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yoursinisforgiven · 3 months ago

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TOGETHER, IN DEATH ──

pairing: laurence (xanthus) x reader (pet)

cw: story isn’t canon accratue (pet’s age), mentions of arranged marriages, mentions of death, laurence is implied to be somewhat older than the reader, unrequited love, takes place in the 1890’s, kissing, reader is lightly implied to be religious, reader is referred as sister maybe twice, mentions of blood, mentions of stabbing, mentions of war.

you are responsible for your own media consumption.

“Must I go?”

Clara asks, her voice barely more than a whisper, laden with a tremor that betrays her composed exterior.

“You’ll be beheaded if you don’t,” Mother replies, her words sharp and matter-of-fact, as if she were discussing the weather, though you know they are nothing but an exaggeration. You hope, at least. But even as the ridiculousness of her statement dances in the air like some cruel joke, you can feel the turmoil knotting in your stomach, tightening the air in your chest.

The marriage—oh, the marriage. Clara, your sister, your closest companion, is to be married to a man whose name you can barely recall. A man, a family, whose purpose in her life is to anchor her to the cold, unforgiving world of aristocracy, to pull her deeper into the muck of status, money, and pride. It feels as though she’s being sold, her hand offered like an auctioned prize for the benefit of the family name. It is all for position, all for reputation. No one cares about Clara’s heart.

You should speak up, shouldn’t you? You should defend her, shout at your mother, try to talk sense into her, tell her there’s more to life than these arrangements, that Clara deserves more than this cold transaction of familial duty. But you know, deep down, it would be a waste of breath.

You had never despised your mother—not truly. Heaven forbid. You knew why she was the way she was. You’d seen her transform in the months after Father’s passing, her grief masked by a hard resolve. Those bitter nights when she’d confide in you, speaking of her struggles, the weight of her decisions, the crushing pressure of a life spent balancing the delicate expectations of high society. She wanted the best, she’d say, for Clara—for you both. Or at least, what she saw as the best. To secure a future, a place in the world, where neither of you would want for anything.

It was admirable, in a way. But it also felt suffocating, as though Clara’s life was already written, her future sealed by the ink of family duty.

You stand slightly behind your mother, not quite by her side, but close enough to feel the oppressive air of her presence. The sound of Clara’s soft, barely audible sigh cuts through the tension, and you glance at her, sitting motionless as one of the maids fusses over her hair. There is something fragile about her in this moment, something that makes your chest tighten. Her dress, too, hangs on the wall, neatly pressed, its satin fabric gleaming in the soft morning light. You can already picture her in it—beautiful, of course. Clara would be beautiful in anything. The dress would fit her perfectly, as it was always meant to. But what good was beauty, you wonder, if it meant being confined to a life that was never truly hers?

Your gaze shifts back to your mother. She’s not looking at you now, her focus fixed on the maid who is trying, and failing, to tame Clara’s unruly locks. You can hear her sharp voice cutting through the silence, as she watches every movement like a hawk.

“Make sure her hair is perfect,” she commands, her tone demanding, but with an edge of impatience.

The maid, one of the more timid servants, fumbles with the strands of Clara’s hair, her hands shaking.

“You’re doing it the wrong way,” Mother snaps, her voice rising a little, irritation creeping in. “The braid should start lower, near the nape of her neck. Don’t you know anything?”

The maid hastily pulls the strands tighter, her fingers fumbling in a way that makes it clear she’s not used to such exacting standards.

“Move that strand there—yes, there,” Mother continues, her eyes narrowing as she inspects every inch of Clara’s hair like it were some prized possession rather than a simple, natural thing. “We can’t have her looking like a farm girl at a royal meeting, can we?”

Clara, bless her, doesn’t even flinch at the criticism. She sits still, her hands folded delicately in her lap, her expression distant. You wonder what she’s thinking in this moment—whether she’s already resigned herself to this fate or whether, like you, she still holds some tiny glimmer of hope that things might change.

But you know better. This is her reality now. And you can only watch, silent and helpless, as your mother continues her meticulous, relentless work, shaping Clara’s future with every pin she pushes into her hair.

──

What a lunkhead.

Though, in truth, the boy—who you had soon learned was named Laurence, had looked rather dashing at that moment, standing in the light of the setting sun as though the world had designed that moment just for him. His hair, the color of freshly harvested straw, caught the golden glow, gleaming like silk spun by the most skilled artisan. His posture, ever so carefully composed, was almost too perfect, as if he’d spent hours rehearsing it in front of a mirror. And that smile—bright, charming, and just a touch mischievous—seemed to have been crafted to make hearts flutter.

Yours, unfortunately, seemed determined to betray you, beating far too quickly for your liking. You glanced away, focusing instead on the lavish dinner table between you, its gleaming silver platters piled high with delicacies. Pheasant roasted to golden perfection, a crown of lamb adorned with sprigs of rosemary, and pastries so intricately decorated they resembled miniature works of art. The table was a riot of excess, every inch of it a testament to wealth and status.

And waste.

You knew with certainty that much of it would go untouched, left to spoil before being discarded without a second thought. You’d seen it happen time and again, the remains of feasts tossed carelessly to the alleys where flies and rats would claim them. You quietly prayed, as you always did, that the street merchants or the hungry children who wandered the edges of town might find their way to it first. It was a small, foolish hope, you knew, but it gave you some comfort to imagine that even the scraps of your world’s indulgence might serve some purpose.

Your gaze flicked back to him—Laurence, the lunkhead in question—who was seated across from you. He was laughing at something Clara had said, the sound rich and warm, effortlessly filling the space. His laugh was the kind that made people turn to look at him, drawn by its genuine charm. But beneath it, you could sense the faintest trace of effort, a carefully controlled performance designed to disarm and delight.

You resented him for it, just a little. Or perhaps you envied him—that easy way he had of fitting into any room, of making himself the center of attention without ever seeming to try. You, on the other hand, felt like a shadow in comparison, always watching, always observing, never quite belonging.

“Stop staring,” Clara whispered, leaning close enough that you could feel her breath against your ear. Her tone was teasing, her eyes dancing with mischief. “You’ll give yourself away.”

“I’m not staring,” you hissed back, your cheeks heating as you turned your attention to your plate. The porcelain was delicate, painted with intricate floral patterns, its edges trimmed with gold. You picked at the food absently, your appetite dulled by the weight of the evening.

──

“This is our eighth bedroom,” Laurence announced, his voice carrying through the cavernous space, bouncing off the high, vaulted ceilings. Though his tone was casual, almost bored, there was a faint lilt of pride beneath it, as though he couldn’t help but relish the grandeur of his family’s estate.

The room was vast, like the ones before it, with heavy velvet drapes framing tall windows that let in muted daylight. The walls were papered in deep burgundy, trimmed with intricate gold molding, and an enormous four-poster bed sat at the center, its canopy draped in silken fabric. The scent of polished wood and faint lavender lingered in the air.

His father, a rather plump, red-faced man with a penchant for barking orders, had delegated the task of showing you and Clara around the castle-like home to Laurence and a boy you assumed to be his younger brother. The two brothers couldn’t have been more different; where Laurence carried himself with a casual elegance that bordered on arrogance, the younger boy trailed behind like a shadow, his gaze fixed on the floor, his lips pressed tightly together as though he feared speaking would be his undoing.

You furrow your brows at Laurence’s words, the absurdity of them pulling your attention away from the sheer opulence of the room. Eight bedrooms? Your gaze flicks to Clara, hoping for some shared sense of incredulity, but she is thoroughly disengaged, her expression one of polite disinterest as she examined the hem of her dress rather than the grandeur surrounding her.

So, you speak. “Was the seventh not enough?”

Your words hang in the air for a moment, and Laurence turns to face you, one brow arching ever so slightly, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. His blue eyes—clear and sharp like the sky on a brisk winter morning—meet yours, and for a fleeting moment, you regret saying anything at all.

“Well,” he begins, his voice slow and deliberate, “one can never have too many bedrooms. What if we host a ball and all the guests decide to stay the night? Or perhaps Father wishes to expand our collection of unused rooms.”

His tone is teasing, but there’s an edge to it, a practiced flippancy that feels almost rehearsed. You wonder if he’s said something similar before, if this is the sort of conversation that repeats itself with every new visitor to their home.

“You’d think eight would be enough,” you reply, unable to stop yourself. “Or are you expecting an army?”

This earns a soft chuckle from him, and though you bristle at his amusement, there’s something undeniably pleasant about the sound. His younger brother looks up for the first time, his expression flickering with surprise before quickly returning to its former blankness.

Laurence steps toward one of the windows, gesturing grandly. “An army might find it quite comfortable here. Of course, they’d have to be careful not to scratch the floors. Mother would have a fit.”

His words are light, but you catch the briefest flicker of something else in his eyes—disdain, perhaps, or exhaustion. It’s hard to tell, and before you can think more on it, Clara finally speaks, her tone clipped and dismissive.

“Perhaps you should save the next bedroom for someone who actually needs it.”

It’s a bold statement, and though her gaze remains fixed on her dress, her words land like a challenge. Laurence’s smirk falters for a moment, and you feel a flicker of pride on her behalf.

“Well,” Laurence says after a beat, recovering smoothly, “if you’d like, we can skip the ninth bedroom. Or would you prefer to see the ballroom first?”

You roll your eyes, but there’s a strange warmth in your chest—a flicker of something you can’t quite name. Perhaps it’s the way Laurence handles himself, infuriating and charming in equal measure, or perhaps it’s the way the boy—this lunkhead—seems to be trying, in his own strange way, to impress you.

As you follow Laurence and his younger brother down the long, echoing corridor toward the ballroom, Clara’s exasperation begins to leak out. She rolls her eyes—not that the two boys ahead of you would notice—and then lets out an audible groan that ricochets off the polished stone walls.

“You have wine here, yes?” she quips, her voice sharp with impatience.

You whip your head toward her, eyes wide, disbelief etched into your features. “Clara!” you whisper-yell, horrified at her brazenness. The impropriety of it all! A lady requesting wine before the hour of dinner—and so directly, no less.

Laurence and his brother stop in their tracks and turn to face her. Laurence’s expression is unreadable, though you catch the subtle twitch of amusement at the corner of his mouth. Charles, on the other hand, looks completely thrown, his wide eyes darting from Clara to Laurence as though waiting for instruction.

Clara, undeterred, lifts her chin slightly, a faintly rebellious smile playing on her lips. “What? If I’m to endure another hour of ‘ooh, look at this room, isn’t it marvelous,’ I’ll need something to make it bearable.”

Laurence chuckles softly, the sound low and rich, and crosses his arms over his chest. “Well, far be it from me to deny a lady her comforts.” He turns to his brother, who is still frozen in place. “Charles, why don’t you take Clara to the drawing room and fetch her a glass of wine?”

Charles blinks, his mouth opening slightly as though to protest, but a quick glance at Laurence’s expectant expression shuts it again. He nods stiffly instead. “Of course,” he murmurs, his voice barely audible.

Clara doesn’t wait for further permission. She steps past you and toward Charles, a satisfied smirk tugging at her lips. “Shall we?” she says, gesturing for him to lead the way.

Charles hesitates, glancing back at Laurence, who gives a small nod of encouragement. With that, the younger boy turns on his heel and begins walking back down the corridor, Clara following closely behind.

You watch them retreat with a mix of disbelief and exasperation. “I can’t believe her,” you mutter under your breath, but you can’t deny a small flicker of admiration for her boldness.

Laurence, now standing a few steps ahead of you, lets out a quiet laugh. “Your sister is... spirited,” he says, his voice tinged with amusement.

“That’s one way to put it,” you reply dryly, falling into step beside him as the two of you continue toward the ballroom.

“Don’t think too harshly of her,” Laurence says after a moment. “In truth, I envy her honesty. Most people—present company excluded—are too afraid to say what they truly think.”

You glance at him, surprised by the sincerity in his tone. For a moment, his usual air of playful arrogance is replaced by something softer, more introspective. It catches you off guard, and you find yourself studying his profile—the sharp line of his jaw, the faint crease in his brow—as though seeing him for the first time.

“I’m not sure honesty is always the virtue people make it out to be,” you reply cautiously.

Laurence tilts his head, considering this. “Perhaps not. But it’s rare all the same. And I’ve always found rarity to be... fascinating.”

His words linger in the air as you reach the grand double doors to the ballroom. Two servants stand ready, pulling them open with practiced precision to reveal the sprawling space beyond. Your breath catches at the sight of it—the polished parquet floors gleaming like a mirror, the walls adorned with gilded moldings and frescoes depicting classical scenes, and an opulent chandelier dripping with crystals that caught the light like a thousand tiny stars.

Laurence steps inside and turns to face you, his expression unreadable but his eyes alight with something you can’t quite name. “What do you think?” he asks.

You hesitate, torn between awe at the splendor before you and the growing unease in your chest. “It’s beautiful,” you admit softly. “But it feels... excessive.”

Laurence smiles faintly, his gaze shifting to the chandelier above. “Yes,” he murmurs. “It does, doesn’t it?”

For a moment, you wonder if he’s mocking you, but the distant look in his eyes tells a different story—one that you can’t yet decipher.

You hesitate, sucking in a quiet breath before the words slip from your lips, soft but clear. “Would you like to dance?”

The question feels bold, almost reckless, and for a moment, the space between you seems to hold its breath. You can practically hear your mother’s voice in your head, scolding you for your forwardness. A lady does not invite a gentleman to dance—it’s simply not done. But here you are, and you refuse to take the words back.

Laurence blinks, his golden eyes widening slightly as though caught off guard. For a heartbeat, you wonder if you’ve made a mistake.

“Dance?” he repeats, his tone filled with a kind of bemused disbelief. He tilts his head, studying you with a faint smile tugging at his lips. “You do realize what you’re asking, don’t you?”

You arch a brow, feigning nonchalance despite the flutter in your chest. “It’s a ballroom, Mr. Laurence. Dancing seems rather fitting.”

He chuckles, the sound warm and unexpectedly intimate in the vast, echoing space of the room. “True, but most people who dance in ballrooms know what they’re doing. I’m afraid I don’t qualify.”

“Surely you’re exaggerating,” you reply, your curiosity piqued by the self-deprecating edge to his tone.

“Not in the slightest,” he says, shaking his head. “My waltz resembles a battle more than a dance, and I’ve left more than a few poor partners nursing their toes.”

You can’t help but laugh at the confession, imagining the usually composed Laurence fumbling his way through a waltz. It’s absurd and endearing all at once. “Well,” you say, stepping closer and extending your hand, “I’m willing to take that risk.”

He hesitates, glancing at your outstretched hand as though it’s some kind of puzzle. For a moment, you think he might refuse, but then he sighs—a quiet, almost resigned sound—and places his hand in yours. His touch is warm, his palm rougher than you expected, a detail that surprises you.

“You’re persistent,” he remarks, a trace of amusement in his voice.

“So I’ve been told,” you reply lightly, a smile tugging at your lips.

He follows your lead, and the two of you move to the center of the ballroom. The chandeliers above cast a soft golden glow over the polished parquet floor, and though there’s no music, the imagined strains of a waltz seem to fill the air.

Laurence places his hand on your waist with a kind of careful reverence, as though afraid to overstep, while your free hand rests lightly on his shoulder. For a moment, neither of you moves. His gaze flickers to yours, a hint of uncertainty in his expression.

“You’re doing fine,” you assure him, your voice gentle.

“Give it a moment,” he mutters, a faint smile ghosting over his lips.

You take the first step, guiding him into the rhythm. At first, his movements are stiff, his steps hesitant as though second-guessing every one. But as the seconds pass, he begins to relax, his posture softening as he follows your lead.

Then it happens—a misstep. He falters, and before he can recover, his foot comes down squarely on yours.

“Oh, blast,” he mutters, his cheeks flushing a deep crimson. “I told you this would happen.”

You bite back a laugh, the sting in your toes insignificant compared to the sight of his mortified expression. “It’s fine,” you say, though your tone betrays a hint of mischief.

Before he can apologize further, you lift your own foot and carefully press it down on his, mirroring his mistake with exaggerated precision.

Laurence stares at you, startled, before a laugh bursts from his lips. It’s a deep, rich sound that fills the room, warm and genuine. “Was that revenge?”

“Justice,” you reply with a grin, unable to suppress your own laughter.

He shakes his head, still chuckling, and resumes the stance. “Alright, let’s try again. But if I step on you this time, I fully expect retaliation.”

“Fair’s fair,” you agree, the playful edge in your voice making his smile widen.

This time, the dance feels different. The earlier awkwardness melts away, replaced by something softer, something lighter. You catch glimpses of his golden hair gleaming in the chandelier’s light, the faint shadow of a dimple when he smiles, the way his eyes crinkle at the corners when he laughs.

It’s not perfect—not by any means. There are still small stumbles and moments where the rhythm falters, but none of that seems to matter. The space between you feels warmer now, filled with laughter and the easy camaraderie of two people learning how to navigate each other’s world, one step at a time.

“What on earth is going on here?”

The voice of your mother cuts through the air like the sharp crack of a whip, startling you so much that you nearly stumble.

It isn’t just her voice that startles you—it’s the timing of it, the tone, the weight of disapproval that lingers even in her neutral phrases. For a fleeting moment, you stiffen, half-expecting her to march forward and pry you apart from Laurence as though you’d committed some unspeakable act.

Oddly enough, Laurence’s grip on your waist tightens. It’s subtle, almost imperceptible, but it’s there. Reassuring. Protective, perhaps. You glance up at him, half-expecting to see the same startled expression you’re wearing, but instead, he’s composed. Too composed. His jaw tightens, his golden gaze cool and steady as he turns slightly to face her.

He clears his throat, his voice measured and calm, carrying that noble edge you’ve come to expect from him. “I’ve asked Charles to show Clara to our break room,” he begins, each word deliberate, as though he’s carefully crafting a shield of propriety. “To see herself in a glass of—”

“Water!” you blurt out, cutting him off before he can finish the sentence.

The word leaves your mouth louder than you intended, echoing in the grand ballroom with an almost comical force. Your hands fly to your sides, as though you can somehow will the outburst back into your chest.

Your mother’s gaze snaps to you, her brow arching in that particular way that always managed to make you feel like a child caught sneaking biscuits before dinner. “Water?” she repeats, her tone heavy with disbelief and suspicion.

“Yes,” you say quickly, nodding far too enthusiastically. “Water. Clara mentioned earlier that she was feeling a bit faint with all the... excitement.” You gesture vaguely toward the empty ballroom, as though the mere thought of it might justify your claim.

Laurence shifts beside you, his lips twitching as though he’s fighting back a smirk. “Of course,” he says smoothly, stepping in before your mother can press further. “We wouldn’t want her to feel unwell.” His voice is steady, but there’s a flicker of amusement in his eyes, a shared secret that makes your cheeks warm.

Your mother doesn’t look convinced, her gaze darting between the two of you as though trying to unravel some hidden meaning. She takes a slow step forward, her skirts rustling softly against the polished floor. “I trust you’re not letting your attention stray too far from Clara’s well-being,” she says, her tone pointed.

“Never,” Laurence replies, dipping his head in a gesture of deference that would have seemed sincere if not for the faint glimmer of mischief in his eyes.

You suppress the urge to roll your own eyes, instead clasping your hands together and offering your mother your most innocent expression. “She’s in good hands, I assure you,” you say, hoping the words sound more convincing than they feel.

There’s a tense pause, the weight of your mother’s scrutiny pressing down on you like a leaden cloak. Then, finally, she nods, though her expression remains skeptical. “Very well,” she says, her tone clipped. “But do try to keep your... enthusiasm in check.”

“Yes, Mother,” you reply, forcing a smile even as your heart races.

As she turns and glides toward the far end of the room, her disapproving gaze still lingering over her shoulder, you let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

“Well,” Laurence murmurs, his voice low enough that only you can hear. “That was... bracing.”

You glance up at him, your lips twitching despite yourself. “You didn’t help,” you mutter, though there’s no real heat in your tone.

“Didn’t I?” he counters, his expression far too smug for your liking.

Before you can reply, the soft sound of Clara’s laughter drifts in from the adjoining hallway, accompanied by Charles’s animated voice. The moment feels lighter now, the tension dissipating like morning mist under the sun.

──

The day winds down in a blur, though you’re unsure how it managed to slip away so quickly. The grand halls of the estate seem softer now, bathed in the golden hues of the setting sun, the earlier tension dissolving into a strange, almost comfortable quiet.

You sit near the edge of a drawing room, Clara reclined on a fainting couch with a shawl draped over her shoulders, her posture far too casual for your mother’s liking, should she appear. Charles sits across from her, his hands folded neatly in his lap, his gaze drifting toward the floor more often than it meets anyone’s eyes.

It is Clara who breaks the silence, holding out her hand toward Charles with a faintly raised brow. “Well? Do you have one for me, or must I suffer the consequences?”

Charles blinks, startled from his thoughts, before reaching into his pocket and producing a small, crumpled peppermint. He hesitates for a moment, his fingers brushing against the wrapper as though unsure whether to actually hand it over.

Clara leans forward, plucking it from his hand with a conspiratorial smile. “Thank you, Charles. You’re quite the savior,” she says, tucking it into her palm with practiced ease.

You watch the exchange with mild amusement, your lips twitching upward. “Charming,” you mutter, just loud enough to be heard.

Charles’s ears turn a faint shade of pink, and he glances at you briefly before dropping his gaze again. Clara, ever perceptive, smirks. “He is, isn’t he? A quiet hero in the making,” she teases, unwrapping the peppermint and popping it into her mouth.

Laurence enters the room just then, his golden hair slightly disheveled as though he’s been running a hand through it. His sharp gaze sweeps over the scene, lingering for a moment on you before settling on his brother. “What’s this?” he asks, his tone light but curious.

“Charles has been most helpful,” Clara replies smoothly, leaning back against the fainting couch as though she has not a care in the world.

Laurence raises a brow, his lips twitching into a faint smile. “Helpful, was he?”

Charles shrinks slightly under his brother’s gaze, fidgeting with the hem of his sleeve. “She asked for a peppermint,” he mumbles, his voice barely above a whisper.

“And I shall treasure it,” Clara says with mock solemnity, her hand resting theatrically over her heart.

You stifle a laugh, earning a sidelong glance from Laurence. His expression is unreadable, though there’s something in his eyes—a flicker of amusement, perhaps, or approval. It’s gone as quickly as it appeared, leaving you to wonder if you imagined it.

As the evening stretches on, the room fills with quiet conversation. Laurence remains seated by the window, his presence steady but unobtrusive, while Charles listens more than he speaks, his quiet nature lending a grounding calm to the lively energy Clara brings. And though the day has been long and filled with its share of frustrations, you find yourself oddly content as the sun dips below the horizon, casting the room in soft shadows.

The hour of your departure arrives sooner than you’d like, and Laurence—accompanied by a quiet Charles—escorts you and Clara back down the grand staircase. The polished wood creaks faintly beneath the weight of so many feet, the sound oddly comforting amidst the low murmur of voices echoing through the halls. As you descend, you can’t help but glance sideways at Laurence, whose posture remains poised yet somehow unyielding, as if he carries the weight of far more than familial expectation on his shoulders.

At the foot of the stairs, their father awaits alongside your mother. His presence is as commanding as it was earlier, his plump figure encased in a finely tailored suit that strains at the seams. He exudes authority, his gaze sharp as it sweeps over the four of you. Your mother stands at his side, her expression neutral but her hands clasped tightly together in front of her—a telltale sign of her nerves.

You notice the absence of another figure, one you’d assumed would be present for such an occasion. Where is their mother? The question lingers in your mind, unanswered and strangely unsettling.

Their father speaks, his voice a booming presence that fills the space. “I trust you found the evening agreeable, Clara, and that my son has proven himself—” he pauses for effect, his gaze sharp as it lands on Laurence—“worthy.”

Clara tilts her head slightly, a fleeting hesitation crossing her face. For a moment, you wonder if she’ll fumble her response entirely, but then she forces a soft laugh, as delicate as a bell. “Oh, yes. He’s... charming.”

You resist the urge to groan, though the slight delay in her words makes you cringe inwardly. Their father, however, seems unbothered, nodding with a small grunt of approval.

Charles, standing just behind Laurence, mumbles a quiet farewell, his voice so soft you almost miss it. You glance toward him, catching the faintest flush on his cheeks as he averts his gaze.

Laurence steps forward next, but not before his father places a firm hand on his shoulder. The squeeze is subtle, almost imperceptible, but it’s enough to signal something unspoken between them. Laurence’s jaw tightens briefly, his composure unwavering as he moves to stand before Clara.

He bows slightly, his golden hair catching the light in a way that seems almost intentional. When he raises her hand to his lips, the gesture is fluid, elegant, but entirely detached. “It has been a pleasure,” he says, his voice low and steady.

Clara murmurs a polite response, but you hardly hear it. Your heart quickens as Laurence straightens, his hand still lingering on Clara’s for just a moment too long. Then, as if pulled by some invisible thread, his eyes lift—and find yours.

The moment is fleeting, no more than a second or two, but it feels like an eternity. His gaze is steady, unreadable, and yet it sends a rush of heat to your cheeks. You look away quickly, pretending to smooth a nonexistent wrinkle in your skirt. The knot of envy in your stomach tightens, bitter and sharp.

Outside, the cool evening air greets you as the carriage is readied. You keep your focus on the cobblestones beneath your feet, though you feel his presence behind you, lingering as he and Charles bid you and your family a final farewell.

As the horses stir and the carriage door is opened, you steal one last glance back. Laurence stands beside his father, his posture impeccable, but there’s something different now—a shadow of something unspoken in his expression. He watches as you step into the carriage, his gaze following for just a heartbeat longer than propriety might allow.

You look away again, swallowing hard against the unfamiliar sensation tightening your chest, and settle into your seat. The carriage begins to move, the creak of its wheels blending with the distant hum of evening crickets. Still, you can’t shake the memory of his eyes—steady, searching, and lingering far longer than they should have.

──

“I don’t love him, you know?” Clara’s voice breaks the quiet of the room, soft and almost hesitant, as if she’s unsure she should say the words aloud. You flinch involuntarily, the words striking something deep inside you, though you’re not quite sure what it is.

You glance up from the book in your lap, startled by the confession, and find Clara staring at her reflection in the mirror, her eyes distant as she adjusts the laces of her dress. The fabric of her gown rustles softly, a faint, almost imperceptible sound that seems to echo in the silence between you. Her pale hands, slender and graceful, hover over the delicate lacework, smoothing it out with a practiced touch.

For a long moment, you say nothing, absorbing her words in silence. You shift your gaze back toward the door, half-expecting your mother to appear, but the room remains empty. You sigh, relief and discomfort both settling in your chest. “She went to run some errands,” Clara mutters lightly, as though the absence of your mother is of no consequence.

The words, though soft, seem to hang in the air, weighty, as if they were meant for more than just idle conversation. You try not to let your mind wander too far, not to dwell on what Clara might be hinting at or why she would say such a thing now, of all times. But you can’t help it—the silence between you feels too heavy, too pregnant with things unsaid.

Clara turns her head slightly, her dark eyes meeting yours through the mirror. She doesn’t smile, but there’s a quiet understanding in her gaze, as though she knows what you’re thinking—though you’re not entirely sure you know what you’re thinking yourself.

“He’s... a good match,” Clara continues, her voice almost a whisper. “He has everything a woman is supposed to desire—a name, a title, wealth... But I don’t love him. Not the way I should.”

The confession, raw and unguarded, catches you off guard. Your throat tightens, and you can feel the weight of her words settle in your chest, a strange mix of sympathy and something else you can’t quite define.

You set your book aside, your fingers lingering on the pages for a moment before you lay it down. The room is dim, the light from the window casting long shadows over the floor, and the quiet hum of the house seems somehow more pronounced now.

“I know,” you finally say, the words slipping out before you can stop them. “I know you don’t.”

Clara’s gaze flickers to yours in the mirror, her expression unreadable. She says nothing for a long while, and you find yourself wondering just how much she’s willing to share, how much she’s willing to reveal of the turmoil she’s keeping hidden behind that calm, composed exterior.

“But you do, don’t you?” Clara's voice drips with a teasing edge, her lips curving into a subtle smirk as she watches you from the mirror. Her dark eyes glint with mischief, and the way she leans forward just slightly, as if to catch the truth in the very air between you, sends a flutter through your chest.

You slam your book shut with a sharp snap, the sound far louder than you intended in the quiet room, and turn to face her fully. Her gaze is unwavering, and for a moment, you wonder if she knows something you don’t. You swallow hard, trying to steady the quickening pace of your heartbeat. “I don’t,” you retort, your voice more forceful than you feel, “and had I... had I, it wouldn't be love. That’s absurd.”

The words feel strange as they leave your lips, almost as if you’re trying to convince yourself of something you haven’t quite accepted. You cross your arms, the delicate fabric of your sleeve brushing against your skin, and glance around the room. The faint scent of lavender from the bouquet near the window fills your senses, and the soft rustle of the curtains as a breeze slips through the open window does little to calm the storm of thoughts swirling in your mind.

Clara merely raises an eyebrow, her lips curling further in a half-smile, as though she finds your protest amusing. “Is it really? Or is it just inconvenient?”

You feel your cheeks flush, a warmth spreading through you that you can't quite explain. The way she looks at you—knowing, yet not—forces you to confront something you’ve been trying to ignore. The growing tension that has settled in your chest, as much a part of the room now as the antique furnishings and the faint tick of the grandfather clock, seems to press against you, urging you to say more, to admit something you’re not ready to confront.

You shift uncomfortably, wishing for a moment of silence to collect your thoughts, but Clara, ever observant, presses on. “You can deny it all you like,” she says, her tone light, almost sing-song, “but you know as well as I do, there’s something there. Something more than just the polite gestures, the occasional smiles, and those stolen glances that you think no one notices.”

Her words linger in the air, heavy with unspoken meaning. You try to push them away, to keep them at bay, but they cling to you like the velvet softness of the curtains against your skin. The room seems to close in, the walls pressing tighter and tighter with each passing second.

You want to argue, to deny it further, but something in Clara’s gaze keeps you rooted to the spot. The playful gleam in her eye, the way she seems to see through you, makes it hard to hold onto the defenses you’ve so carefully built. You’ve spent so long convincing yourself that what you feel is something else—an infatuation, a fleeting fancy—but deep down, you know Clara isn’t wrong. The truth is woven into the very fabric of the air between you, and it’s both suffocating and liberating all at once.

You open your mouth to speak, but your words falter. Instead, you look at her—really look at her—and the weight of it all becomes too much. The silence stretches between you, thick and heavy, until Clara finally breaks it with a soft laugh, her eyes softening just a fraction.

“You don’t need to say it,” she says, her voice gentler now, though the teasing tone still lingers. “I can see it in your eyes. You’re not fooling anyone.”

You stand there, caught between the desire to argue and the undeniable truth she’s laid bare. You feel as though you're walking a tightrope, one wrong step and everything will collapse. But for the first time, you aren’t entirely sure you want to stay balanced. The pull toward Laurence—however ridiculous, however inconvenient it may seem—is undeniable.

Clara lets the silence stretch on a little longer, her hands brushing over the delicate lace of her dress as if she’s considering something. Then, with a sigh, she turns back to the mirror, her reflection once again becoming the focus of her attention.

──

Two weeks had passed since your last visit to the grand estate, and this time, there was an unexpected sense of freedom in the air. You were unaccompanied by your mother, and though a small part of you felt the absence of her hovering presence, you pushed the thought aside. After all, her constant watchful gaze had been stifling, her scripted questions and incessant prodding had only served to make everything feel more like a performance than a genuine interaction. Now, with the pretense stripped away, there was a strange relief, but also a weight—the weight of truth.

Your eyes traced the lush garden that stretched out before you. The moment you stepped foot outside, you were hit with the scent of blooming flowers, a mixed fragrance that was both delicate and heady. The air was thick with the warmth of the afternoon sun, the garden itself a perfect reflection of the grandeur of the estate—a place where nature had been coaxed into a meticulous masterpiece. The stone pathways twisted elegantly through neatly trimmed hedges, leading you past clusters of vibrant flowers that seemed to burst from every corner, as though they were trying to outdo one another in color and size.

You paused as you wandered further, your eyes catching on a cluster of roses—deep, velvety reds and soft pinks, almost too perfect to be real. But among them, one particular rose caught your attention. It was a Juliet Rose, its soft peachy petals kissed with a delicate hue of gold, catching the sunlight in a way that made it almost glow. You bent down, the silk of your skirts brushing the ground as you leaned closer, entranced by its beauty. The petals, so soft and fragile, seemed to whisper a secret just beyond reach, and you couldn’t help but speak its name, “Juliet Rose,” you muttered softly to yourself, unaware of how your words lingered in the air.

“A fellow connoisseur?” Laurence’s voice broke through the quiet, smooth and rumbling behind you. You almost jumped at the suddenness of it, startled by his proximity. You hadn’t expected him to come so close, and instinctively, you straightened up, keeping your gaze fixed firmly on the rose, unwilling to meet his eyes.

There was something about him that unsettled you, something you couldn’t quite place. Perhaps it was the way he held himself—his confidence, his composure—like a man who was perfectly at ease with the world and everything in it. It irked you. You had never been one to easily admire someone who seemed to take everything for granted, who walked through life with such ease, as though he had no real worries. It made you want to push back, to challenge him. But you kept your thoughts to yourself, unwilling to let him know how much his presence bothered you.

You refused to acknowledge the memory that flashed in your mind—how, just days ago, you had watched him kiss Clara’s hand, the display of affection so scripted and obligatory that it nearly made you sick. It had been a mere formality, a token gesture, and yet, you couldn’t shake the image of it. You had been so disgusted by the sight that you had wiped your own hands clean, scrubbing them until your skin was raw, as though removing any trace of the moment would somehow absolve you from the feelings it stirred.

At that moment, you forced your eyes to drift over to Clara and Charles, who were deep in conversation by the stone bench beneath the large oak tree. The way they leaned in close, speaking in low murmurs, made you wonder just how much they had come to understand each other in such a short time. Clara, for all her teasing, had a way of easing into relationships—her charm could turn even the most reluctant men into allies, and Charles, so quiet and reserved, seemed to fall into her rhythm without effort. You couldn’t help but wonder how much of it was genuine and how much was a simple act for the sake of appearances. But you couldn’t focus on that now, not with Laurence so near. He soon says your name, pulling you from your thoughts.

You turn your head sharply, trying to hide the way your pulse quickens at the sound of Laurence's voice. His tone isn't mocking, like you might have expected. It isn't light or indifferent, either. No, there's something else there—a genuine concern, something foreign in the way he speaks to you. His eyes search your face with an intensity that you can’t escape, as if he's peering straight into the depths of your thoughts, unraveling everything you've worked so hard to conceal.

“I know I upset you—” His voice lingers in the air, thick with a hesitation that only deepens the knot in your chest. He doesn’t make any move to approach, standing a few feet away, but somehow his presence seems to draw closer.

You shake your head quickly, trying to push the uncomfortable feeling down. “I don’t care,” you respond sharply, hoping the edge in your voice will be enough to dissuade him from digging any deeper. “I have no reason to. You are to be engaged to Clara in five months’ time—it’s inevitable,” you add, your words falling out too quickly, too stiffly.

It’s a lie, of course. You can feel it—this weight of something unsaid hanging between you, and Laurence, with his strange, piercing gaze, seems to know it too. His lips twitch slightly as if he’s about to say something, but he holds back, studying you instead. You can see the cogs in his mind turning, working through the mess of emotions you so desperately try to bury.

For a moment, neither of you speaks. The air between you feels thick, heavy with tension that threatens to break. You try to look away, but your gaze betrays you, flicking towards him before hastily averting your eyes once more. Your heart hammers in your chest, the beat erratic as your thoughts spiral in a hundred different directions.

“Is that what you truly believe?” Laurence asks quietly, his voice softer than before, but still firm—like he’s challenging you to admit something you don’t want to face. There’s a flicker of something in his eyes, a quiet recognition that lingers there, even as his posture remains relaxed, his expression unreadable.

You stiffen at his words, irritation bubbling up to the surface. How dare he ask? You wonder, a surge of defensiveness rising in your chest. You open your mouth to retort, but the words stick in your throat, tangled with your emotions. You want to yell at him, to demand why he’s even pressing this point, when it doesn’t matter. It shouldn’t matter.

But instead, you only shrug, trying to make the gesture casual, as though it’s nothing. “What does it matter? You’ve made your choice, and Clara’s already been chosen for you,” you say, each word falling with a deliberate coldness you hope will shield you from whatever unspoken truth is lingering between you.

Laurence’s gaze softens, the corners of his mouth pulling down just slightly in a way you don’t fully understand. He steps forward, closing the distance just a little, but not enough to invade your space completely. “I don’t think it’s as simple as you’re making it sound,” he says carefully, his voice quieter now, almost hesitant. "I think you know that."

Your heart skips a beat. There’s something in the way he says it, something that makes you feel exposed, like he’s seen right through your carefully constructed walls. His words hang in the air between you, his understanding so palpable that it feels like a physical presence.

You quickly turn away, your fingers instinctively clutching the delicate lace of your dress as if it will anchor you. This was a mistake.

“Sister!”

The suddenness of Clara’s voice felt like a shock to your system, a welcome disruption to the tension that had built so thick between you and Laurence. You were grateful for it, even though you didn’t show it. You barely caught her words as she called out, her usual self-assured tone masking the underlying unease that had crept into her voice.

“Charles is seeing me to a glass of wine, I’ll be back soon!”

You nodded in acknowledgment, offering a small smile that felt more out of place than you intended. Clara barely noticed, already turning away, her footsteps light and quick as she disappeared around the corner with Charles in tow. A small part of you wanted to join them, to leave the scene behind, but the other part—an unspoken part—felt rooted to the spot, drawn inexplicably to Laurence’s presence.

You turned your gaze back to him, and your breath caught in your throat. There, in the soft golden light of the late afternoon, he stood before you, his expression unreadable, yet his eyes—those deep, piercing eyes—seemed to be peeling away the layers of defensiveness you’d wrapped yourself in. You wished you could turn away, pretend to ignore him, but you couldn’t. The air between you felt charged, like the quiet hum just before a storm.

And then, as though the words had been waiting on the edge of his lips, Laurence spoke. His voice was low, almost hushed, as if he were afraid of the weight of his own admission.

“You’re beautiful,” he said, and the words lingered in the space between you for a long moment. The simplicity of the statement took you off guard, yet something in his tone made them feel more significant than they should have been. “This is the closest I’ve been to you.”

You couldn’t help the way your chest tightened at his words. The way he said it—it wasn’t just a compliment, wasn’t just an observation—it was an acknowledgment. It wasn’t the kind of thing he would say lightly, not in the midst of such an awkward, strained interaction. It was as though, in that moment, he was seeing you in a way he hadn’t before, a way that made the distance between you feel both comforting and unbearable.

You felt your cheeks flush, the heat creeping up your neck, and you quickly looked away, focusing instead on the path that lay before you, the uneven cobblestones of the garden walk. But you couldn’t ignore the way his gaze lingered on you, or the way the words he had spoken seemed to echo in your mind. The rustling of the leaves in the breeze felt distant now, as though the garden itself had quieted in anticipation of whatever was about to come next.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The silence stretched thin, but it wasn’t uncomfortable—no, not entirely. There was something in the way Laurence stood, just a step closer than before, that told you he wasn’t finished.

The air around you felt thick, heavy with tension, as if the garden itself had drawn in a breath, holding it in anticipation of what was to come. You could hear the distant rustle of leaves in the trees, the faint chirping of birds, but it all felt so far away, drowned out by the pulse of your own heartbeat in your ears.

You were standing there, facing him, and for a moment, neither of you spoke. Laurence’s presence was overwhelming, almost suffocating. His gaze was intense, focused, as if he were trying to read you, piece by piece. You could feel the weight of it, the way it lingered on your face, on the curve of your shoulders, as though he could see everything you kept hidden.

Your jaw clenched, and before you could stop yourself, the words tumbled out, sharp and biting. "You don’t know me."

It was a challenge, a warning—a plea for him to back off, to stop looking at you like that, like he could unravel everything you had carefully tucked away. You wanted to push him away, to run from the heat in your chest, but at the same time, something about his presence, about the way he didn’t look away, made it impossible to do so.

Laurence’s response came softly, but it cut through the air like a blade. “Then allow me to.”

The words hung there, suspended between you, vibrating with something raw. It wasn’t an invitation, not quite. It wasn’t a demand, either. It was something else—an offer, a question, a challenge all wrapped into one. His voice was low, almost intimate, as if he were speaking to you alone, despite the distance between you and the world outside the garden.

──

The afternoon sun had begun to dip lower, casting long shadows over the garden and bathing it in a soft, golden hue. The heady fragrance of blooming flowers still lingered in the air, mixing with the faint, cool breeze that seemed to whisper through the trees. Laurence had stepped away from you for a moment, his footsteps light as he wandered through the garden, gathering the perfect flowers for what he had suggested with a small, teasing smile—flower crowns.

You had agreed without much thought, caught between the instinct to retreat and the unexpected warmth that had spread through you in his presence. For a moment, you had nearly pulled away, ready to retreat to your comfort zone, but then you found yourself sitting beside him on the stone bench, your hands automatically reaching for the delicate petals and stems he had offered you. The absurdity of it—this moment of peace in such a tumultuous day—had softened something inside you.

Laurence sat close, but not too close, his fingers steady and sure as he carefully twisted together strands of wildflowers: white daisies, soft lavender, delicate violets, and the occasional bright pop of marigold. The small, neat bundle he had gathered looked almost like a painter's palette, a blend of colors both subtle and bold. His hands moved with a quiet grace, the delicate touch betraying a sense of concentration that surprised you. As he worked, you couldn’t help but notice the small glances he threw your way, not the searching kind from earlier, but something more like curiosity, even fondness. It made your heart stutter, an unfamiliar sensation that settled in your chest.

You focused on the flowers in your hands, as though the simple task could keep you grounded. The scent of jasmine filled the air as you pulled apart the stems, forming the beginnings of your own crown. The soft breeze tousled your hair, and you found yourself smiling at the thought of it. There was something almost peaceful in the quiet exchange, the rustling of petals, the hum of bees that flitted nearby, oblivious to the gentle tension that had lingered between you earlier.

For a while, neither of you spoke, the soft rustle of flowers the only sound between you. Then, finally, Laurence’s voice broke the silence, low and gentle.

“Do you often make these?” he asked, his fingers deftly weaving another flower into the crown, his eyes glancing up at you only briefly.

You shook your head, still a little self-conscious. “I’ve never really done this before,” you admitted softly. “It seems… childish.”

He let out a quiet laugh, warm and easy, the sound like music in the stillness of the garden. “I wouldn’t call it childish. There’s something simple, yet…” He paused, looking down at his hands, as though searching for the right word. “Something sincere about it. The way you connect with nature. It’s more than just play.”

You glanced at him, catching the sincerity in his tone. There was something disarming about how easily he had fallen into the moment, as if he had no hesitation in letting down the walls that you both so often kept up. His fingers worked with more ease now, weaving the flowers with a careful rhythm, as though this were not some fleeting activity but a meditative act.

“I suppose I never thought of it that way,” you said softly, carefully adjusting the petals in your hands. Your crown was taking shape now, its delicate structure coming together under your careful touch. You didn’t need to speak to him, not right now. You didn’t feel as if words were necessary. It was a moment, one that existed in its own fragile space, where time seemed to slow. It wasn’t about what came after or how you would explain this moment to anyone else—it was about this, right now, the way his presence felt both grounding and inexplicably light.

Laurence, sensing the shift, turned his full attention to you, his smile softening into something deeper. “There’s a certain calmness in sharing something simple,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. His eyes held yours then, unguarded and sincere, as though he was allowing himself to be seen in this small, vulnerable way.

You blinked, caught off guard by the tenderness in his gaze. The words stuck in your throat, a flutter of something unfamiliar stirring within you. Was it possible to feel connected to someone in such an intimate, unspoken way? You weren’t sure, but in that quiet moment, you allowed yourself to believe it was.

The flowers seemed to grow more beautiful in your hands as the crown began to take shape—vivid purples, soft whites, and the sweet pale yellows of the daisies interlaced with one another, forming a delicate tapestry of nature’s offerings. The crown was far from perfect—some of the petals sagged a bit, others were slightly uneven—but it was yours, shaped by your hands with an ease you hadn’t anticipated.

Laurence reached for your crown then, his touch gentle as he adjusted a stray petal. His fingers brushed against yours, the contact light but lingering, and the soft touch sent a rush of warmth through you. His expression held no malice, no hidden agenda—just a quiet understanding, a quiet companionship. He smiled again, a soft, genuine smile that made your heart stutter in your chest.

“There,” he said, his voice softer now, almost tender. “It’s perfect.”

You turned to look at him, meeting his gaze for a long moment. The space between you had shifted, and for once, the weight of your thoughts seemed to dissipate, leaving only the soft hum of the garden and the simple connection between you. Your pulse was steady now, the tension you had carried with you for so long easing away.

You both stood, the crowns in your hands, and in that small, fleeting moment, you felt something you hadn’t allowed yourself to feel in a long time: peace.

──

“One cup of sugar—Laurence, that’s salt,”

The kitchen was a sanctuary of warmth, the kind that could only be found in the heart of an old estate. The flickering light from the hearth cast a dancing glow over the countertops, and the air was thick with the comforting scent of butter and vanilla. The rhythmic sifting of flour from your hands felt like a gentle lullaby, the steady motions oddly grounding in the otherwise grand, expansive space.

Laurence stood at the counter next to you, carefully measuring the ingredients with a concentration that seemed out of place for such a simple task. He was tall, his sleeves rolled up, yet there was something endearing about how he fumbled with the measuring cups, his usual composed demeanor melting away in the shared quiet of the kitchen. His brow furrowed slightly as he looked down at the measuring cup in his hand, his fingers still holding the salt instead of sugar.

Laurence blinked, then glanced from the measuring cup to you, a playful glint in his eyes. “How do you know?” he chuckled, raising an eyebrow in feigned innocence.

You leaned toward the counter, your fingers lightly brushing against his as you reached for the sugar. “Would you like to taste it and find out?” Your voice was playful, but there was an underlying warmth to it, a quiet invitation to share something beyond the recipe.

Laurence’s lips curled into a smile, and for a moment, it seemed as though he was considering the idea. His gaze lingered on you, softening in a way that made your heart flutter, and then he let out a small, amused sigh. “I think I’ll pass on that,” he replied with a laugh, setting the salt aside and grabbing the correct ingredient. “But I’m glad you’re here to keep me from ruining the entire batch.”

The warmth between you felt like a delicate thread, pulling you closer, even in the simplest of moments. As he added the sugar to the bowl, you couldn’t help but notice the ease with which you worked together. There was no rush, no pressure, just the shared comfort of two people in a quiet space, finding small joy in the task at hand.

You smiled, watching him as he worked with such earnestness, his movements graceful despite the occasional stumble. The flickering firelight made his features soft, his usual poise giving way to something more relaxed, something more vulnerable. It was a side of him that you hadn’t seen often, and it made your chest tighten with something tender—something unspoken, but deeply felt.

The sound of the spoon stirring in the bowl filled the space between you, breaking the comfortable silence. Laurence glanced at you again, his eyes meeting yours with a quiet understanding.

The batter was finally ready, its smooth consistency a testament to the care and attention you had given to it. You took a moment, your finger lightly swiping across the edge of the bowl, the sweet, velvety mixture clinging to your skin. Without thinking, you brought your finger up to your lips, the familiar taste of sugar and vanilla melting on your tongue. You hummed softly in pleasure, savoring the simple joy of it.

Behind you, you could feel Laurence’s presence—his warmth, his quiet energy—closer than ever. A soft chuckle rumbled in his chest, the sound low and almost teasing. “I want to try too,” he muttered, his voice hushed, as though he were unsure whether to interrupt the moment or not.

You glanced over your shoulder, smiling at the thought of sharing the taste. “The bowl’s right there,” you said, with a playful tilt of your head, pointing lightly toward the mixing bowl.

But Laurence didn’t reach for the bowl. Instead, you felt a shift in the air, a subtle change in his stance. The warmth of his breath brushed against the back of your neck, sending a shiver down your spine. His hands, steady and sure, gently turned you toward him. The movement was slow, deliberate, as though he were savoring the moment before it unfolded.

When you met his eyes, there was an intensity there, a quiet hunger that made your heart beat faster. His gaze lingered on your lips, and for a long, breathless moment, neither of you moved. It was as if the world outside the kitchen had disappeared, leaving only the two of you in this suspended moment of soft tension.

And then, without a word, Laurence leaned down, his lips brushing against yours. The kiss was tender, slow, as though he were testing the waters, allowing the moment to build gradually. His hand cupped your face gently, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw with a tenderness that took your breath away. It was a kiss that said more than words ever could—more than what either of you had ever dared to speak aloud.

You melted into him, your fingers instinctively curling against his chest. The taste of the batter lingered on your lips, but it was quickly replaced by the sweetness of him—the warmth of his lips, the softness of his touch. There was no urgency in the kiss, just a slow, consuming pull, as if time itself had slowed down, allowing you to savor every second, every soft press of his mouth against yours.

The sudden sound of someone clearing their throat echoed through the kitchen, startling you so much that you let out an involuntary shriek. Your heart leapt into your throat, panic flooding your chest. You scrambled to push Laurence away from you, instinctively turning toward the door, your mind racing with the worst possibilities. It could be his father, returning early from the counsel meeting, or perhaps, even worse, your mother, who had a way of showing up unexpectedly—though both scenarios seemed unlikely given their respective locations. Still, the fear was enough to make your pulse quicken.

Laurence, caught off-guard by your sudden movement, stumbled back, his eyes wide with surprise. But rather than the tension you might have expected, he let out a relieved laugh, a sound that seemed to reverberate through the otherwise quiet room. The tension in his shoulders relaxed, his features softening. "Audrick, you’ve frightened me," he said, his voice a mixture of amusement and relief.

A man stepped into view—tall, with a weary air about him. He was dressed in a simple white coat, the kind you’d associate with a doctor or health aide, though his fatigued expression suggested he had been working long hours. His eyes, heavy and tired, scanned the scene in front of him. They lingered briefly on Laurence, and then, almost reluctantly, moved toward you. It wasn’t an unfamiliar look—his gaze was calm, but there was something searching in it, as if he was assessing the situation more than just observing it.

Before you could find your voice, Laurence spoke up, albeit more hesitant than usual. “Clara’s sibling,” he said, his tone almost apologetic as he looked at you. He then paused, as if weighing his next words carefully. “Would you—Not let father know, or anyone for that matter?”

The air in the room thickened with a new kind of tension, and you could feel your throat tighten. Audrick, the man who had startled you, gave a small, almost imperceptible nod, his gaze flickering between you and Laurence. There was something almost humorous in the way his lips twitched, as if he found the situation both amusing and vaguely awkward. His eyes softened, though, as he looked back at you, giving you a questioning look.

The weight of that unspoken understanding passed between the three of you, but he said nothing more for a moment. Instead, he muttered something under his breath, too quiet for you to hear, before his gaze turned back toward the door. A moment of silence stretched between the three of you, and then, with a gruff finality in his voice, Audrick spoke again.

“I saw nothing,” he muttered, as if sealing the pact between you, his tired eyes glancing once more toward you before he turned on his heel and walked out of the kitchen. The sound of his footsteps grew softer with each step, and then, just as suddenly as he had appeared, he was gone, leaving the two of you alone once more in the quiet room.

The tension in the air finally began to dissipate, but the situation still lingered, hanging between you and Laurence like a delicate thread. You could hear the faint crackling of the fire in the hearth, the soft hum of the house around you, but it all seemed distant now, overshadowed by the unexpected interruption.

──

The theater was dimly lit, the soft murmur of voices in the crowd slowly fading as the velvet curtains parted. The stage, bathed in the gentle glow of gaslight, was a fantastical world of bright colors and whimsical costumes. The actors, in their elaborate Victorian attire, brought the absurdity of Alice in Wonderland to life. The White Rabbit darted across the stage, his pocket watch dangling from his waist, while the Queen of Hearts bellowed orders to her soldiers, her red and gold gown fluttering with every exaggerated movement.

You and Laurence sat side by side in one of the private boxes, the ornate carvings of the wooden railings around you offering a sense of intimacy amidst the grand theater. The heat of the room, filled with the scent of candle wax and warm bodies, made the cool evening air outside seem like a distant memory. On the stage, the actors' voices rang out clearly, their performances exaggerated for effect, capturing the wonder and chaos of Wonderland.

Laurence sat slightly stiff beside you, his eyes flickering toward the performance but never fully engaging. His fingers, resting on the armrest, were tense, his posture rigid. Every now and then, you caught him glancing at the audience below, his gaze far off, almost as if he were looking for something—or someone—in the crowd. His lips were pressed together, the tension in his jaw subtle but noticeable.

You studied him for a moment, the playful absurdity of the play becoming a backdrop to the quiet unease radiating from him. His expression, although softening at times with a fleeting smile, never quite reached his eyes.

You leaned slightly toward him, the rustle of your skirts the only sound between you as the rabbit scurried across the stage. "Do you think you'd be able to live in a world like this?" you asked quietly, your voice barely audible over the muffled sounds of the play. "Where nothing makes sense, where there are no rules, no predictability."

Laurence let out a soft, almost absent laugh. "Perhaps it would be freeing," he said, his voice a touch more strained than usual. "But it would also be unsettling. A world without order, where every moment is chaos... It might drive a person mad."

You nodded, your own attention now divided between him and the play. As the Mad Hatter and the March Hare began their nonsensical tea party on stage, you could feel Laurence's tension, the weight of something unspoken between you. His fingers tightened on the armrest again, and the way his gaze lingered anywhere but on you felt like an invitation to ask, to press for more.

But you didn’t. You simply watched as the characters spun their odd tales, their strange dialogue filling the air with laughter and lightness. When you felt Laurence’s hand brush against yours, a simple touch that spoke of comfort and companionship, you didn’t move it away. You let your fingers linger there, offering him the quiet support he might not be ready to ask for.

After a long moment, you turned to him, noticing the faint lines of worry between his brows. "Are you alright, Laurence?" you asked, your voice soft, yet full of concern.

He gave you a quick glance, his face flickering with something unreadable before he smiled, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “I’m fine,” he said, his voice dismissing the moment. "Just... lost in thought, I suppose."

But you could tell it wasn’t the whole truth. The lie was thin, a mere veil over the truth you both knew. Still, you didn’t press further. Not yet. Instead, you nodded, offering him a small, reassuring smile. You could feel the warmth of his hand resting against yours, the way he tried to steady himself with the small contact.

As the play unfolded before you both, with its nonsensical characters and whimsical scenes, you let the quiet linger. The absurdity of Wonderland, where reality bent and twisted on itself, seemed to mirror the unspoken tension that clung to Laurence. You didn’t need him to explain. Not now. But you stayed close, offering the silent understanding that you were there, waiting for him to share when he was ready.

The rest of the evening passed in a quiet sort of harmony, the play drawing to its chaotic conclusion as the Queen of Hearts was finally overthrown. Yet, as you sat in the plush theater chair beside Laurence, you both knew that there was another story unfolding just beneath the surface—one that would take time to unravel. But for now, the play, with all its nonsense and whimsy, was enough to carry the moment, and you were content to remain in the silence, waiting for him to share when he could.

──

The grand ballroom was quiet, the floor polished to a gleaming shine under the soft light of the chandeliers above. The music, a gentle waltz played by the orchestra, drifted through the room, its melody floating in the air like a delicate whisper.

You stood beside Laurence, your hand lightly resting on his, guiding him into position. He was tall, his presence commanding even in the gentlest of moments, but there was a hesitancy to him now, a slight tension in his posture that hadn’t been there before. His brow furrowed ever so slightly as he looked down at his feet, trying to match the rhythm of the waltz.

“Step forward with your left foot,” you instructed, your voice soft and patient, a smile tugging at the corners of your lips. His hand, warm against yours, gripped a bit too tightly, though he didn’t seem to notice. “And then to the side. One, two, three…” You moved in time with him, showing him each step. He followed, though his movements were unsure, hesitant.

He let out a small sigh, and you felt it more than heard it, the weight of something unspoken hanging between you both. “I’m not very good at this,” he muttered, his tone laced with frustration, though there was a softness to it. His eyes met yours, a flicker of vulnerability in them before they quickly darted away.

“You’re doing just fine,” you reassured him, gently guiding his hand to your waist as you adjusted your own posture. “Don’t worry about being perfect. Just feel the music, let it guide you.”

Laurence’s jaw tightened, the briefest flicker of something clouding his expression. But he nodded, attempting to match the rhythm once more, though his steps were a bit out of sync. As the two of you moved around the empty ballroom, his gaze occasionally drifted to the corners of the room, like he was searching for something—or perhaps trying to avoid it.

The music swirled around you both, and for a moment, you allowed the motion of the dance to distract you from the subtle tension between you. You weren’t sure what it was that weighed on him so heavily, but you could feel it in the way his steps faltered, in the way he kept looking away, as though he couldn’t fully focus on the dance—or on you.

“Just follow me,” you said gently, a soft smile on your lips, hoping to ease the tension in his shoulders. “It’s just the two of us here. No one else.”

Laurence’s eyes flicked to you then, a brief moment of softness in his gaze before he looked away once more. His voice was quiet, almost hesitant. “I don’t know why… I can’t seem to focus tonight.”

You didn’t ask him to explain. Instead, you gave him space, not pressing for answers. Instead, you simply guided him through the steps, your hand gently resting against his shoulder, your other holding his, and your feet moving in time with the music. You could feel the subtle shift in his posture, the way the weight on his shoulders seemed to lighten just a little as he followed your lead.

The waltz continued, slow and steady, a soft rhythm that wrapped around you both like a comforting embrace. There was no rush, no expectation—just the quiet, shared space between the two of you. It didn’t matter that Laurence still seemed distant, his gaze flickering to other parts of the room, the faintest trace of something bothering him.

You didn’t press. You simply stayed with him, moving as one, the music filling the silence between you. The dance was as much about trust as it was about steps, and in that moment, you trusted him—trusted that he would speak when he was ready, that he would let you in when he could.

And so, you danced. Each step, each turn, a simple act of connection, of being present with one another. The world outside the ballroom seemed distant, and for those few moments, it was just the two of you, moving together in a rhythm that, while imperfect, was still beautiful.

Laurence’s hand, though still tense, softened slightly in yours as the dance went on, and though you knew something still weighed heavily on him, you could feel him letting the music guide him, if only for a little while. His steps became smoother, and the distance between you both, though still there, seemed a little smaller. And for now, that was enough.

──

The soft breeze whispered through the open fields, the scent of wildflowers drifting in the air, mingling with the earthy undertones of the garden. The sun hung low in the sky, casting a golden glow that bathed the rolling hills, the colors of the flowers stretching across the vast landscape like a canvas of muted reds, purples, and yellows.

You lay back in the grass beside Laurence, the delicate petals of the flowers brushing against your skin, their sweet fragrance mixing with the faint scent of his cologne. The serenity of the moment enveloped you both, a peaceful stillness that contrasted with the often bustling energy of the estate. Your mother, had she seen you like this, would have fainted, likely scolding you for being so unrestrained, so unguarded, in a place so far removed from society’s expectations. But here, in this quiet corner of the world, you felt free.

You glanced down at the small box in your hands, fingers tracing its edges as you held it close to your chest. Laurence was beside you, his gaze fixed on the sky, his blonde hair tousled by the breeze, the sunlight catching the faintest glimmer of gold in the strands. He was beautiful, almost impossibly so, as if sculpted by the gods themselves—a perfect symmetry, a quiet strength in the way he held himself, a grace that was both enviable and breathtaking.

“Isn’t the view beautiful?” he asked, his voice a soft murmur, barely louder than the rustling of the leaves around you. His eyes, deep and thoughtful, reflected the colors of the sky as he gazed at the horizon, the light catching the faintest glint in his irises.

“It is,” you replied softly, your voice low, almost reverent. You turned your head toward him, drawn to the quiet magnetism he exuded, and as you did, you caught his gaze, his eyes meeting yours with an intensity that made your heart flutter in your chest. Neither of you spoke for a moment, simply lost in the shared silence, the closeness between you palpable.

It was Laurence who broke it first, his voice gentle but laden with curiosity. “What’s on your mind?”

You hesitated, the small box in your hand suddenly feeling a bit heavier, though it was not the weight of the gift but the weight of your emotions. You took a deep breath, steadying yourself. “I got you a gift,” you said softly, the words catching in your throat as you spoke.

Laurence furrowed his brows, his lips pulling into a small frown, and his gaze flickered to the box in your hands. “I didn’t get you anything…” His voice trailed off, a hint of concern underlying the words.

You smiled, your heart warming at his sincerity. "It's not meant to be an exchange for anything." You reached across the space between you, your fingers brushing against his as you handed him the small box. His eyes softened as he took it, his touch gentle, careful, like he was afraid of breaking something fragile.

He opened the small box slowly, as if savoring the moment, his fingers brushing against the delicate lid before lifting it to reveal the earrings nestled inside. The silver gleamed softly in the light, catching the sun's rays as it reflected off the polished surface. The earrings were a cross, crafted with dainty chains that wove together in an intricate pattern. At the center of each cross was a crimson-like diamond, a deep red hue that shimmered with a quiet intensity—almost as if it held a secret. The design was simple, yet undeniably beautiful, the craftsmanship so fine that each detail seemed to tell a story.

Laurence’s eyes widened slightly as he studied the earrings, a softness passing over his features. His gaze drifted up to meet yours, and there was a quiet understanding there, as if he could sense the intention behind the gift, though words weren’t necessary.

You hesitated for a moment, feeling a slight nervousness in your chest. “You don’t have to wear them if you don’t want to,” you said, your voice gentle, almost shy. “And you don’t need to be religious to accept them. Consider it…” You paused, your words lingering in the air for a moment as you gathered your thoughts. “Consider it protection from me.”

The words felt heavier than you intended, but there was sincerity in them—an earnestness that echoed within your heart. You weren’t sure why, but you wanted him to have something that was a symbol of your care, your quiet promise to stand by him. The crimson diamond in the center of the cross, the symbol of strength, was meant to be a guardian, a token of your unspoken commitment to him.

Laurence’s gaze softened even further, the small box still in his hands, his fingers lightly tracing the edges of the earrings as if they were something fragile—something to be cherished. His lips parted, and for a moment, he seemed speechless, his thoughts held just beyond reach.

“My father is sending me to war.”

It hit you like a shockwave, the weight of it sinking deep into your chest. You blinked, unsure if you had heard him correctly, your breath catching in your throat. The tranquility of the moment shattered, leaving a silence between you that felt too heavy to bear.

It was as though everything around you— the soft breeze in the garden, the rustling leaves, the gentle hum of distant birds— had all faded into the background. There was only the sound of your own heartbeat, pounding in your ears, and the painful realization that this had been what had been weighing on him all along.

Had that been the source of the unease you had felt? The quiet distance he’d kept, the way his eyes had seemed to flicker with something unspoken? It was now clear to you, and the knowledge settled over you like a dark cloud. Laurence wasn’t just troubled by the usual conflicts of life; he was facing something far more harrowing, something far out of his control.

You wanted to say something, to comfort him, but the words felt so small, so utterly inadequate in the face of what he was about to endure. You reached out instinctively, your hand hovering near his arm, unsure whether to touch him or not. There was a tremor in your chest, something fragile in the way you held yourself back. You could see the tension in his shoulders, his jaw set tight, as though he had steeled himself for something inevitable, something he couldn’t escape.

“I didn’t want to tell you,” he murmured, his gaze downcast, avoiding yours. There was a vulnerability in his voice that you hadn’t heard before, a softness that made the words all the more painful. “But I had to. He’s insistent. He thinks it’s the only way for me to prove myself, to earn my place…”

His voice trailed off, and for a moment, there was a long, aching silence between you both. The air around you felt too thick, too heavy, as if the weight of his words had momentarily crushed the space between you.

You swallowed hard, feeling the lump in your throat grow larger. Despite the pain that knotted in your stomach, you reached for him then, your hand gently brushing against his. The touch was tentative at first, but when he didn’t pull away, you let your fingers curl around his, grounding both yourself and him in the quiet connection between you.

It’s selfish, really—how the tears spill from your eyes, unbidden and unstoppable. They fall in hot, silent trails down your cheeks, staining your skin. Your chest heaves with the weight of emotions you can hardly understand, and before you know it, sobs choke their way out of your throat, raw and full of anguish. The sobs feel foreign, almost, as though they don’t belong to you, but in the moment, they’re the only thing you can hold onto.

You want to be strong for him, to offer comfort, but the pain of it all—the thought of Laurence, of him being torn from everything, from you—shatters any pretense of composure. You can’t stop the grief that surges through you, a wave that crashes over every part of you, drowning out all thoughts except for the crushing weight of helplessness.

And then, as if somehow sensing your unraveling, Laurence moves. His arms wrap around you, pulling you against his chest with a tenderness that both soothes and breaks you. The warmth of his embrace surrounds you, but the tremors in his body tell you everything you need to know. The weight of his own grief, his own heartache, presses against you like a hidden storm.

It’s only then, as your body shakes in his arms, that you hear it—the faint, broken sound of his own sobs. The quiet, guttural rasp of his pain fills the space between you, and it hits you with the force of a thunderclap.

Laurence, the man who had always carried himself with such quiet strength, is crying too. His tears fall as freely as yours, his chest heaving in time with yours, but there’s no shame in it. No masks, no walls. Just the raw, vulnerable truth of his emotions laid bare in the silence of the garden.

For a few moments, neither of you speaks. The only sounds are the soft cries escaping from both of you, mingling in the air, the shared weight of your sorrow binding you together in a way that words never could.

──

You shouldn’t have been there.

You knew that, deep in your heart, though the frantic pace of your thoughts clouded any sense of reason. The infirmary was nowhere near the battlefield, yet here you were, heart racing, legs burning with exhaustion, the weight of fear and grief pulling you forward. It would have been safer, wiser even, to stay back at the estate, to remain in the warmth of Clara’s embrace as you both wept for the life of Laurence—a life that hasn't yet been taken, though you feared, was slipping away with every passing moment.

But the thought of him, lost, broken, in danger—you couldn’t bear it. Your heart refused to remain still, refusing to settle in the face of uncertainty. You had to see him. You had to be near him, just in case.

You ran.

The cold air bit at your skin, the wind tugging at your hair, but you hardly noticed. It was the fear that drove you, the desperate need to be close, to know he was still alive. Every step felt like an eternity, your legs aching, your chest heaving, but there was no stopping now. You pushed forward, not caring how much the world around you blurred, not caring how your lungs burned, how your throat felt dry and ragged with each gasping breath.

In your hands, the blankets were a small comfort, their soft fabric wrapped tightly around your fingers, their warmth a reminder of the safety and love you had left behind. Clara’s presence, too, was a distant echo in your thoughts—her steady calmness, her gentle assurances, her hands holding your own as you clung to her, trying to find some sort of solace in the face of this uncertainty.

But you had to go. You had to make sure he was alright, even if the distance between you seemed insurmountable.

Finally, when your legs could no longer carry you at a sprint, you slowed as the infirmary came into view. The small building looked no different than any other—modest, quiet, tucked away from the chaos of the battlefield—but to you, it felt like the only place that mattered.

You pushed the door open with trembling hands, your breath catching in your throat as you stepped inside, the cool air from the outside rushing in to meet the stale warmth of the room. The scent of antiseptic and herbs filled your nose, but it did little to calm the frantic pulse of your heart.

The sight before you was suffocating, like a vice tightening around your chest, stealing the very breath from your lungs. Your legs went stiff, your body frozen, as your eyes scanned the room, taking in the grim reality of the situation. The air inside the infirmary felt thick, as if every breath you drew was laden with the weight of despair. The harsh scent of blood and antiseptic mingled in the air, but it did little to mask the terror rising in your throat.

There were other bodies—soldiers, men who had been caught in the chaos of the battlefield, their lives now laid bare across the cold, metal tables. The mess of wounds and injuries was overwhelming, but your gaze immediately fell on him.

Laurence.

Your heart nearly stopped as you took in the sight—his body so still, so lifeless upon the table. A bullet wound pierced his chest, its dark crimson staining the once-pristine fabric of his uniform. The wound seemed to be a direct hit to his heart, the blood that soaked around the injury making it clear that there was no time to waste. The stark reality of it hit you like a physical blow, and your vision blurred as you desperately tried to make sense of what was happening.

You dropped the blankets at your feet with a jolt, one of them, carefully prepared for him, a token of warmth you had hoped to bring him—a piece of your love and protection. But now it felt useless, as useless as your voice that caught in your throat.

You shook your head in disbelief, unable to comprehend the sight. You wanted to scream, to do something, anything to undo what had happened, but your body was paralyzed with fear. You opened your mouth to cry out, but the words wouldn’t come. Your breath caught in your throat, and a deep sorrow started to coil within your chest, choking you with its weight.

It was only then that you saw him.

A figure—a man, familiar but distant, standing near a table with a small vial in his hand. The liquid inside was thick, dark, and crimson, almost like blood. He was fiddling with it, as if he had all the time in the world, not even acknowledging the life-or-death situation unfolding just a few feet away.

Your vision sharpened, and a surge of panic gripped you. “Heal him!” you screamed, the words erupting from you in a strangled cry. You rushed to Laurence’s side, your hands trembling as you reached out for him, your heart breaking with each moment that passed.

You touched his cold skin, your palm pressing against his chest, and it felt like the world was closing in on you. The wound was too deep, too cruel. Your breath hitched as you looked at it, unable to fathom that this was happening, that the man you loved was lying here, on the brink of death.

Your gaze flicked to the earrings adorning his ears, the silver cross and delicate chains catching the dim light of the room. The sight of them pierced your heart, an unbearable reminder of the love you had shared, now tainted with the shadow of loss.

The tears came then, hot and unbidden, streaming down your face in a steady flow. You choked on your sobs, unable to control the grief that overwhelmed you. “Please… help him,” you whispered through broken breaths, your voice trembling with desperation. You couldn’t bear to lose him—not like this, not here, not so suddenly.

The man with the vial made no move to assist, still lost in whatever ritual he was performing, his focus elsewhere. Your heart twisted with fury and hopelessness, but you couldn’t stop. You couldn’t stop fighting for him.

With shaking hands, you pressed a gentle kiss to Laurence’s forehead, trying to hold onto the hope that there was still time, that there was still a way to save him. The world around you seemed to fade, leaving only the two of you in this desperate moment, and you couldn’t help but wonder—would it be enough?

You pressed your forehead against Laurence’s, your breath ragged as you held onto him, the weight of the world crashing down upon you. His body, so cold and still in your arms, felt like the final, unmistakable evidence that he was gone. The blood staining his uniform was a permanent mark, a grim reminder of all that had been lost. You could barely feel the pressure of your hands against his skin, the numbness creeping into your fingertips as if your own heart was freezing over.

Tears blurred your vision, yet through the haze, you could still make out the figure standing at the far end of the room, the man who seemed so detached from the chaos unfolding around him. He was still fiddling with the vial, his movements slow and methodical, as if this was all a matter of routine. The dark liquid swirled in the glass, a thick, ominous crimson that seemed to glint in the dim light of the infirmary.

It was then that his voice cut through your panic, calm, almost too calm for the situation.

“I can help him,” he said, his gaze lifting slightly to meet yours. His voice was smooth, but there was an underlying coldness to it, an almost predatory edge that sent a chill down your spine.

You shook your head, your heart hammering in your chest, as you looked back down at Laurence. The sight of him—so lifeless, so fragile—was unbearable. “Please,” you whispered, your voice cracking. “Just save him. I’ll do anything.”

The man—Audrick, you realized now, though it didn’t matter—took a slow step toward you, the vial still clenched in his fingers. He observed you for a moment, his dark eyes unwavering, before he finally spoke again.

“You are so desperate, aren’t you?” His voice was tinged with something dark, something ancient. “You would do anything to bring him back, even if it means losing yourself in the process.”

You stared at him, your breath catching in your throat. “What are you talking about?”

He didn’t answer right away. The silence between you both stretched, suffocating in its weight, as though the world itself was holding its breath. Slowly, he stepped closer, his every movement deliberate and unsettling. With each step, the air around you grew heavier, charged with an otherworldly presence. The metallic scent of blood, sharp and overwhelming, curled into your nostrils. It was so thick you could taste it on your tongue, a bitterness that made your stomach twist.

Your gaze was locked on Laurence’s body, still and lifeless, but the dread crawling through your chest had only grown. The blood pooling around him, soaking through his uniform, felt like a cruel reminder of the inevitable. And yet, Audrick continued to draw closer, his presence somehow more oppressive the nearer he came.

He didn’t speak, not yet. Instead, he moved to stand at your side, his eyes never leaving Laurence, the blood-stained figure you were desperately trying to cling to, even though the world was already slipping away from you. And then, without a word, he held it out to you.

The vial.

The liquid inside swirled in the dim light, dark and thick, its crimson hue reflecting something ancient, something far more potent than mere blood. You recoiled, heart racing, but you couldn’t tear your gaze away from it. Your fingers trembled as they hovered over it, the weight of the decision pressing down on you, and your mind screamed at you to run, to escape from this madness. But you couldn’t.

It was blood. His blood. And it was the key to everything.

“Take it,” Audrick’s voice cut through the haze, low and cold, like the quiet before a storm. “I can save him.”

You swallowed hard, your throat dry as you dared to glance up at him. His expression was unreadable, but there was something in his eyes—something far darker, something almost cruel.

“But he won’t be the same,” Audrick added, his voice barely above a whisper. "You cannot save him the way you wish. Not in this world." His eyes lingered on Laurence's lifeless form, the implication of his words settling heavily between you. "But I can offer you another chance. For him. For you."

You felt your breath catch in your throat. What was this? What was happening? Was this real?

The blood—the dark, unnatural blood—burned in your mind like an ember, hot and insistent, demanding a choice. A choice that would bind you to this moment, to whatever twisted fate Audrick had woven for you and Laurence.

And then, almost as if the air itself had thickened with the weight of the question, Audrick’s voice came again, like a whisper in the dead of night, both a promise and a threat. "Would you join him?"

You stared at the vial, unable to process the weight of his words.

“Join him,” he repeated, the words rolling from his lips like silk. “In death. In what he becomes.”

You blinked, your heart pounding in your chest, and for a moment, the world blurred around you. Was this a dream? Was this all a cruel illusion? The grief, the fear—it felt so real, but this? This offer, this vial of blood—it felt like a nightmare.

But Audrick was still there, his cold, unwavering presence standing over you, watching as you struggled to breathe, to think.

“I can save him,” he said again, softer this time, almost coaxing. “But he won’t be as he was. And you…” He let the silence linger, thick and suffocating. “You can join him. Drink from the vial. Become what he will be, what he already is.”

The idea gripped you—terrified, enticed, confused. The desperation in your heart screamed for some way to hold on, to keep him with you, to never let go of the warmth that had once been Laurence. But at what cost?

You held the vial in your trembling hands, staring at the dark liquid that seemed to pulse, alive in its own right.

You held the vial in your trembling hands, the cool glass somehow more solid than your thoughts, as if it anchored you to this moment. The blood inside was thick and dark, swirling like liquid fire, its presence overwhelming. The weight of what you were about to do crushed down on you, and yet, there was no turning back. Not now. Not when Laurence’s body lay so still before you, and the temptation—no, the need—was overwhelming.

Audrick’s gaze was fixed on you, his eyes unreadable, but his presence so close, so intense. You could feel the pull of him—the certainty, the power behind his words. "You will not be the same," he had warned you. But you didn’t care. Nothing mattered except Laurence. Nothing mattered except holding on to him, to the life that was slipping away.

You hesitated only for a moment, the vial feeling heavier with each passing breath. And then you brought it to your lips, your fingers trembling as you tilted the vial to drink.

The blood was warm against your tongue, rich and thick, and at first, you could taste nothing but the sharp, metallic tang. It burned as it slid down your throat, searing through you, a fire that spread through your chest, down your arms, and into your bones. It was too much—more than you had ever imagined—pulling at something deep inside you, something alive that you had never known existed within you.

But then, the pain struck—sharply, cruelly. You gasped, your chest constricting, a hot, agonizing pressure building within you. Your breath caught in your throat, and it felt as though the very air around you turned to stone, suffocating you. Your vision blurred, the edges of the world around you warping, and in that moment, you realized what was happening. But it was too late.

You managed to choke out a ragged breath, only for it to taste like iron in the back of your throat. Your vision went dim, and your knees buckled beneath you, crumpling to the cold, unforgiving floor. Blood—your own—was spilling from your mouth, staining the ground beneath you. You could feel your heart, heavy and slow, beating in your chest, and you were certain it wouldn’t last much longer.

"You...you..." you gasped, your voice trembling, but the words never fully formed. Your limbs felt heavy, uncoordinated, and everything around you seemed to spin. The darkness was creeping in, pulling at the edges of your mind.

"I'm sorry," came Audrick’s voice, low and soft, like a distant whisper. "This will only work if you’re on the verge of death."

Your breath caught in your throat, and you barely managed to lift your head to look at him. His face was unreadable, his expression distant, but his eyes—there was something in his eyes, something both cold and calculating. He stepped closer, and before you could react, he was holding the vial again, tilting it gently, with an almost eerie grace, to your lips.

"Drink," he commanded, the word so quiet, so final. You didn’t have the strength to resist. Your hands trembled, reaching for it as though it might be your only salvation. You could feel the blood, warm and thick, pouring into your mouth, mingling with your own as you swallowed, forcing it down as though your very life depended on it.

And then, just as quickly, you felt him move closer, his presence overwhelming, as his lips brushed against your ear.

"That's it," he murmured softly, his voice rich with an unsettling calm. "Drink it all." His breath was cold against your skin, and you knew, in some distant part of your mind, that he was a creature of darkness—a being far removed from any reality you had ever known.

But it was too late to stop now.

The blood was a fire inside you, spreading like lightning through your veins. But it wasn’t just warmth—it was something more. Something ancient. Something other. You choked again, gasping for breath as your senses began to fade, each one slipping away from you, one by one.

The faintest whisper of sound reached your ears, and you could feel the world around you growing quieter, more distant. Your vision blurred, the light around you dimming to near nothingness. You tried to scream—tried to call out—but no sound came. Your hearing, too, was fading, the world sinking into a muffled silence.

And then, the smell—the sharp scent of blood, of the air around you—began to dull, as though it too was being swallowed by the overwhelming darkness that was overtaking you. You felt weightless, as though floating in an endless void, and a hollow emptiness began to settle in your chest. Your heart... was slowing. You could no longer feel the pulse in your veins, and the thought of it was almost too much to bear.

“Rest now," Audrick whispered, his voice the last thing you could make out before the final pieces of your world began to crumble away. “I’ll relocate you, please don’t feel betrayed… You’ll cross paths with him soon enough. I’ll make sure of it.”

And then, just like that, everything was silent. Your thoughts, too, began to slip away, fading like the final ember of a dying fire.

But even as everything blurred, as your body ceased to be your own, there was one thought that lingered—the thought of Laurence. His face, his eyes, his warmth. You could see him, feel him, even as your world dissolved into nothing.

Would he be waiting for you?

And with that thought, the darkness claimed you completely.

──

author's note: this is not a recently written work; its been in my drafts for quite a while now. i’m still on my writing break but do eventually plan to come back, i’m so greatful for everyone’s kind words—this fandom is truly the sweetest. 🤍

#zsakuva #sakuverse #zsakuva fandom #zsakuva xanthus #xanthus zsakuva #xanthus claiborne #xanthus x reader #xanthus #xanthus x pet

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