistake obsession for love.”

“It is you who is confused. Not I,” he says, now perched on his knees, towering just above. His eyes gleam, catching every glint of light, as if the sun itself bowed to him. A hand cradles your cheek—not rough, but not tender either. Measured. Possessive. A gesture rehearsed a thousand times in his mind.

His thumb brushes just beneath your eye, a mockery of affection. “You think I don’t know the difference? I know what love is. I choose you. Every day. Even when you fight me.”

His voice is calm, but the madness leaks through the cracks. You see it in the way his jaw clenches ever so slightly. In the way he looks through you, like the idea of you has overtaken the reality.

“You mistake my restraint for confusion,” he adds, quietly. “And still I am gentle.”

Your breath hitches, not from his words—but because you’re still here. Still under his touch. Still waiting.

The bed creaks faintly under the shift of his weight.

"You like the ramswool?" he murmurs, tone far too casual for what hangs in the air between you. His fingers trail down the blankets with a reverence that makes your skin crawl. "It's from one of your hunts."

Your stomach twists.

"Do you remember?" he continues, eyes never leaving yours. "That day the creature charged and you didn't flinch. Not even once. I was watching." He smiles faintly, as if that should be comforting. "I thought—that one, that nymph does not run."

His hand moves again, fingertips ghosting over the blanket. "So I kept it. A token. You should feel honored. Not everyone is wrapped in their own legend."

"You’re turning my victories into trophies for you," you say, barely above a whisper.

He tilts his head, as if curious. “I only wish to surround you with what you’ve already conquered.”

A pause. Then quieter, like he’s slipping something venomous in with honey:

“Isn’t that what your goddess did?”

You look up at him.

At how beautiful Xavier was.

At how sickeningly right he was.

Artemis did showcase your kills, your captures, your triumphs—as though they were hers. Every pelt hung in her temple, every claw and fang mounted like divine offerings. You remembered the way she’d stand before visitors, proudly gesturing toward the spoils of your labor as her silent, perfect huntresses stood behind her like ornaments. Like proof.

And hadn’t you felt proud too? Back then?

Didn’t you smile when she praised you? When she pressed a kiss to your forehead and called you mine?

Your throat tightens.

Xavier is still watching you. Quiet. Careful. Almost... patient. As if he knows he's pried something open.

“You said you wanted to repent,” he murmurs, voice like warm light on skin. “But what if the sin was not yours?”

Your breath hitches. He leans closer, brushing his knuckles along your jaw.

“She used you,” he says softly. “I simply see you.” You don’t answer him. Not with words.

Your eyes flick to his—those same ocean-and-flame irises that have haunted you through fever dreams and stolen moments between blinks—and for the first time, you don’t flinch.

That is all the permission he needs.

Xavier smiles, slow and knowing, as if he’s already seen this moment a hundred times in a hundred dreams. He doesn’t touch you, not right away. Instead, he leans back on his hands, giving you the illusion of space. A courtesy, a trick. “You feel it too,” he says softly, tilting his head. “Don’t you? The silence that followed her blade. The freedom.”

You exhale. It’s shaky.

Your mind, ever-tangled in a web of loyalty, pride, and guilt, claws for purchase. Artemis would say this is betrayal. Phaedra would cry. But Artemis struck you. And Phaedra… she bled for you. And Xavier? He simply watches you. Never punishes. Never demands.

No, not in the way Artemis did.

“You know she saw you as a weapon,” he murmurs, gently, folding his legs beneath him as if he’s settling into a story. “Her favorite spear. Polished. Sharp. Hurled when needed.”

You almost speak. You almost tell him to stop. But he’s not done.

“She never saw your soul,” Xavier continues, his voice low and smooth like honey over wine. “She saw the kills you brought. The obedience. Not the ache in your chest when the moon set. Not the dreams that shook you.”

He leans in just slightly.

“I saw those.”

That cracks something in you. A fissure, hairline and quiet, but there.

“She saved me,” you whisper, unsure if you mean it anymore.

“She saved what was useful,” he replies, no venom in his tone. Just brutal honesty.

His fingers glide down the back of your calf, featherlight, reverent. You twitch at the touch—more from tension than desire—and he notices. He always notices.

Xavier lifts your leg slowly, cradling it like something sacred. He presses a kiss just below your knee, warm breath brushing your skin. It makes you shiver.

“You still don’t believe me,” he says softly, his lips barely parting from your skin. “Even after everything she’s done to you. After she marked you as disposable.”

You say nothing.

Because a part of you does believe him. And that part is loudest when he’s close—when he speaks like this, calm and coaxing, no fire or fury, just truth you don’t want to admit.

He smooths a hand along your shin. “Let me unmake that part of you she built. Let me make something softer. Something real.”

And gods help you, you hesitate.

Not because you trust him. But because for the first time in weeks, someone is treating you like you’re more than a tool. Even if it’s a lie. Even if it’s a cage made of silk.

He reaches into his robes, pulling out something.

You blink, and there it is—gleaming gold and honey-thick, resting in the curve of his fingers. The scent is divine, too rich for the air around it. Ambrosia. The food of the gods. Your stomach aches, cramping in sudden reminder: you haven’t eaten in… you don’t even know how long.

Xavier’s voice is gentle, coaxing. “You’ll feel better. I promise.”

You eye him warily. But the ache in your belly, the fatigue that’s etched itself into your bones, and the warmth of his presence all begin to blur the edges of your resistance. The ambrosia glistens like sunlight caught in syrup.

“You didn’t even realize how starved you were,” he murmurs, brushing a thumb across your lower lip. “Not just of food. Of kindness. Of care. Of being seen.”

You lean forward without thinking, lips brushing the offered ambrosia. The taste is everything—sweet and strange, soft and eternal, like consuming pure light. Your head swims, your breath catches. For a moment, you forget the ring. The hunt. Artemis. Everything.

Just for a moment.

He watches you with something like triumph, something like tenderness.

“That’s it,” Xavier whispers. “There you are, little huntress.”

It lingers on your tongue—golden, sweet, intoxicating. The ambrosia seeps into your being like a bloom of warmth in winter frost, curling into the hollow spaces of your chest, the ones that grief and doubt had carved out. You can feel it in your marrow now: a low, thrumming pulse that says this is what it is to be seen, to be wanted.

But along with it—regret. Guilt. Your hands tremble as your lips part, the taste still there, eternal.

Why did you take a bite?

You knew. You’d been warned. Mortal mouths aren’t meant to taste divine food. Not unless they wanted to belong—forever. Not unless they wanted to surrender something that could never be returned.

Xavier is watching you, and there’s no smugness in his face—only softness, a worshipful hunger in his eyes.

“It hurts, doesn’t it?” he murmurs. “The first time always does. Your heart aches because it’s opening. Because you’re waking up.”

You want to shove him away. You want to cry out. But your limbs are heavy, your chest hot with confusion and shame. You look down at your trembling hands and they don’t feel like yours anymore. They feel like they could belong to something else—something more.

Or less.

“You’ve tasted truth,” he says. “And that truth is this: no goddess, no sisterhood, no forest hymn ever gave you what I just did.”

He leans in. Not touching. Just watching. Your body still hums with the ambrosia, heart drumming so loud it fills your ears. And yet—your voice doesn't rise. Your lips don't move. You want to scream at him. You want to claw your way out of this velvet-lined snare. But the silence has weight. It traps you as effectively as chains.

He sees it. The hesitation. The conflict. The curiosity.

He touches the corner of your lips. "You already let me in." You feel it deep, sickly deep—like something has nested in you. Like you've been marked.

And then— He kisses you.

Not with hunger, but with reverence. As if sealing something ancient. As if your lips were an altar and he the desperate, desperate worshiper.

Your mind flares—hot and cold. A thousand warnings ricochet in your skull. But your body, drugged with ambrosia, confused with need and nausea, does not flinch.

The kiss deepens—not demanding, but knowing. As though he's done this before in a dream. As though this moment was owed to him. His hand remains at your cheek, thumb brushing under your eye. It almost feels…kind.

And that’s what frightens you most. Not the kiss. Not his power. But the ease of it. The way your body doesn’t recoil fast enough. The way your mind flickers between disgust and something perilously close to longing.

He pulls away first.

And smiles. "As I thought," he says, voice low, victorious. “Even Artemis could never teach you how to lie.”

A golden strand of his hair falls forward. His skin glows faintly in the low light. He looks like the sun itself. And you realize—he never needed to chase you. He just needed to wait. Until you were too tired. Too alone. Until the world stripped everything else away.

“Rest now, little nymph,” he murmurs. “The night is still long. And I am so very patient.”

Xavier watches as your eyes flutter shut, lashes kissing your cheeks, and for the first time in what felt like centuries, your body slackens—truly slackens—into rest. Not resistance. Not defiance. Not pleading or praying.

Just quiet.

And it’s that quiet that makes his smile bloom.

Not a grin. Not a smirk. But a slow, creeping, contented smile that seems to radiate from his very bones. The kind that could warm cities—or scorch them to ash.

He reaches out—almost reverently—and brushes a strand of hair from your brow, fingers impossibly light. As if you were spun from smoke. “Finally,” he breathes. “No more running. No more teeth. Just…peace.”

He watches a little longer. Watches the way your chest rises and falls beneath the wool. The same wool spun from your own kill. A trophy he’d reclaimed, reshaped, and now wrapped around you like a promise.

Or a cage.

And still, you sleep.

Golden light pools in his palm as he closes his eyes, not quite praying—but remembering. Recalling all the nights you denied him. All the looks that were too sharp. All the tremors in your voice that still did not beg.

He leans in slowly—so slowly—like the sun slipping over the horizon, inevitable and impossibly tender.

His lips press against your cheek, warm and soft, as though kissing a thing he both reveres and owns. His breath lingers, brushing your skin like a benediction.

Then his hand moves, silent as moonlight, settling over your chest. Right above your heart.

He listens.

Ba-dump. Ba-dump. Ba-dump.

It is not a panicked rhythm anymore. Not thunderous from fleeing. Not trembling with fear.

Just steady. Just alive.

He lowers his head, resting it against that same spot, ear pressed against your ribs like a pilgrim at a sacred altar. His eyes close.

Ba-dump. Ba-dump. Ba-dump.

“Still fighting, even in sleep,” he whispers, as if your heart’s beat were a rebellion he couldn’t bear to crush—yet. “Do you know what a miracle you are, little huntress? That you’ve survived this long? That you’ve held your ground against gods?”

A pause. A beat. A breath.

“But even miracles must rest eventually.”

His hand slides slightly, fingers splayed across your sternum like a seal. Like he could trap the beat beneath it, command it to slow, to match his own rhythm. To beat for him.

The sounds of clothes rustle. The silk slips from your shoulder like a sigh. The wool—once a comfort, once a shroud—is drawn away, peeled back with slow reverence. It pools around your hips, forgotten. Vulnerability glows off your skin like dew kissed by light. Still, you do not wake.

Xavier moves quietly, the way only gods can. Careful, practiced, certain.

Your left hand lies open, relaxed against the mattress—unguarded. He takes it, cradling it in both of his own, as if it were fragile glass, or sacred relic.

Then, from somewhere within the folds of his robes, he withdraws it.

A ring.

Real, heavy, impossible to ignore.

Golden—pure and bright as the morning sun. Set in its center, a sapphire, so blue it nearly hurts to look at. The exact hue of the sky when it is clearest and cruelest, stretching forever, unyielding.

But the gem is caged. Threads of golden filigree curl up around it—delicate, intricate—trapping the sky in a cradle of divine metal.

Like you.

Without a sound, he slides it onto your ring finger.

It fits.

It shouldn’t, but it does—like it’s always belonged there. Like he made you for it.

He exhales slowly, watching the way your fingers twitch once beneath the weight. He doesn’t stop.

Instead, he presses a kiss to the base of your knuckles—soft and solemn, like a vow—and then places your hand gently back against your chest. Over your heart.

Where it rests.

Ba-dump. Ba-dump. Ba-dump.

The ring catches the rising sun, and for a moment, you shine like a bride.

“Mine,” Xavier whispers against your temple. “Now and forever.”

His hand traces along your exposed breasts, nipples soft and in need. He traces down between, following his hand with his lips, kisses here, kisses there.

You're so peaceful when you sleep, he thinks.

Like a dream.

A dream that invites him so, so eagerly.

Leaning in, he opens his mouth, breath fanning over one of your breasts, the nipple perking up.

How cute.

He kisses it. Kisses it tenderly before his lips wrap around it, tongue wrapping around the peak. Gods, were you always this soft? This supple? He didn’t know. Didn’t care to ask, not when he suckled so tenderly, not when he felt his own body thrum with need.

What was a nymph to a god anyways?

No, no, he can’t think like that. You were his wife now- it was indisputable.

One hand holds your waist, the other to your free breast, rolling your nipple between his thumb and index. Your lips part, but still you remain asleep. Letting go, a loud pop sounds, wet with purpose as a string of spit connects your nipple to his tongue.

So naturally, he gives the same attention to the other one.

“You have ruined me, do you know that? Ruined me, and selfishly, denied me. Even when I went to such lengths….I am not a violent god. And yet…and yet you made me hurt those people. Hurt my sister.” Xavier’s tone is but a whisper. “You sleep, and when you sleep you take. Tell me, what more do you want from me, nymph?”

He sits up, moving your legs to sit between them, kissing your knees. The dress was bunched around your waist, exposing you to all of him. The sweet smell of the ambrosia that embraced your lips now catered to your entire body.

When your wetness grows, he can’t help the chuckle. “You..you really can’t help yourself, oh sweetness, let me…”

A hand grabbed at the fat of your thighs, and a cheeky laugh left him. It’s followed by a kiss.

He shifts to lay down, groaning as his growing erection pains him, his hands holding your thighs apart as he looks at it. The epitome of sweetness.

“Oh sweet nymph..”

He presses a kiss to your folds, his tongue following with a swipe. Xavier groans, eyes closed as if to press the memory of your taste into his tongue. His nose bumps your clit, and your thighs twitch in your sleep.

Pulling your thighs to further close around his head, he can’t help but let out a breathless moan, your scent overtaking and encompassing him.

“I adore you, oh sweet nymph, how I adore you.”

As if it could hear you, your body grows hot at his words. He kisses your clit before wrapping his lips around it, his hands coming around your waist and to your ass to grab at you. One hand brings two fingers to your folds, spreading them open before oh-so-gently pushing them in.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

He starts to move them in and out, in and out, the wet squelches from your cunt a welcoming song. Your walls are tight around his fingers, and the hand on your ass holds you down as he feasts upon your core. Tongue flat and going up, he licks your growing arousal like a kitten thirsty.

Xavier scissors his fingers inside you, stretching your gummy walls. Oh how he thought of this many times. How he wanted to just eat you whole so no one else would ever even think to relish in the thought of you.

A whine leaves your lips. But you don’t wake up.

And by the sky above, he could never be satisfied. Not now, not when he’s tasted something far better than the now-humble nectar of the gods.

You keep moving, he keeps holding you down, restraining you as he eats you, and then- metallic.

The god’s eyes nearly rolled back at the thought.

Of course. Of course you were a virgin.

And of course, he lapped it up, too.

Your body tremors, and skies above your walls don’t let go of his fingers.

“There it is. Give it to me, nymph.”

Your body shakes. The orgasm blows through you, and soon enough, you’ve bloomed, his fingers coated in your arousal.

Xavier’s cheeks are rosy. Rosy as he leads your sleeping form through the orgasm. Rosy as he removes his fingers, only to taste them. And rosy as his tongue, pink as a bunny’s, licks them clean.

He takes a deep breath, covering your body.

“Forgive me, beloved, for I have touched you.”

When you wake, it’s to the weight of heat and the suffocating cling of sweat. Your skin sticks to the sheets, to yourself—clammy, flushed, wrong. The air is heavy with something sweet, something too sweet. Like ripened fruit just before it spoils.

And then there’s him.

Xavier.

His arms are wrapped tightly around your waist, his golden head pressed against your stomach, rising and falling with each unsteady breath you take. He’s humming—low, melodic. A tune that sounds ancient and familiar all at once, like the kind of song the sun itself might sing if it had a voice.

Rays of light spill through the open window and hit his skin just right. Of course they do. They kiss the slope of his shoulders, glide over his back like worshipers. The gold of his hair glows almost white in the light, and for one jarring moment, you understand why mortals carved halos.

He looks like something holy.

But all you can feel is the ring—heavy, suffocating on your finger.

You don't remember falling asleep like this. You don't remember letting him stay.

And yet, here he is.

"Morning, little huntress," he murmurs against your skin, the sound reverberating into your core. "Did you sleep well?"

You lick your lips, but it barely helps—the dryness clings, your tongue thick like ash in your mouth. “I… I feel hot.” The words rasp from your throat, small and raw. You shift, sitting up with sluggish limbs, peeling back the blanket in search of air.

The sheets slip down, the ramswool falling away like silk caught in the breeze. Your skin prickles with the sudden exposure—still damp, still burning from something unseen. From him.

Xavier hums behind you, unbothered, like the heat is a lullaby he’s written just for you. “Of course you do,” he says gently, his voice almost amused.

You don’t need to look to know he’s smiling.

He rises with lazy grace, like he’s been waiting centuries for this moment and has grown too languid to rush it now. His body moves like golden smoke as he pads over to a cabinet—one that wasn’t there before. Not yesterday. Not in any room you remember.

He opens it and pulls out a bottle. The glass glows faintly, like it’s been filled with the heart of a dying star. Liquid the color of molten gold sloshes inside.

You squint. Wine? Liquor?

“I don’t drin—”

“It’s nectar.” His voice cuts you off like a silk-wrapped dagger. He turns, cradling the bottle as if it’s sacred. “You’ll like it. Mortals always do.” His smile is slow and awful, reverent even.

The sunlight around him pulses, and for a moment, you could swear the air itself leans toward him, drawn to his heat.

“You’ve already tasted divinity,” he adds, uncorking the bottle. “What’s one more drop?”

You avert your gaze quickly, heat rising to your cheeks—not from desire, but shame, confusion, the betrayal of your own body. His robe slips slightly at the chest, exposing the fine line of his collarbone, sun-kissed and too perfect. You hate that you noticed. You hate how sore your legs are.

The ache is real. Subtle, but present. Like something lived in your muscles overnight.

You shift uncomfortably, wincing, and that’s when you see it: a glass of golden liquid already in Xavier’s hand, extended to you with the patience of a saint.

His eyes are soft. Or they pretend to be. What do you know?

“I’ve not touched you,” he says again, like reciting a sacred oath. “You were exhausted. You rested.” A pause. “And I—waited.”

But your body aches.

Your mouth is dry. And he smiles that smile.

You take the glass, its stem delicate between your fingers. You look at Xavier—at his maddeningly soft smile, as if he’s proud of you for this small surrender. You say a quiet, fractured prayer under your breath—Lady Artemis, if you still see me…—then bring the rim to your lips.

Xavier’s smile widens just a touch—not smug, not overly pleased, but something subtler, deeper. A quiet satisfaction, the kind only a god could wear. As if all the stars in the sky aligned exactly as he expected them to.

The nectar touches your tongue.

It is sweet—not just honeyed, but layered. It tastes of sun-warmed peaches, of dew on wildflowers at dawn, of the sharp tang of pomegranate seeds crushed between your teeth. It’s heat and balm, fire and silk. It doesn’t coat your mouth—it melts through it, threading its way through your body like golden thread through frayed cloth.

Your vision blurs for half a breath.

Your heartbeat slows, then quickens. Your mouth parts slightly in surprise as your entire body exhales. You feel yourself loosening—unfurling. A dreamlike calm settles over you, warm and heavy. The ache dulls. The soreness...fades. Replaced by an almost unbearable comfort. Like silk wrapping around each muscle, cradling you.

From across the room, Xavier watches you.

You’re not sure if it’s the nectar or something else, but your body sags back into the bed. Warm. Drowsy.

Safe.

Or so it feels.

And Xavier?

He sits beside you, careful, watching. His hand hovers over your wrist—just barely not touching. His smile stays soft.

You’ve accepted the gift. And now, he believes, you will accept him.

"How do you feel?" he murmurs, quiet as dawn breaking over the hills.

His hand cups your cheek with a reverence that borders on worship. His thumb brushes the apple of it, slow, careful. It’s warm—too warm—but your skin leans into the touch before your mind even registers what’s happening.

You blink once. Then again. The room blurs at the edges.

Your pupils dilate, swallowing the color from your irises. But you don’t know. You don’t notice. You’re too busy trying to track the golden halo the sun paints along his collarbone, the faint shimmer of divinity clinging to him like dust.

“Soft,” you breathe, barely aware you’ve spoken at all.

Xavier's smile deepens.

“I hoped you would say that.” His voice is velvet, wrapping around your spine and pressing into your ribs. “It suits you. This peace.”

His thumb stills on your cheek. Your lips part, but no sound comes.

Because how do you feel?

Weightless. Like the field from your childhood dreams. Like all the thorns have fallen away. Like your bones aren’t yours anymore—they belong to something ancient and pulsing and warm. Like—

You find yourself holding his hand, not entirely sure when you reached for it—but now it’s yours, warm and steady in your grasp. As if your body moved before your mind could catch up, you lift it gently and press your lips to the back of it.

Your eyes flutter closed.

It’s a kiss that’s barely there, soft as a breeze over petals. Not bold, not desperate—just tender. Quiet. Like something sacred.

When you look up at him again, there’s a warmth in your chest that rises to your cheeks. A heat not from the sun but from within. Your heart stumbles, because when you meet his eyes—gods, you could almost believe he is the sun. The way his golden skin glows, the way his gaze holds you like gravity, the way your world seems to orbit around him without your permission.

You don’t mean to lean into his palm again, but you do. It feels like safety. Like a home you forgot you longed for.

Xavier’s expression softens into something utterly radiant. His thumb strokes your cheekbone with such care, such reverence, as though you’re the most fragile thing he’s ever held.

“You look at me,” he whispers, voice low and full of wonder, “as if I were worth worship. And I…” His breath catches, “I’d burn the sky for you if it meant you’d look at me like that again.”

"What do you mean?" Your voice is hushed, barely more than a breath, but it cuts the silence between you.

Xavier sits beside you, his movements smooth, unhurried. He takes the glass from your hand and fills it again with that glowing nectar—rich and golden as molten honey. The scent alone is dizzying. He offers it to you wordlessly, and without quite thinking, you take another sip. It's sweeter this time, thicker. A dribble of it escapes your lips. He reaches forward without thinking, thumb catching the trickle of nectar before it can fall further, the touch warm—too warm—and lingering just a second longer than necessary. He doesn't break eye contact.

He sits beside you now, close enough that your knees touch, and slowly refills your glass yet again. The nectar glows faintly in the morning light—thick, golden, sweet. As you sip it, the warmth in your stomach coils upward into your chest, fogging your thoughts with a calm, dizzying bliss. Your head feels lighter. The world feels slower. Him—closer.

“You were made for more than servitude in a goddess’s shadow,” he continues, gently cupping your chin to tilt your face toward his. His touch never loses its softness, but his gaze? His gaze is unwavering. Almost too much to bear.

“She would have let you die,” he murmurs. “But I saved you. I healed you. I’ve given you comfort, haven’t I?”

He leans in. Just a breath away.

“So tell me, little huntress… why do you still look like you're afraid of falling?”

His smile is slow—dangerous in how tender it looks.

"Pretty," you whisper again, quieter this time. Almost like a thought slipping past your lips without permission. Your fingers brush his, uncertain and warm, as your gaze flickers down to his mouth, then back up to those impossibly blue eyes.

"Yeah?" he echoes, barely louder than breath. His nose bumps yours again, a nudge like he’s tasting the moment. “You think so?”

You nod, sluggishly. Dazed. The nectar in your blood has dulled the alarm bells in your head, wrapped your thoughts in silk. Everything feels soft. Golden. Him.

“Then don’t look away,” he says. “I want you to see how much I adore you.”

He leans in further, lips brushing your cheek—then your temple—almost reverent in the way he worships you with each whispering kiss. One hand cups your jaw, thumb stroking along your cheekbone.

"You’ve always been lovely,” he murmurs, as if it's a truth older than the stars. “But like this... flushed, soft, warm in my bed, with my mark on your hand—gods, you're radiant.”

You breathe in, shaky and slow, heart a trapped thing behind your ribs.

And still, the thought lingers like a shadow at the edge of your fogged mind: how did I get here? But it floats away, untethered.

His thumb lingers at your lip, pressing just slightly, just enough to part them. He watches the way your breath catches, the way your eyes flutter half-shut. As if you were waiting.

Then he leans in—slow, deliberate—and presses a kiss to your cheek. Warm. Possessive. Down the slope of your jaw, his lips trail like soft fire, heat coiling beneath your skin with every ghosting touch. When he finally reaches your lips, he pauses.

There’s a heartbeat between you.

He’s close enough to taste your breath. “You’re so quiet now,” he murmurs. “Does that mean yes?”

He doesn’t wait for the answer.

The kiss is gentle. Not rushed. Not bruising. Just his—like he’s reminding you that you’re here, with him, in this bed, with his ring on your hand and his warmth all around you.

And when he pulls back just slightly, his lips barely brushing yours, his gaze lingers.

“Say it again,” he whispers. “Call me pretty.”

"Pretty..." you murmur again, barely audible. It slips from your lips like a prayer, like an admission, foolish and soft and too full of warmth. You don’t even realize you’re leaning in until your nose brushes his again, until your lips are chasing his in a dazed, desperate little tilt of your head.

Xavier catches the movement, and oh, his smile is sweet. Sweet like honey laced with something dangerous.

He meets your kiss halfway this time, indulging your need with a hum of satisfaction, his hand coming to cradle the back of your head. It’s deeper now—not urgent, but sure. He knows you want it, and worse, he knows you don’t know why.

When he parts from you again, he doesn’t go far. Forehead resting against yours, he looks at you. “That’s my girl,” he whispers, catching your mouth again in another kiss. This one is firmer, deeper, like he’s savoring you.

And gods, you let him.

You melt into it, into him, your fingers curling around the hand still cupping your cheek. The world narrows to the point of his touch, the heat of his mouth, the dizzying taste of nectar still lingering on your tongue.

Everything else fades—duty, fear, Artemis, the pain of running, even your name.

There is only Xavier.

He’s consuming. He presses forward, and your back meets the bed, the soft wool beneath you cradling your weight. His kiss deepens, a pressure that pulls at your very thoughts. Your head swims—not just from the nectar still humming through your veins, but from him, the unbearable presence of him. His lips taste like honey and heat, like something older than the world.

His fingers ghost along your side, over your ribs, as though memorizing the lines of your body. When he finally pulls back, just a fraction, your breath chases his. Your lips are parted, your pulse stuttering in your throat.

“You’re so warm,” he murmurs, as if that meant something. “Like you were made for my light.”

You blink slowly, caught somewhere between dream and waking. “I’m not yours,” you say. You think you say it. But your voice is too soft to be sure.

His hand cups your cheek again, and you hate how your face leans into it. How your body, traitorous thing, doesn’t pull away. The ring on your finger is heavier than gold should be.

He takes his robe off with the same deliberate grace he does everything—as if time itself bends to watch him move.

But you— You cover your eyes.

Whether it's modesty, fear, or shame, you're not sure. Maybe it’s all of it. The heat creeps up your neck, stinging the tips of your ears. You feel like a child again, like a nymph newly called into moonlight, unready for the way gods look when they shed their divine skins.

There’s a pause. A beat.

“No need to hide,” Xavier says softly, but it doesn’t sound like kindness. It sounds like certainty—like inevitability.

You keep your hands over your face.

And still, you feel the bed dip under his weight, the sun-warm air around him kissing your skin. He doesn’t touch you yet—only waits, watching.

The silence stretches, heavy and breathless.

“Look at me,” he says finally, quieter this time. Not a command. A prayer.

He takes your hands gently, as if you were spun from starlight and might shatter if handled too roughly.

But he is rough, in the way the sun is—inescapable.

His thumbs glide over your knuckles before he lifts one wrist, then the other, to his mouth. The kisses he places there are unbearably soft. Reverent. As if this were a worship ritual and you were the altar.

Your skin betrays you.

Goosebumps rise in a ripple over your arms, trailing down your chest and legs. You shiver even though the room is warm—no, because the room is warm, thick with golden air and that impossible scent of citrus and embers that always clings to him.

He looks up at you through his lashes, lips brushing your pulse point again. Your heart stammers against his mouth.

“Mine.”

"Xavier, s’too hot... my head feel funny," you slur, breath shallow, pulse fluttering under your skin.

He hums softly, like he's trying to soothe you. "Shh... it’s just the nectar. A touch too much, maybe," he murmurs, brushing damp strands of hair from your forehead. His voice is like velvet soaked in sunlight. "I should’ve diluted it. Mortal bodies aren't made to hold divine pleasure. Not yet."

Your eyes flutter shut for a moment—your skin prickling where his fingers glide. He kisses your pulse point gently again, reverent, almost worshipful. Your heart stammers beneath his mouth.

"You burn so bright already," he whispers. "No wonder the sun itself wants to keep you." “Really?” you murmur, dazed, lips parted as your gaze seeks his.

"Of course, dove," he coos, the endearment slipping off his tongue like honey. His fingers trail down your arm, feather-light, and you feel your skin hum beneath the touch.

He pulls you into him, your body pliant as he settles you on his lap like you belonged nowhere else.

“See this ring?” he whispers, lifting your left hand, displaying the golden band kissed with sapphire. It glints in the light, beautiful—like everything he touches.

“You’re my wife. My queen.”

Your breath catches. “Oh…” It escapes you more as a sigh than a word. Your eyes flicker to the ring, then to his face, so close. Too close. You should feel alarmed.

But instead—

You melt. Against his chest. Against his words. Against the warmth pooling in your chest that shouldn’t be there but is. He presses a kiss to your temple, going down to your jaw. Trailing his heated kisses across and down your shoulder. Tilting your face to face him, he bites your cheek. Moving to her neck, he bites down again- harder, leaving a mark, his tongue swiping over it to soothe the pain. His breath hitches when his hands run over the contours of your curves, mapping out your body. Could hear the hitch of your breath as his fingers danced over the swell of your breasts. His hands cupped the soft mounds, thumbs circling the sensitive nipples to life. They stiffen under his touch, and Xavier relished in the way that they fit perfectly in his palms, as if they were made for him and him alone. His lips grazed the shell of your ear.

“Nothing in Excess.”

Your vision swims as your back hits the bed, and his larger frame looms over you. Hooking your legs over his broad shoulders, the new position leaves you at his mercy. Hands encasing your wrists, Xavier held them above your head, blue eyes boring into your gaze.

His voice trembles like the heat haze rising from stone—almost reverent, almost resentful.

“Do you know,” he whispers, the breath of it tickling your skin, “how long I’ve watched you? How it pained me to witness your shortcomings?”

There’s no mockery in his tone. Just something worse—devotion laced with disappointment. You feel the weight of it settle over your chest, thick as oil, slow as tar. Not quite condemnation, not quite love.

He draws back just enough to meet your gaze. “You were always meant for more. And yet you clung to lesser things. Scraps. Obedience. Hollow praise from a goddess who only saw your light when it suited her vanity.”

Why does he keep saying that? Why does he keep insisting that I am in need of help? Why does everyone keep saying this is my fault?

The thought is fleeting, though.

“They can’t have you- they can’t even begin to know you…and I…i will have 100- no, a thousand laurel trees in your honor alone. Spare me from your indifference, nymph. Please. Spare me from that which burrows hatred into your veins. Drink the nectar and make do with who I am, not who I was.”

His eyes search your face, and his hand rested on the flare of your hips.

“Tell me you’ll never leave me.” he whispered.

And who were you to answer?

Grabbing the opened bottle of nectar, he poured some down your bare body, down your chest, watching it trickle liquid gold through your skin. Xavier watched, enraptured, as your skin glistened. It was breathtaking, surreal, like a painting come to life. You felt glazed over, hazy and unfocused, barely grasping at the senses you still had. Hands itching to touch, he leaned down, his tongue flicking out to catch a stray drop of nectar that had settled in the hollow of your collarbone. The taste exploded on his tongue, sweet and intoxicating. Ands sliding up your sides, his fingers splayed over your ribs.

“Beautiful,” "Beautiful," Xavier murmured, his voice a low, rough rumble. "You're so beautiful, Y/n.”

He punctuated his words with kisses, each press of his mouth against your skin a testament to his yearning.

He could see you- all of you, breath getting caught in his throat as he took in the sight of you laid out, body on full display. Eyes raked over every inch of your skin, now glistening, before settling between your thighs. The evidence of your arousal was unmistakable, folds slick, inviting him in.

Xavier leaned in closer, face mere inches from your most intimate place. Gods. He could smell your arousal, a heady, honeyed scent that made his head spin and his cock throb. Slowly, teasingly, he brought his thumb to your folds, brushing it against them with the lightest of touches.

You gasp, hips jerking up off the bed at the contact. Watching as you instinctively tried to close your thighs around his wrist, seeking more friction, Xavier smiled softly; he could feel the heat radiating off your core, could sense the desperation in your movements.

“Shh…lemme take care of you, sweet.” Xavier murmured, his voice a soothing rumble. His thumb pressed more firmly against your clit, circling the sensitive nub with a steady, relentless pressure. He could feel it swell beneath his touch, could hear the hitch in your breath.

Other hand sliding up your thigh, his long fingers danced over your hip, holding you in place when they splayed out.

“Look at you…so empty. You need me.”

He shrugs off the rest of his robe, revealing his his toned figure. The sunlight played over his chest and abdomen. But it was the sight of his heavy, thick cock in his hands. Long and hard, the thick shaft pulsing with each lazy stroke of his fist. Your gaze couldn’t leave him, too transfixed on the sight of him pleasuring himself.

Xavier’s hand moved slowly, almost languidly, as he stroked his length. His grip was firm, thumb brushing over the sensitive head with each upward motion. The sight of him touching himself, well, it was almost too much for you to bare.

“Like what you see?” Xavier murmured, almost a purr. The feeling of your eyes on him, lord. He moves a little closer, now straddling you, cock close to your lips. He stroked it a little faster now. Your chest heaved, lips parted in silent invitation.

“Truthfully, it wasn’t just the ram. I watched you for years. Do you know that? Not days. Years. Do you know what that kind of wanting does to a god? You were just a nymphling when I first saw you—barely more than dew on skin, laughing like the stars knew your name. I thought… I thought if I just watched, it would be enough. That it would pass." his words are spilling now, just as he’s pressing the leaking tup of his cock against your lips. The contact sent a jolt of electricity through him, a pleasure that had him exhaling. He could feel the sticky bead of pre-cum smearing across your lips.

Warm breath ghosting over his sensitive flesh, it was a plea for more.

“Open your mouth for me, pretty girl,” his voice was low, but a demand now. “Take my cock into your mouth, let me feel your tongue on my skin.” His hips pressed forward, the head of his cock slipping past your lips to rest on your tongue.

The god’s eyes fluttered shut at the sensation, a low groan tearing from his throat. The wet heat of your mouth was incredible, the way your tongue flattened against his flesh too much. He could feel himself leaking more, and you could taste the salty-sweet essence of his arousal on your tongue. He wrapped a hand in your hair, holding you steady.

“Fuck, your mouth feels so good,” Xavier gasped, his grip tightening in your hair. “Gonna fuck this face, hmm? Fill your throat up? Make you choke?” his lips were dry, voice raspy.

His pupils dilated at the way your throat constricted and worked, swallowing around him, how the muscles clenched and moved. A delicate sensation, it made his balls tighten and his cock throb with need.

He rocked forward slowly. “More- more, more- take more.” he urged. “Show me how much you want it, c’mon.” he pours some of the nectar on his shaft, letting out a guttural moan when your tongue laps at his shaft, the slick heat of your mouth and the cool nectar a stark contrast. Feeling the nectar ooze down his length, and the sight of your lips wrapped around his cock, tongue swirling around the tip…

“By the gods- just like that- mmnn- perfect, so perfect.” he adjusts himself, pulling himself from her mouth with a lewd pop, fixing you so that you can really fit all of him in your pretty little mouth. When your mouth returns to his tip, so does his hand to your hair. You add your hand to the base of his shaft, stroking it in time with each bob of your head.

And oh, how he lost it.

Fucking your face in earnest, hus hips snapped forward, cock plunging deep, deep, deep into your throatwit each thrust. Watching your throat bulge around his girth, hearing the obscene sounds of your slurping and sucking filling the room, his eyes damn near rolled back. Cock throbbing, he was close, so close. But hearing yuo whimper, seeing the tears flowing, he had the nerve to mock your cries.

“P-please, please- Xav- look at you, sweet thing,”

How mean.

But his breath comes in a shirt shart gasp when he feels his balls tighten, orgasm fast approaching. The telltale tingle in his spine, the coiling heat in his stomach, signaling the arrival.

Your fingers dig into his thighs, your own rubbing together for any sense of friction to ache your weeping cunt. “M’gonna- m’gonna cum sweet thing. You’re gonna take it, yeah? Take it down that pretty throat?”

And fuck, with the way that last thrust hit, he buried himself into your throat. It makes you gag, crying harder as you looked up at him through wet lashes. His cock jerked and spasmed, balls drawing up tight as he began to cum. Thick, hot ropes sprayed like pretty ribbons down your mouth, and the sun god threw his head back, shuddering as wave after wave of pleasure crashed over him, orgasm more intense than any previous experience.

He slumped forward, forehead resting onto yours after he withdrew his weeping, softening cock from your lips. A trickle of his cum dribbled past your lips. His heart raced at the sight: your lips swollen, your hair disheveled, chin glistening with spit, cum, and nectar. Bringing his fingers to your chin, he scooped up the remnants, pushing his coated fingers into your mouth.

"I wanted to rip you away from it all. Hide you. Worship you. I used to imagine what your voice would sound like in my temple. What your body would look like in my silks. I memorized the way you walked, the tilt of your head when you listened, the way you tucked your hair behind your ear when you thought no one was watching. I was watching. Always."

The sight of your lips wrapped around his fingers…and the way your eyes widened.

You pull away. Your lips feel dry, voice no louder than a breath. The bed feels like its moving beneath you, or maybe its your pulse thudding too loudly in your ears. "You... watched me? All that time...?" “Of course I did,”

His other hand gripping your hip, he flipped you onto your tummy in one swift, fluid motion, drinking in the sight of your ass. Globes a perfect handful, he reached out, squeezing a cheek firmly. And then…

Pushing your face into the pillows, he kissed down your spine before spreading your cheeks apart, pupils blown out when he looked at that tight, tight ring. You tensed, unsure, cold.

"Do you understand now, little huntress? I've wanted you beyond reason. You were made for me." "...for you...?" “Always.” "But... I didn’t... I never said yes..." A blink. You press your hand to your temple, suddenly dizzy. "I don’t... feel right." "That’s just the nectar, dove."

Xavier leans down, and spits, watching the saliva drip down to coat your fluttering hole. His tongue darted out, swiping over their hole in a long, firm lick. The taste of their skin, the faint tang of their arousal, exploded on his tongue and made him groan. "Relax, baby," he murmured, his thumb circling the tight ring of muscle. "Let me make you feel good." With that, he dipped his head lower, his tongue dragging over your hole in a long, slow lick. Xavier took his time, his tongue swirling and circling your entrance, teasing you, taunting you with the promise of more. He could feel you squirming beneath him, hips rocking back against his face, silently begging for more. But he took his time. After long moments of torturous bliss, Xavier pulled back, his thumb pressing firmly against your hole. He could feel it flutter and clench around the digit, trying to draw him in. With his other hand, he uncapped the bottle of nectar once again, pouring a generous amount over your ass, watching as the golden liquid trickled down the cleft of your cheeks to pool around your entrance.

The cool liquid made you gasp, body jerking in surprise at the sudden chill. But before you could protest, Xavier was on you again, tongue delving deep into your hole, lapping at the nectar and replacing it with the heat of his mouth.

‘Wait- no! Not- not there-” you bite down on the sheets, eyes squeezing tight as he devoured you, tongue plunging in and out, fucking your ass with a single minded intensity. Xavier pulls away to bite down at one chee, soothing the sting with a long, sensual lick. His hand reached around to your front, seeking out your dripping cunt, his fingers finding your clit, rubbing the sensitive nub in tight, rough circles. You were so soaked.

“So wet, little nymph, so ready for me to fill you…and I will,”

He pushed two fingers inside them, feeling their walls clench around the intrusion. "Tell me how badly you need it, nymph. Beg for my cock like a good girl." His thumb pressed harder against their clit, rubbing in tight, fast circles designed to drive them wild. He could feel their hips rocking back against his hand, seeking more of that delicious friction, pumping his fingers faster, harder, his palm slapping against your clit with each thrust. "Gonna fuck this pussy so good, make you scream on my cock. Gonna fill this cunt up until you're dripping with my cum.”He could feel his own arousal growing, his cock throbbing and leaking against your ass. He needed to be inside them, needed to claim them, to make them his. "Tell me, sweet nymph," he demanded, his voice a low, seductive rumble. "Tell me how much you need my cock. His fingers curled inside you, rubbing against that special spot deep within, pushing you closer to the edge.

His mouth returns to your hole while he fingers you, puffy pussy welcoming each plunge of his fingers. The sopping squelch, squelch, squelch as you whine is just…

“G-gods!” The scream is torn from your lips, and when you try to crawl away, he drags you back with one hand, pulling you back to him, not allowing you to buck or move away from his ministrations, grip hard enough to leave bruises. You could feel every lap and swirl of Xavier's tongue, every press of his fingers deep inside you. It was almost too much, too intense, but still to your horror, your body wanted more. Xavier felt your body stiffen and then shudder violently as your orgasm crashed over you like a tidal wave. Your velvety walls clamped down hard around his fingers, rippling and fluttering as you came undone. A flood of your essence gushed out around his hand, mixing with the remnants of the nectar and dripping down your thighs.

Body trembling and shaking, you let out a high, keening cry, hips trying their damndest to buck and jerk, fingers scrambling to grab anything as his fingers slipped out of your pussy, coated in your slick.

“Hot- so hot, Xavier, gods,” your slurring, so exhausted. You can barely register the fact that he’s licking his fingers clean. “Empty, ‘m so empty,”

You didn't mean for him to hear that. And you’ve really done it now.

Well, no matter.

Not like you could form much of a coherent thought anyways.

Not when he wouldn’t let you.

Because what would Phaedra say? Or poor Thea, who your own lady- Who her own Lady attacked? Or any of your other sisters who bloomed and grew with you for the past millennia?

You felt drunk on pleasure, drunk on Xavier, drunk on the idea of finally being filled by his him. In your pillow princess stupor, you managed to gasp out a needy, "Please, Xavier…”

He gripped your hips tightly, his fingers sinking into the soft flesh of your ass as he pulled you back towards him. At the same time, he thrust his hips forward, driving his hard, thick cock deep into your dripping, needy cunt.

Groaning as he felt your slick, gummy walls enveloping his shaft, he paused for a moment, savoring the feeling of being buried to the hilt. Your back arched, feeling every inch bully into you, every ridge and vein rubbing against your walls, stretching you open, filling you.

“Gods- gods, gods, gods-” “Just me,”

He set a steady, deep rhythm, his cock plunging in and out of your tight channel. The obscene sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, mingling with your now wanton moans and Xavier's low, breathy groans. Heavy balls slapping against your sensitive clit with each powerful thrust, dribbles of pre and slick dripped onto the sheets, the head kissing your cervix with each snap of his hips, making you see stars. Just as you teetered on the brink of ecstasy, your walls start to flutter and clench around him, but a sudden shift in positions makes his shaft slip out, a string of juices come out. The abrupt emptiness makes you feel a loss, a desperate ache for something more, for the feeling of fullness you had only just grown accustomed to.

“N-no! Don’t pull out! Not yet!” You cover your mouth soon as you said the words, a panicked whimper in your voice. All these sensations- they were too new, too much!. You clench your thighs together, trying to keep his cock trapped inside your needy pussy.

“Please, I need you-” “Shh, dove, I know.” Xavier hummed, pulling you back onto his throbbing cock with a swift, hard thrust. He buried himself to the hilt in one smooth motion, stretching you open around his thick girth once more, pounding into you with renewed vigor. Xavier’s hips slapped against your ass, his hands holding you steady.

“There we go, there-we-go.” His cock throbbed and pulsed as he reached his peak, the thick shaft erupting and painting your inner walls with his hot, sticky seed. Your pussy clamped down like a vice around his throbbing cock, milking him for all he was worth as your own devastating orgasm crashed over you. Wailing, your body convulsed with the force of the shared climax.

As the waves of your intense climax began to subside, you found yourself overwhelmed by sensation. The feeling of Xavier's release painting your insides, the heat of his body pressed against your back, the scent of your coupling filling the air - it was all too much. Your overstimulated body cried out for a moment of respite, and instinctively, you began to crawl forward, trying to ease the intense sensations.

However, Xavier was not ready to let you go. Not yet. He tightened his grip around your waist, his strong arms pulling you back flush against his chest once more. "Stay," he murmured, his voice a low, possessive rumble. "Stay with me, sweet nymph. I'm not done holding you yet." His fingers splayed across your stomach, keeping you in place, preventing you from crawling away.

And somehow, someway…

The nectar no longer burned.

The taste of nectar still lingers—sweet, but cloying now. Your throat is dry, your tongue feels too big in your mouth, and your skin… your skin is fine.

You open your eyes slowly. Xavier is not in the bed, but the impression of him still warps the sheets beside you, like heat rising off sunlit stone. The ring on your finger gleams unnaturally. A perfect band. Too perfect. Your breath catches.

What did you agree to?

Your memories are fuzzy, like smoke in your lungs. Kisses. Whispers. The taste of ambrosia on your lips and his voice in your ear. You'd said yes—but you were starving. You'd said yes—but you - it doesn’t matter.

You sit up. Every joint aches as though you’ve been turned inside out. When you swing your legs over the edge of the bed, the room spins. You grip the blanket—no, wool, from one of your own hunts. Yours. Displayed by Artemis. You clutch it tighter and your stomach turns.

Did he plan that? You don’t remember.

A pitcher of water sits on the low table. You crawl to it on trembling limbs and pour a shaky glass. You barely sip. You’re not sure what would come back up.

The door creaks. Light filters in—but it’s wrong. It's golden, but too still. There are no sounds. No birds. No wind.

When you walk, you don’t know how long you wander the chambers. The architecture shifts when you aren’t looking. Doors move. Halls lengthen. You hear whispers through the walls—your name. Always your name.

But not in Xavier’s voice.

You stop at a long mirror, unfamiliar and ancient. The reflection takes a moment too long to mimic you. And when it does—your reflection smiles.

You don’t.

The smile stretches wider.

Laurel trees surrounded you—but only on the other side.

Ever green, perfect, and most worryingly, in uniform.

Your heart lurches.

A voice, not Xavier’s, rasps from behind you, impossibly close, yet nowhere at all.

"𝓨𝓸𝓾 𝓽𝓸𝓸𝓴 𝓱𝓲𝓼 𝓻𝓲𝓷𝓰. 𝓑𝓾𝓽 𝓷𝓸𝓽 𝓱𝓲𝓼 𝓬𝓱𝓪𝓲𝓷𝓼."

You spin around—nothing. No one.

Just the mirror.

And your reflection…

…still smiling.

©hellinistical 2025 do not copy, translate, distribute, plagiarize, or reproduce in any form without permission,

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senascoop · 10 months ago

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꒰ DREAMSCAPE MASTERLIST >

WELCOME to the DREAMSCAPE MINI ENHYPEN series— a collection of seven unique fanfics that blur the lines between fantasy, crime, comedy, and romance. Each story dives deep into intricate plots, so if you were hoping for simple FLUFF or SMUT, you might want to look elsewhere. But if you're here for thrilling twists, complex characters, and captivating worlds, you've come to the right place! BUCKLE UP; it's going to be a wild ride!

WORD COUNT MIGHT RANGE FROM 10K—30K,

MINORS, please steer clear of the SMUT fanfics. However, don't worry—you’re more than welcome to dive into the fluff stories! They’re just as captivating and enjoyable, offering all the heartwarming moments without the mature content. Enjoy responsibly!

IF YOU’RE INTERESTED IN ANY OF THESE FICS, PLEASE LET ME KNOW WHICH ONE YOU'D LIKE TO BE TAGGED IN!

JUST REPLY WITH THE PREFERENCE, AND I’LL MAKE SURE TO KEEP YOU UPDATED. THANKS!

﹙ 🕊️ ﹚ ぃ ──── SHE HAS LOST EVERY CASE, HOW COULD SHE WIN MINE?

EXCUSE ME !

READ HERE

SUSPECT ! HEESEUNG × LAWYER ! AFAB READER

MATURE THEMES , LAW BASED & SMUT !

Heeseung is unexpectedly thrust into the center of a murder investigation, accused of killing an old school friend. The truth, however, runs deeper than it appears, leaving everyone questioning whether he's truly the suspect. Enter you, his defense lawyer, notorious for losing every case you take on. Against all odds, you're handed Heeseung's case, and let’s just say…it’s a recipe for disaster for both of you. As you dig deeper, unraveling layers of deception, you’ll have to confront your own doubts and insecurities. Will you be able to prove Heeseung's innocence, or will this case be another tally in your string of failures?

﹙ 🧊 ﹚ ぃ ──── DID I REALLY DESERVE TO BE CAUGHT UP WITH SUCH A TROUBLE?

OOPS, WRONG ERA !

READ HERE

TIME TRAVELLER ! JAY × STUDENT ! AFAB READER

20TH CENTURY AU , SLIGHTLY FUTURISTIC & FLUFF !

Jay was the epitome of a perfect student—charming, intelligent, and utterly dedicated. The only catch? He was a time traveler from the future, marooned in the 20th century and trying to blend in as a normal teenager. When you discovered his secret, you seized the opportunity. You blackmailed him into becoming your personal homework and assignment writer, using his advanced knowledge to help you ace your classes. Jay’s attempts to navigate high school life while fulfilling his unexpected new role provided endless amusement and challenges for both of you.

﹙ ☁️ ﹚ ぃ ──── WHY WOULD YOU SHOW UP WHEN I MOVED ON?

WINDS CHANGE !

READ HERE

EX ! JAKE × EX ! AFAB READER

ANGST & SMUT !

It's been five years since you and Jake called it quits, each going your separate ways. Life seemed fine—until the dreaded wedding invitation arrives from an old friend. Reluctantly, you decide to attend, only to find Jake, your ex, waiting there like a storm on the horizon, ready to turn your calm into chaos. With unresolved feelings and past memories looming, the wedding becomes a battlefield of witty exchanges, accidental encounters, and a slow unraveling of what truly ended between you two. Are the winds of change blowing in favor of a second chance, or will they only serve to remind you why you broke up in the first place?

﹙ 🍁 ﹚ ぃ ──── I KNOW IT'S MY FAULT, BUT I WANNA MAKE IT BETTER!

GET WELL SOON シ︎

READ HERE

RACER ! SUNGHOON × ORPHAN ! AFAB READER

MENTIONS OF CRIME & ACCIDENT , OVERALL FLUFF & CRACK !

You’ve always considered yourself a good person—kind, forgiving, and patient. But Sunghoon tested every bit of that. One reckless, drunken drive was all it took for him to flip your life upside down, leaving you temporarily confined to a wheelchair. The inconvenience was more than just physical; it was a wound to your pride and independence. Sunghoon, however, refused to walk away from his mistake. Guilt-ridden and determined to make amends, he became a constant presence in your life—covering your medical bills, offering you emotional support, and sticking around even when you wished he wouldn’t.

﹙ 🦄 ﹚ ぃ ──── CAN'T YOU TAKE CARE OF YOURSELF BY YOURSELF?

LIKE PINK !

READ HERE

GUARDIAN ANGEL ! SUNOO × CLUMSY ! AFAB READER

FANTASY & PURE FLUFF !

You’ve always believed you were cursed with the "unlucky girl syndrome." From tripping on flat surfaces to losing your keys every other day, it seemed like misfortune followed you everywhere. But was it really a curse, or just bad luck? You never quite figured it out. When a guardian angel was sent from above, you hoped your luck would finally turn around. Instead, you got Sunoo—a messy, clumsy, and utterly unhelpful angel who seemed more like a walking disaster than a divine helper. All you could think of was asking God for a refund, because with Sunoo around, your life was about to get a lot more chaotic… and maybe a little brighter, too.

﹙ 🔥 ﹚ ぃ ──── I KNOW A TRICK TOO!

SIZZLES OF HIM ᯾

READ HERE

CLASSMATE ! JUNGWON × AFAB ! READER

FANTASY ELEMENTS , MAGICAL AU & SMUT !

There was always something about your quiet, mysterious classmate Jungwon that piqued your curiosity. You couldn't quite put your finger on it—until the day you accidentally peeked into his room and saw him hovering mid-air, surrounded by sparks of electricity. It all made sense then; he wasn't just your average student. Little did he know, you were hiding a secret of your own—one that mirrored his in more ways than one. Two forces of nature, each with powers as different as night and day, destined to collide. As they say, opposites attract, but in your case, they might just ignite.

﹙ 🍫 ﹚ ぃ ──── THIS MIGHT SOUND CRAZY BUT TRUST ME IT'S TRUE!

TIED UP IN YOU !

READ HERE

PHONE GUY ! NIKI × STUDENT ! AFAB READER

CRACK & PURE FLUFF !

Niki was a good guy, no doubt about it. The only problem? He was your phone. How, exactly, did your phone transform into this strikingly handsome guy? It was baffling, frustrating, and, honestly, a bit overwhelming. Here you were, trying to navigate a world where your device had somehow become a charming, infuriatingly attractive human being. And to make matters worse, he was as stubborn and endearing as any person you'd ever met.

﹙ 🍒 ﹚ ぃ ──── THANK YOU FOR READING!

SENA’S NOTE— I’m not sure when I'll finish these seven fics, but I hope it’s soon. I’m unsure if anyone will be interested, but this was a preview of what’s coming.

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the-bar-sinister · 8 months ago

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So like. Scope. I always feel like I see people talk about pacing, and I never see people talk about scope.

The way people talk about stories in fiction writing circles, especially fanfiction writing, it often feels like people treat it like there's only two types of scope for a piece of fiction: a "one-shot" 5k or under short story, or a 100k+ beast of a novel.

But like, scope is important, and there's so much more range between those two poles!

And here's the thing. Here's the thing.

You don't need to know the scope of your story when you're coming up with your idea. In fact, you should come up with the core of your idea, and then decide on the scope afterward!

Here is the revelation I have for you.

Your "idea" can span a whole intricately world built series of events that you know the chain of for 1000 years.

And then you can take that 1000 year idea and decide on the scope. You decide which part of the story to tell! What's the important events, or character beats that you want to focus on, and how long will it take you to tell them?

You can have your 1000 year idea, and your first thought might be "well, I need to write 6 whole novels in this series before I get to the part I'm excited about"

But no! You don't have to do that! With Scope (tm) you can actually choose to just focus in on that one part you're excited about and tell a short story! Maybe 5k. Maybe 30k! Bring back the novella!.

Just because you have 1000 years worth of material doesn't mean that the reader needs all of it to understand the beautiful shining jewel of your story.

Scope is like gem cutting and polishing. When you decide on scope, you cut away the parts of your story that stop the part of it that you want people to see from shining.

#on writing #writing advice #fiction writing #writeblr #writblr #writing encouragement #nanowrimo #novel writing #fanfiction #fan fiction #fanfic #archive of our own #ao3 #🎀💖

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midniqhtt · 1 year ago

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Fic Recs (steve harrington)

just some of my favorite one-shots or series i’ve read on ao3 and few from tumblr. all works ranging from 1.5k to 30k+ i believe. 18+ readers!

some have a tumblr that i tagged, but others i couldn’t find . i am doing this on mobile which is a bit difficult haha! i read these all (except 2) on ao3 so the links will be ao3. i know some are here on tumblr but i didn’t realize till after reading and making this! <3

steve harrington

come home by @stevie-petey <3💕

-"come home to me, okay?"

"always," steve promises

in between saving will, then hawkins, then somehow the world, you fall in love with steve harrington.

(a stranger things rewrite).

dancing with our hands tied by @andvys

-You and Steve have never seen eye to eye, and it never changed, not even when you were pulled into a world of monsters and risked your life to save him. But tension had always been between you both, something that neither of you ever wanted to admit -- but how much longer can you take it when the pull between you gets stronger and stronger each second you spend by each others side?

paint me red by eddiemunsons ao3

-You're one of Vickie's best friends. Her girlfriend, Robin, is in need of a distraction for her best friend, Steve Harrington, who you vaguely remember from school. Which is where you come in.

i’m your idiot by thebestandworstdayofjune ao3 @thebestandworstdayofjune

-Steve Harrington has a way of worming himself into your heart, and social situations you had done your best to exclude him from.

small hands, big heart by finalgirlharrington ao3 @sexybabystevie

-Steve Harrington has a massive crush on you, but his recent lack of luck in the romantic sense has him stuck on how to make a move. Plus, something about you makes him nervous in a way he's never been – in a way he likes. His simplest solution? Flirting via the old 'comparing hand sizes' method.

promise by Harley_Honey_Quinn ao3

-Reader learns about Steve's feelings thanks to some Russian truth serum.

kiss me by @corrodedseraphine

-Your friend is desperately trying to find a person who will give him something more. Wanting to feel what it's like to be loved again and after many failed dates he gets the idea that it's time to go back to King Steve's famous tactics. Telling him that it's not the best idea gets you involved in a deal where you have to help him get another girl. Will helping the boy you're in love with turn out to be a good idea? Probably not.

every rose has its thorn by @corrodedseraphine

-Christmas is coming to Hawkins. It is a time of joy and forgiveness. It turns out that your sister's best friend is looking for a new place to live, and you happen to have a spare room in the apartment. It wouldn't be a problem if that friend wasn't Steve Harrington. A man whom the more you try to avoid even more often comes back like a boomerang.

hearts on the telephone line by t_lostinworlds ao3 @t-lostinworlds

-You thought Steve was okay dealing with a long-distance relationship after you moved for an exciting internship in New York. But you were proven so wrong when your boyfriend finally poured his feelings over the phone. Because distance wasn't making his heart grow fonder, it was breaking it.

competitively stupid by t_lostinworlds ao3 @t-lostinworlds

-It was stupid, jumping off a cliff just to prove that you were better than Steve fucking Harrington. But you were competitive. You were not losing to him. But you know what was stupider? For it to take a near-death situation for you both to confess what you truly feel for each other.

perfect blend by Your_Writer ao3

-No one likes their summer job. Working at a coffee shop was sticky, exhausting, and overall boring. In fact, the highlight of your day was the charming, gentle eyed sailor scooping USS Butterscotch just across the way.

the things we don’t say by rdrickheffley ao3

-Steve Harrington once was the bane of Y/n's existence. He had always been an arrogant asshole and a terrible kisser. She never understood how others fell for the boy's eye-roll worthy charm. Now it seems like he will do anything to prove her wrong about anything.

next time? by rdrickheffley ao3

-Three instances where Steve and reader find themselves in intimate situations.

candyfloss and confessions by ACourtofSnakesandStars ao3

-You’ve been in love with Steve Harrington for years, like every cliche come to life. You’ve battled monsters, found friends within kids with superpowers, and you even managed to graduate. Yet the one thing you’ve never been able to do, is tell Steve how you feel. But maybe you don’t need to wait any longer.

a night to remember by RaeWrites94 ao3

-Steve has to attend his 10 year high school reunion and somehow manages to convince you to go as his date and his fake girlfriend. You've had feelings for him for a long time, but figure, why not? You could probably survive an evening of pretending he liked you back and come out unscathed. Right?

with bated breath by brianmay ao3

-Rumors fly after you attend Steve Harrington’s party one weekend in September. Thinking they were his doing, you do everything in your power to avoid him, which proves easier said than done.

cross my heart (and hope to die) by @talesofesther

-Every time Steve gets hurt, you're there to help pick up the pieces; you just weren't expecting him to fall for you in the process.

tales of a love between the lines by @talesofesther

-Sometimes the thing we want most is right in front of us, and Steve might be just that for you; all you have to do is see what he’s been showing you for a long time.

love is easy by seidenbros ao3

-The day you wrote I love you on a post-it note before you'd said the words out loud, and it's the best note Steve ever got.

everything means nothing if i can’t have you by iridescentpetrichor ao3

-Steve and Y/N go on a double date to impress the other one, but it's only so long until the tension between the two breaks.

you’re not by frostandflames ao3 @frostandflamesfanfic

-The year is 1985, you're on a school field trip to cheer on Hawkins High at the championship game before spring break. When the game doesn't pan out as expected, you're even more surprised to discover the one and only Steve Harrington in only his underwear at your hotel room after being locked out by his teammates. What happens when the two of you have a little heart to heart?

last christmas by frostandflames ao3 @frostandflamesfanfic

-You and Steve had always been childhood friends-and remained that way. As Steve ping-pongs around in his relationship status, you have a hard time keeping your feelings to himself as Nancy surrounds his entire world. What Steve doesn't know is his relationship to Nancy may end your own with Steve.

the scoundrel and the princess by @mrshipsmcgee

-after an awkward run in with Tommy Hagan, Steve Harrington is invited to an awful party where he meets a beautiful stranger.

cling by aloevera

-For as long as you could remember, you and Steve have been close. What others see as clingy, Steve sees as comforting, right? Or, you fell in love with your best friend and suddenly, everything is too much.

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youunravelme · 2 years ago

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to all the girls you've loved before part six

author's note: okay......so i can explain. i know it's been like four months, but i swear it wasn't on purpose and tbh i lost track of time. so here's it is after months of waiting. i promise i didn't forget about it, i just had other projects i was working on (like the 30k words i wrote for two separate fics) that really took up most of my inspiration. there is a time jump in this, but not a huge one. but enough excuses! here's to part six (which is 9.4k words, i figured y'all deserved it)!

pairing: single dad!mat barzal x reader

summary: being a nanny for rich people was probably the worst thing that ever happened to you, until you started working for mat.

warnings: children, rich people, fear of falling in love, moving into angst city baby

day forty-five

you woke up in an unfamiliar place. disoriented, you looked around, noting that it was still dark outside. there was a weight around your waist that was familiar in the sense that you'd felt that sensation before, but unfamiliar in that it smelled like someone new. your heart started racing at the feeling, until you recognized it for what it was: an arm.

your heart rate settled for a moment until you blinked and realized that while you were at home, you were in a different room and considering there was no crib, you could only make one leap in logic:

it was mat's room.

jason's words came back to haunt you almost immediately.

he'll get bored of you eventually. people always do.

your hands felt clammy as you slowly slid out of mat's hold. your knees were shaking. the air was too thick to breathe evenly, but you knew if you started hyperventilating in mat's room, he might wake up and freak out with you.

so you took some shaky breaths and then booked it back to your room.

you stared up at the ceiling for two hours until ella woke up. immediately, you got up, thankful for a distraction from the conflict brewing inside your chest.

when you opened your bedroom door, mat was standing across the hall in his own doorway. his hair was disheveled and his white tee shirt was askew, but it was clear he had the same thought as you.

the two of you stared at each other until one of ella's cries snapped you both back to reality.

"i'll get her," you said quickly before darting into ella's room and ignoring the feeling of his eyes on you. they burned into your back like someone was steaming the clothes hanging off your body.

in the crib, ella was kicking her legs and flapping her arms as much as her sleep sack would allow. and for a moment, you forgot the momentary discomfort at the sight of her gummy smile.

"good morning, sweet girl," you crooned. you reached into the crib and unzipped her sleep sack before picking her up and into your arms. she immediately snuggled into your chest, tucking her head under your chin.

you changed her diaper before heading out to the kitchen where mat was cooking eggs.

you wouldn't look him in the eye, just focused on getting ella into the high chair. mat walked past you, putting her plate of fruit on her high chair tray. it was the closest you'd been since that morning in his bed. and while it was technically innocent, it didn't feel innocent.

as much fun as he was, you'd forgotten that mat was still technically your boss, a friend too, but your boss nonetheless. and sleeping in his bed, regardless of how much you believed you needed it, was a mistake.

you couldn't lose this job, lose ella, lose sydney, but you didn't think you could handle losing mat. not entirely.

so you'd settle for losing the smaller moments of closeness. you'd stay professional with him if only for the sake of keeping your heart and income safe.

god, you hated thinking of him just as an income, but jason's words rang in your head like a small town church bell at noon. was he just waiting to sleep with you? was he just taking pity on you?

it was too early to get a headache.

you sat in a chair next to ella and checked your phone for any messages when a plate was placed in front of you with eggs made in the way you loved and a piece of toast.

"it was all i could manage without giving you food poisoning," mat said sheepishly.

you said a quiet thanks and turned your attention back to your phone, missing the way mat's face contorted into a frown.

"what do you have planned for today?" he asked, taking the seat across from you.

you shrugged, not feeling too keen on going out in public after what happened the night before. you weren't stupid, logically you knew new york was a large city and the odds of running into natalie or jason were slim, but you saw them last night and you weren't too eager to chance repeating the same thing.

"i think we'll just take it easy, stay home and hang out," you said. the words what about you were sitting on the tip of your tongue, but you kept your mouth shut.

mat hummed as he took a bite of his toast. "i'm gonna go work out with tito before practice, and then i think we have some interviews or media to do," he said.

you nodded but said nothing. when ella finished her breakfast, which looked like her tossing eggs onto the floor, you scooped the plate up and hurried back into the kitchen, excited to do something more than just sitting in a room with mat. you started washing the plate, not even thinking about the dishwasher three feet away.

"i can get that," he said, reaching around you and grabbing the plate straight out of your hands. he placed in in the dishwasher before grabbing the broom and sweeping up the eggs on the floor as he cooed at his daughter.

your heart lurched in your chest at the sight, at the view of him being so gentle and doting. you cleared your throat and dusted your clean hands on your pants to keep them from doing something stupid like pulling mat to you and asking him to hold you like he did last night.

"i hate to rush off," mat started as he placed the broom back in its corner and washed his hands. "but i told tito i'd actually be on time today." he got ella out of her high chair and kissed her chubby cheeks. "dada loves you ella bean," he said before approaching you.

you did your best to prepare for eye contact. but the bottom line was as soon as you met his eyes, you couldn't move, couldn't breathe.

he was the prettiest man you'd ever seen, with an even bigger heart.

you snapped out of it when ella reached for you, focusing on how her downy brown hair was growing longer, instead of how she was a complete carbon copy of her father.

for a second, you almost felt bad for her birth mother, nine months of being pregnant, all that labor, only for ella to look just like mat.

but then you remembered that same woman dropped her daughter off with him with just a note, and any lingering feelings of empathy and pity immediately vanished.

you took ella and scampered off to her room, ready to get out of mat's presence.

the two of you were playing with some of her toys when you heard mat call out a goodbye before the door shut behind him.

it wasn't until the lock clicked that you could finally breathe.

day fifty-five

"are you coming to the game tonight?" sydney asked over the phone.

you had your cellphone tucked between your shoulder and your ear as you prepped ella's lunch for the day. the baby in question was babbling to herself when she wasn't stuffing her face with the cheerios you gave her until you could give her lunch.

"uh..." you hesitated, trying to play it off like you were too focused on mashing up bananas.

"oh come on," sydney said. "i feel like i haven't seen you in forever."

"you saw me last week."

"that was seven days ago. you didn't even come to the game earlier this week. what was that about?"

the words were on the tip of your tongue, the truth dangled in front of you like low hanging fruit, but you couldn't get yourself to say it. not in his home, not when he would be getting home shortly, not in front of ella, even though she would never be able to repeat it.

sydney said your name. "are you there?"

you sighed through the receiver. "i'll be there."

"great! i'll pick you up!" she said before hanging up.

you and ella ate in silence until mat came through the front door. ella immediately squealed and threw her bananas in the air, some of which landed in her hair, other pieces ended up on the floor.

"ella bean!" mat smiled as he dropped his things on the ground.

he walked over and you shot up out of your seat to walk into the kitchen under the guise of grabbing paper towels to clean up her mess.

"how was she?" mat asked, taking over your job in supervising his daughter eating her lunch.

you shrugged even though he couldn't see you. "she's been fine. it's been a normal day."

"are you coming to the game tonight?" he asked. truthfully, he'd asked you earlier that morning, or maybe the word begged was a better word to use. you could tell he was disappointed that you hadn't gone to his game earlier that week, but he was never going to pressure you.

"yeah, we're riding with sydney."

"do you have anything to wear?" he asked.

your back was turned, so you didn't see the hopeful gleam in his eye. so when you shrugged and said "sydney said she would get me a shirt," you didn't see the way his shoulders sagged and how the corners of his mouth turned down.

when you turned back around, he was back to looking happy.

you started cleaning up the banana off the floor while mat handed ella her water cup.

"she takes a nap right after lunch, right?"

you looked up at him to find him already staring at you. his hazel eyes felt like they could see right through you, like they could tell you were pulling away and wanted to know why.

you nodded, rendered speechless by his gaze.

"i'll put her down, i've missed her." he booped her nose which made her immediately shriek and squeal. "i don't have to be at the arena for another two hours, so you're free to do whatever."

you expected as much, after his first long roadie, mat wanted to do everything concerning ella. considering he got back earlier that week before having a home game two days later, he hadn't been as present as he would like.

and the result was always a clingy mat.

"sounds good," you said.

maybe you'd text sydney to hang out at a coffee shop for the time being. or maybe you'd lock yourself in your room under the guise of napping while you stared at the ceiling and wondered how you got into this situation.

as ella finished up, the idea hit you immediately.

erin, the woman who you nannied for first.

when mat put ella down, you snuck out the front door and across the hall, praying she would be home. you knocked and waited, fully expecting to turn around and go back to mat's apartment.

you stood outside for all of five minutes before turning back around and heading back into mat's apartment.

"everything okay?" mat asked when you walked back inside the apartment. he was just coming from putting ella down if having one of the baby monitors in his hand was any indication.

"yeah, i'm fine," you said. "i'm just gonna go lay down for a little while."

"oh," he replied. "thought we could watch one of those reality shows you like. felt like i haven't seen you in awhile."

you gave him a small smile. "rain check? i'm really tired."

mat smiled back, though it wasn't as confident as it usually was. if you looked hard enough, you could see the edges of it shake, like he was doing his best to keep up appearances.

but you headed back to your room before you could do something stupid like apologize for the emotional distance and ask for forgiveness.

you got got into bed and stared at the ceiling, only taking your gaze off of it to turn your baby monitor on. you weren't sure how long you were in that borderline comatose state, just repeating jason's cutting words in your head, when ella woke up.

you got up when she cried, fully expecting mat to be gone by then, considering it had been an hour and a half. but you walked into ella's room to see him pulling her out of her crib in his game day suit.

and it should've been illegal to see him snuggle and kiss her cheeks. to witness him cooing back at her as he changed her diaper. you leaned against the door frame, unable to keep your heart from soaring at the sight. just to think, a month and a half ago, he was terrified, now he was changing a diaper like he'd done it his entire life.

he didn't notice you until he turned around and nearly jumped ten feet in the air at the sight of you standing there. "jesus fucking christ," he said. "you scared me."

you couldn't help yourself. "you don't say," you quipped with a grin tugging at the corners of your lips.

mat closed the distance between the two of you and passed off ella. "i hate to run, but--"

"you don't have to explain yourself to me," you said. "we'll see you later."

he nodded and booked it out of the room, but not before pressing a kiss to the side of ella's head.

you heard the door lock behind you a beat later.

you and ella spent the rest of the afternoon lounging around before it was time to start getting ready for the game. you had her dressed in her barzal jersey and a coat while you slapped on a pair of jeans and a tank top, waiting for sydney to bring you the shirt you'd end up wearing.

it was a quarter to six when sydney knocked on the door. she had her daughters with her. winnie immediately went to see ella, who was sitting in her playpen with one of her toys in her mouth.

"you look cute," sydney commented before tossing the shirt at you. without even thinking about it, you tugged the shirt over your head and threw on the jacket you had laid out on the couch.

"so do you," you replied while slinging the diaper bag over your shoulder. you quickly scooped ella up and looked at sydney. "you ready?"

she nodded as the two of you got three kids out to her suv. you had ella in one arm, her car seat in the other, with her diaper bag weighing heavily on your shoulder.

fifteen minutes had passed by the time you got all the girls in the car and strapped in yourselves. you thought everything was normal until sydney turned the music on a little louder and looked at you from the corner of her eye.

"what's going on with you and m-a-t," she spelled out his name probably as a precaution to prevent winnie from picking up any details.

you froze, but tried to play it off. "what do you mean?"

sydney rolled her eyes. "don't play dumb. you asked me for a shirt to wear tonight instead of raiding his closet like you usually do. you didn't go to the game earlier this week under some flimsy excuse."

you sighed, knowing you had been caught.

but sydney wasn't done.

"not to mention, m-a-t asked me what happened at the bar because you'd been distant ever since and hadn't talked to him about it." sydney sighed. "i'm not mad," she said. "i just want to know what's going on with you, i thought things were going well. you two seemed..."

you looked over at the blonde. "seemed like what?"

she shrugged. "just thought you two were a good fit is all."

you groaned. "syd--"

"but we don't have to talk about it, i just think you need to have a conversation with him sooner rather than later."

whatever you had to say was cut off by winnie screaming out the lyrics of baby shark.

the five of you arrived with an hour left until the puck drop. thankfully, the wags rented a suite which meant you didn't have to contend with a huge crowd and ella didn't have to feel confined to just one seat the entire night.

grace along with the other wags greeted you and ella with grace offering to take ella from you in exchange for a margarita, an offer you couldn't turn down.

when the boys came out for warmups, you went with sydney and her daughters and ella down to the ice. ella fought the headphones on her head, she kept reaching for them but you had to pull her little hands away so she wouldn't hurt her ears.

it took a few seconds for matt martin to spot the five of you before he was skating over and waving at his daughters and wife. he smiled at you and ella, tapping the glass once before continuing his warm ups. it was seconds later when your mat showed up with a big smile on his face. ella shrieked, and though the sound was lost in the ruckus of the arena, mat looked happier.

your eyes met and the noise died down, even if it was for a brief moment.

you okay? he mouthed.

you nodded and gave him your most convincing smile. it seemed to do the trick because he was beaming back at you as he skated away backwards, eyes locked on yours.

you turned away and caught sydney staring with a smirk. and while she didn't say anything, you could almost hear her train of thought.

when the game finally started, you were all back in the suite. ella was clinging to you, refusing even the idea of being held by someone else. you couldn't blame her, it was getting close to her bedtime and she was always clingy around that time.

you did your best to pay attention to the puck, to the other players on the ice, but your eyes kept finding 13 whether he was on the bench or the ice. he kept glancing around the ice, probably following the puck like you should be, and occasionally talking to his teammates.

you turned when someone nudged you. grace was standing there with a cup of ice water in her hands. "do you wanna sit?" she asked. "i know your arm is getting tired." you smiled and nodded thankfully, following her over to a pair of seats.

she let you sit in silence for just a moment before she started talking. "are you okay? you seem lost in thought tonight."

part of you wanted to be annoyed with the constant interrogation. no one had ever asked you this many times if you were alright. but that thought alone had your heart lurching.

no one had ever checked on you this many times like sydney, grace, and mat had. it was an unusual feeling, and one that made your heart beat faster in your chest while also making your stomach turn.

"i've just got a lot on my mind," you said, hoping the answer would suffice.

grace nodded, like she could recognize when it wasn't worth the effort to keep pestering. "if you ever need someone to talk to, i'm here. i know running into an ex is never fun."

you kept a straight face even though grace hit the nail on the head.

the game continued on with the islanders winning 6-2. but you had been so out of it, if anyone asked, you wouldn't be able to tell them who the isles played against.

you made your way down to the locker rooms with ella sleeping against your shoulder and the diaper bag slung over the other shoulder. you would've put her in the car seat, but after an earlier attempt ended in her crying and screaming for ten minutes before she fell back asleep, you decided to just hold her. grace had the car seat in one hand so you wouldn't have to carry it while holding winnie's hand with her other one so sydney could carry her diaper bag and her youngest.

the three of you waited with the other wags, making small talk amongst yourselves like you had all night.

anders came out first and kissed his wife before greeting everyone else. matt came out shortly after with casey. his attention was immediately drawn to winnie who ran into his legs with zero hesitation.

you waited for ten minutes before your mat came out with his game day suit on and wet hair. it felt as familiar as your mother's homemade cooking.

he smiled when he saw you, anything anthony was telling him didn't matter anymore.

"what'd ya think?" he asked.

"you played a good game."

his gaze drifted from your eyes to your lips then to the baby on your shoulder. his brows creased in confusion. "she didn't sleep in the car seat?"

"we tried, but she screamed and wouldn't settle unless i was holding her."

he nodded before adjusting the bag in his hand so he had a free one to scoop the car seat out of grace's grip. he nodded towards the diaper bag on your shoulder. "want me to carry that?"

"you saying i'm not strong enough to carry it by myself?" honestly, you were supposed to be keeping things professional between the two of you, but you just couldn't help but quip back at him. not when he made it so much fun.

mat rolled his eyes and took the bag off your shoulder and slung it over his own. "let's go home."

day sixty-eight

with christmas approaching, you were spending all of ella's nap times, packing your bags and wrapping presents. thankfully, you had the foresight to ship your family's christmas presents to your parents' house.

it was just a matter of wrapping mat and ella's presents.

you might've gone overboard with ella's presents, spending too much money on books and a stuffed animal you thought was cute. mat's present was different.

it was always gonna be different.

originally, you weren't even sure if you were going to get him a present considering you were trying to keep things professional. but sydney let it slip that his present to you was really thoughtful, so you immediately left the apartment as soon as mat got home.

in the end, the tie felt a little impersonal, but you added a note, heartfelt enough to not be insulting, but maintaining an air of professionalism. you kept the presents in your room, knowing mat wouldn't try to guess what you got him if it was out of sight.

mat had roped you into decorating for christmas, a tradition he hadn't honored since moving out to new york, but with it being ella's first christmas, he was going all out.

with ella's first christmas approaching, mat's family made plans to fly in two days before to attend the game. you made plans to leave the city so his family didn't have to get a hotel room and you could miss the christmas eve traffic.

your bags were packed by the door while mat got ella ready.

"who's driving you to the airport?" he asked at the dinner table the other night.

"no one," you said after you'd swallowed your food. "i'm taking an uber."

mat made a noise in the back of his throat. "no you're not. i'll drive you. what time do you have to be at the airport?"

"mat, it's not that serious."

"it is to me. so again, what time do you need to leave?"

mat came walking down the hallway with ella all bundled up against the cold weather that was raging just outside the window. snow flurries were falling down at a rapid rate, something that might've concerned you had mat, a canadian, not been the one to drive you.

he handed ella off to you before scooping your bags up in one hand and opening the front door with the other.

"you don't have to carry my bags, mat."

"well, you're carrying my child, so why would i make you carry bags on top of that?"

"you could've carried ella!"

"not when i was planning on carrying your bags! now let's go, you don't want to miss your flight, now do you?"

the three of you headed out to his car and loaded it up. mat placed your bags in the trunk while you strapped ella in before you both hopped in the front and headed towards the airport.

"you excited to see your family again?"

you nodded. "it'll be good to see everyone again."

"you don't have any relatives you'd rather avoid?"

you couldn't help it, a laugh burst out of your mouth without your permission. "actually not this time around but--"

an alert on your phone cut you off.

flight BA4739 has been cancelled due to a mechanical issue.

"you've gotta be shitting me," you said.

mat glanced at you before quickly turning his eyes back to the road. his attention, though, was still on you. "what happened?"

"my flight's cancelled."

mat eased into the right lane and began the drive to the apartment. "are there any flights you can catch?"

you were a step ahead of him, checking every possible flight out of jfk and shaking your head when you came up empty handed. "it doesn't look like it." you sighed and pressed your head against the head rest. "god, i'm sorry mat. i know your family is coming in tomorrow and this puts a dent in things."

he scoffed. "it's fine, just means they'll have to get a hotel, but i can take care of that easy."

your eyes shot open. "mat, don't put them in a hotel, i can find someone to stay with."

"i'm not kicking you out of our home. that's ridiculous."

you clenched your jaw to keep it from dropping at his statement. mat said it so plainly, it was almost like it wasn't a big deal.

"mat--"

"listen, you're not going to a hotel, that's final. when we get home, we'll check for the next flight out and i'll buy the tickets."

"you don't have to--"

"consider it my christmas present to you," he said like there weren't presents under the tree with your name carefully written on them.

you rolled your eyes, but there was a smile tugging at the corners of your lips.

when the three of you got back to the apartment, you grabbed ella while mat took the bags. the second you three were settled, you were pulling out your laptop and double checking for flights. when you couldn't find anything, you sighed and resigned yourself to a white christmas in new york.

day sixty-nine

you and ella were dancing to christmas music in the living room when the barzals came in through the door.

"let me see my grandbaby!" nadia said, dropping her purse on the couch.

you handed ella over immediately, though you hung around for a second to see if she would cry. but ella just smiled and stuck a fist in her mouth.

liana came through next, hugging you briefly before turning her attention to her niece.

a man who you'd never met but knew to be mat's father walked in carrying bags of his own with mat following behind him. you fully expected to be bypassed in favor of ella, and you wouldn't even blame him. but he stopped in front of you and placed the bags on the ground at his feet. with a heavy hand he'd placed on your shoulder, mike barzal began to speak.

"thank you," he said. "thank you for taking care of my son and my grandchild. when we heard the news, my wife and i were trying to figure out what to do, but then mat called a few days later and sang your praises." he squeezed your shoulder gently. "i can't tell you how much it means to us knowing that you're here taking care of ella and helping mat."

you managed a smile, not really having the words to communicate how much having mat and ella has changed your life.

mike squeezed your shoulder one more time before walking over to where his wife and daughter stood.

mat approached you next, the bags he carried in were resting by the door.

"i can sleep on the couch, or go out and buy an air mattress and sleep in ella's room," you said. "just say the word."

mat rolled his eyes and elbowed you lightly. "quit it. this is your home too, i'm not kicking you out."

"i hope i didn't hear you offering to vacate your room," nadia turned around and faced you, quirking an eyebrow. "we're not going to make you leave."

"you wouldn't be making me do anything, i'm offering--"

"and we're denying the offer," she said matter of factly. "there's a nice hotel not too far from here."

"i don't want to split up your family for christmas!"

nadia approached and with the arm not holding ella, she reached out and squeezed your hand. "sweetheart, you've been taking care of my babies, you're family to me now."

you swallowed the lump in your throat.

"i'm sorry you don't get to spend christmas with your family," she started. "but i'm glad i get to watch you open the presents we got you in real time."

your jaw dropped. "mrs. barzal you didn't have to--"

she shook her head. "you deserve to be appreciated, sweetheart." then she directed her attention to ella. "isn't that right, baby?"

liana turned her attention to you. "are you going to the game tonight?"

you shook your head. "i'm going to grace's to help with last minute decorations for the team christmas party."

"are you taking ella?"

you shrugged. "i figured i'd leave that up to you. i can take her if you'd rather focus on the game and not a cranky baby.

nadia pressed kisses to ella's cheeks, enough that the little girl shrieked with laughter. "let's play it by ear, if she's cranky before the game, she can go with you, if that's alright."

you smiled and nodded.

as the day went on, ella stayed in pretty high spirits, even when mat left to head to the arena. she took a lengthy nap which gave nadia enough confidence to take her to the game. you ubered to grace's house, a secret that was meant to stay between you and liana, who saw you ordering the ride.

you arrived at grace's house five minutes before the puck dropped. in true hockey wife fashion, she had the game pulled up in the living room so you could watch while you worked. sydney's daughters were camped out in front of an ipad, watching bluey while their mom came in and out of the room with bags of groceries. grace's daughters, you were told, were already in bed.

"where's the baby?" winnie asked when she saw you.

you couldn't help yourself and laughed. "she's at the game."

"why aren't you with her?"

you smiled and squatted down to look her in the eye. "her grandparents are watching her, so i came over here to help."

winnie furrowed her brows, scrutinizing you. "but you're her mom, you're supposed to be with her. my mom is always with me."

"i'm not ella's mom, winnie. i'm her babysitter. like when your parents go out sometimes and they have a babysitter watch you? that's my job."

"then where's her mom?"

you opened and closed your mouth a few times before you realized the words just failed you. there was no way to say the truth other than plainly.

so you shrugged and said "i don't know."

sydney and grace rounded the corner and smiled when they saw you, greeting you with hugs.

"so it shouldn't take too long," grace started. "we're just adding a few decorations, sydney's gonna help me in the kitchen with prepping some of the food for christmas." her attention turned to you. "do you think you can handle the decorations around the house? it should just be the downstairs and the railings up to the second floor. nothing too extravagant."

you looked at the totes of decorations numbering in three total on the floor. "i can do that," you said.

grace smiled wide. "thank you, thank you, thank you!"

you smiled back and immediately got to work. it wouldn't take you long, the house was already pretty decorated, but grace had gone about and beyond and insisted on getting stockings for every player's family still in town, which was more than half the team. there was a table in the front entrance where you put the players' stockings and laid them out in neat rows.

on the stockings, there was the last name of the player with names below it being members of their family. marty's had sydney's, winnie's, and alice's name below his own. sorokin's just had his own name. but you hesitated when you pulled mat's out of the tote.

barzal was in big letters with ella's name underneath.

and then your own.

you blinked over and over, thinking maybe you were hallucinating.

"i hope i didn't overstep!" grace's voice startled you out of your stupor. "when mat told me you were staying in town for the holiday, i went ahead and added your name. do you know if his parents and sister are joining us?"

you shook your head. the plan was you'd be with the barzals christmas eve and christmas morning, but christmas night, when you went to the lee's house, nadia, mike, and liana would stay back. as far as you heard, anders had extended the invitation, but they declined it, not wanting to impose.

grace nodded. "okay, sounds good then!" she made a move to walk away but stopped when she saw the look on your face. you weren't quite sure what she was seeing from her perspective, but your mind was racing and your feet felt like lead. "are you okay? you seem in your head."

you shrugged. "just trying to figure things out."

"is everything okay with mat? you two seemed fine not too long ago."

and you were. but you hadn't told sydney or grace about how you slept in the same bed as mat the night you ran into your ex. and you weren't going to share that now. they'd both read into it, think things were different than they actually were.

"i just miss my family," you said.

it was clear she didn't believe you, but thankfully, grace let it go. she walked back to the kitchen while you continued to lay out the stockings.

you finished with the stockings shortly after, not sparing another glance to the one with your name on it.

it took another thirty minutes to finish the decorating before you joined grace and sydney in the kitchen. you took a seat at the bar and watched them prepare some of the dishes for christmas. it was mostly just chopping and putting things into pans and oven safe dishes.

you were halfway listening to the chatter happening between the wives when your phone buzzed.

liana told me you ubered to anders'?

mat.

you texted back, a small smile on your face. sydney was already here, i didn't have a ride otherwise.

could've asked me to drop you off.

two hours early? no thanks.

well, stay there until the game is over. i'm picking you up.

you rolled your eyes, but still couldn't keep yourself from smiling.

"what's mat saying now?" sydney asked.

"huh?" you asked, head snapping up to see two smirking blondes staring back at you.

"mat," grace said. "what did he say?"

"how did you--"

"you only smile like that with him," sydney explained. "certainly never smiled like that around your ex, the one time i saw him with you."

at the mention of jason, your stomach churned, but you kept up appearances.

you, grace, and sydney were chatting on the couches when the front door opened with matt, anders, and mat walking in. winnie, who was originally dozing off, popped up from laying on the couch to see her father standing there. she smiled and ran over to him.

anders walked in the living room and kissed his wife.

which just left you and mat, staring at each other across the room and not saying a word.

"how was the game?" sydney asked.

all three of the hockey players shrugged in unision. "fine," anders said before collapsing on the couch next to his wife. "how was your night?"

grace looked at you and sydney before smiling and turning to her husband. "i'd say it was productive and fun." you and sydney hummed in response.

matt came and sat next to his wife and a sleeping alice who was in sydney's arms. which just left an empty spot next to you and mat who was still standing in the doorway.

"barzy, you gonna come sit or stand there awkwardly?" anders chirped.

almost like he was snapped out of a daze, mat walked over and took the seat next to you, leaving about four inches between your hips and his. almost immediately, he threw his arm over the back of the couch behind your head.

you turned and looked at him for a moment, forgetting about the other people in the room. "ella with your parents?"

he nodded. "i offered to take her, but my mom insisted on putting her down."

"did you score at all tonight?"

he grinned and nodded yet again, but it was marty who cut him off.

"should've seen him! two goals, one assist."

your jaw dropped as you looked back at mat. "that's insane!" he immediately beamed at your reaction. your eye contact was broken up when his phone vibrated. mat's face twisted into a frown before he stood up and offered you a hand.

"hate to rush off, but my mom just said ella keeps crying and won't go to sleep, so we gotta go."

marty and sydney stood to their feet, each carrying a child. "we should also be heading out," matt said. anders and grace stood up a beat later, offering to walk all of you to the door.

matt and sydney exited first, with you and mat trailing behind them. mat's hand rested lightly on your lower back, something that had your knees trembling.

grace and anders hugged all of you goodbye and promised to see you in two days. they stood on the front porch and watched as all of you got into your respective cars.

mat didn't say anything until he was pulling out of the neighborhood. unlike the times before, the silence wasn't tense or awkward, it was just calm.

"did you have fun?" he asked.

"yeah, it was nice seeing them outside of hockey games and bar meet ups." you yawned.

"missed you at the game, it wasn't quite the same without you there."

"you scored twice and assisted on one goal, i'd say you did fine without me."

"could've gotten a hat trick if you were there."

you furrowed your brows, but there was a small smile playing at the edges of your lips. this felt normal, like nothing had changed, just you and mat. "how do you figure?"

he shrugged. "i always play better when you're there."

you almost did it. you almost asked him why. but you were scared of the answer, scared of what it would change.

scared that it wouldn't change a thing.

he's not gonna fall in love with you.

it was only a matter of minutes before you were back at your apartment. the two of you took the elevator to get to your floor.

you could hear ella's cries through the front door as mat hastened to unlock it. the second the door was open, every head turned towards the two of you. mat shut the door while you walked over to where liana was holding a crying ella.

ella immediately reached out for you, rubbing at her eyes when she finally settled on your hip. "sorry," you apologized to mat's family.

"what're you apologizing for, sweetheart?" nadia asked. she squeezed your arm before ushering her family to the front door. "we need to get to our hotel and get some rest. we'll see you three tomorrow."

"bye mom," mat kissed his mother's cheek and hugged liana and mike before walking them to the door and locking it behind them.

you stared at him, even as he turned around and made eye contact with you. you finally noticed a line on his forehead that you missed earlier.

you gestured to your own forehead. "you have a line right here..." you trailed off.

mat reached up a hand and felt for it before rolling his eyes. "it's from my helmet, dumbass."

you gasped and covered the one ear of ella's that wasn't pressed against your collarbone. "in front of the baby?"

"you said worse two days ago when you hit your hip on the kitchen counter."

you rolled your eyes, which seemed to be a recurring theme between the two of you that night. "i'm gonna try to take the queen to bed, wish me luck."

"i can put her down if you want," he said but you were already walking down the hallway and waving him off.

it took twenty minutes to settle ella down enough to go to sleep, and by the time you hit your mattress, you were out like a light.

day seventy-one

you woke up when the sunlight peeked through the blinds. your heart immediately shot to your throat when you realized you couldn't hear ella's sound machine through the baby monitor. the panic didn't settle when you turned over and realized it was off.

you jumped out of bed, barely remembering to throw on a sweatshirt over your tank top, and threw the door open.

you were immediately greeted with the sound of christmas music coming from the kitchen. it wasn't until you rounded the corner and saw mat making eggs with ella on his hip that you finally relaxed.

mat turned around at the sound of your heavy panicked breathing. his brows were furrowed and he moved the pan off the stove when he saw you were winded. "are you okay?"

"the monitor was off, i'm so sorry i thought i turned it on last night but i forgot--"

"i turned it off this morning," mat said. "figured you deserved a chance to sleep in."

ella smiled at seeing you and reached for you. mat didn't hesitate to walk her over, probably to make it easier to cook breakfast. you took ella and cherished the snuggles she gave you.

"when is your family coming over?"

mat tapped his phone, presumably to check the time or his texts. "fifteen minutes or so?"

you spared a glance outside. "will they be okay in the snow?"

"uh oh, mama bear's coming out," he teased. "we're literally from canada, my family will be fine."

you nodded, feeling heat crawl up your neck at the slight overreaction and concern.

the three of you sat at the table, eating the eggs and sausage mat made. normally, when you were with your family, you'd eat homemade cinnamon rolls, but maybe this year was about changing traditions and embracing them.

you picked up your phone and called your mom, waiting for her to answer. when she didn't pick up, you just shot her a quick "merry christmas" text and telling her to call you back when she gets the chance, that you couldn't wait to see her tomorrow.

by the time the three of you finished breakfast, his family was knocking at the door, greeting the three of you with an excited "merry christmas" when mat opened the door. while they got settled, you took ella out of the high chair and carried her into the living room.

you sat on the floor in front of the recliner and plopped ella in your lap while mike and nadia brought their wrapped presents in. mat and liana were the ones to pass them all out while their parents got situated on one end of the couch.

you were surprised to see some presents for you written in handwriting you knew did not belong to mat, part of you fully expecting nadia to have been bluffing two days ago.

when the presents were passed out, mat took the seat behind you in the recliner, even going as far as to let you lean against his shin for support.

"now, i don't know how you do it in your family, but in the barzal family, we going youngest to oldest, and we record everything," mike said, holding his phone up. "our sweet ella, though, is the first person to take away liana's long standing reign over opening presents first."

mat got out of the recliner, choosing to sit on the floor on your left, seemingly to help ella open her presents. you scooted back to use the recliner as back support now that mat was sitting next to you.

you heard a beep, presumably of mike's camera starting to record.

"let's open this one, ella bean," mat said to his daughter. he started ripping it at the edge, carefully placing the present in front of her and waiting to see if she did anything with it.

ella stared at it, but otherwise seemed uninterested

"look ella," you said, reaching around her and tugging the paper a little more.

she was uninterested until she heard the distinct sound of ripping. then she tried it for herself, laughing and clapping her hands when it made the noise she liked.

her first present was a puzzle made up of the letters of her name from liana. her next present was from nadia and mike, a box of playpen balls. you couldn't wait to open them, to get her settled in her playpen with them and watch her entertain herself.

mat helped her open the books everyone had bought her. he must've told his family she'd gotten into reading lately, because you weren't the only one contributing to her library.

mat's present to ella was a walker. she'd started crawling a few weeks ago, and mat was determined to get her to start walking before the end of the year.

your last present was the last one for her to open. it was just in a gift bag, and ella thoroughly enjoyed taking the tissue paper out once she got a hang of it. but nothing could've prepared you for the shriek that left her mouth when she saw the stuffed hippo.

you didn't think you'd ever seen her smile that big.

she reached for it with grabby hands, bringing it to her chest when she got it.

"guess we know her favorite gift," mat chuckled.

the rest of the morning was filled with the other presents being opened. you ended the morning with cute sweaters and a barzal jersey.

"so you can stop wearing mat's," liana had said. "figured you'd at least want something clean to wear to games."

mat had mumbled something under his breath, but when you asked him to repeat himself, he just pressed a kiss to the top of ella's head and kept his mouth shut.

when it was mat's turn to open gifts, you could feel yourself flush with embarrassment when he opened your gift. you didn't know the platonic way of saying "i got this because it would bring out your eyes," so you settled with "i thought you'd like it."

and he did, he swore it would be the tie he'd wear in the first game of the new year when you got back in town.

nadia made a wonderful christmas lunch. it was light because she knew you were going to the lee's in a matter of hours, but still better than anything mat could've cooked up.

it wasn't long before the three of you were saying your goodbyes with mike, nadia, and liana all promising to come see you soon, and to thank you for taking care of their newest addition.

just like any other time the three of you left the apartment, you carried ella while mat grabbed the diaper bag.

ella sat in her car seat, snuggling her hippo while mat drove.

"you must be pretty proud of yourself for that hippo gift," he said.

you smiled at him, reveling in the way he'd occasionally take his eyes off the road to look at you. "i am. i have an extra one in my closet just in case this one gets messed up."

his jaw dropped. "you're a fucking genius."

you weren't the last ones to get to anders' and grace's house, but you surely weren't the first. there was a line of cars parked on the street, none of which you recognized.

"are we taking the car seat inside?" you asked when mat put the car in park.

his hand paused over the door handle. "do you think we should?"

you shrugged. "we could always come back out and get it if we need it. but i'm willing to bet that she's gonna be passed around like a hot potato tonight."

mat rolled his eyes but sighed anyway. "as long as dobson doesn't hold her, it'll be fine." with that, he got out of the car and opened the back door to grab the bag.

"wait why?" you asked, getting out and unbuckling ella. "what's wrong with dobson?"

"he's like 23!"

you blinked. "am i missing something? why is that a problem?"

"he's too young to hold her, he'd do something dumb like drop her."

you rolled your eyes as you picked ella up, but said nothing.

the three of you were immediately accosted by christmas music and food smells when you walked through the front door of the lee house.

"you made it!" grace exclaimed, coming out of the living room to greet you. "grab your stocking and head to the couches, i think my husband is gonna do a toast and then we'll get started on dinner."

you nodded along and turned to look at mat who hadn't said anything. your heart dropped straight to your toes when you saw him pick up the stocking that made your mind go blank the other night. his fingers traced over his last name, then ella's name, then yours. he hesitated on yours though, fingers running over it like it was something delicate.

it felt weird to watch that moment, like you were intruding on something private, but before you could look away, he looked up at you. "did you see this?" he asked.

you nodded. "saw it the other night. are you mad?"

he quickly shook his head. "nope. just caught off guard." he glanced back down at the stocking before looking up at you and smiling. "let's get on with this, shall we?"

the night started with anders toasting to the team, but more importantly the wives and girlfriends and support behind each member who'd played a large role whether they realized it or not.

mat nudged you at that moment, which earned him an elbow in the side and a wink from anthony who stood next to him.

when they broke off for dinner, mat offered to take ella so you could get your plate first, but you declined, saying you could wait a few more minutes.

while he was gone, sydney approached. "so, how was this morning? get caught up under any mistletoe?" she nudged you. "get any sentimental gifts?"

when you thought about it, you didn't really. the gifts you got, while amazing, weren't tear jerking, which was surprising considering sydney had said mat's gift to you was thoughtful.

but what was thoughtful about a spa gift card and some bath bombs?

"nope, just the typical gifts, you know?"

sydney's face twisted a little before it righted itself when mat came back with a plate of food.

"got you what i thought you'd like," he said, handing the plate to you.

your brows furrowed. "i thought we agreed you'd eat first."

but he smirked. "no, you did."

"mathew. go eat!"

he shook his head. "not before you. now, let's trade, i'll take my child and you take the plate and go eat with sydney and the other wives if you want." mat handed the plate to sydney before taking ella and walking away before you could say anything.

you watched him walk away for a moment before turning to your friend, only to find her already looking at you. "what?"

she had a smirk for reasons you weren't sure you wanted to know about. "oh nothing."

the night continued on without much fanfare, with you and mat leaving around the same time as the martins again because of the children all three of you brought.

you'd made it back home before midnight. mat this time, wanted to put ella to bed, making sure to leave the hippo out of her crib.

you were in your room packing the last bit of your things so you could leave tomorrow and fly home. you were in the zone until you heard a throat being cleared. when you turned around, mat was leaning up against the doorway with a box in his hand.

"i know you're probably tired, but i have one last present for you."

"mat--"

"i didn't want to give it to you in front of my parents and liana, just seemed too personal." he offered no other explanation and just handed you the box.

you took it carefully, going to your bed and sitting down on the edge to open the present. when you pulled the lid off the box, you were staring at tissue paper until you pulled it away to reveal a photo album.

oh god.

it was the thoughtful present sydney had talked about.

you immediately pulled it out of the box and started flipping through it. the photos were some you'd never seen before, but they were all of you and ella. until you got further in, the photos went from just you and ella to you, mat, and ella.

you looked like a proper family.

sydney or grace must've had a hand in it, because half the photos you didn't remember being taken and they were all candids.

you could feel your eyes water, you noticed the pressure. but you kept wiping at your face to prevent them from falling onto the album itself.

you looked up at mat who looked the most unsure of himself since that first night he had ella. "i hope it wasn't over stepped, i just figured you would like to see how important you are to me, to us, me and ella." he gestured at the book. "some of the photos i took, others i got from grace and syd. i hope it's not weird or anything--"

but you were already up and crossing the room towards him.

a beat later you grabbed him by the back of the neck and pulled his lips to yours.

he responded not even a split second later, his mouth moving against yours. mat's arms came around your waist while your hands made a home in his hair.

was kissing always supposed to be this charged? to feel this right?

you had no idea how long you stood there, kissing mat, before you both pulled away to breathe. your eyes opened slowly, only to meet his hazel irises almost immediately.

and then reality hit you.

jason's words haunting you at just the right time.

he's not gonna fall in love with you. you're a no good bitch who didn't know what she had when she had it.

you pulled away instantly and stumbled back into your room, dodging mat's hold when he tried to reach out for you.

"what's going on?" he asked. "what just happened?"

you shook your head and grabbed your bag, moving past him without making contact. "this was a mistake," you said. "i have to go."

god you felt sick to your stomach.

mat was calling your name, but you kept walking, out the front door, down the stairs, and onto the street where you hailed a taxi.

it wasn't until you got in that you exhaled.

what the fuck had you done?

taglist:

@nicoleloveshockey @thg02 @fallinallincurls @bbbbruins @random-readers-world @sydsxoxo @jhughesy @whenmypartysover @sunflowerhood @spencereidbasis @icanfsplel @avareadsthings @zegraswrites @matthewkniesys @heyitsmeimdead @kashee-h @bordelhoe @diary-of-jj @literatureluster @dani746 @barzyblogbabe @tomhollandsbabymama @wickedlovely121 @coldheartedmar @oh-my-ladymay @heartsforhischier @brrbrina @sebsfeverdream @cathamnsns-diary @coldheartedmar @wickedlovely121

#mat barzal #mathew barzal #mat barzal x reader #mat barzal imagine #mathew barzal imagine #nhl imagine #nhl imagines #nhl blurb #mat barzal blurb

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safarigirlsp · 3 months ago

Text

From the Pages of the Penny Dreadfuls

Victorian Vampire Jacques Le Gris x OC Georgette

Word Count: 31.8k

Warnings: NSFW. Action. Graphic Violence. Gruesome Horror. Romance. Old Timey Sexism. Hot Toxic Masculinity. Conniving Bitches. Victorian Setting. Vampires. I play a little loose with time and events, but they are all within a couple years if not a couple weeks. But I also play a little loose with vampires and cowboys, so whatever.

AO3 Link

I'm finally catching up on some old requests. This is one from @napiersmirk that I probably bastardized totally, but hopefully there's some fun stuff in here. This is basically a 30k shitshow with Victorian Vampire Jacques and a Cowgirl.

Once upon an autumn dreary. Sir Jacques Le Gris modified the words to one of his favorite poems to suit his surroundings and mood, hearing it as an internal monologue as he strolled down Martin’s Lane toward Trafalgar Square. The nighttime air was cool and humid, the stars hidden behind a stormy veil. Mist crept low, slithering through the streets. It was the kind of weather Jacques loved most, when his breath fogged from his lips like ghosts wrought upon the darkness. In high spirits, he gave his ebony cane a twirl, letting the silver grip in the shape of a wolf’s head turn in palm. The streets were unusually vacant. Those damned Ripper murders were keeping people inside at night. Not only did the Ripper have the nerve to frighten the ladies of London, but he also had the gall and plain bad form to stain Jacques’s name. He went by Jack occasionally, usually when dealing with English and Americans, it seemed simpler for them. Jacques pondered solutions to this nuisance, as he had many evenings before. The best solution to the problem, both society’s and Jacques’s, was likely the simplest – for Jacques to hunt the hunter, victimize the villain. Bleed the butcher dry. He grinned at the thought, his tongue subconsciously tracing the peak of his canine.

But that was a game for another night.

Tonight, Jacques was on a simpler mission. Priding himself a champion of the arts, Jacques took pleasure in seeing the arts and the shows London had to offer. He was a man who enjoyed a spectacle, even if he was not partaking. Although he greatly preferred the latter. It was a wonderful time to be alive, Jacques knew better than most. From P.T. Barnum’s great circuses to group seances and magicians performing grand stage acts, spectacles were all the rage. Queen Victoria was celebrating her fiftieth year on the throne, drawing in crowds from across the empire and motivating every performer to put on his best.

Lithograph posters advertising performances of all varieties were plasters to the sides of buildings, ranging in size from a common portrait to as large as a bedsheet. Smaller letter-size fliers clung to every pole within reach of the urchins who earned a pittance by scattering them about the city. The posters called to Jacques as he strolled past. Thoroughbreds raced across a field of green on a poster for the Epsom Derby. A darkly handsome man stood in front of a gilded portrait advertising for the play The Picture of Dorian Gray. A snarling tiger faced a roaring lion on a poster for P.T. Barnum’s Circus. The infamous magician, Kylo the Malevolent, wore his signature black tailcoat and held a ball of flame in one hand while he conjured dark forces with the other in the poster for his show at the Royal Albert Hall. Even the wanted posters for Jack the Ripper were lost in the collage of lithographs. A Bohemian freakshow was passing through London this week on its way to Paris, the posters advertising its oddities littered across buildings and walls. Jacques saw a poster for the World’s Strongest Man displaying a burly man in a singlet with simian body hair flexing a monstrous arm. Next to him was a poster for a man labeled Ink Well who was tattooed over every inch of his skin.

Jacques stopped in front of a haberdashery he frequented. He had even purchased the tophat he wore at present there. Instead of the usual tophats, canes, and derbys that regularly filled the display window, there were now American style cowboy hats with different shaped crowns, and even two pairs of western chaps, one crafted from thick woolly sheepskin and another from splotchy grey sealskin. On either side of the display windows, the building was plastered with posters, unique from the others, that caught Jacques’s eye. Galloping horses, stampeding buffalo, cowboys with six-shooters, cowgirls with lever-actions, and a lively white-haired man with an impressive Van Dyke made the wall come alive with the spectacle of the American West.

In celebration of the Queen’s Golden Jubilee, Buffalo Bill was bringing his Wild West Show across the ocean to perform for her. Buffalo Bill was rumored to travel with well over one-hundred people, including gunslingers, Native Americans, sharpshooters, vaqueros, trick riders, and musicians. A menagerie of animals was also part of his troop: horses, mules, and longhorns, naturally, but also domesticated wildlife including buffalo and elk. Jacques wondered how much of that travelling zoo would accompany Buffalo Bill on his visit to England. Jacques hoped the store owner was getting a commission from Bill for all this free advertising. He decided he would purchase a new hat for the occasion and encourage his friend, Pierre to do the same. The comically large ten-gallon cowboy hat center stage in the display window would call to Pierre as seductively as a Parisian courtesan. Pierre would be an easy sell, always eager to parade new trappings that might impress the ladies. When Jacques had informed Pierre that he had secured the company of a pair of prima ballerinas from the Russian ballet to accompany him to the Wild West Show, Pierre had boasted that he would be attending with a trio of blondes from a theater troupe.

Smiling at his schemes, Jacques tapped his cane on the cobblestone and continued on into the square in the brisk, long strides he favored when he wasn’t ambling slowly in consideration of a female companion. Only a handful of people walked through the square, mostly couples and one raucous group of obviously drunk young men. There wasn’t enough traffic to keep the light fog from settling over the cobblestones, and it draped them in a spectral haze. With the Ripper at large, it was rare to see lone women and even lone men out at night unless it was unavoidable, or in the areas of town where the three-penny-uprights conducted their business. Jacques was surprised to see one lone woman in the square, standing at the base of Nelson’s Column. So surprised that he stopped short and simply stared at her for a long moment. She faced away with her neck craned to look up at the column, and a lovely neck it was. The grey coat she wore hung down past her knees and its black astrakhan collar rose nearly to her ears. The only bit of skin to be seen was a narrow satiny strip above the fur collar and below her hairline; her hair was piled on top of her head in an intricate bun, courteously enough to allow that tantalizing peekaboo of skin. She wore no hat nor fascinator, and was likewise free of a bustle in a rather risqué defiance of custom. Jacques’s eyes were well-seasoned at discerning ladies’ figures, and he could tell this one was shapely and alluring.

Jacques was striding toward her before he knew he had commanded his feet to do so. In the midst of the Ripper murders, he felt compelled to offer his company. That’s what he told himself. He might be every bit as violent and villainous as good ol’ Jack, but he was also a gentleman. Hearing his bootsteps on the cobblestone, the woman turned to face him, fixing him with a level gaze that speared straight into his eyes. There was nothing soft or demure about the way she looked at him, it was almost enough to freeze him in place like Medusa’s stare. Her eyes were luminous, seeming to catch all the scant light and reflect it back like starlight in the foggy night. She cocked an eyebrow at him when he came to stand beside her, silently but icily inquiring as to his purpose.

Most ladies would have looked away from him after so long a glance, or have broken the silence with a giggle or a pleasantry. This woman allowed the silence to spark in the air around them while her eyes appraised him mercilessly. She was terrifyingly beautiful, and her bold countenance beguiled him into smiling.

“I, too, find the sights more pleasing when admired in darkness,” Jacques said, feeling foolish for allowing himself to lose this small battle of brinksmanship.

“The solitude of darkness is what I find most pleasing. The solitude you’re intruding upon, I might add,” she answered. “I cannot abide crowds and mulling herds of humanity.”

“London seems a poor fit for you,” Jaques returned.

“I’m only visiting.” She smirked. “Admiring the sights, as you said.”

“As a visitor, you might not be aware of the dangers,” Jacques said more seriously than he preferred when speaking to an alluring woman. “Have you not heard of Jack the Ripper?”

She made to roll her eyes, but stopped herself and sighed instead, “I hope you’re not going to tell me that a lady shouldn’t be out alone at night. It’s very tiresome advice.”

“Of course not,” he lied. He was absolutely going to offer that exact advice. Instead, he added, “I am never tiresome.”

“Oh dear, you’re not waiting for me to agree?” She smirked again. Jacques liked that smirk, even if it was at his expense.

“No concern for the Ripper, and no concern for your reputation, being out at night without a chaperone. A lady should be more cautious.” Jacques grinned back at her. “Your wit may be rapier, but it won’t save you against such dangers.”

“Between my rapier wit and my derringer, I feel quite safe.” She patted her coat pocket. “My reputation in London doesn’t concern me.”

“Ah, yes, you’re only visiting.” Jacques took a step closer to her. Her scent curled into his nose, something sultry and sweet like roses and cinnamon. “How long is your visit?”

“Perhaps I should be flattered by your attention.” She sounded entirely un-flattered. “But I am intentionally alone. I am not desirous of company. Hence the hour and my relaxed state of dress.”

“If not this evening, perhaps you would grace me with the pleasure of your company another time.” Jacques flashed his handsomest smile. “Only this evening, I was thinking how grand a night at the Wild West Show will be.” He would cancel his rendezvous with the ballerinas in a heartbeat in favor of her. He inclined his head and said simply, “Join me.”

A smile bloomed on her lips, then she laughed lightly. “I already have an invitation, I’m afraid.”

“Decline whatever other invitation you have and accept mine,” he pressed. “You will not be disappointed. You have my word.”

“Mine is an invitation I cannot decline.” She smiled wider. “Besides, no seat is closer to the action than mine.”

“If the Wild West Show doesn’t strike your fancy, I can show you the sights,” Jacques offered. “Dr. Ren’s Cabinet of Curiosities is all the rage. Have you ever seen a satyr skeleton or a book bound in human skin?”

“A book bound in human skin? You know the way to a girl’s heart,” she laughed. “But my Saturday engagement must stand, I’m afraid.”

“Then permit me to walk you to your lodgings,” he countered. “Where are you staying during your visit?”

“I’ll permit you to say good evening right here.” Her demeanor was pleasant now, but she pointedly ignored his question on where he might find her again.

“May I at least know the name of the lady who is so immune to my charms?” Jacques asked as he took off his tophat and shook a persistence cowlick back from his face.

“Georgette,” she answered, offering her hand.

“Jacques Le Gris.” He introduced himself with a flourished bow, then kissed the back of her hand.

“Good evening, Jacques Le Gris.” She gave him one last smile, turned, and walked away.

Jacques followed her with his eyes as she departed. The sway of her hips was almost hypnotizing. He waited for her to look back, but she didn’t. Their small exchange replayed in his mind, her bold and beautiful face already imprinted on his memory. A rare and radiant maiden, indeed. He waited until she turned down a street and then he followed her anyway, gliding almost soundlessly over the cobblestones. He was as at ease in the darkness as any creature of the night, and he knew how to use the foggy gloom to cloak his movements. He would make sure she was safe during her foolishly imperious stroll. And he would know where to find her again.

*******************************************************************************************

Trailing the woman at a discreet distance, Jacques could savor her scent as strong and lovely on the air as the smell of a flower shop with fresh blooms. It required a heroic effort of will to restrain himself from chasing her down and snatching her up in his arms. He attempted to keep the thoughts and images of what he wanted to do next out of his mind, but that was a hopeless endeavor. He watched her until she safely entered the Grand Royale Hotel, and contemplated his next move. It was within his ability to compel her to come to her window and see him again in whatever light he wished, even to do after she undressed for the night.

But such parlor tricks would cheapen the hunt.

Big Ben had not yet tolled midnight. The night was young and Jacques was on fire, his senses alighted by the woman and desire burning through him in a rage. Frustrated and ravenous was no way to spend a perfectly dreary evening. He gave the cobblestones a decisive tap with his cane and walked toward a less upscale part of the city. His destination was far enough to warrant a carriage, but Jacques enjoyed a brisk stroll and it would be unwise to create any witnesses who knew of his haunt. A man as illustrious as Jacques had airs to maintain. Not that Pierre ever bothered with discretion. Jacques grinned and shook his head at the thought. How that philandering bastard hadn’t outed them both yet was a miracle.

Heading West, Jacques met few people and no other women. A few men returning late from their jobs passed him, their faces streaked with coal and grime. One rough-looking man in a bowler hat loitered in a doorway, holding the leash of a Bull Terrier. The man watched Jacques, appraising him, no doubt calculating his odds of successfully mugging the much larger man. Jacques hoped the man would try, it would be a fine bit of sport for the evening. The terrier knew better, whimpering and hiding its white face against the man’s leg. Animals always sensed Jacques’s nature more quickly than men. He again cursed the Ripper for bringing increased scrutiny to the streets and the bobbies out in force. This was the sort of hooligan who wouldn’t be missed, easy prey for Jacques to remove from the streets and perform a public service at the same time.

His destination was near Holborn Hill. Jacques paused to admire the shop’s sign, a fine piece of reverse glass depicting a green serpentine dragon with long whiskers and a fanned tail coiled intricately through gold letters that spelled Snap Dragon. The dragon’s clawed hands clutched the D and its head reared above the letter, snarling at incoming patrons. The Snap Dragon was an apothecary that stocked the rarest compounds and elixirs to be found in England. Rumor had it that Prince Albert purchased tonics there known to cure the pox and other maladies.

Now nearing midnight, the apothecary was closed when Jacques strode past its door. He turned down the narrow alley that separated the apothecary from the butcher next door, as black as a crevasse in the foggy darkness. He descended a set of stairs and stopped in front of a recessed iron door that appeared neglected and disused. Jacques rapped his knuckles on the iron in a peculiar rhythm and waited. The door swung in on well-oiled hinges without a squeak, admitting Jacques into the real business of the Snap Dragon. The apothecary, lucrative though it was, was a front for an opium den – a far better business than herbal remedies. Prince Albert also frequented this side of the business, and heartily enjoyed the expensive courtesans who could be enticed to entertain the delirious patrons for a fee.

Gossamer green haze wafted through the darkened parlor. It was a trick of the lighting, achieved with candles hidden inside green silk lanterns, sneakily engineered to give the ever-present smoke an ethereal quality. The effect was eerie, especially when paired with the dozens of barely conscious men reclining on futons and pillows, crooning, laughing, coughing, draped in smoky green gloaming. Most of the movements inside the den were languid and hazy, save for the sober attendants and one topless courtesan who bounced eagerly on the lap of a nearly unconscious man, determined to earn her fee whether or not the man was aware when he crossed the finish line. The first few breaths inside the den were always terrible for Jacques, as his heightened senses acclimated to the pungent scents of opium, unwashed men, and overused women.

A tall, sinewy woman wearing a brocade dress embroidered with dragons and flowers materialized out of the haze and fixed her black eyes on Jaques. Her smile was razor sharp when she greeted him. Jacques had known her a very long time, since she had been a dancer in Bohemia, long before her latest trade helping men chase the dragon. She had been beautiful then, long ago, in her former life. Pierre had been fond of her all those years ago, and she was eternally indebted to him for the gift he had bestowed upon her. Now, she was seen by most as exotic, with her abyssal black eyes, gaunt features, and straight jet hair that contrasted starkly with a completion that was almost translucent in its paleness. She looked to Jacques a bit like a dehydrated corpse. It was enough to unnerve a brave man when she smiled her shark’s smile at Jacques and told him to make himself at home.

Jacques threaded his way through the parlor to a private room hidden away in the back. Before entering, he could hear the familiar laughter of his oldest friend and the giggles of several women. The door was closed, but Jacques didn’t bother knocking. It had been many years since Pierre had managed to shock him.

Tonight was no different. Pierre D’Alencon bolted up from the large futon in the center of the room, ready to chastise the intruder. His blonde hair was disheveled, his pale chest flushed, but he smiled when he recognized Jacques. Wearing only an open kimono-style robe that did nothing to conceal his naked body, nor the tumescent evidence of his antics with the eight naked women flitting around him. He didn’t bother to cover himself when he gestured magnanimously and said, “Come in! Take your pants off!”

“Are any of them still fresh?” Jacques asked as he shrugged out of his overcoat and tossed it over the back of an obliging chair. His cane and tophat followed.

“Yes, you’re in luck. I’ve only just begun to defile them,” Pierre answered and the women laughed. “Where in the blazes have you been? I expected you hours ago. Now, we’ve only a few hours left before dawn approaches in all its intrusive goddamn glory.”

“I met a rather striking woman enroute.” Jacques smiled, picturing her.

“Oh, good. Is she here?” Pierre made to look around Jacques’s body toward the door.

“Certainly not!” Jacques laughed. “I barely got her name. She was most –"

“Did you hear what I said?” Pierre cut him off. “You’re burning darkness yammering on about some strange woman who wouldn’t give you the time of night. I won’t allow it! Get in the proper spirit of the evening or take your doldrums elsewhere.”

Two of the four women approached Jacques, sashaying their hips. They stroked his chest and began untying his ascot then unbuttoning his vest and shirt. Jacques continued talking to Pierre, unbothered by the women caressing his bare chest or Pierre maneuvering his selection of women back toward the futon. “You haven’t seen this one, my friend. Beautiful and strong. The kind of woman who could use some evil inside her.”

“Talking of only one woman while you’re in the company of several fine others is blasphemy,” Pierre said as he fell upon a pair of women on the futon, his kimono fluttering above his comically pasty ass.

Jacques persisted in telling Pierre about the mystery woman, paying the women in his present company little mind until the most ambitious of the two began shoving his trousers down his muscled thighs. When she traced her nails along his rapidly swelling cock, he decided he could continue this conversation later. He led the women toward a larger couch set against the far wall and fell back into the center of the push cushions. Another woman sat at the end of the couch, draped over the armrest, pale and delirious. Blood was smeared across her neck from her jaw to her collarbone, still oozing slowly from a pair of twin puncture wounds.

“You’ve been careless with that one,” Jacques said to Pierre as he gripped the hips of the nearest woman and assisted her in settling over his lap. He thrust up into the woman and added, “Best show some restraint with the others.”

“She’ll be as good as new after a good night’s rest and a good meal,” Peirre replied nonchalantly as several women crawled over him. “I’ll pay her extra. There are no surprises when they service us here.” He looked at one of the women and asked, “Are there, dearie?”

In response, she held her wrist up to Pierre’s lips, inviting him to drink from her.

Jacques found himself distracted from the task at hand. Despite being buried to the hilt in the woman writing in his lap and with another pawing at him from beside, his mind was still filled with thoughts of the woman he had met earlier, his nose still filled with her extraordinarily alluring bouquet. A most unnatural feeling came over him, one he hadn’t felt in ages. He felt a pang of guilt now, which was wholly unwarranted since he was beholden to no one. Certainly not to a woman who didn’t even want him to walk her home like a gentleman and who had given him a rather decisive brush off. In defiance, he thrust up harder into the woman straddling his lap. But if there was any doubt in his mind before that he wouldn’t seek out the beautiful stranger, he was now filled with resolve to find her again.

Trailing his hand up the woman’s back, he gripped the nape of her neck and drew her closer. His canines had descended in razor points, as eager to sink into warm flesh as the rest of his body. He didn’t bother to kiss the woman’s skin or entice her before he bit into her neck. He didn’t have to give, Pierre had paid her well for them to dispassionately take. It was always difficult to restrain himself when the first rush of blood coated his tongue. The primal part of him wanted to rip into her soft flesh like a wild beast; to feel muscle and sinew tear in his mouth; to feel hot blood coat his lips and drench him down to his chest. But he restrained himself, sipping the woman with gentlemanly care and only taking enough to sate himself for a while.

Restraint was the most important skill any vampire who wanted longevity must learn. Many vampires would say that either anonymity or community were of paramount importance. Vampires who prospered outside of cloistered covens or seclusion were the rarest of all their species. None had prospered better nor more infamously than Jacques and Pierre for nearly five-hundred-fifty years. Jacques attributed this to restraint more than anything else, not being glutinous or wanton when it came to prey and hunting. It was one of the few areas in life he exercised restraint at all, and it had taken him more than a century to master.

If one asked Pierre the key to survival, his answer was simple. Joie de vivre! If a man isn’t enjoying life, every moment can be agony. Immortality would be a terrible curse for the poor bastard who doesn’t live life to the fullest. Pierre had lived by this creed for centuries, flaunting his lifestyle to the more conversative of their species. He even made it a personal game of sorts to seduce the hunters who would find them on occasion. Most could be seduced by money or pleasure, and Pierre was generous with both. Jacques had a hotter temper and less patience. He enjoyed tearing apart anyone who threatened him or the small handful of people for whom he had genuine affection.

The grunts and whimpers coming from the futon creaking beneath Pierre and three women indicated that he was indeed living life to fullest at present. Jacques allowed himself to finish quickly, not bothering to hold himself back, and sipped from the woman as much as he dared. The woman’s body was limp and her head lolled sideways when Jacques lifted her off his lap and maneuvered her onto the couch beside him. She slumped against the semi-conscious woman Pierre had used earlier. Jacques watched her for a moment, satisfying himself that she would recover after a few hours. Turning to look at the unused woman on his other side, Jacques grinned and patted his thigh as an invitation. He was more eager to drink from her than fuck her, but those pleasures were best when paired together. Sinking back deeper into the couch, he gripped the base of his cock, positioning it for the woman as she smiled in delight at his impressive size then kicked her leg over his lap.

Vampires needed only seconds to recover between bouts. Jacques could do this all night, until all the women were spent or he became bored with them. The latter had been an increasing problem over the last century. His body was willing, but his interest was waning. Whereas Pierre never grew bored so long as he kept a variety of women parading through his sheets, Jacques had long ago grown weary of much of humanity. The fleeting, meaningless interactions he had with them bored him and left him deeply unsatisfied. Sometimes, he still found humor, even joy, in humanity. Other times, he felt as though they were a plague crawling over the earth like maggots on a carcass. Vampires were even worse, a macabre and morose lot whose tastes tended toward one perversion or another. That was a point on which Jacques and Pierre had always agreed, hedonism is far superior to perversion, and also just simpler.

After finishing with the second woman and using a third, Jacques reclined in a chair as he ruminated on these matters that were never far from his thoughts. He hadn’t troubled himself to redress fully and sat in his trousers and unbuttoned shirt. He swirled a glass of smoky green absinthe, his gaze fixed pensively at an unremarkable patch of floral wallpaper, unbothered by the raucous sounds of Pierre and the last pair of conscious women.

It wasn’t the Green Fairy that danced in his mind, but visions of the mysterious woman and her addictive scent. That she was beautiful didn’t hurt matters at all, but that fact alone would have held little appeal to him beyond wanting to possess her for a few evenings. When a man had centuries to hunt, even beauty grew common. Rarer than beauty was wit, and rarer still was nerve. Jacques had assessed her as having all three attributes. It may have been a hopeful guess, but he was rarely wrong in assessing women. He considered himself something between a connoisseur and a sommelier of fine ladies, and hers was a vintage like nothing he had tasted in ages.

First he had to find her again, and he would. He thought through what he would do to ensnare her, captivate her the way she had so easily captivated him. Jacques didn’t want to get her by crook or by hook. He had no qualms about employing less than savory techniques to lure a woman into his bed for an evening, but he had always maintained a personal ethic when it came to the few substantial women who had piqued his interest more deeply over the many long years of his life. He wanted her, craved her even, but he wanted to win her fairly and by his own merit.

Shortly before dawn, Pierre finally finished his escapades. He let his last woman flop onto the futon and donned his kimono, then joined Jacques in an adjoining chair. Jacques offered to pour him a drink from the decanter filled with green.

“Vile drink, absinthe,” Pierre declined and waved his hand toward one of the naked women strewn across the room like casualties on a battlefield. “How you can chase a perfectly fine vintage with that noxious green ooze is beyond me.” Instead, he lifted an opium pipe to his lips and inhaled deeply. He looked at Jacques fixedly and said, “Oh God, you’ve got that look. Don’t tell me you’re pining after that woman you saw tonight. It’s very tedious of you.”

“Pining?” Jacques frowned. Whatever he was doing, he certainly was not pining.

“Yes, yes. Pining.” Pierre glared and took another puff. “I’ve had to endure your pining over the occasional woman during the last few hundred years. It never ends well. Either the pining leads to sulking when you frighten them away or, far worse, it leads to that terrible sentiment I wish you’d purge from your emotional arsenal.”

“Which terrible sentiment is that?” Jacques smirked over the rim of his glass as he took a drink.

“I try not to sully my tongue with four-letter words,” Pierre said, acting offended.

“I’ve barely spoken to the lady,” Jacques replied dismissively. “I’m merely intrigued by her.”

“Ah, yes, I remember the last time you were intrigued by some strumpet.” Pierre grimaced at the horrible memory. “Dark times. You were the worst possible company during your infatuation. Then when she rejected you – as they all will when you want a taste of them – you had the morbes for years! You were utterly intolerable. If I were a lesser friend, I would have left you to wallow in your misery alone.”

“You hold a grudge as tenaciously as a scorned woman! That was over a century ago,” Jacques scoffed. “I should have known better with her anyway. All the ladies in Versailles laced their corsets so tight for King Louie, it deprived their brains of oxygen. Hardly her fault she was so fickle.”

“And the one before that?” Pierre raised his eyebrows. “She was wickeder than you and, tragically, far crazier to boot.”

“Ah, the Countess,” Jacques said fondly. “She was a marvel.”

“Marvelously batshit crazy. Batshit Bathory.” Pierre shook his head. “Imagine how deranged a mind must be to have a genuine vampire in the palm of her hand, yet believe the true path to immortality was bathing in the blood of servant girls. You’re better off without that raving harlot.”

“It’s been far too long since I’ve indulged in a nice blood bath.” Jacques smiled at the memory.

“Now that can be arranged!” Pierre said excitedly. “We’ll take in that Wild West Show, which cannot be anything but a wondrous spectacle. Then we’ll fuck some women, and soak in blood until your heart’s content. That should take your mind off this absurd infatuation with whatever wayward tart happened to wander in front of you.”

“You assume I want to take my mind off of her?” Jacques cocked an eyebrow and took another drink.

“Can you not think of me for once instead of pursuing this selfish course that invariably leads to misery?” Pierre sighed theatrically. “However it ends for you, it will be dark times for me, my friend.”

“You’re worse than a jealous damned wife,” Jacques laughed.

“Yes, insufferable, aren’t I?” Pierre agreed. “Best steer clear of the real thing.”

“The real thing would have assets that compensate for the times she’s insufferable.” Jacques smirked lewdly.

Pierre sighed exasperatedly. He looked at the window and visibly started when he saw the red drapes glowing pink around their edges with the coming dawn. “We’d best continue this debate in my carriage. Unless you’d prefer to stay here throughout the day. Actually, let’s do! I’ll buy us more women.”

“Put your goddamn pants on and get a move on,” Jacques laughed. “I’d brave a stroll at high noon before I find myself locked in an opium den with you all day.”

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It had been Jacques’s nature as a man before he became a vampire that he slept little and found the darkness rousing instead of calming, so his vampiric nature paired well with that natural proclivity. Sleep wasn’t needed for its restorative benefits and Jacques couldn’t remember what actual sleep felt like. He spent the brightest hours of the day languishing like a cat, indulgently laying around as he pleased and lightly napping occasionally. Since his encounter with the captivating woman in the Square, he hadn’t been able to settle his mind or have a reprieve from his thoughts of her.

It was not unusual for Jacques to spend the nighttime hours restless and alert. It was, however, highly unusual for him to spend his nights alone. He was never in want of women to fill his bed, but now a woman of no consequence sounded as appealing as a mouthful of ash when he was salivating over filet mignon.

The halls of his manor were dark and cold, feeling almost unwelcoming as he roamed them restlessly in his dressing gown. He paused by a tall arched window in his library that overlooked a manicured garden. The moon was a perfect cat’s eye crescent, bright as firelight, beckoning him out under its glow. Without a plan or any intention beyond following his feet, Jacques dressed quickly in trousers, a loose white shirt with no vest or cravat, and an overcoat.

Minutes later, Jacques sat in the back of his carriage as the cadence of the trotting hooves of his team of black horses carried him away from his home. Jacques’s driver was always at his beck and call, no matter the hour – a creature who was once a man horribly disfigured by leprosy before Pierre benevolently turned him into a familiar for them both to share. Carroughes never had much of a brain in life and was much happier now in his eternal existence as chattel.

Something between nostalgia and hope directed Jacques back to Trafalgar Square. He didn’t realize he had leaned forward in his seat, nearly pressing his large nose to the window as he looked out to the place he had met her. The carriage hit a thick cobblestone, making Jacques bump his nose on the glass. Falling back in his seat, he rubbed the bridge of his nose, finding nothing there but the usual crooked bump, and cursed himself for being so foolish. Of course she wasn’t there again. It had to be nearly two in the morning. No one with any sense was out prowling the streets at this hour. She was almost certainly in bed asleep. He immediately shut his thoughts down when they began to careen into the terrible territory of imagining that she wasn’t alone in her bed.

Looking at the façade of her hotel would do nothing to satisfy his curiosity nor sate his desire, but he grumbled to his driver to take him there anyway.

Every window above the first floor in the stone face of the Grand Royale Hotel was black, looking down on Jacques like merciless eyes. On one of the higher floors, one lone window flickered dimly, no doubt some restless guest reading by the light of a single candle. Jacques eyed it curiously out of the window of his carriage but paid it no mind. His thoughts were occupied with an image of a beautiful woman with luminous eyes and a teasing smile. Picturing her in his mind, he barely noticed the light moving and growing slightly brighter as the person inside picked up the candlestick and moved toward the window.

Jacques felt a rush of hope that made him feel foolish. Like a fool, he stepped out of his carriage to get a better view of the high window. A cold breeze fluttered his hair around his shoulders and his coat around his knees as he stood alone on the street, craning his neck upward. He felt even more foolish holding his breath as he watched the light move closer to the window. But all his foolishness was burned away when the window opened and the beautiful woman from his thoughts leaned out over the railing. It had been a long time since Jacques had willingly watched a sunrise, but he couldn’t remember one ever warming him the way her smile did now when she looked down at him. Gilded by moonlight, her hair free and dancing on the breeze, she was the picture of an ethereal specter haunting him.

Although he didn’t know what had summoned her to the window at such an hour, her smile told Jacques she recognized him. Forgetting any sly reserve, he waved brashly at her and took several steps away from his carriage until he stood in the center of the empty street.

“’Tis the West, and Georgette is the moon!” Jacques called to her teasingly, uncaring if he woke the entire hotel. “Descend, fair moon, and let the stars envy you while you dance in my arms.”

“I never thought I’d see a wolf howling up at the moon in London,” she teased back. She didn’t need to raise her voice for Jacques to hear her clear as a bell, just as he could clearly see that she wore only a diaphanous gown under a velvet robe. His senses were as keen as the other creatures of the night.

Jacques could get to her easily and within minutes. Hell, he could scale the outer hotel wall if he wanted. But he wouldn’t risk frightening her. It was too soon to reveal the monster to the maiden. He could summon her down to him using his vampiric powers of persuasion, but he wanted her to come to him willingly.

“What will entice you down from your tower?” Jacques placed his hand over his heart in a gesture of sincerity. “I can tell you many wondrous reasons, but they are better shown.”

“Perhaps you’re more devil than wolf, trying to tempt me into risqué scenarios with your silver tongue.” She leaned her forearms on the rail, gazing down at him with moonlight glinting in her eyes.

“Rest assured, howling wolf and silver-tongued devil are both equally within my repertoire.” Jacques grinned devilishly. “Is it teeth or horns that you prefer, ma belle?”

She laughed heartily, a melodious sound to Jacques’s ears. She retrieved a handkerchief from the pocket of her robe. Holding it out over the railing, she let it catch in the breeze before releasing it. As the handkerchief danced lazily through the air on its slow ballet to the ground, she said, “Find me again on Sunday and perhaps I will listen to more of your howling. If you’re lucky, maybe I’ll even have a dance with the devil underneath the crescent moonlight.”

Before Jacques could respond, she flipped her hair and ducked back inside her room, closing her window and leaving her balcony as empty and bleak as all the others. Still, Jacques grinned like a dumbstruck fool as he watched the handkerchief float slowly down to him like an autumn leaf. Either her aim or fate directed the little cotton square true, because it drifted right down to Jacques where he stood in the street. He plucked it from the air above him before it settled neatly on his chest.

Bringing the delicate handkerchief to his nose, Jacques inhaled deeply. The woman’s alluring scent flooded his bloodstream faster than any dragon he had ever chased. From her scent alone, he could picture every nuance of her as clearly as if she stood in front of him, feel every luscious inch of her body as though she were pressed against him. He closed his eyes to better savor her perfume and groaned lewdly on the exhale. He grinned as he tucked the handkerchief away safely inside his pocket.

She was an affliction and Jacques was infected with her. Tonight, he knew he was powerless against succumbing.

*******************************************************************************************

Saturday afternoon was blissfully overcast and foggy, shielding Jacques and Pierre from the sun as they strolled toward the exhibition hall at Earl’s Court to watch The Wild West Show. Each man had a pair of women draped on their arms. A pair of redheaded ballerinas laughed at nothing and smiled up at Jacques. He had always been fond of redheads. Pierre, who liked variety, was accompanied by a very pale brunette and a tan blonde. The women chattered as they walked past a colorful carousel playing cheerful music while its painted horses circled round and round. An army of other spectators crowded the streets as they too made their way toward the show. Tickets were sold out and Earl’s Court seated twenty thousand.

“Peasants. Commoners.” Pierre grimaced as he used his walking stick to shove a small man in pinstriped pants aside. “Commoners everywhere. I miss the good ole days when we didn’t have to mingle with the commoners just to go about our day.”

“Ah, but today we don’t have to worry that every third one of them might have the plague,” Jacques said with a laugh. “I don’t ever remember you complaining about common women.”

“The men are certainly more objectionable.” Pierre brandished his walking stick at a teenage boy who waved a newspaper for purchase too close. “Mustaches and damned bowler hats everywhere you look.” He made a sweeping gesture with his cane. “Look around. It’s a veritable, black, blunt sea of bowler hats.” He purposely knocked off the hat of the nearest man with his walking stick, then smiled falsely at the bald, offended man who had been wearing it. “Terribly sorry. My stick has a mind of its own.”

“Frequent problem for you,” Jacques muttered out of a sideways grin. He paused at a food cart and traded a few coins for a bag of roasted chestnuts.

Several women in nice but plain dresses approached them, waving pamphlets. Suffragettes. Three of them smiled invitingly at Jacques and the remaining two thrust their papers at Pierre’s chest.

“Women voting? What a bizarre idea!” Pierre laughed. Then, just to irk the women and help shoo them away, he added, “This is no way at all to go about getting a husband, dears.”

One of the feistier suffragettes handed Pierre’s brunette a pamphlet and told her scathingly, “Don’t let him seduce you. Marriage will make you nothing but his property.”

Pierre looked at Jacques and scoffed, “They think we want to marry them.”

“If you really want to keep the suffragettes away, just tell them about your brilliant investment ideas,” Jacques suggested wryly. “In only seconds, their eyes will glaze over and they will take flight like a covey of doves.”

“Look down that crooked nose of yours at my investments all you want.” Pierre gestured with his cane like a pointing finger. “But mark my words, the Zeppelin is going to make me a mint. I will accept your apology when you come begging me for money after you lose all yours on that ridiculous motorcar investment.”

As they neared the entrance to the exhibit hall, they passed a gallery of lithograph posters for the Wild West Show, each advertising a different act. Pierre paused to study a poster of Chief Sitting Bull, the legendary Sioux warrior, while the women debated whether the tall King of the Cowboys, Buck Taylor, was more handsome or the bright-eyed trick rider, Fearless George. Jacques was most excited to see Annie Oakley, the pint-size lady sharpshooter heralded as one of the finest shots in the world. Jacques stopped counting performers at twenty. The show was enormous. Even some of the animals in the show were famous enough to have their own posters, from Buffalo Bill’s famous horse, Old Charlie, to wild bison and elk who had been shipped across the sea, and a proclaimed flying black horse called Faust.

Pierre accosted at least another dozen people with his walking stick on the way to their seats. A private balcony booth awaited them, offering both privacy and an excellent view of the center of the ring below. One end of the ring was covered by a tent, like a big top, but its canvas was nondescript and sand-colored, covering about ten square yards of the area. Jacques thought it was odd, but he assumed it was for an act and his attention was quickly diverted elsewhere. They were close to the action, close enough to count the buttons on a man’s coat and clearly see his expression when he stood in the center of the arena. Jacques was very interested in watching the show. Unlike an opera he knew by heart or a play he had seen too many times to count, everything in the Wild West Show was new to him. It had been on his mind the last few decades to visit America – to see for himself all the cowboys and mountain men and wild horses that were ripe fodder for the Penny Dreadfuls – but he had yet to make the journey. He figured that tonight would serve to either turn him off the idea of gunslingers and rough riders, or whet his palette and leave him wanting more.

Because Pierre knew this, he refrained from sampling his women as he usually did for his own private preshow. Instead, they discussed the snippets of American West news that made it to them across the sea while Jacques largely ignored the ballerinas pawing at him on either side.

A young, pimply-faced usher came to their booth to see if they wanted any food or drink before the show. Jacques slipped the kid a whole pound, making the youth’s eyes wide and his smile dopey. With an air of secrecy and importance, Jacques told him, “These fine ladies’ husbands might not look kindly on our taking in an innocent show. I can trust you to tell us if you see any suspicious men nosing around near our booth or inquiring about us?”

“Of course, sir,” the usher promised eagerly and bowed awkwardly. “I’ll keep a sharp watch out.”

Jacques thanked him and Pierre spoke when the usher was gone, “Can’t be too careful these days. Is it just me, or are there more and more hunters after us every year?”

“They multiply like rats in a sewer,” Jacques agreed. “I blame all the free time this younger generation has. They don’t have to toil in the fields like they used to, so how do they occupy their time? Hunting vampires down like trophy stags.”

“Between bowler hats, women campaigning to have the vote, and vampire hunters, society is really going to Hell in a handbasket.” Pierre shook his head.

“Well, we do our part to keep the hunters’ numbers down.” Jacques grinned wickedly and tipped his glass toward Pierre.

“And we have such great fun doing so!” Pierre cheered him back just as an announcer’s voice boomed over a loudspeaker that the show was about to begin.

The crowd cheered when Buffalo Bill himself rode into the ring to greet the many Londoners who had come to see his show. The man was dressed as flamboyantly as an American wildman could be, wearing buckskins with draping fringe and thigh-high boots, and his horse wore a bridle and breast collar set with shining silver conchos. His brown horse, Old Charlie, was as famous a character as any of the other performers and rumored to have the intelligence of a man. Buffalo Bill rode into the center of the ring, jumped off Old Charlie, greeted the crowd and gave them a knightly bow. Remounting, he raced Old Charlie around the ring at a dead run, save for the closed off corner, to give the opening signal for the show to begin. As the horse circled round the ring, they were joined by other performers, all following Old Charlie until they were tantamount to a stampede. The Sioux, Cheyenne, and Arapahoe came out first after Buffalo Bill, a kaleidoscope of color in their feathered headdresses riding painted war horses and shouting whoops and war cries. Vaqueros from Mexico wearing sombreros and huge-roweled spurs followed, then the cowboys, all firing their six-shooters into the air. The cowboy band played the “Star Spangled Banner” as loudly as possible, trying to outdo the shouts and gunshots.

The opening was a wild scene to the Londoners, riling spectators to stand up in their seats and shout encouragement to the performers. The English had their own style of performance horsemanship, focused on control and refined power. Many had never seen this brand of American horsemanship that seemed to focus on wild abandon and unpredictability as they raced and bucked and kicked around the ring.

Jacques watched raptly, enjoying the wild spectacle. He cheered along with the rest of the crowd when Annie Oakley made her entrance and blew apart several dozen glass balls and clay pigeons thrown through the air by cowboys who rode around the ring at a gallop. She then shot playing cards flung in the air and even hit the bullseye while holding a rifle backwards over her shoulder, using a handheld mirror to aim and fire behind her. For her finale, she called her husband into the ring and shot a cigarette from between his lips.

“See the sort of things a husband must endure at the cruel hands of his wife?” Pierre said to Jacques. “Think better of it, my friend.”

“Yet the poor bastard keeps coming back for more,” Jacques said as he clapped for Annie. “Tells you the reward is greater than the punishment, doesn’t it?”

“My methods ensure a man is only on the rewarding end of women and never the punishing,” Pierre argued, stroking the thigh of his blonde. “I’m certain I can find you plenty of amiable distractions until you’re over this infatuation with your mystery woman.”

At Pierre’s suggestion, one ballerina began caressing Jacques’s thigh and the other trailed her nails down inside his collar. Jacques plucked their hands off him, frowning as he tried to watch the next act. “Good things come to those who wait, ladies.”

“Good God,” Pierre said mostly to himself. “It’s worse than I feared.” He elbowed Jacques in the ribs as a covered wagon was pulled into the ring by a team of eight horses, a dozen cowboys with lever action rifles covered it like spines on a hedgehog. “Where do we find this mystery woman of yours? If you must, I’ll help you fuck the taste of her out of your mouth and then we can fuck other women to get over her. Deal?”

“No.” Jacques grinned and added. “And if I knew where to find her, she’d be here with me now.”

Hot on the trail of the covered wagon was a troop of twenty bandits, all firing live rounds into the canvas wagon cover and near the horses’ hooves. The wagon driver whipped the team of horses into a run, making figure eights inside the ring as the bandits choused them. Both sides fired their rifles and pistols until the air was a haze of dust and gunpowder that stung the eyes and smelled of sulfur and horse sweat.

“Spectacular!” Pierre exclaimed, looking at Jacques.

“Makes me miss the days when I was the one riding out on the tournament field, lance in hand,” Jacques reminisced.

“I always envied the way you handled your lance,” Pierre remarked and pinched the brunette’s thigh to make her squeal.

When the covered wagon had triumphed over the bandits and the dust had settled, the announcer introduced the next performer. “Now that your blood is pumpin,’ raise the roof for our trick rider and one of the Wild West Show’s top all ‘round hands when it comes to ridin’ anything with four legs! Fearless George and Faust!”

An enormous jet-black horse shot into the ring at a dead run, mane and tail blowing out behind him like pennants. The horse was so large as to make the rider look tiny. Jacques wondered how the rider kept the cowboy hat on his head while riding at such a pace. The rider waved to the crowd and with apparent ease, hopped up to stand on the animal’s back as the horse continued to run. The rider was dressed in buckskin pants and a blue shirt, wearing a hat and gunbelt. Fearless George waved to those in front then turned and waved behind him, all while standing on Faust’s back as the horse ran. Still facing the horse’s tail, George dropped back into the saddle, riding backwards for another half turn around the ring. As easily as adjusting his seat on a bench, George twisted his body so he sat sideways in the saddle with his legs crossed demurely to wave to another side of the crowd. He flipped his legs over Faust’s rump again to face the opposite, cross his other leg and wave to the other side of the ring.

Faust still ran at a full gallop when Fearless George dropped from the saddle casually but kept hold of the metal pole that was fixed in the pommel in place of a saddle horn. George took a few bounding strides beside the horse, his feet barely touching the ground as he was carried along by Faust. Using the pole and Faust’s momentum, he bounded back up into the saddle with ease. Faust had now made several passes around the large ring, his black coat glossy with sweat. George pulled him into a sliding stop that threw clumps of dirt from the ring twenty feet out in front of his hooves and dug trenches behind as he skidded to a stop. Faust reared high, almost vertically, and pawed the air with his hooves. George waved to the crowd, but unlike Buffalo Bill and Annie Oakley, he did not remove his hat in a more formal greeting.

While this was happening, a few crewmen pulled a large wooden object into the center of the ring. It looked vaguely like a trebuchet, but Jacques recognized it as a quintain that was used in training for jousting. The large contraption was fitted with a shield painted with a bullseye on one end of a long swinging arm, the other side held a large heavy bag like a punching bag. To practice timing in the joust, a knight would have to strike the center of the shield, causing the arms to spin and the heavy bag to swing around towards the knight’s head from behind. If the knight didn’t have correct timing, the heavy bag would knock them off their horse. The crewman positioned other smaller shields around the ring, propped up on tall wooden posts like road signs.

The announcer told the crowd, “We have a new trick for you as a nod to the culture of our country and to yours.”

A very tall black-haired cowboy in a red shirt entered the ring holding a lance high. Fearless George spun Faust to face the cowboy and kicked him into a gallop. The cowboy threw the lance to George when he was close and George plucked it out of the air easily. Jacques suspected the lance was made of a light metal and was probably hollow. It would have been quite a feat for him to catch a solid wood lance midair with one hand and make it look simple. Fearless George did not have the build of a strong man and sat lightly on Faust while spinning the horse around again and positioning the lance.

The crowd cheered when George charged at the quintain, lance aimed across Faust’s neck. Even Jacques watched avidly, leaning forward in his seat with excitement. It had been ages since he’d seen anyone wield a lance properly. Faust arched his neck and picked his hooves high as he charged the target, looking every bit the destrier. George held the lance with a steady aim with the correct balance of firmness in the shoulder and give in the torso. He struck the target dead center, exploding the wooden shield and causing the quintain to swing around fast with the heavy bag. George dropped the lance and in the same fluid movement, flipped around in the saddle like he had done previously as he drew a pistol from its holster. Before the heavy bag could reach him, he fired a shot into it, bursting the bag also in a geyser of sand. The crowd hollered and Jacques laughed at the mix of weaponry, as George flipped back around in the saddle to face forward.

George put Faust’s reins in his teeth and filled his left hand with his other pistol. With a gun in each hand, he charged around the ring firing at the other shield targets that had been set out by the crewmen. George weaved Faust between the targets, firing left and right and filling the air with gunpowder and wooden splinters. It was a relatively simple feat of marksmanship for a competent shot, but the horsemanship was exceptional for Faust to comply with such a ruckus.

Pierre squinted his eyes to focus better when George passed near them during a turn around the ring and prodded Jacques again with his elbow, “Would you look at the ass on George? It’s enough to make a man forget he has an eager woman on each arm.”

Jacques laughed, but couldn’t help but stare. He didn’t share Pierre’s tastes in this regard, but he had to admit he had never seen an ass that enticing on a man before.

When George’s guns were empty and the targets obliterated, he guided Faust prancing back toward the center of the ring. Faust bowed deeply, going down on one knee and touching his nose to the ground. Fearless George gestured graciously, but again didn’t remove his hat. Faust stood back up from his bow and nodded his head at the crowd, seeming to approve of the deafening applause and shouts that filled the stadium. With a final high rear, George sent Faust prancing away out of the ring, swishing his tail haughtily.

“Now, we have a real treat for all you Brits!” the announcer boomed through the loudspeaker. “Following our fearless knight is our own king. That’s right, ladies and gentlemen. Make some noise for Buck Taylor, King of the Cowboys!”

The crowd cheered and hollered, boisterously enough to make Jacques’s ears ring. Pierre, too, winced from the sound. He leaned toward Jacques and screamed into his ear to make his joke heard, “What do you wager the American cowboy king has an even bigger gun than the rest of them?”

But instead of a gun, the King of the Cowboys burst into the ring on a grulla paint horse fuming in a full-blown, violent, buck. The horse stormed ahead, kicking and bucking and rearing, snorting steam like a dragon, black mane and tail whipping through the air. The man riding him was very tall with a thick mustache and long black hair that matched his horse’s mane. Both horse and rider had piercing blue eyes. His red shirt and red and white spotted chaps made from Axis deer hide clashed with the black, grey, and white of the horse and the dull dust in the ring. The man sat the horse easily, riding each buck and twist as though his horse was taking him for a leisurely trot in the pasture. He kept his right hand held high, not touching the saddle horn as he waved to the crowd. The horse squealed and bucked, twisting high into the air and flashing his white belly up to the sky. The cowboy hooted cheerily and spurred the horse when he landed, sending him into another angry fit of bucking and carousing. Horse and rider were fused together as wholly as a centaur, and nothing the horse tried no matter how frantic or vicious could unseat the man.

Pierre elbowed Jacques and smirked, “Look at this dandy! Long hair, garish attire, taking up entirely too much space and making himself the center of attention. Hardly the way a gentleman should present himself.”

“Good thing I’m never garish,” Jacques quipped as he watched the man. It was a rare man who was Jacques’s equal in stature and build, but this King of the Cowboys looked very close. He was handsome too. Jacques hated him instantly.

Eight seconds didn’t enter into this act. Buck Taylor rode the horse until the animal was too tired to buck anymore, and only had the energy to crowhop around the ring. The bucking had lasted the length of a full act as long as the others. When the horse slowed to a walk, sides heaving and foam dripping from his belly and mouth, the tall cowboy kicked one leg out of his stirrup and over the horse’s neck to easily step off his mount and land on the ground. Without missing a step, he walked toward the center of the ring, taking off his enormous cowboy hat to take a bow.

“I’ve never seen a horse buck so hard,” Pierre remarked. “The Yanks are going full-bore for us.”

“Clearly you don’t remember the time when my horse’s crupper whipped him in the flank,” Jacques scoffed and rubbed the hump in the bridge of his nose. “He bucked so hard, his crinet came lose and broke my nose.”

“Well then, I haven’t seen a horse buck so hard since the Battle of Poitiers,” Pierre laughed.

As the man straightened from his bow, Faust, the black horse from the previous act burst through the entry gate. This time he was riderless and bridleless, seemingly in command of himself as he galloped toward the cowboy. Buck turned to bow again to the other side of the ring and Faust slowed to a prancing trot. Neck arched and legs stepping high, the horse trotted up to Buck from behind. When Buck straightened from his second bow and raised his hat back toward his head, Faust bit the brim of the hat and yanked it out of the cowboy’s hand. The black horse jumped sideways when the man cursed and made a grab for the hat, and sped away in a long, elegant trot around the ring. Buck gave chase for a few steps before waving off the horse in frustrated resignation.

Faust looked back at the man and appeared to feel guilty for stealing his hat. He slowed to a walk, dropped his head in contrition, and ambled back to the man. Buck walked to meet the horse with his long arm outstretched, the large rowels on his spurs jingling. When the horse was almost within Buck’s reach, Faust yanked his head back, holding the hat up in the air like a prize, out of reach of even the tall man. The horse taunted the man, dipping the hat lower then jerking it back when the man made a grab for it.

A whistle sounded from the opposite side of the arena where a new gate had been opened. Faust wheeled around and galloped toward the whistler, hat still clenched in his teeth. The hat-stealing act had been a distraction, no one had paid attention to the woman entering the ring. A woman stood near the newly opened gate, dressed rather lewdly in only a gold bathing suit and leather booties. Her thighs and arms were bare, her lovely figure on display, and her hair loose, earning various gasps of shock and catcalls from the crowd.

At the other end of the ring, several crewmen pulled the canvas tent away from what it had covered during the show. A huge pool of water was revealed, an extra-deep diving pool. Jacques frowned in confusion, wondering at its purpose.

“Well, Folks, it looks like our trick rider has one more trick up her sleeve,” the announcer said. “George…” he let his voice trail away, then boomed louder, “George…ette. Georgette, the High-Flyer! Best ya’ll sittin’ close make sure you don’t get splashed.”

“By God!” Pierre laughed. “It’s a woman!”

“It’s her,” Jacques said quietly, almost to himself.

Pierre looked at him sideways. “Her her? What wretched luck. Well, there’s a legitimate chance she breaks her pretty neck in the next few moments.”

Only then did Jacques notice that the gate opened to a ramp near the pool. The ramp too had been covered with canvas and Jacques had taken it for nothing more than covered stairs to reach the higher seats. Now the canvas covering had been pulled away to reveal a long metal ramp, like a long livestock loading chute. It ran at a steep angle up for sixty-feet and opened to nothing but thin air high above the pool. Jacques had heard about the wildly dangerous American stunt of horse diving, but he never thought he would see it firsthand. Let alone, watch a woman carry his heart over a sixty-foot precipice with her on the back of a flying black horse.

Faust galloped toward Georgette, who looked very small and fragile compared to the enormous thundering animal. The hat dropped from Faust’s mouth and flew over his back to flutter in the dust behind him. Faust looked as if he would run right over Georgette, passing by her with only inches between their bodies and not slowing a stride. Georgette grabbed the long silver horn of the saddle and swung herself up onto the horse’s back with ease. Faust didn’t slow as he barreled into the shoot. It looked barely wide enough to accommodate the horse and woman’s bare legs on either side of him. Hooves drummed like a gatling gun up the metal ramp as Faust lunged up the steep incline. He charged as he reached the end, vaulting out into space like it was nothing more than clearing a low fence.

Jacques shot forward in his seat, all but leaning out over the rail as he watched the horse and woman dive through the air toward the cold, navy water far below. Faust’s mane and Georgett’s hair blew out behind them as they fell, Faust’s tail flowing behind him like a sail. The horse’s form was as fine as any professional diver, his body stretched long like an arrow with his front hooves tucked under his chest and his ears flattened against his neck. Georgette kept her seat on his back, clutching his mane tight. She tucked her head against his neck before they hit, burying her face in his mane.

They hit the water with a great splash, submerging entirely, and Jacques thought that both horse and woman must have broken their necks. While horses were usually fine during such stunts, it wasn’t uncommon for riders to break bones, including their necks, or blind themselves. To Jacques, it seemed like they took an eternity to surface. He sighed with relief when Faust erupted from the water, blowing water from his nose, and swam to the head of the pool where the bottom was ramped to allow the horse to trot out with Georgette still seated on his back. She whipped her head back, dramatically slinging the hair out of her face like a mermaid breaching the waves. She arched her back and waved to the crowd to a great chorus of cheers, shouts, and applause. Jacques was up on his feet, clapping harder than anyone and watching her every movement in that revealing gold swimsuit.

“All of us cowboys and cowgirls hope you have enjoyed our little Wild West Show!” the announcer called. “If you liked it, tell your friends! If you didn’t like it, tell your friends all the same!”

*******************************************************************************************

After her dive, Georgette only took the time to ensure her horse received a good petting and a treat from her hand before she handed him off to a groom and hurried to her dressing room. In those few minutes, she was shivering and her teeth chattering. The cold was biting in London this late in the year, made worse by the humidity, and she felt chilled to her bones. She wouldn’t have performed a dive this late in the season for any regular show, but this was a special occasion.

Thankfully, a tub filled with steaming water awaited her. While the rest of the crew hobnobbed with the Lords and Ladies who wanted to meet the genuine American roughnecks in person, Georgette lounged in the tub. She considered this a score on two fronts. She had a rare moment to relax while also avoiding the obligatory socializing the rest of the crew underwent. Her dressing room was tiny, barely large enough to accommodate the tub and a mirrored vanity. Several bouquets of flowers crowded the vanity with a few overflow bouquets propped in one corner. The steam from the water filled the little room with an opaque haze that smelled of roses and Parisian bath salts. It was Georgette’s most relaxed moment of the day.

The near-scalding water and rosy bubbles were usually enough to relax her muscles and quell her thoughts in a few minutes, but as she lounged in the bath, she felt the odd but unmistakable sensation of being watched. It was absurd inside the little room. There was certainly no place for anyone to hide. She closed her eyes, forcing her mind to more rational pursuits, and breathed deep. Sinking deeper into the water, she glimpsed a figure through her half-lidded eyes. She shot bolt upright in the tub, sloshing water over the side, ready to fight the towering shadow she saw in the corner. But of course, there was nothing there. She saw that now, with her eyes fully open. It was a trick of the haze through her half-closed eyes, perhaps combined with the general strangeness of being so far away from home. Shaking her head at her own foolishness, she relaxed back into the water.

She was interrupted again by a knock on her door, and a voice as smooth and warm as bourbon spoke to her from the other side.

“Begging your pardon, miss,” Jacques crooned, a grin audible on his words. “I wished to congratulate the star of the show, but a rather imperious groom told me that I had to have permission from his owner to give Faust an apple.”

“I’ll relay your adulation.” She smiled.

“I would also very much like to congratulate his rider,” Jacques said through the door.

“Is this how a gentleman approaches a lady?” she replied, glaring at the door. “I was told British men had more decorum.”

“I would be remiss to represent myself as a gentleman,” Jacques said in a huskier tone. “Furthermore, I have seen enough of you to know that you would not be frightened away by a little thing like a lack of decorum.”

“I could forgive your trespass of accosting me in the bath, but I do not look kindly on you attending my show flaunting a woman on each arm.” She settled back in the tub, refusing to look at the door even if he couldn’t see her small act of rejection. “Women I gather you’ve now abandoned to come here and stand insolently outside my door.”

He was silent for a moment and she added, “My spies are everywhere.”

“They are nothing more than aperitifs.” Jacques waved his hand dismissively. “Fleeting company for an evening. Certainly not the sort of women I would pursue across the city, and plead with through a locked door.”

“You’re very open about your actions with them,” she huffed with unveiled disgust.

“I do not wish to embark on a journey with a lie when it holds the promise of something lasting and genuine.” He leaned against the door. Even through the wood, her enticing scent carried to him, heavy on the steam.

“Your words are as fancy as your tailored suit,” she quipped. “I have no doubt you can slip into the role of a Cassanova as easily as you can don a topcoat. One is just as superficial as the other.”

“How would you have me prove otherwise?” Jacques spoke to the door, his prominent nose nearly grazing the wood. “Give me any task, milady. Anything you wish.”

“Were I to give you such a task, it would certainly not be something in which I thought you would excel.” She thought for a moment. “No, it would have to be something at which you are terrible. Something utterly demeaning and embarrassing.”

“Demeaning and embarrassing?” Jacques laughed. “Well, I’ll admit that’s a first. You can’t know what a rarity it is for me to experience something for the first time with anyone.”

“A first for a man like you?” she scoffed. “Oh, I’m sure you’re quite the blushing bride behind closed doors.”

“I could sing for you,” Jacques offered with a grin. “That would demean and embarrass me.”

“It’s obvious you’re very impressed with yourself, and no doubt used to impressing women with ease. I have no interest in any of your tactics you’ve employed on other ladies like so much unsuspecting prey.” She ran a soapy sponge down the side of her neck. “You must do for me something you have never done for any other women.”

“What privilege will that earn me?” he asked in a lower tone.

“The privilege of making me smile.” She smiled to herself. “What else would you possibly expect a lady to promise in return? I wonder at the species of harlot you must be accustomed to.”

“If you’re concerned about setting yourself apart, you already have,” Jacques crooned.

“I’m flattered, but that was not my concern,” she said flatly. “You’ve yet to set yourself apart to me. Aside from your pretty face and your brass, I’m waiting to be impressed.”

“I have a pretty face, do I?” He smirked. “I’ll try my best not to keep you wanting. Give me a proper chance, and I cannot fail to impress you.”

“Admittedly, I’m somewhat impressed you haven’t barged in here,” she laughed. “You seem to go and do as you please with little regard for decorum.”

“Says the woman who rides wild horses wearing nearly nothing. I do indeed go and do as I please. But while I put little stock in decorum, I am not so much a boor as to intrude upon the intimate ablutions of a lady without her permission.” He dropped his voice to his sultriest tone. “Do I have your permission to enter, mon cherie?”

A gruff voice interrupted from behind Jacques, “This man botherin’ you, Georgie?” The tall King of the Cowboys projected his voice loud enough to be easily heard through the door. He was possessive over Georgette in a way that made Jacques think he had a reason to be. It was almost enough to incite him to murder right then and there. Sadly, that would probably not be the best approach to win the woman’s affection.

“You seem rather comfortable entering a lady’s dressing room,” Jacques said instead, keeping his words relatively innocuous while flashing a rude sneer at the man to silently provoke him. It would be beautiful if the ruffian took a swing at Jacques and gave him the opening to respond in kind. Jacques noticed the cowboy wore a gold earring in one ear, giving him a piratical look. It took great restraint for Jacques to refrain from yanking it out.

Buck didn’t bite on the provocation. He grinned and put a hand-rolled cigarette between his lips. “Who says I ain’t got a good reason to be nice ‘n comfortable here?”

“Neither of you are entitled to feel comfortable in my dressing room,” Georgette reprimanded them both through the door. “Or haranguing me from outside my door, for that matter.”

“Where, then, shall I harangue you?” Jacques persisted, casting a side eye at the other man.

“You’re quite good at finding me,” she teased. “I’m sure you’ll connive yet another inconvenient opportunity to bother me.”

“I will, that’s a promise,” Jacques agreed and grinned wickedly at the cowboy. “Until then, darling.”

Jacques straightened and Buck bristled. Jacques was satisfied to see that he stood a fraction taller than the other man when his back was straight. Holding the cowboy’s blue stare, Jacques walked past him so close they almost brushed shoulders. He made his challenge clear and belligerent. What great sport it would be if the beastly American took the bait.

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The sights of London were almost overwhelming for someone from Colorado where a paved street was a novelty. Colorado Springs was one of the few towns with a modern brick street down the center of town. Georgette had ample experience with mountain lions and wild horses, miners and mountain men, and gunfights with two men walking out into the street and only one returning. But the sights of London were unlike anything she had experienced, they were fantastical to her. To see gas lamps illuminating shiny cobblestone streets well into the night, and even the occasional building lit with electric light. She was determined to see as much of the spectacular city as she could while she was there.

Georgette preferred to take in the city in the afternoons and into the evenings. The crowds were diminished during those hours and, more importantly, she wanted to minimize the risk of her being recognized. The best part of her act was her change from Fearless George the trick rider to Georgette the horse diver. It never failed to earn a riotous applause from the audience. Likewise, she didn’t ride out in town on Faust, although she would have preferred to, so he could not be recognized as the trick horse from the show who flies off the high dive platform.

The sun was sinking toward the Western horizon as she strolled down a lively street on her first day off after the remarkably successful weekend shows. Steely clouds crept across the sky, making the waning sunlight look like a bloody wound seeping through grey gauze, and the evening air was cool on her skin. She was not in the habit of wearing a bustle – in the American West, high fashion was still something of a novelty outside of the biggest cities. She had come prepared with fine dresses and accoutrements should the occasion call for it, but for her sightseeing outings, it was convenient to dress simply and it eased her movements. She kept a brisk pace with no bustle to hamper her and only a modest front-lacing corset that didn’t constrict her breathing.

Gas lamps lining the street had been freshly lit casting glimmering light on the city slick with foggy dew. Carriages trotted up and down the street filling the air with the cadence of hooves on stone and the vague smell of horse sweat and leather mingled with the damp smell of the city. Clothing stores displayed the most stylish fashion in their windows, but what caught Georgette’s eye was a striking lithograph poster advertising a magician show. She paused in front of the poster of Kylo the Malevolent, looking into the magician’s eyes that were penetrating even on poster stock. She was reminded of a short story she had read ages ago called Vampyre. She thought it would be nice to take in a magic show, or visit one of the famous cabinets of curiosities in the city.

The familiar sounds of the dwindling chatter of the evening carried on behind her, mixed with the clatter of horse’s hooves. One pair of clattering hooves grew louder, the horse coming close to her. The hooves stopped suddenly as she whipped around, startled. Georgette came face to face with the soft muzzle of a large dapple-grey horse, standing so close she could feel the heat of its breath. Seated on the animal was a large handsome man, grinning down at her devilishly with mischief gleaming in his vibrant eyes.

Jacques Le Gris tipped his head back to look up at the gloomy evening sky and held his gloved hand out as if to test for any rain. He returned his eyes to hers, grinned again, and told her, “A perfectly fine evening to harangue a lovely lady, is it not?”

“I already have my evening planned, I’m afraid,” she said coyly and continued walking down the sidewalk on her way.

Jacques kept his horse facing her as she walked, making the horse side-pass perfectly down the street with his front hooves inches from the sidewalk. He sat straight and poised in the saddle in the English style, his commands to the horse almost invisible. “You’re not the only one with tricks, mademoiselle.”

“Men and their tricks are almost always tiresome. If I wanted to see parlor tricks, I would take in the devious looking magician’s show,” she said dismissively as she walked ahead without sparing him a glance. “I believe I told you I would enjoy seeing you perform some embarrassing act for me? I would have been much more impressed if you had appeared riding a donkey with your laughably large feet dragging the ground.”

“You’ve not yet given me the chance to properly embarrass myself,” Jacques countered, still commanding his horse to prance sideways and keep him facing her as at ease as if he sat in his favorite chair. “I thought you might enjoy your conquest more if you were to embarrass me yourself.”

This piqued her interest, and she turned to cock a curious eyebrow at him.

“I took you for a lady who would want to seize victory herself,” Jacques said. “Anything less would be a pyrrhic victory, would it not?” He gestured down at his horse and gave his voice a teasingly haughty air. “You’re quite an impressive rider. For a woman. I wonder how you’d fare in a race against me.”

“Since I am afoot at present, you have me at a disadvantage,” she huffed.

“And if you were astride that black beast of yours?” he asked as his horse danced sideways, snorting impatiently.

“I’d wipe that smug grin off your face in less than a furlong,” she said without batting an eye.

Jacques had timed it perfectly because as Georgette finished her statement, she reached a cross street. Standing at the curb where the cab carriages usually waited for customers was Faust. Georgette stopped short, shocked to see her horse saddled in her western gear, his ears pricked forward to greet her. The foulest looking man she had ever seen held Faust’s reins – if such a deformed monstrosity could be called a man. The wretched creature looked like he had been plagued with leprosy, but that the disease might have improved his features.

“What the hell is this?” she asked angrily as she rushed to her horse and yanked the reins away from the loathsome man who looked at her with hazy black eyes. “Did you steal him? I hope you did, because if not, I’m going to skin that horrible little stable hand alive!”

“I had to bribe him so well, I am the man who is the victim of theft,” Jacques laughed. “Don’t be too hard on the stable hand. I can be more persuasive than most.”

“Persistent does not equate to persuasive,” she quipped, satisfied that her horse appeared fine.

“If you want to reprimand me,” Jacques smirked. “You’ll have to catch me.”

“What are you thinking?” she asked exasperatedly. “That I will just happily climb onto my horse after you stole him, and engage you in an impromptu race? While wearing a dress, I might add.”

“When you put it like that, I can see how it could be too much for you.” He grinned wider.

“Nothing you can throw my way is too much for me,” she scoffed at him and at herself for succumbing so easily to his provocation. Backing down from a challenge was not a form of restraint she had ever mastered, nor ever cared to. She glanced quickly down at her dress. It was not a split skirt designed for riding and she wore heeled boots instead of riding boots, an outfit entirely ill-suited for riding.

“I promise to keep my composure even if you’re risqué enough to hike your skirt up and expose your ankles,” he teased, looking pointedly at the hem of her dress.

“I don’t need to ride astride to best a braggart,” she said as she walked to the left side of her horse, preparing to mount.

“Do you need a hand?” he asked, edging his horse closer.

“Certainly not,” she huffed and swung herself up into the saddle. She kept her left foot in the stirrup and hooked her right over the saddle horn to sit in a makeshift sidesaddle. To ride astride, she would have had to pull her skirts up around her thighs, which was probably exactly what Jacques was hoping for and she would never give him the satisfaction. Glaring at Jaques, she smoothed her skirts primly, ensuring they draped down past her ankles and exposed no skin.

“I wasn’t expecting so much modesty from a woman who bares her legs in front of thousands of spectators to ride bareback and plunge into water,” Jacques teased, bringing his horse close to hers.

“We both know I’m safer exposed in front of a crowd of thousands than one dangerous man,” she returned, holding her horse in place as he pawed his front hoof in anticipation.

“Any danger within me is no threat to you,” Jacques told her seriously. “I would never harm you.”

“Neither my person nor my reputation?” she asked with raised eyebrows.

Jacques grinned and shrugged without answering.

“Just what I thought.” She smiled back. “I’m sure you have more tricks up your sleeve than that Magician on all the posters.”

“I do. He’s an amateur,” Jacques dropped his voice. “But if you wish to be awed, I’m sure I can think of something to accommodate you.” When she only replied with a bored expression, he cleared his throat and told her, “Hyde Park isn’t far. It has a nice dirt track running along its south side called Rotten Row. We can race around as many times as it takes you to win.”

“How boring,” she said dismissively. “I’ll race you to Rotten Row from here instead.” With that, she poked her horse in the shoulder and clicked her tongue in some practiced cue. Faust pinned his ears and struck out at Jacques’s horse like an angry cat, landing a painful bite to the other horse’s rump.

Jacques’s horse squealed indignantly and jumped forward like he had been rudely whipped. Georgette laughed and kicked Faust, sending him into a gallop in two powerful lunges. Jacques cursed his startled horse as he reined him back under control, then laughed deeply as he watched Georgette gallop away from him. Jacques kicked his horse, making him rear then jump into a run after his opponent. The horse slid when his front hooves struck the cobblestone with a riot of sparks, giving Georgette another few strides lead. Georgette cast a look back over her shoulder to see how far ahead she was and laughed heartily at her early lead. Jacques caught her eye and winked. His horse was powerful and used to races and steeplechase, and he gained ground fast.

The horses flew the length of a block in seconds, sending the ghostly evening mist swirling around their legs. In the second block, Jacques’s horse came even with Faust’s haunch as the beasts galloped against each other. Jacques was close enough that could have reached out and grabbed the hem of Georgette’s dress as it billowed behind her leg as she rode sidesaddle. An alley branched off the street on their left. Georgette could see little inside it but shadows in the lateness of the evening. When Faust came to the alley, Georgette reined him, forcing his back hooves to slide on the cobblestone as he sat back his haunches to make the tight turn.

“Do try to keep up!” Georgette shouted over her shoulder.

The alley was narrow, barely wide enough to accommodate a horse and rider. Jacques had to sit back on his reins and bring his horse into a skid to slow enough to make the turn, grinning as he did at having such fine sport. He did not have the masculine weakness of being unable to admit when he met a woman who was his equal or even his superior, albeit this was a rare occurrence. He was pleased and enthused to have met one now, at least when seated on the back of a horse. Georgette tucked her toes against Faust’s side, wary of them striking some protrusion she couldn’t see in the dark. Fortunately, horses have better night vision than humans and Faust avoided any obstacles in his path. Georgette barely saw the pile of crates that had been carelessly discarded in the alley until they were nearly upon them, but Faust gathered himself for the jump and soared over them with ease, landing without breaking the stride of his gallop.

Of course, vampires could see even better in the dark than horses. Jacques’s sight was equal to a wolf or panther or any other nocturnal beast. The pile of crates was as visible to him as white bones in the desert. He saw every detail of the black horse ahead of him and his beautiful rider. Even as his horse took the jump, Jacques’s eyes were fixed on the way Georgette kept a perfect seat and the lovely view he had of that seat devoid of a bustle.

“Bear right if you wish to keep your lead to Hyde Park!” Jacques boomed over the cadence of hoofbeats when Georgette reached the end of the alley.

The alley emptied onto a street through a business district lined with closed shops and nearly devoid of traffic as nightfall approached. One shop owner who was late in closing up glared at them through his window when the pair of horses thundered down the cobblestone in front of his door. Jacques’s horse was shod and the iron shoes sparked on the cobblestone making him look like a silver beast fueled by hellfire, snorting with every stride. A lone cab drawn by a single horse trotted down the street toward them. The horse startled when Jacques and Georgette each flew past him on opposite sides, and the driver cursed them and threw in their mothers for good measure.

Neck and neck, they barreled into Hyde Park. The pair of horses tore down the dirt track called Rotten Row, kicking up clods of dirt under their thundering hooves. Rotten Row was a popular lane for riders, but in the gloaming Jacques and Georgette were alone. Trees grew close on either side of the lane, their branches hanging close enough to grasp at them like witches’ claws. Both horses were large and powerful, not running fleetly like thoroughbreds, but charging ahead like destriers ridden by knights of old. As they neared a bend in the track, Jacques kicked his horse to get a small burst of additional speed. He swept his right hand through Georgette’s skirt and laughed as he passed her, surging into the turn just ahead of her.

Darkness had settled over them while they had raced through town and the stars winked down through the veil of clouds leaving them in shadows and the light spectral mist as they charged down the row.

A violent crack tore the soft belly out of the night, as sharp as the bite of a bullwhip, and the trees at their side thrashed into the lane like an army of living branches. Jacques’s horse buckled when he hit the rope strung across the lane, catapulting forward over his head and neck in a macabre somersault. And rolling over Jacques as he did. A rope attached to a mostly sawn-through tree was run across the lane, acting as a boobytrap to bring a tree down on top of a rider unlucky enough to hit it – if the rope didn’t behead him first.

A ton of tree trunk and barren branches as sharp as spears came crashing down on the crumpled mass of Jacques and his horse as they both thrashed and kicked painfully over the ground. The last sight Georgette had of Jacques was of his magnificent chest being crushed between his horse’s neck and the unforgiving ground as his horse rolled over him, and his flesh being lanced by branches before the tree crushed down upon both horse and rider.

Faust stopped on his own, not needing a command from his rider to dig his hooves into the dirt and slide to a stop before colliding with the fallen tree. It was fortunate Faust took care of himself and Georgette because she was paralyzed with horror, a scream trapped in her throat tight enough to strangle her. She vaguely registered noises in the trees on either side of her, but her mind was at once both reeling and numb. Faust stomped his hooves and shifted nervously as Georgette slid off his back and stumbled awkwardly on wavering legs. She clutched Faust’s reins in a shaking fist and her chest felt tighter than the most unforgiving corset. The tree that had crushed Jacques and his horse thrashed on the ground in front of her, no doubt from the wounded animal pinned beneath it. She didn’t want to get any closer to it or see what horror it had caused. But she had to help Jacques. Even if she knew he could not possibly walk away from such an accident, and likely not survive it.

Suddenly, the trees on either side of the lane erupted with dark snarling bodies bursting from them and charging at Georgette. A pack of large hounds leapt at her from the foliage, their teeth bared, snarling their intent. She recognized the roman noses and bristled fur that belonged to Irish Wolfhounds as they charged her and Faust. She heard the shouts of their master’s still inside the trees. The nearest dog leapt at her, teeth bared, and she whipped the reins she held across its eyes as she ducked sideways. The hound yelped and stumbled, missing his aim for her throat. A second dog caught her sleeve, growling as it tried to yank her to the ground. Faust struck out with his front hoof and hit the dog in the head, knocking its jaw slack. He reared and pawed down onto the hound’s neck, driving it into the ground and killing it instantly.

A pack of several dogs were digging at the fallen tree, braying and snarling like they were hot on the scent of their prey. Two dogs attacked Faust from behind, biting his heels and hocks in an attempt to cripple him. The horse kicked and bucked, inadvertently yanking Georgette off balance from her hold on the reins. One dog he kicked loose switched its attention to Georgette and jumped at her with open, bloody jaws. On instinct, she raised her arm in front of her face and felt the sharp crunching pain of the dog sinking its teeth into her forearm as the weight of the large hound knocked her backward onto the ground. The dog weighed as much as an average man and muscled her to her back on the ground with its weight. Despite the pain in her forearm, she wedged it deeper into the dog’s mouth, using it as a barrier between the ravening beast and her face.

It must only have been seconds since Jacques’s horse fell and the tree crushed them both, but time had dragged on as agonizingly as the pain spearing Georgette’s arm. Something broke out of the fallen tree with explosive force, like a lion breaking free of a wooden cage. Branches and splinters flew through the air like shrapnel and several dogs howled with fear and yelped with pain. Georgette could see nothing but the mottled fur and beady eyes of the dog above her, and then with sudden brute force, the dog was ripped away from her with a pained squeal and thrown across the lane as though it were a stuffed toy.

Jacques stood above her, his shoulders hunched in a fighting stance, wearing a snarl more ferocious than the hounds. His fists weren’t balled, his hands open instead, as if he was hoping to rip living bodies apart with them. There were tears in his jacket, across his back and shoulders, and his undershirt was scarlet with his own blood. Blood streaked his face and ran from his lips, but she didn’t see any obvious injuries. His eyes raced over her body, assessing her injuries quickly without diverting his attention from his attackers. One of the braver hounds lunged at Jacques’s face, but met with his hand as Jacques caught it in the air by its throat with his crushing fist. Another dog took the opening to jump onto his back, snapping down at the back of his neck and trying to paralyze him like a wounded animal. Growling with rage, Jacques shook the hound off his back and threw the hound he held by the throat into the other, sending them both careening over the ground and running away with terrified yelps.

Jacques stepped over Georgette, placing himself between her and whatever other danger still lurked in the trees. Though his movements were not frantic, he moved with unnatural quickness. He appeared to not even be hurried, yet the lines of him were blurred with his swiftness, like a striking viper. His eyes were narrowed and vicious, focused on something in the trees that Georgette couldn’t see. Slowly, he knelt beside her and took her arm. He didn’t spare the time to examine the dog bite as he pulled her up to her feet. Though she was perfectly capable of standing, walking, or anything else that was needed of her, Jacques lifted her into his arms and swung her up onto her horse. He placed her foot in her stirrup and let his hand linger on her calf.

“Run, darling,” he told her as he squeezed her leg. “Run out of the park. I’ll deal with them. They won’t catch you.”

“Who’s they?” she asked as she gathered her reins to control Faust as he danced nervously in place.

“I’ll come to you after I’ve handled this.” He didn’t answer her question.

Jacques turned to face the trees, shoulders bunched and teeth bared wolfishly. A growl rumbled in his thick chest, an inhuman sound that raised the hairs on Georgette’s neck. Faust reared in fright and tried to bolt away from Jacques, but she reined him back. The black horse kept his composure amid gunfire and battle, but he reared and spun in place now, rattled with such fear that his body quivered, his nostrils flared, and his eyes rolled until they showed white as he side-eyed Jacques. It unnerved Georgette to see that it was not the hounds nor the attack that had terrified her horse, but Jacques. Georgette saw it too, the way Jacques looked ravenous and bestial with his wild hair and predatory stance. His eyes were no longer amber, but glinted a lupine yellow, his lateral incisors had grown to points and his canines were long, sharpened fangs. Images flashed through Georgette’s mind, conjured from the tales and legends she had heard growing up in the Wild West – tales of skinwalkers and werewolves.

She didn’t have long to ponder it.

Something shot out of the trees faster than the eye could follow. With great swiftness, Jacques twisted sideways and caught the thing out of the air as it flew past his head. A steel arrow with brutally hooked barbs was trapped in his fist. Attached to the fletching was a steel chain that was drawn taught, leading back to a crossbow designed to hook its prey and drag it back to the hunter like a whaling harpoon. Jacques yanked the arrow and attached chain toward him, snarling with delight.

A shout came from the trees followed by the thrashing of foliage as Jacques dragged a man out of the brush like a salmon on a fishing line. The man still held his crossbow, trying futility to gain the upper hand with Jacques. Two other men charged out of the trees holding weapons unlike any Georgette had ever seen, something like snub-barreled shotguns with multiple, large-bore barrels. She didn’t hesitate. Georgette pulled her tiny pepperbox derringer from the garter on her thigh and fired two of its six barrels into the closest man, blowing his head apart like a ripe pumpkin. As the first man collapsed, blood spurting from the blown-open side of his face and empty, gaping eye socket, Georgette fired another round into the second man. The bullet flew straight into his open mouth and blew out the back of his head in chunky pink mist.

Both men were on the ground twitching in the second it took Jacques to reel in his attacker. Jacques whipped his hand across the man’s face, hooking his thumb under the man’s jawbone like hooking a fish, and violently ripped the poor bastard’s jaw completely off with one swipe. The man’s eyes bulged almost comically and his tongue twitched from side to side in a gaping bloody hole, free and confused without its seat in the jaw.

Still clutching the man’s detached jaw, Jacques held it at eye level and addressed it like Hamlet’s skull, “What else should I rip off your owner for attacking a lady and casting a pall over a rather promising evening?”

The man’s eyes widened impossibly further and a wet gargling screech hissed from the hole in his face when he guessed Jacques’s intent. Jacques flipped the jaw in his hand so the lower teeth faced outward and rammed it with all his brute strength into what remained of the man’s face. The man’s own lower teeth cut into the bridge of his nose and ruptured one of his eyes. As the man staggered backward, Jacques grabbed his lapels and yanked the man toward him. Jacques bent forward and attacked the man’s neck, tearing into it like a rabid beast and ripping the flesh of his throat apart.

Georgette had never seen such gruesome violence. She was unable to look away, her eyes still locked on Jacques when he turned to face her, his beard and chest coated in viscous, dripping blood. Faust trembled beneath her and the remaining wolfhounds brayed mournfully over their dead owners. The gun in her hand moved with a mind of its own as it drifted toward Jacques’s chest.

Jacques raised his bloody hands and grinned, flashing sharp canines shining scarlet. He approached her slowly, the way he would a frightened animal, and held out his right hand. “May I?” He gestured for her derringer.

Wordlessly, she handed him the little pistol. Whatever he was, Jacques had protected her, so she rationalized that she needn’t fear him. Jacques took the gun and walked back to the opposite side of the fallen tree. He knelt and stroked the dapple-grey neck of his horse, still trapped beneath the tree and breathing with difficulty. “Au revoir, mon ami,” he said with hoarse regret as he soothingly petted the horse’s neck with his left hand and fired a shot into its head to end its misery. He straightened and looked down at his horse for a long moment until he was sure no tears would breach his eyes before he walked back to Georgette.

Four wolfhounds still circled them, heads lowered, watching them warily. Jacques rolled his shoulders and growled at them more vicious and rumbling than any canine, so guttural his hair seemed to rise like the hair on the hounds’ backs. The hounds whimpered and dropped their heads in submission before backing away slowly and deferentially.

“I told you to run,” Jacques said with gravel in his voice when he again stood beside Faust.

“I don’t run scared. And I damn sure don’t follow orders,” she said firmly. “I’m sorry about your horse.”

“So am I.” He handed her the derringer and rested his hand on her thigh to comfort himself.

“Are you a werewolf?” she couldn’t help but ask.

“Christ, no!” Jacques spat, almost hissing as his hackled rose like a cat sprayed with water. “I will tell you on the ride home.”

“Home?” She frowned.

“I keep a home in town,” Jacques gestured at his blood-soaked clothing. “Imagine how the rumors will run rampant if I am seen looking like Jack the Ripper.”

Without waiting for an invitation, Jacques swung up onto Faust behind Georgette and looped his arms lightly around her waist. His breath was hot on her ear and smelled of coppery blood. Wet heat seeped through her clothing on her back from Jacques’s blood-soaked chest pressed against her.

“Is the blood yours or theirs?” she asked as she turned Faust away from the chaos.

“Mine, mostly. Felling a tree was a nice touch. New to me.” Jacques grinned mirthlessly. “It’s nothing to trouble yourself over.”

“I’ll find a doctor,” she said with concern.

“That won’t be necessary.” He tightened his hold around her waist. “My home is on Park Lane.”

“Tell me what exactly I just lived through tonight,” she said and kicked Faust into a canter.

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The home Jacques kept on Park Lane, dubbed Brook House, was grand and elegant, standing five stories above the carriages that trotted by on the cobblestone street. A footman in a sharp uniform rushed out to meet them as Georgette brought Faust to a stop at the front door. The footman looked up at Jacques with the same black haze in his eyes that the obscene valet possessed, and took Faust’s reins. Jacques dismounted with the flair Georgette had come to expect from him, his movement devoid of pain or injury. He offered her his hand to step down from her horse, then moved his hand to her waist possessively when she stood beside him. Jacques stopped her when Georgette made for the door to his home.

“If you come inside, I may never let you leave,” he said and tightened his hold on her waist. “I’ll have my carriage drive you home.”

“Don’t be absurd! You’re badly injured,” she protested. She was still digesting what Jacques had revealed to her about his nature during their ride to Brook House.

“Am I?” He grinned devilishly. “I would love nothing more than to feel your healing touch, but I will not have it under false pretenses.”

“Have you lost so much blood you’re delirious?” she scoffed, eyeing how his shirt was plastered to his chest with drying blood.

“See for yourself,” he purred as he leaned in closer and pulled the lapel of his jacket aside.

Tentatively, she reached to the top button of his white shirt and began unbuttoning it. The way he smirked at her uncertainty eliminated it, and she looked brazenly into his eyes as she deftly unbuttoned his shirt down to where it was tucked into his trousers. His pale skin shone red with blood, but she saw no injuries. She ran a hand over his chest to convince herself by touch what her eyes told her, feeling the thick ridges of warm muscle. It was as though he had just emerged unharmed from a bath of blood.

“I’ve done that too, in another life,” he teased. He brought his fingertips to her cheek and caressed her skin. “Your thoughts are loud when you worry. I hope this has put your mind at ease.”

“At ease is the wrong term,” she couldn’t help but laugh.

“It occurs to me I should have suggested a kiss from you would heal me a few moments ago,” he said huskily, leaning in slightly closer until only inches separated them.

Georgette tilted her chin up and smirked at him, challenging him to not only kiss her but to impress her. Jacques trailed his hand from her cheek down to her throat, letting it rest there and using his thumb to angle her chin as he wanted when he brought his lips to hers.

His plush lips were so much softer than she had imagined. He kissed her gently, his lips caressing hers with indulgent passion, making her body melt against his. It was she who parted her lips first, an invitation to deepen his kiss that Jacques hungrily took. The heat of his tongue seared through her entire body, and the heady masculine taste of him made her shudder pleasantly. His chest rumbled with his approval as his lips moved against hers. It was clear that he was a very skilled lover, so easily raising a rash of goosebumps down Georgette’s spine. When she finally pulled back from his kiss for breath, her eyelids were slow to flutter open and return her to reality.

“Your lips could raise a man from the dead.” He smiled down at her, swaying softly as he held her in his arms.

“Be more cautious in the future so they never have to.” She pulled him back down by his lapels to kiss him again.

“Ah, but you already have, ma belle dangereuse,” Jacques crooned, his voice rumbling thickly in his chest. “You’ve made my deadened heart beat so frantically I could dance to the rhythm.”

“And yet you want to send me away tonight?” she asked with a raised eyebrow.

“Unless you wish to stay forever,” he told her without a hint of teasing.

“I’ll think on it.” She did tease because he was too serious not to.

“While you do, join me for an intimate soiree at my dear friend’s home.” His nose was still so close to hers that she could feel the warmth of his breath on her skin.

“Will I have to fight a harem of women for a place on your arm?” She pulled back to watch his expression when he answered.

“Never,” Jacques assured her. “No one compares to you.”

“Surely, you must have as many lusting women hunting you as you do vampire hunters,” she said. “No doubt plenty of them would have my head on a spit as readily as a vampire hunter would yours.”

‘The number of those hunting me doesn’t matter.” He trailed a finger down her cheek. “There is only one I will let catch me.”

“What if I dispatched with any trespassing women with the same finality you did the hunters?” She smiled, looking up at him through thick eyelashes. “What if that’s how I expect you to deal with them so long as I keep your company?”

“If it piques your fancy.” Jacques grinned wickedly, flashing his pointed canines. “I do love a bloodthirsty woman.”

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Logistics regarding the soiree Georgette had agreed to attend with Jacques had not been discussed. It was a bit disheartening when she didn’t hear from the persistent man for days. She felt she should be worried, given the injuries she saw him sustain, but she also saw them heal. When a man had all the time in the world – and seemingly all the women – perhaps, he felt less urgency. She was not prone to pining and she felt her thoughts were unnaturally occupied with Jacques. Moreso, it was almost as though she could feel his presence in her mind when it was quiet; when she was in her bath or lying in bed. It felt like he was peering into the window of her mind like a voyeur trying to catch a glimpse of her skin.

She would have to ask him about that.

She had expected Jacques to initiate another run-in with her or an ostensible chance meeting that was obviously premeditated. Instead of surprising her in person, Jacques arranged for a package to be delivered to her room, surprising her by its presence on her bed when she returned one evening. A large box with a crimson ribbon beckoned her, quashing all the irritation she felt at someone breaking into her room. She tried to purge the image from her mind of that horrible creature, Carroughes, tromping around her things.

Sitting on the bed, Georgette ran her hand over the box, untied the ribbon, and lifted the lid. Gasping excitedly at the sight of its contents, she sprang back up from the bed and pulled her gift from the box. The finest scarlet fabric she had ever felt cascaded down from her fingertips, as she held aloft the most elegantly decadent gown she had ever seen. She couldn’t resist hugging the gown to her body and twirling. A small white card fell to the floor from its hiding place within the folds of the gown. Folding the dress carefully and returning it to the box, she bent to retrieve the card. Written upon it in graceful black calligraphy was a simple message.

My Belle Dangereuse,

Have this dress on by 7:00 tomorrow evening. Or have no dress on at all. The curtains in my carriage are impenetrable.

Your servant, Jacques.

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From her window Georgette saw a carriage drawn by a pair of prancing black horses arrive outside the hotel at 6:45pm. The carriage must belong to Jacques, with a coach in funerary black and black harnesses on the black team of horses. Silver accents on the carriage door, harnesses, and bridles glinted in the gas lamps that lined the street, and the curtains were black and silver brocade. Although she was fully dressed and coiffed, and had been for fifteen minutes, she wouldn’t let Jacques know that.

At five ‘til seven, Jacques stepped out of his carriage. The evening breeze ruffled his hair and made his tailcoat flutter around his long legs as he leaned his back against the coach, tapping his walking stick on the cobblestone. Georgette watched him through a slit in her curtains. He was dressed all in black, save for an ascot the same color as her dress, and looked particularly towering with his slim pants, long coat, and top hat. She decided to make him wait longer.

She walked outside at five after wearing the dress Jacques had gifted her, but barely any of the scarlet silk was visible beneath the long astrakhan-trimmed coat she wore. Jacques smiled broadly at the sight of her as he took off his hat and gave her a regal bow with a flourish of his coat. He opened the coach door and tossed his hat and walking stick inside while Georgette walked to him.

“Have you ever been to Switzerland?” Jacques asked, taking her hand and raising it to his lips.

“Is that where your coach is taking us?” she teased.

“I’ll take you there, or anywhere else, on your whim.” Jacques kissed her hand. “The air there is so clear that at night the starlight shimmers on the glaciers like diamonds and the moonlight makes everything glow. You’re beautiful in the same way, shimmering and glowing. A dancing light in the darkness.”

“Says the man who has never seen me dance.” She smirked. “Thank you for the dress.”

“It is thanks enough seeing you in it.” He kept hold of her hand, stroking his thumb over her skin.

“It fits suspiciously well,” she mused. “How did you get my measurements?”

“Would you rather hear that I have an eye for certain qualities, or that my spies are everywhere?” He grinned and guided her into the carriage.

The plush leather seats were rich oxblood and the interior was dark red velvet. The coach dipped when Jacques climbed inside and took his seat across from her. Sitting so close to her, Jacques could feel the heat from her body radiating inside the coach, hear every beat of her heart, savor the sweet scent of her. It was an exquisite form of torture, a sensory overload influencing his body to respond against his will. He crossed his legs, his movements slightly awkward inside the cabin that was made for a smaller man.

Grinning wolfishly, he flashed his vampiric canines at Georgette. The cadence of her heartbeat quickened at the sight and her pupils widened – signs imperceptible to a human, as was the way her scent changed subtly, tinged with a hint more invitation. Jacques’s grin bloomed into a full broad smile when he saw this confirmation that he had read her correctly. She liked the danger about him. Rather than being frightened, she was aroused by that part of him.

“Refreshments?” Jacques asked, reaching below the middle of the seat to pull out a concealed drawer filled with decanters, chocolates, and fruits. “I have scotch, wine, coffee, and tea, and a range of delicacies that pair well with each.”

“I’d best start with coffee and keep my wits about me as long as possible,” she teased. “It surprises me you have it here in the land of tea-drinkers.”

“I have not just any coffee.” He retrieved a pair of teacups and a decanter with contents as black and thick as molasses. “Turkish coffee.” He handed her a cup and poured the strong-smelling sludge into it. “My favorite.”

“It’s a bit presumptive for you to be scheming to keep me up all night so early in the evening.” She raised the cup to her nose. She had never smelled coffee so strong.

“My sinister schemes have no bounds.” Jacques grinned as he filled his own cup and returned the decanter to the drawer.

“Tell me about these plans,” she succeeded at sounding coy until she took a drink of the Turkish coffee and coughed as though she had downed a shot of whiskey. “My god!” she said as she wiped a tear from her eye. “This might keep me awake for the entire weekend.”

“Even better.” Jacques’s eyes crinkled at the edges with delight as he sipped from his cup. “At the risk of shocking you, I’ll warn you my schemes involve conversation and camaraderie. I’d like to learn more about you and reveal anything of me you wish to know.” He took another drink and winked at her. “No matter how sundry and salacious your request may be.”

“Spoken like a man who has all the time in the world.” Georgette’s next drink was invigorating now that she expected the strong bite of caffeine on her tongue.

“That I do, and I don’t want to waste a second of it.” Jacques fixed his unnerving eyes on hers, and Georgette thought their gleam was more citrine tonight, more firelight in them than amber. It was likely a trick of the gas lamps the carriage trotted past. His eyes danced when he added, “I aim to capture your heart before the sun rises.”

“Is that all?” she laughed and sipped her coffee, finding she now enjoyed it very much. “I admire a bold man.”

“I, too, admire boldness, which makes me defenseless against you.” His eyes shimmered, almost hypnotically, making her wonder if this was another vampiric talent. He pointedly looked away out of the carriage window before he began to lose hold on the bestial part of himself. When he returned his eyes to hers, they had mellowed to the color of whiskey. “Tell me what makes a beautiful woman want to live so dangerously? What compels you to travel the world in the company of rough men for these shows?”

“Your question presumes I don’t need to do any of those things to live a perfectly satisfying life.” She held out her cup for him to refill it. “I disagree. Most women I know want nothing more than to marry and start amassing a litter of children, which frankly, sounds like a prison sentence to me. I would like to marry one day, because I feel life is better when shared with someone, but there are limits to how tethered I will ever allow myself to be. There is much I want to do first, like this,” she gestured at the carriage window and the buildings passing by outside. “I want to see the world, and I can do that this way, by travelling for shows, and with relative safety and only a little scandal. Otherwise, to travel so, I would be at the mercy of a husband.”

“Fair enough,” Jacques agreed. “But what in all infernal hell compels you to ride that horse off a diving platform?”

“I enjoy it. There is no more to it than that, and there doesn’t have to be. One day, I’ll be too old to have adventures and danger, and all I’ll have is my story. I’m trying to live a good one.” She smiled sincerely and added, “One of my favorite writers said it best, ‘Ride, boldly ride.”

“’The Shade replied,’” Jacques added the next line for her, playing the role of the Shade. “I too am always searching for cities of gold, in a manner.”

“I’ve all but told you that what I fear most is a cage and infirmity,” she said somberly. “What thoughts trouble a man who never need fear such things?”

“Loneliness,” Jacques answered quickly and sincerely. “Facing the ages alone is a daunting prospect.”

“That doesn’t strike me as an insurmountable problem for you,” she laughed.

“More so than you think, cherie.” Jacques again opened the drawer and returned their empty cups inside. He uncovered a dish of fruits and chocolates, and plucked a pitted black cherry by its stem. “You’ll love the taste after coffee,” he crooned and held it to Georgette’s lips.

Although he sat across from her, Jacques was so large there was little space remaining between them when he offered her the cherry. Leaning tentatively forward, she took the cherry between her teeth, allowing her lips to brush his fingertip when she closed them around it. She closed her eyes in satisfaction at the burst of flavor that complimented the lingering taste of coffee. Jacques watched hungrily at the way her lovely throat moved when she swallowed and the way the cherry had left its stain on her lips. He couldn’t resist tasting them and captured her lips in a soft, savoring kiss. Georgette brought her hand to the back of his neck, her nails sending sparks down his spine. He almost lost control of himself when she wove her fingers into the hair at his collar and pulled him closer.

The world outside could have burned around them, the ground quaked beneath them, and Jacques couldn’t have been bothered to care. There was no world to him now but the intoxicating woman in his arms. Her scent and taste surrounded him, flowed over him and into him until he felt like he could drown in her. Moving his lips to the silken skin of her neck, Jacques moaned headily as he lavished her with kisses.

A rude jolt of the carriage sent Jacques lurching against Georgette, shoving her back against the seat with unintentional roughness. Fortunately, she laughed as the carriage rocked again and Jacques pushed himself off of her and back into his seat.

“Stupid bastard,” he snarled about his disfigured driver. Jacques reached for the window to shout at the man when he realized they had arrived and were parked near a portico framed by fat columns. He hadn’t noticed when the carriage had passed the imposing wrought iron gates and turned onto the long oak-lined driveway leading to the Georgian monstrosity that was Pierre’s London home.

Sitting back in his seat Jacques grinned a little sheepishly at Georgette. “I must tell my driver to slow the horses to a walk on our return. The drive passed too quickly.”

“Do you have enough cherries for a longer drive?” she teased as she smoothed her dress and hair.

“Plenty. I can spend hours eating a cherry,” he thrummed huskily and grinned.

*******************************************************************************************

Thousands of flickering lights inside the mansion made its myriad of windows shine like a burst of sunlight in the dark grounds. From its columns and ornate cornices to the statutes watching from stone corners and among lush hedges, manicured to precision, the estate was awash in opulence. The celebration inside gave its masonry glowing life.

Georgette looked out of the carriage window in awe. She had never been to such a grand estate, nor what promised to be an elegant ball. Excitement mingled with nervousness and an unusual shyness. This was not an experience many American westerners were prepared for. Her nerves would be calm and her hands steady if she were rousting a bear out of her grandfather’s cabin in Montana or inside a saloon with men drawing guns on each other or riding a horse at breakneck speed under a full moon. But dresses and dancing and dining under the strict code of English etiquette? It was enough to make a strong man quail in his boots.

“You’ll find no one here stands on formality. No one who matters anyway,” Jacques said soothingly, watching her with the lupine yellow again glinting in his eyes.

“We’re going to have to come to terms over you prodding my thoughts like this,” she said with mild embarrassment.

Jacques grinned and opened the carriage door. Georgette hadn’t noticed the footman patiently waiting outside. The man was apparently trained to wait for the carriage door to be opened from the inside so he did not disturb whatever might be happening in private. Jacques stepped down and whipped his long coat to the side as he donned his top hat, giving him the appearance of a magician on stage performing his act with flourish. He offered Georgette his hand as she exited the carriage then placed her hand in the crook of his arm as he led her to the grand entrance.

“There’s no need to be nervous.” Jacques leaned toward her and she felt his arm flex beneath her hand. “A lady on my arm is the guest of honor. Nothing else matters, nor does any other opinion.”

His comment had the effect of settling her nerves, but not for the reasons he hoped. Georgette felt a flush of anger and a tinge of jealousy at the thought of how many other young women must have made this walk before, treading on the swirled marble floor of the entrance hall on the arm of a handsome man – perhaps even this very same, centuries-old man – full of excitement and hope at what the evening may bring. Where were those women now? They had been as fleeting as a firefly lighting the night with its beauty for one instant only to be forgotten in the next.

“None of them were you,” Jacques said in his most alluring timbre, again holding a conversation with her inner thoughts.

“How many of them have you told that same thing?” she asked cynically.

“I cannot tell you none, but I assure you there have been very few.” He placed his free hand over hers, comforting and warm. “I do not believe there has been more than one woman a century who has truly captivated me as you have done.”

“What became of them?” She looked up at his angular profile, gauging his response. She was surprised to see a passing hint of pain.

“They made a choice, and it was not the one I’d hoped,” he answered cryptically.

“What choice is that?” she pressed.

“One that may soon be presented to you.” Jacques met her eyes and smiled warmly as he led her into the ballroom.

The ballroom glimmered in white and gold. The high ceiling was beautifully decorated with Georgian plasterwork, like sugary icing on a decadent cake, gilt accents glinting across it like stars in a frosted sky. Two pendulous crystal chandeliers sparkled with the light of hundreds of candles. Notes from a string orchestra carried through the room giving elegant couples a rhythm as they danced, men in mostly black paired with women dressed in a kaleidoscope of color.

Georgette took Jacques’s offered hand and smiled when she saw in his eyes a shared anticipation. His hand at her waist felt like a hot iron burning through her dress, making her skin tingle. When Jacques began twirling her to the Danse Macabre her corset felt too tight and her breath came short. She could feel the restrained power of him in every movement. His body seemed particularly large as he deftly led her in a dance across the ballroom, his skill and power making up for her lack of both. Their dance was not just a series of steps but a conversation between their bodies, an intimate exchange and a promise of what could pass between them. Each twirl and dip brought them closer, their bodies pressed together and their faces inches apart, their breaths mingling in the charged air.

At a quick appraisal, the ball was lavish, filled with beauty and romance. The longer Georgette watched the dancers, the more details she noticed. Details that made her skin prickle with something between excitement and a primal sort of fright. Pointed canines nipped at jawlines and dragged along the throats of dance partners. A few couples were actively engaged in biting each other in lewd displays that morbidly mirrored heated kissing. Claws traced lines over exposed skin, and some innocuous movements were too fast for Georgette’s eye to see. Most unsettling were the eyes. There were eyes colored blood red, bone white, and coal black. Retinas colored in tones usually only found in cadavers, eyed their partners hungrily. Some, like Jacques, had eyes that nearly glowed with vibrant color. Those were both the most striking and the most unnerving. A redheaded man watched her with eyes as orange as a sunset and a startlingly beautiful woman with rich violet eyes looked at Jacques from across the room. Georgette saw no other eyes with the enticing, predatory gold that glinted in Jacques’s.

Vampires. They mingled with the crowd, their numbers few compared to the humans, like a pack of wolves weaving through a herd of cattle.

Vignettes came to Georgette in a flash as bodies moved across the dance floor, hiding one couple engaged in an act of depravity as another was revealed.

A vampire, his glacial eyes as piercing as they were cold, held a young woman close, his lips trailing kisses along her neck before his fangs sank into her flesh. The woman’s gasp was one of bliss, her body arching into his as if seeking more of the exquisite pain. Nearby, another vampire, a striking figure with sterling silver hair, pressed his lips fervently to his partner's wrist, the crimson trickle of blood staining his mouth as he drank deeply. The vampiress with violet eyes dragged a pointed fingernail across her clavicle, releasing a drop of ruby blood. Keeping her eyes fixed seductively on Jacques, she collected the blood on her fingertip and licked it away. Jacques held Georgette tighter and bowed his head to trail his lips affectionately and possessively along her cheek.

“You’re safe here,” Jacques told her to put any distress at ease. “Pierre’s parties are friendly to all. Even if they were not, a vampire would squander the long years of his life by crossing me.”

“That’s a bold statement,” she laughed, but relaxed a little inside his arms.

“You happened to mention you fancy a bold man.” He winked at her.

“Only if his boldness is not misplaced.” She laughed.

“How do you judge me?” Jacques raised his eyebrows.

“I’m reserving judgment.” She ran his hand from his shoulder down over his chest.

Vampires and humans swirled together in a seductive waltz, their movements fluid, with an intoxicating, ethereal quality. Their partners, the humans, seemed entranced, their faces a mix of ecstasy and drunkenness as they succumbed to the allure of their immortal companions. The air seemed to shimmer with the quality often confined to dreams, and it was only because of her exposure to Jacques and the mental effects he could induce that Georgette realized it was a product of the combined hypnosis of the vampires there, creating a dreamlike state among the humans. She wondered then if Jacques was keeping her lucid, or if she had a tolerance simply by being aware of the phenomenon’s existence.

A boisterous laugh sounded through the throng of dancers. Georgette saw a flash of red among the crowd and Jacques scoffed with irritation. She recognized Buck Taylor easily, the second tallest man in the room wearing a bold red shirt. He danced with a diminutive woman, all but slinging her around the floor in his arms. Now that she watched the other dancers more closely Georgette recognized other men from the Wild West Show, most of them part of Buck’s Rough Riders.

“Pierre finds great amusement in your American cowboys,” Jacques explained with distaste.

“They can always be trusted to liven up an event.” Georgette saw that several men wore their gunbelts and revolvers peeking out from beneath their rented tailcoats. One of the bumbling cowboys bumped into an elegant vampiress. The pale vampire hissed at the tan cowboy, but he was too focused on his dance partner to notice. Georgette remarked, “I’ll bet your friends can liven things up too.”

“Pierre enjoys spectacle.” Jacques kept his attention on Georgette, unconcerned with the sights around them.

“Did you bring me here because I fit in with the spectacle?” she was only partially teasing.

Jacques shook his head subtly, rustling his long hair. “If this is a circus, you are the ringmaster and I am merely your dancing bear.” He grinned and twirled her unexpectedly, holding her tighter when he brought her back into his arms. As they moved across the floor, their bodies communicated in a language all their own. A subtle shift of Jacques's hand on her waist, the gentle pressure of Georgette's palm against his shoulder, the synchronized glide of their feet. Jacques brushed his lips against Georgette's skin, his breath warm and tantalizing as he savored her exquisite scent. The sound of blood coursing excitedly through her veins was as clear in Jacques’s ears as the orchestra, beating a rhythm to which he would never tire of dancing.

The haunting melody curled around Jacques and Georgette like mist rolling in with the evening breeze. The world seemed to fall away as Jacques's grip on Georgette tightened, pulling her closer. He lowered his head to capture her lips in a kiss that was both tender and consuming. Georgette felt the world around them blur into insignificance, her senses overwhelmed by the softness of his lips and the heady taste of him. Her fingers curled into his hair, pulling him closer as the kiss deepened, their movements growing more synchronized and passionate. Jacques's hands roamed her back, sending shivers down her spine, while her own hands explored the breadth of his strong shoulders.

Jacques’s chest swelled with pride when he pulled back from their kiss with a smile on his lips. He gave her another ebullient twirl. Georgette should have been equally buoyed, the emotion was certainly there. But there was something in the way so many unnatural eyes watched her; the way their fangs glinted when they grinned. The small hairs on the back of her neck prickled with unease. She had never felt herself weak or any semblance of a victim, but now she felt like a doe who had wandered into a den of wolves. Where there had been excitement minutes before, it was now tinged with trepidation. Jacques seemed wholly unaware and entirely absorbed in her alone. She wondered for a dark moment if it was an elaborate ruse to bring her here so he could have her at a disadvantage, but she couldn’t think that of him when he had been nothing but kind to her. He also had no need of placing her at a disadvantage to do anything he wanted to her, if he wanted to act brutish. She couldn’t pinpoint precisely what was amiss, unable to consciously articulate what piqued the primal part of her mind.

“Is it too much trouble to ask for some fresh air and a drink?” she asked instead, using thirst to explain why her mouth had gone dry.

“As you wish,” Jacques assured her.

Taking her hand, he raised it to his lips, keeping his gleaming eyes on hers as he placed a kiss on her skin. Many eyes watched them as they weaved through the crowded ballroom, giving Georgette another prickle of concern like panicky ants crawling up her spine. Buck Taylor watched too, watched her, his eyes narrowed. Buck could be jealous of her, although never enough for him to lay any official claims on her, but he had never been aggressive or mean spirited before. The sight of him unsettled her further so that she clutched Jacques’s hand.

Jacques led her to a grand staircase at the far end of the ballroom and up to the third story. A short walk down a hallway lined with oil paintings found them at a pair of doors opened to a large balcony. They walked to the stone balustrade, taking in the view of the gardens dappled with moonlight. Jacques rested his hand on the small of her back.

“I’m not accustomed to crowds so large.” Georgette inhaled the fresh night air then turned into Jacques, placing her hand on his chest. “Perhaps the drink would taste better someplace else. Take me away from this ruckus and let us enjoy a more private evening.”

A sound rumbled in Jacques’s chest, as if he had forced a groan back down into his gut before it escaped his throat, and his fingers dug into the fabric of her dress. “I didn’t bring you here tonight with that intention, but my god, darling, there’s nothing I want more.” He did groan now, remembering the obligation to his friend. “But first, I’d very much like for you to meet my friend and our host, Pierre. He must be, ah, occupied for a short time. Let me fetch you that drink and then we’ll reassess. One should never attempt anything amorous on a dry throat.”

He stole a lingering kiss then walked from the balcony in a brisk, long stride. Georgette leaned over the balustrade, breathing deep to try to steady her nerves. Cheery sounds of the ball carried to her and the night was beautifully serene. It didn’t help. Men she had known and traveled with for years were acting strangely and this mansion with its elegant veneer and sinister undertone had to be playing on her nerves. It would be irrational for such a set of circumstances not to. She realized too that the man she felt safest with and trusted most was the man she barely knew. She smiled when she heard footsteps approaching her across the balcony.

Her smile faded when she turned and faced a stranger.

An extraordinarily handsome man walked toward her, tall and muscular with dark hair and viper green eyes that gleamed like radium. Four sharp fangs flashed inside his dashing smile. He had the look of a lion stalking his prey when he approached her, gracile but powerful, the chilling, malicious smile only a façade to keep her from taking flight. There was nowhere for her to flee even if she wished it, unless she wanted to charge past him to the only door or fling herself over the balcony. And she didn’t run from fright.

“I had to see for myself what all the fuss was about,” the man said in a rich seductive voice. Meeting her at the railing, he leaned his hip against it and drummed short but pointed nails upon it, as he let his eyes openly travel her figure. “You’ve caused quite a stir in our little cloister.”

“It’s the dress, isn’t it?” she asked to make light, but she didn’t return his false smile.

“Le Gris hasn’t flaunted a human in a very long time,” the man said, a hint of menace dripping from his words. “He has his dalliances, as do we all, but such things are to be kept discreet. It’s frowned upon, you know. Humans are our hounds and cattle. You can see how taboo that makes it for us to entangle ourselves with a human. Let alone to openly cavort with one.”

“Does my standing alone on a balcony constitute cavorting?” she asked brusquely.

“I can smell him on you.” The man leaned too close, bringing his nose near her throat and inhaled lewdly. “As well as the perfume you’re wearing. Tuberose and jasmine. It pairs well with the scent of arousal you cannot hide from us, but clashes with the vanilla fragrance sprayed upon your dress by its maker. The scent left on the fabric by her aged fingers taints the ripeness of your skin.”

“You make my skin crawl.” She looked at him defiantly, a hair’s breadth away from pulling her derringer and firing a bullet into one of his venom green eyes.

“That is not all I could do to your skin.” He snatched her arm, yanking her to him as he brought her arm to his mouth. Georgette couldn’t twist her arm free from his iron grip, forced to watch with revulsion as the man licked the inside of her wrist.

“I, for one, have never had to capture a struggling woman to taste her,” Jacques’s voice boomed across the balcony from where he stood in the doorway. He held a glass of champagne in each hand and walked nonchalantly toward them. Only his aurous eyes, glinting murderously, betrayed the ferocity boiling inside him. “Do you not have a lady of your own to charm this evening, Slyvester?”

Slyvester kept his eyes on Jacques but spoke to Georgette, “Do you know that whomever of us bites you first will have claim to you forever? No matter where you go or how many years pass, or how many other lovers you take, you will carry our mark forever. Much like branding a horse is to you cowboys.”

“Just like branding a horse, it’s a good way for you to get kicked in the teeth,” Georgette spat.

Still holding Georgette’s arm brutally tight, Slyvester dragged it out until her arm was stretched out over the balustrade in a clear threat as he looked at Jacques. “You haven’t bestowed your curse upon her yet. Humans are so fragile, their lives so fleeting.”

Jacques’s lips curled in a snarl matching the menace in his voice, “Whereas it takes a great deal of violence to kill us.” His exposed fangs looked longer to Georgette than before, or perhaps it was the viciousness about him that enhanced his frightening appearance. “If you want to find out firsthand, I’ll accommodate you.”

“You’re past your prime, old man,” Slyvester said venomously. “You peaked during the Enlightenment.” His eyes drifted up toward a window another story above them. “Just like Pierre, you’ve grown content and weak.”

Without warning, Jacques lunged at Slyvester. His movement was almost too fast for Georgette to see – a blur of bared teeth, wicked eyes, and wild hair, shoulders bunched and black coat flapping around his huge body. Growling bestially, Jacques tackled the other vampire with jarring force, sending both men plunging over the balcony to the garden three stories below. Georgette gasped, helplessly watching them plummet. Horror slowed the moment for her, and it appeared to her that they fell in slow motion, clawing at each other and twisting in the air like angry cats.

The men hit the ground far below with bone-shattering force. Georgette leaned far over the balustrade, as if the few extra inches she gained would help her see better. On the ground, the men rolled over one another, a mass of frenzied punching and biting. Their growls and hisses and curses carried to Georgette, along with the sounds of flesh tearing under sharp nails and fists pummeling into meat.

Tearing herself from the rail, Georgette ran as fast as she could to the nearest staircase that would take her down to the garden where the men fought viciously.

*******************************************************************************************

Jacques fisted Sylvester’s lapels as he tackled him over the balustrade, holding the bastard beneath him as they fell. He ensured that Slyvester hit the ground on his back with Jacques landing on top of him, driving his fists down into the vampire’s flesh with all the force of his heavy body and gravity. Jacques felt Sylvester’s collarbones shatter and his shoulder blades beneath splinter – a minor injury for a rapidly-healing vampire. Sylvester squealed with rage and pain, thrashing beneath Jacques to unseat him.

Sharpened fingernails slashed across Jacques’s face, temporarily blinding him, and giving the other man a moment’s advantage. Bucking his hips and twisting his body, Slyvester knocked Jacques off and rolled up to his feet. Jacques immediately sprang up into a fighting stance, perfectly balanced, with his fists clenched tight. The ragged claw marks across Jacques’s face healed in seconds, leaving blood streaking down his cheek.

“Can you blame me?” Slyvester asked flippantly as he spat blood from his mouth. “She is enticing. For an appetizer.” He swiped a clawed hand at Jacques the way a boxer used a jab, to gauge distance and create space. “What does Pierre think of her? How is Pierre this evening?”

For the first time that evening, it concerned Jacques that he hadn’t yet seen Pierre. That Sylvester was remarking on it now meant something sinister was afoot. Slyvester shot out a low kick at Jacques’s knee. Jacques jerked his leg up enough for the kick to miss, then stomped his boot down on the front of Slyvester’s knee, digging the tread of his boot into flesh and peeling skin away from the vampire’s skin. Slyvester shrieked with pain as the bone crunched, but even this was little more than a nuisance to a vampire. Slyvester shook his injured leg once and when he returned it to the ground it was healed.

Jacques circled his opponent in another semblance to boxing. Slyvester held his hands high to guard his face. Jacques kept his fists lower but ready, inviting a strike at his face. He even leaned in, making his invitation sweeter. Slyvester took the bait, swiping viciously at Jacques’s face with all his force, putting his body into the blow. Jacques bobbed his head and shoulders to dodge the strike, his timing perfect, and caught the arm Slyvester was foolish enough to give him. Anchoring Slyvester’s wrist in his fist, Jacques slammed his opposite forearm into his enemy’s elbow, shattering the bone. In the same savage motion and with the same arm, Jacques whipped his hand to Slyvester’s face. His thumb caught under his enemy’s nose and his fingers dug into his far eye socket. With a cruel wrench of his hand, Jacques broke the man’s nose, ripped the flesh from his cheek, and popped his eye from its socket. Slyvester howled and fought against Jacques’s hold on his arm like a pheasant flapping in the jaws of a hound. The crippling blow had been executed in less than a second.

Slyvester’s eye dangled from its stringy optic nerve, looking like a bloody yellow string of snot connecting the bobbing eye to the empty bloody socket. Grinning evilly, Jacques snatched the eyeball, yanked it off its string with a pop and crushed it in his fist like a grape. “That won’t grow back.”

Mercilessly, Jacques planted his bloody hand on Slyvester’s shoulder as the crippled man howled in pain and outrage, scratching ineffectively at Jacques with his free hand. Using the arm he held as leverage, Jacques spun his opponent until he faced away and Jacques was able to bring his arm up behind his back, bent unnaturally like a chicken wing. With a brutal yank, Jacques forced the man’s arm far past the range of motion for the joint, wrenching the shoulder out of its socket with a sickeningly wet gurgle of tissue and bone scraping against bone. It was hardly more difficult for Jacques than pulling a drumstick from a roast turkey. Slyvester’s arm dangled limp and useless inside its sack of skin. It would heal quickly once the joint was realigned, but this was not easily and quickly done by a man inexperienced in such matters of field medics, and it would dangle like a tassel until then.

Now, one-eyed and effectively one-armed, Slyvester swayed on his feet and whimpered feebly. Blood, snot, and drool mingling in a dripping mess from his face. Jacques shoved him away, sending Sylvester stumbling. Jacques straightened and smoothed his lapels. He cast a glance at the huge bay windows that looked into the candlelit interior of the mansion. The sounds of the ball had grown louder and more raucous.

“You forget, mon ami,” Jacques snarled ruthlessly as he ran a hand through his wild hair. “I spent centuries at war. Hundred Year’s War, Byzantine Wars, Muscovite Wars, Hessian Wars, Napoleon’s War. I returned from the Transvaal less than a decade ago. War and women are all that have held my interest throughout the centuries.”

“I haven’t forgotten,” Slyvester sputtered. “It made you arrogant.” He grinned, showing a broken-off canine.

Jacques narrowed his eyes at this misplaced reaction.

A crash inside the mansion drew his attention. He jerked his head to the sound, but saw nothing inside the shimmering ball other than a flash of the expected horde of moving bodies. Something rustled on Jacques’s opposite side in the garden. A white streak shot out of the dark with great speed from among the hedges and flowers, aiming for his head. Jacques ducked and snatched the thing out of the air, realizing it was a rope when he clenched his fist around it. The rigid sort of latigo rope used by cowboys. Jacques’s hand instantly burned as if he had grabbed a red hot poker out of a fire, and his skin began to sizzle, filling the night air with the scent of burning skin and something metallic.

“Silver?” Jacques frowned as he sniffed the smoke rising from his palm to confirm his suspicion. Silver wouldn’t kill Jacques as it would a weaker vampire, but it burned like hell and it rendered many of his vampiric abilities impotent. Silver interwoven into a rope could render him as useless as a mortal. He didn’t release the rope despite the pain in his hand, and instead wrapped his fist around it multiple times to get a better grip and yanked the rope toward him, reeling in the man holding it. The flesh on Jacques’s hand burned and sizzled like steak on a grill, but the pain didn’t stop him. Another rope flew at him from his other side. He saw it just in time to catch it with his left hand, instantly scalding that palm too.

Just as Jacques realized Sylvester had been a ruse to lure him out into the garden alone, the bay windows exploded. Glass and iron framing shot out into the garden, stinging Jacques’s skin like angry wasps. A dozen vampires and humans burst out of the broken window in a frightened stampede, the humans screaming and vampires hissing. Hot on their heels was one of the cowboys, a man with a handlebar mustache and drawn pistol in hand. The cowboy aimed and fired at a male vampire Jacques recognized as one of Pierre’s acquaintances. The vampire seized when he was struck in the back, his mouth open in a rictus of pain. Other party goers ran around the injured vampire, too scared to care about him. The bullet didn’t exit the front of his chest and must have settled inside his ribcage, because his chest began to burn from the inside out. Charred flesh crept up from his collar up his throat to his jaw and over his face, until his features resembled a sizzling mummy.

Jacques watched, confused. Bullets didn’t have that effect on vampires. He’d been shot dozens of times to little more effect than a bee sting. In the few seconds he watched the bewildering scene unfold, he felt his great strength seeping away. The ropes in his hands felt like they were attached to Clydesdales instead of the men holding them, and he felt his arms being slowly drawn apart as his muscles quivered with fatigue. One of the men who had stepped out from his hiding place, approached Jacques with his gun drawn as he tried to get his rope back and take another shot at catching him in a more effective hold.

Handlebar Mustache stood just inside the broken window, one boot planted on the window frame. He trained his pistol on Jacques.

Jacques summoned a burst of strength from his faltering muscles and yanked the rope held by the closest cowboy. The cowboy stumbled toward Jacques, who dropped both ropes and grabbed the cowboy by the throat with lightning speed. Jacques spun the cowboy in front of him as a shield just as Handlebar Mustache fired at his chest. His strength was already returning as the bullet struck the cowboy in the chin, level with Jacques’s heart, and tore off his face. Jacques grabbed the man’s pistol and shoved his body away.

A woman staggered away from the melee inside the mansion, clutching a wound on her thigh that spurted blood in time with her pulse. She weaved in between Jacques and Handlebar Mustache, blocking his shot. In that same second another lasso shot at Jacques from behind, catching him around the neck and instantly cinching tight. Jacques choked as he was yanked backward off his feet and dragged across the ground, the gun in his hand bouncing wildly with no target in sight. He forced the fingers of his free hand in between his flesh and the rope that was choking him, burning through his throat, and leaching his strength all at once, as his back scraped over the ground. Twisting his head, he saw another cowboy mounted on a horse with the rope dallied around the saddle horn. The cowboy was trying to aim his pistol at Jacques’s head while his horse backed quickly away to keep tension on the rope as he was trained.

With a shaking hand, Jacques tried to aim his pistol at the man before his opponent could get a shot off. Jacques flinched when a shot crashed in his ears. But it was the mounted man’s head that burst open, sending a spray of pink chunks out from the side of his temple. The man slumped in the saddle and another shot rang across the garden, catching Handlebar Mustache in his open mouth as he shouted something that would never be heard.

Jacques’s eyes were blurry when he tried to aim his gun toward the gunfire. He could only see the hazy blood red outline of a woman walking swiftly toward him out of the shadows of the mansion. Georgette aimed over Jacques’s prostrate body and fired again, killing the other man who had roped him. His vision was clear enough to see the deadly focus in her eyes when she trained her tiny derringer dangerously close to his head. Her fourth shot burst in Jacques’s ears and the rope around his neck went slack with a twang.

Coughing violently, Jacques rolled over and pushed up to his hands and knees. He shoved the rope off over his head and breathed deep, feeling his strength return quickly. He got to his feet unsteadily and tucked the pistol into his waistband as Georgette ran to him. Grinning painfully at her he said hoarsely, “A woman of many talents.”

“That’s nothing,” she replied breathily. “I’m just glad I didn’t have to shoot another admirer down from the gallows before his neck snapped. That’s pressure, I tell you.”

She didn’t run to Jacques but to the horse who now stood nearby, riderless and panicky. Grabbing the reins, she paused to pet the animal, letting him know she meant him no harm. She called to Jacques over her shoulder, “You might hurry! I only had four shots, and you’re lucky I didn’t miss any of them.”

Georgette swung up into the saddle, keeping a tight hand on the reins so Jacques could clamber onto the horse as it shied from the mayhem surrounding them. Jacques had barely locked his arms around her waist when she kicked the horse into a gallop. He had to shout in her ear to be heard above the rattling gunfire and screams inside the mansion, and the horse’s drumming hoofbeats, “Here you were worried the vampires would cause trouble.”

“I recognized some of those cowboys,” she said as she brought the horse in a tight whirl around a circular fountain, using it for cover before charging down a lane between hedges. “They’re hired guns. Gunslingers.”

“Not amateurs either,” Jacques agreed. “Their weapons are rigged to target our weaknesses.”

“So then, it was a vampire causing problems. One of yours gave the gunslingers some inside information.” She cocked her head to the side to look at him. “Don’t worry, you won’t have to spend much time around me to learn I’m always right.”

“Sylvester must have made a deal with them,” Jacques gritted, his arm tightening around her waist. “Pigeon-livered bastard.”

“Lucky for you, the man isn’t alive who can catch me when I’m riding a horse.” She kicked the horse into a run down the hedgerow. For Georgette, the hedges were very dark, aside from the faint light that reached out from the mansion, casting strange angular shadows among the hedges. The fighting was centralized in the mansion, quickly fading behind them. With the start they had and a fast horse, they could easily ride to safety.

Jacques squeezed her and put his hand over hers on the reins. “I can’t ride away from a battle. And I have to find that damned harlot, Pierre, and keep him alive.” He pulled back on the reins from behind, slowing the horse. “I’ll get off here and go back. Keep riding until you’re safe. I promise I’ll find you before the sun rises.”

“Says the man who was just hogtied and bleeding into the grass,” she snapped angrily. “Just hold on.”

Sitting back in the stirrups and leaning back against Jacques’s chest, she pulled the horse into a sliding stop in the dewy grass. At the press of her heels, the horse wheeled around with catlike agility. Instead of dashing back down the hedgerow, Georgette aimed the horse straight at the hedge that separated them from the mansion. The horse sailed over the hedge with ease. Jacques grunted when the horse landed. Having no stirrups to support his weight, the seat of the saddle hammered him rudely in the crotch.

“If we vampires didn’t heal quickly, you might have just ruined one of my finer talents,” Jacques grumbled in her ear, trying to adjust his painful seat on the horse’s running hindquarters.

The lights of the mansion blasted her eyes like an explosion in the darkness, matching the chaos inside. Many windows were shot out or broken, and straggling guests, human and vampire alike, ran terrified from the broken windows and torn-off doors. Gunshots and screams had both dwindled, but as with any battle, the silence following was more grim.

“Tell me where to find your friend.” Georgette set her jaw, aiming the horse at the large, shattered bay window.

Jacques fumbled with the pistol in his waistband, clumsily checking the number of rounds in the cylinder. “Five shots.”

“Do you know how to use that Colt?” she asked as she tried to spy the part of the windows least covered with toothy shards of glass.

“I’ve never had much use for a revolver,” Jacques answered as he closed the cylinder and returned the gun to his belt.

“Wonderful.” Georgette kicked the horse when it balked at the window.

The animal had more sense than its rider – entering a broken window into a room that echoed with gunfire and smelled of blood, gunpowder, and fear seemed like a bad idea to any rational horse. Georgette yanked the reins when the horse tried to turn away from the window and kicked it again. Squealing in frustration, the horse reared in protest at the window then launched himself inside with enough gusto to clear a five-rail fence. Polished hardwood floors were slick as ice under a horse’s hooves, and the horse landed in a barely controlled skid. An unlucky cowboy running toward the window with his gun drawn was caught between the horse and the wall. The horse careened sideways into the man, crushing him against the wall and shattering his ribcage. Jacques gave him the coup de grace by kicking his heel harshly into the man’s temple. His body slid down the wall leaving a bloody smear. Jacques had to duck low to avoid the doorframe when they charged through the double doors of the ballroom.

The ballroom that shimmered with elegance and anticipation earlier was now mayhem, filled with the dead, the injured, and those who were still fighting, while bullets shot across the room. Gunsmoke hung in the air, mixing with the smell of blood and viscera. Broken shards of crystal littered the floor, twinkling especially bright where they sat in the scattered pools of blood. Bodies of vampires lay partially charred, still smoldering, contorted in agony, and humans lay broken and bleeding. A toppled candelabra had caught the dress of a dead woman on fire, leaving her body ablaze on the ballroom floor.

A cowboy trained his pistol on a vampire dashing toward the nearest doorway and fired. The vampire seized when the bullet caught him between the shoulder blades before his flesh began to sizzle then burst into flames across his back. A lady vampire with blazing blue eyes hissed like an angry cat at the cowboy as he fired a round that just missed her head. He fired again, the hammer falling on an empty chamber with a snap. Terror flashed across the cowboy’s face when he realized he was out of bullets, and he fumbled to quickly reload. The vampire launched herself at the cowboy, sinking her claws into his chest. He screamed until it was cut off abruptly as she tore his throat out with her teeth in a geyser of blood.

“What the hell is in those bullets?” Georgette asked, kicking the horse into a gallop across the ballroom. The horse vaulted over a pair of dead dancers, splintering the wood floor with his hooves when he landed.

“I’ll be damned if I know,” Jacques said in her ear. “More than silver. Silver was woven into that rope, and you saw what that will do. This is something else.”

“You better not get shot,” she told him. “If it doesn’t kill you, I’ll do it myself.”

“Indeed.” Jacques grinned and raised his hand in front of her, pointing at the large staircase. “If Pierre is anywhere inside, he’ll be in his favorite bedroom on the second floor.”

A cowboy standing near a wall fired a shot at them, just missing Georgette’s face. It passed so close she felt the air sizzle as it flew by her ear. Jacques aimed his pistol over Georgette’s shoulder and fired. The wood next to the cowboy’s head exploded, sending splinters stabbing into the side of the man’s face. Jacques had missed the man’s head by a foot, but his shot was lucky. Howling with pain, the cowboy clasped his ruined face. Georgette aimed her horse at the man and kicked hard, making the horse charge into the cowboy at a run. The horse plowed over the man, crushing him beneath pounding hooves.

“Save your bullets if you can’t shoot straight,” Georgette snapped at him.

Georgette made for the staircase, passing near the toppled candelabra where it lay across a woman’s burning corpse. As they ran past, Jacques shoved the pistol back in his belt and leaned far to the side, holding Georgette’s waist for balance as he reached toward the floor. Jacques grabbed the candelabra, twirling the long metal pole in his huge right hand as he righted himself behind Georgette.

“This suits me better,” he said with a laugh as he held the three-pronged end upright like a lance at the ready.

The horse took the stairs gamely, lunging up them like a hillside, taking four and five at a time as splinters flew up from the battered wood beneath his hooves. A cowboy rushed toward them at the top of the stairs. It took him an extra few seconds to decide where to aim at the strange spectacle of man and woman riding double on a horse bounding up the stairs. Jacques drew back his right arm and threw the candelabra like a javelin, flinging it ahead of the running horse and straight into the cowboy’s chest. The iron rod impaled the cowboy with its trident head with such force that it sent him stumbling backward, dead on his feet. As Jacques and Georgette rode past the man’s twitching body, Jacques plucked the candelabra from the man’s body where it stood upright like a pin in an entomology specimen.

The horse galloped toward the closed pair of doors at the far end of the hallway. Georgette wanted to charge straight through them, but the horse balked, sliding to a stop at the last second and whirling to the side. Cursing the animal, Georgette brought him alongside the door. Jacques kicked the door but it held fast, locked from the inside or even barricaded. Raucous voices could be heard inside the room beyond. Georgette spun the horse around until his rear faced the door. Jacques understood and smacked the horse hard on the rump. With an indignant squeal, the horse kicked back in response to the rude smack, kicking through the wooden doors as effectively as a battering ram.

Georgette kicked the horse to burst through the broken doors, scattering the people inside in every direction like a covey of quail bursting haphazardly from cover beneath the nose of a hunting hound. Women’s screams and men’s shouts filled the room along with the clamor of glasses dropped to the floor. Jacques aimed his candelabra lance as the horse ran inside, choosing a cluster of three men who loomed over a pair of frightened women. It angered him more to see all parties were mostly naked, thinking of what violent acts against the women he had interrupted. The trident tip hit the nearest man high in the chest and simultaneously the man beside him in the shoulder, finally thrusting through to the man behind, catching him in the guts. The charging horse forced the three skewered men backward, as they futilely screamed and flailed, until their backs collided with the latticed windows. With a final heave on the lance, Jacques shoved the three men out of the window to meet their death two stories below, impaled together. They made for a garden decoration that would have been the envy of Vlad Tepes.

Pierre was shouting something from a far corner of the room where he huddled with three women, naked and waving his arms wildly. Jacques paid him no mind beyond reassuring himself that his friend was still alive, albeit in some state of nude disarray. But that was not an uncommon state for Pierre.

Georgette brought the horse around to face the room, leaning low against his neck to shield her from any gunfire. Jacques jumped down from the horse, landing fully in balance and descending into a crouch in a fluid movement with feline agility. He assessed the room faster than a heartbeat. Two men stood in the corner near Pierre and his women, also mostly nude. One mostly dressed, very tall man stood alone by a large fireplace, fumbling to draw his gun from his gunbelt that was undone along with his trousers and flapping around his hips beneath the hem of his red shirt. Jacques sprang at the pair of men by Pierre, covering the room like a panther, his fangs likewise bared in a bestial snarl, eyes gleaming aurous and merciless. He caught the men before their sluggish human reflexes could avail them. Jacques’s right fist slammed into the nearest man’s teeth with inhuman strength and all the forgiveness of iron, nearly bursting through the back of the man’s skull and killing him as quickly as a bullet to the brain. With his left hand, Jacques caught the other man’s throat, digging his nails into the feeble flesh and ripping his throat out, severing arteries and tendons and windpipe all in one vicious motion.

Using his body to block Pierre and the shrieking women near him, Jacques straightened to face the one remaining cowboy. The tall man in the red shirt. Buck Taylor, the King of the Cowboys and, Jacques suspected, a rival for Georgette’s affection. The snarl on Jacques’s lips turned upward into a malicious sideways smirk. With Jacques’s heightened senses and hyper-fast reflexes, events inside the room seemed to move in slow motion. Georgette had aimed the horse at Buck, trying to run him down. Pierre was shouting something undoubtedly not worth listening to. Buck had retrieved his pistol from his gunbelt, drawing it on Jacques with the famous lightning-quick speed of an American gunfighter. Jacques drew his own pistol, fanning the hammer with his left hand to circulate a fresh round into the chamber as he simultaneously raised the gun with his right hand. Jacques fired when the front sight moved across Buck’s heart, a fraction of a second faster than Buck could finalize his aim.

The bullet caught Buck under his collarbone on his left side, an inch too high for a killing shot, but enough to send him reeling backward. He stumbled toward the broken window as Jacques fanned another round into his revolver and fired again, faster this time and more errant. The second bullet embedded itself in Buck’s hipbone, knocking him nearer the window. Following his momentum, Buck dove out of the broken window, taking his chances with the drop to the ground below instead of Jacques and his gun.

Jacques’s narrowed eyes followed Buck out of the window, the grin still on his lips at the prospect of the hunt. He stumbled when Pierre struck him hard in the back from behind and shouted angrily, “What in the hell are you doing, you raving madman!?”

“Huh?” Jacques sputtered dumbly, taken completely off guard. Confusion knotted his brows when he turned his head toward Pierre.

“Can you not be invited to any decent occasion without wreaking utter fucking mayhem?” Pierre seethed, spittle flying from his mouth, his chest blotchy red with waning arousal and mounting anger, his vampiric eyes gleaming deep mahogany. “This was the most promising evening I have arranged in years, and here you burst in like a goddamn lunatic? What are you thinking? And shooting? Why in the Nine Circles of Hell are you shooting inside my mansion!?”

Still holding the pistol, Jacques gestured from the broken window to Georgette to Pierre, his mouth gaping – a very rare event in which he was lost for words. Blinking through the confusion, he asked, “What exactly were you doing in here with those cowboys?”

“What was I doing?” Pierre laughed bitterly. “What does your towering intellect tell you?” He gestured at his nudity and his now unimpressive flaccidity. When Jacques still looked dumbfounded, Pierre continued with the same inflection he would use to speak to a very stupid child, “I had four cowboys in here – the biggest of the bunch of them, I might add – and not enough women to go around. The big one, Buck, is a fairly tolerable stand in for you. Since you have never agreed to have a properly fun and debauched evening with me, I have been forced to finagle it in other ways.” He stomped his foot petulantly, making his limp dick flop humorously against his thigh. “This is the nearest I’ve been to enjoying just such an evening, and this – this – is the pallor you cast over it!”

“Wait, wait, wait.” Jacques shook his head, his brow furrowed. Then he started to laugh. “You had the cowboys in here for a goddamn orgy?”

“It sounds so cheap and vulgar when you say it like that,” Pierre huffed. “Just because they’re beastly Americans, that’s no reason for you to be rude. It was going to be a marvelous evening. One for the books, I tell you!”

Georgette’s expression was a mixture of aghast and amused when she looked at Pierre, as if her features were unsure of which emotion to settle on. She kicked her leg over the horse’s neck and dropped to the floor. She looked at Jacques for guidance, but he was of no use at present, still dumbfounded himself.

“Did those men accompany you here to your bedroom?” Jacques wiped the back of his hand over his sweaty brow. “Have they been here all evening?”

“They came here in a raucous sort of hurry a short while ago.” Pierre was still so irritated, he hadn’t yet bothered finding his pants, as if he was still hopeful for the brand of action he wanted. “But then I convinced them – without much difficulty, I might add – that I could give them an evening far superior to any other they had planned.” He tapped his temple in a knowing gesture.

Jacques couldn’t stop the laughter that bellowed from his throat. “You seduced the fucking cowboys? Men come to kill you, and you seduce them. I bow to your superior skills of self-preservation.” Jacques did bow, low and mockingly, with a flippant flourish of his tailcoat.

“You’re stark raving mad.” Pierre planted his hands on his hips and looked accusatorily at Georgette. “Have you poisoned him?”

Jacques looked at Georgette too, his eyes luminous with laughing tears. “All vampires have unique gifts. Whereas I can be persuasive and intuitive, as you have seen, Pierre can seduce anything that walks, crawls, or brays.” Looking around the destroyed room he laughed again. “Or shoots six-guns and throws lariat ropes.”

“Hear the jealousy in his voice?” Pierre asked Georgette sardonically.

“Have you any notion of the destruction wrought upon your guests and your mansion?” Jacques asked, wiping a tear from his eye. “It’s utter havoc downstairs. Did you not hear the screams and the gunfire?”

“Still raving, I see.” Pierre threw his hands up, finally capitulating. He located a pair of pants and awkwardly pulled them on while still berating Jacques, “Since when have you become such a namby pamby about a little havoc? It was only two centuries ago that my castle was under siege, and you couldn’t be bothered to stop fucking that infernal redhead while the entire West wing and tower were blown to smithereens!”

“The cowboys you invited here tonight were hired guns, sent to dispose of us.” Jacques tried to purge the laughter from his voice. “Hired by that jealous little bastard, Slyvester, and no doubt led by another jealous bastard, Buck Taylor.”

“Ludicrous,” Pierre said adamantly as he searched for a shirt. He retrieved a white frilly one and pulled it halfway over his head before realizing it belonged to one of the women and was much too small.

Jacques flipped open the cylinder of the pistol he had used. There were still two rounds remaining and he pulled one out. Using his thumbnail, he dug into the soft lead tip of the bullet. A silky silver substance oozed out, glimmering in the candlelight. It was like piercing a cherry cordial housing sticky liquid inside a chocolate shell. Jacques wrinkled his nose at the scent of it and the tip of his thumb sizzled until he wiped it off on his trousers.

“Mercury,” he said with extreme distaste. “That does a number on us, let me tell you. You can see for yourself when you venture downstairs. Do you think your average American cowboy has mercury filled bullets?”

Pierre studied the silvery oozing bullet, frowning. “Well, if they were indeed mercenaries, they weren’t very good ones.”

“They were pretty damn good, actually,” Jacques said, laughing again. “But the murderous bastards weren’t prepared for being bamboozled by the biggest harlot on the continent.”

“It will take more than flattery to redeem you from this travesty,” Pierre crossed his arms over his chest. “Even if what you say is true, you could have had the decency to allow me to have my fun first before causing such destruction.” He looked at Georgette with something that might have been jealousy. “Especially since you get to have your fun with your American.”

“Are you not going to appraise the destruction downstairs?” Jacques asked incredulously.

“I have maids and butlers who are paid to deal with such nonsense.” Pierre waved his hand dismissively. He looked at Georgette and grinned. “For a cowgirl, she’s hardly bovine at all. Perhaps we can still salvage the evening.”

“I intend to salvage our evening.” Jacques winked at Georgette. “Preferably someplace less overflowing with mercury and orgies.”

“What a boring way to live.” Pierre shook his head.

*******************************************************************************************

The second time Jacques took Georgette to Brook House, his home on Park Lane, he didn’t waste a breath inviting her in. When his carriage rocked to a stop, Jacques swept her out of the coach, down his foyer, up a marvelous staircase and along hallways lined with artifacts gathered from the far reaches of the world. It was an impressive feat that she could spare a portion of her awareness for the magnificent artifacts filling Jacques’s home, even while anticipation and arousal coursed through her body and the hot weight of his hand pressed insistently on the small of her back, guiding her toward a night of excitement, perhaps filled with even more intensity than the vampire ball was fraught with death. She resolved to study these in detail and hear the story behind each tomorrow, or whenever it may be that she desired to leave Jacques’s bed. Upon further consideration, that might not be for days.

She smiled at the thought. Jacques must have intercepted her mental process because he laughed heartily, his voice booming down the long hallway. His hand at Georgette’s back snaked around her waist and he hoisted her off the ground with ease and slung her over his shoulder like a barbarian claiming his spoils of war. When he reached the doors at the end of the hallway, he shouldered into them then kicked them shut behind him, twirling with Georgette as he crossed the room toward the inviting canopy bed. Instead of dropping her onto it, Jacques returned her to the floor in front of a grand fireplace set into the wall adjacent to the bed. Dancing flames gave the room a sultry glow and made Jacques’s eyes gleam like honey.

Taking her hand, Jacques raised it to his lips in a softer overture than Georgette had expected. He fixed his eyes on hers as he slowly drew his lips higher, pressing them next against her inner wrist. She had never been kissed in that sensitive place nor with such delicacy. It was a simple action but it sent a flutter through her. The tip of Jacques’s nose rested on her skin and he inhaled her scent. The sheen in his eyes deepened until they shimmered with the same otherworldly aurous quality Georgette had only seen in them when he was looking at her desirously or ripping into living flesh.

“You want to bite me.” It was a statement because she could see the answer plainly.

“More than I’ve ever wanted any worldly pleasure,” Jacques purred. “But I won’t until you ask me.”

“Not tonight. Not yet,” she said but her voice wavered. “Worldly pleasures first, if you please.”

Jacques trailed his plush lips and coarse beard from her wrist up her inner arm, holding her eyes while his mouth caressed her skin. His next kiss was to the inside of her elbow as he raised her arm to rest her wrist on his shoulder. Georgette twined her fingers in the thick hair hanging down the back of his neck, pulling him closer. His lips relished their way up the length of her arm, pausing next on her shoulder with lips slightly parted so she felt the hot tease of his tongue. A shiver passed through her when his mouth reached her collarbone, and she laughed at her own sensitivity to his touch. Jacques grinned against her skin and lingered there for several kisses.

When he reached the base of her neck, his tongue met her skin before his lips and his hands dug harshly into her flesh. A guttural rumble rolled through his chest, a dark ravening brand of arousal. He felt impossibly large with his body pressed against her, looming over her to kiss her. The laces of her corset felt as if they had been tightened by an invisible hand and the luxurious silk of her dress felt as itchy as burlap on her skin. The thought of ripping the fine scarlet dress apart just to be free of it flashed through her mind.

Jacques ran his hands up from her hips, over her nipped waist, to the top of her bodice. He pulled back enough to give her a devilish grin. “I could rip this off as easily as tissue paper.” His forefinger teased her bosom above the bodice. “But you’ll think me a villain when your head clears. Women and clothes, you know.”

Instead, he turned her so her back faced him and ran his long fingers over her bare shoulders down the laced back of her dress. Jacques grabbed the top of the dress on either side of the laces and ripped it open as if it were nothing more than frail gauze, but causing no damage aside from the torn laces and a few warped hooks and eyes, several of which skittered away across the polished wood floor.

The small act of aggression loosened the tether on the wilder part of his nature that Jacques wanted to restrain during their first encounter. His hands turned more demanding, his mouth hungrier. He locked a strong arm around her waist from behind and kissed her nape as he hoisted her fully off the floor to extricate her from the thick pile of dress she stood inside. In the same fluid motion, he crossed to the bed and laid her on the thick duvet.

He was less considerate of her undergarments. Leaning over her, he ripped her corset open to the tune of tearing silk and snapping whalebone, making her laugh excitedly. He was gentler with her chemise in an effort to savor the moment, unwrapping a gift he’d earned with his blood. There was a simple bow at the top of her chemise, securing a decorative stitch along the neckline. Jacques bowed his head until the tip of his prominent nose pressed her skin and hooked his canine in a loop of the bow to pull it undone. Georgette smiled and arched into him, encouraging him. Jacques took the dip in the neckline between his teeth and, paired with his left hand, ripped the chemise open down the center. He nuzzled into her exposed breasts, kissing and licking the flesh that pillowed around his lips and nose.

“You have me at a disadvantage,” Georgette purred, pushing back lightly on Jacques shoulders. When he raised his head and looked at her with lusting but uncomprehending golden eyes, she tugged his scarlet cravat loose and pulled the silk out of his collar. “You’re overdressed for the occasion. It seems unfair that your clothing should meet with a more civilized fate than my poor corset.”

Jacques pulled back from her and stood from the bed. He shrugged out of his tailcoat and appraised his torn and very bloody shirt. Flashing his teeth in a grin, Jacques gave her the show she wanted and ripped his own shirt open with exaggerated flair, puffing out his enormous chest and shaking back his wild hair. His pants were brusquely discarded as his eyes roamed her body, devouring the sight of her before his hands and mouth would devour the feel and taste of her. He crawled over her slowly, kissing his way up her body starting on her thigh. He met her eyes when he reached her sex. Pushing her thighs apart, he licked a fat stripe up her center and kissed her pussy as indulgently as he had kissed her lips. Bringing a hand to her breast, Jacques rubbed his calloused palm over her nipple as he squeezed her supple flesh. The sensation made her back arch, offering him more. Jacques lavished her with his tongue until her thighs were quivering and she was writhing beneath him, dripping into the sheets. He continued up her body, kissing over her navel and breasts on his way to her throat.

Jacques allowed some of his heavy weight to settle on her, pinning her beneath him. He caressed her thigh as he lifted her leg back to hook over his hip. His thick cock teased her entrance when Jacques brought his lips to hers. He kissed her ravenously, swallowing her moan, as he thrust inside in one swift motion. With her arms wrapped around him, she could feel the powerful muscles in his back and shoulders flex and tense in time with the rhythm he set. She dragged a hand through his hair and fisted it at the back of his neck, using her grip to direct his head down to her neck. The feeling of his lips and tongue on her skin and pulse point combined with the dangerous knowledge of what he could do to her there was exhilarating.

Georgette held him tighter as she trembled with pleasure and his breath became hoarse, puffing on her neck like a locomotive. The orgasm that wracked through her left her almost delirious with pleasure. Jacques dutifully pounded her through it, thrusting hard, wringing all the pleasure he could out of her body. He came with a rumbling groan, his massive body shuddering. Breathing heavily, he relaxed over her, pleasantly crushing her into the duvet while he spent several minutes kissing her indulgently.

Rolling onto his back, Jacques pulled her to drape over him. That massive chest of his made for a wonderful pillow. His voice was rich and husky, “I warned you once that if you came inside my home, I would never let you leave.”

“Is that a threat or a promise?” she purred.

“What do you want it to be?” he teased, running his large hand over her hip and the dip in her waist.

“An invitation.” She pressed closer to him, relishing the feeling of the length of his hard body.

“Stay with me,” he dropped his voice to a smoky octave just above a whisper. “Stay forever.”

“Forever would require me to be a vampire.” She looked at him with a cocked eyebrow.

He lifted head to kiss her cheek and rumble in her ear, “Shall I make you one tonight? Say yes, ma belle.”

“What other vampiric weaknesses do I need to be aware of?” she asked, lazily trailing her fingers over the faint lines on his shoulders and chest left by the silver-woven rope. They were mostly healed now and look like they were weeks old instead of only hours. “Do you burst into flames at the sight of the cross?”

“Why would a cross have any effect on us?” he scoffed. “I’ve no doubt vampires existed long before crosses were considered holy.”

“Prior to meeting you, all I knew about vampires I learned from Penny Dreadfuls.” She shrugged.

“What else did you learn from those ridiculous tabloids?” HIs hand continued soothing and caressing her.

“That vampires have no reflection in a mirror,” she answered.

“Do I look like a man who cannot see himself in a mirror?” Jacques grinned.

“I’m bored with talk of vampires, and it feeds into your preening too much.” She propped herself up with her arms on his chest. “Far more interesting than vampires are werewolves.”

“Werewolves?” Jacques raised his eyebrows.

“The Penny Dreadfuls have a story about a pack of werewolves far up north in the Yukon.” She toyed with a tendril of his hair. “They like the cold.”

“Naturally.” He smirked. “It would be prudent for me to make you a vampire before you go werewolf hunting.”

“Perhaps if we were going werewolf hunting, I’d let you,” she returned then added wistfully, “I’ve always wanted to travel there.”

“For the werewolves?” he teased.

“The northern lights are said to be beautiful.” She ignored his flippant remarks. “My father believes there is gold there too, up in the Klondike. A few miners have struck gold in the Yukon.”

“Werewolves, northern lights, and gold?” Jacques raised his eyebrows. “You’ve sold me, mon amor. When shall we leave?”

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Tagging some buddies! @babbushka @in-silks-and-flesh-and-leather @mrszimmerman24 @mrs-gucci @iamburdened @gabesprincess @rynwritesstuff @candycanes19 @caillea @cas-backwards-tie @queeniebee @mythrielofsolitude @ghoulian13 @icarusinthesea @reyloaddict55 @heartlight-starlight @thepalaceofmelanie @reveluving @vedavan @reylokisses @queen-of-elves @kyloremus @vixenofcourse @napiersmirk @lumberjack00fantasies

#best #fic #my stuff!#my wiritng #victorian!kylo #vampire #halloween #cowboy

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