warning: Shark being a weirdo as per. suggestive, basically smut. MDNI
series masterlist divider credit @dividers-are-us
A/N: Thanks for all the love guys. Part 4's finally here- thanks for the patience. All feedback appreciated!
You braced yourself outside his door. Steadying your nerves and excitement before raising a fist to knock. The frame of the brownstone-style brick townhouse reminds you of its owner, tall and broad and sturdy.
It had been two weeks since you had last seen him, your shoulder mostly healed and out of its sling. His work schedule hadn’t allowed for anything sooner.
A deep breath.
You knock.
You can hear his heavy footfalls from behind the door, closer, closer, closer.
When he opens the door you find yourself nearer to his eye level than ever before, the heels you had decided on giving you added inches and accentuating your legs in a way he had already noticed.
At this height, when you can properly see those gorgeous grey eyes, it isn’t lost on you the way they rake over your body. He told you to dress nice and you knew better than to argue. Clearly he approves of the dark purple colour you’d chosen.
You return the favour. He's dressed up nicer than you’d ever seen him, dress shirt and pants not negated by the casualness of the leather jacket he had worn at the aquarium - the only other time you had seen him out of scrubs. His rolled up sleeves hug his biceps in a way that makes you jealous and expose an amount of forearm that should be illegal.
Silently, he steps back making space for you to push past into his home. Not far back enough that your shoulder wont brush his chest... You wait a beat before breaching the entryway, with one last look over your shoulder, one last goodbye to the outside world before you enter the tank.
The click of the door behind you is forceful and final.
If you thought his office was american psycho-esque… the house was almost bare.
Just like his office it was clean. You’re willing to bet just being here would kill the remaining 0.01% of germs that detergents can’t.
Sleek and modern. Leather and marble furnishing. Hardwood. No family photo’s graced the walls of the entry way but as you moved through the halls flashes of burgundy and navy prints and artwork came into view.
It made sense you supposed. The lack of things. Your surprised hes even a homeowner despite his generous salary.
He strikes you as something inherently migratory- you’ve seen it in the way his eyes never stop moving, nomadic. But then again you’re sure you can’t make it as far as he has in his career moving from place to place. So here he rests.
He guides you through his home, walking behind you and ushering you with the breadth of his body looming behind you.
You know one of you will talk sooner or later. You’re comfortable to sit in silence but you had wondered your whole journey here whether he might be any more conversational than the past three interactions.
You arrive in the kitchen where he pulls out a bar stool, gesturing his head for you to sit. You oblige.
No mess covers the benches but the evidence of cooking lingers in the fragrant air.
It’s nice to watch him like this, you’ve seen him in his element both at his work and yours. But here in his house he seems more relaxed, the harshness that was ever present in the hospital lingered on his face but was almost entirely gone, and he seemed less aquatic than he had been under the light of the shark tank.
But still selachian. Make no mistake.
“You look nice.” He says, uncorking a bottle of crisp white wine.
It almost stuns you. You had been preparing to break the silence as usual. He always initiated contact but never conversation. You did not expect him to be the first to blink.
“Thank you. You told me to.”
“You gonna to do everything I tell you?” His voice is very nearly joking.
“I think we both know who’s in charge here Dr. Park”.
“What did I say about calling me that?”
“There's no one around to get suspicious that i may not deserve my discount don’t worry”.
He smiles. Actually smiles.
The comfortable quiet resettles. He hands you your glass of wine and proceeds to stride through his kitchen. Double checking the two-person table setting on the bar side of the island.
“Do you like cooking?” You say, noticing the beautiful pots and pans in his drawers as he opens and closes them.
“I invited you over to cook for you.” he deadpans “I would’ve taken you out if I didn’t like it.”
“You just look like the kind of guy who only eats chicken and broccoli”
“Chicken and broccoli’s good. Protein and fiber.”
“Is that what we’re having tonight?”
“No.”
“Is it a surprise”
“No.”
You’re used to his conversation killing responses by now. You watch him chop vegetables with a large sharp knife, you wouldn't expect his thick fingers to be able to manipulate the blade in his hands so deftly. But of course. Surgeon's hands. You can just imagine how he could handle a scalpel.
And then so suddenly it's as if by magic, a plate of beautifully prepared sushi appears in front of you.
“...You’re so on the nose. Raw fish?!”
“Well I still don’t believe you have more than one personality trait. I’m catering to my audience.” You’ve never really seen him playful. Cocky and self-assured? Yes. Teasing? Yes.
And now a combination of the two that makes your heart beat too fast- you can imagine yourself in his kitchen every night for the rest of your life. Cooking together, figuring out how to bring out that playful side, what makes him tick.
That was too fast. It’s your first date. But you can’t help it; everything about this man made you desperate to know more. To become so much a part of his life you enmesh with the little furniture in his house.
“Don’t leave me hanging sweetheart, tell me how it is.”
You don’t know whats more delicious, the sushi or the pet name.
You don't even have to say anything for his confident smirk to spread across his face, he can tell.
He sits opposite you and you eat.
It isn't awkward despite how long its been without meaningful conversation between you, but the confusion from your last meeting returns. Why does he keep seeking you out? What compels you to keep crawling back to him? Does he just enjoy your company? Simply likes 'seeing you' as he said?
"So you like sushi?"
"I made you sushi." he repeats the same deadpan tone as earlier.
"C'mon give me something. I can't just talk at you all dinner.".
"I like it when you talk at me."
You smile in response, but don't reply. You can feel your face heat while you wait for him to answer your original question.
He sighs "I love sushi. I don't eat out a lot but when I do its seafood. It never makes me feel like shit. It tastes good. Its good for you. What else could you want".
“So you’re a handsome surgeon who can cook?.”
“Well you could probably tell me something cool about these fish so… similar.”
You feel heat creeping up your neck. The deadly combination of watching him so competently prepare your food, the wine and his compliments was getting to you. You look away to hide your flushing cheeks.
Your eyes land on something. Something very interesting.
“Is that a house plant?” you’re almost incredulous
“Yeah.”
“You do not seem like a house plant man.”
“I like taking care of them. I have to get pretty tough ones cause im at work so much but...They keep me company.”
“You’re kind of a softie arent you? Stuffed sharks, house plants. Whats next a kitten?” you tease
“Watch it. Or this softie’ll show you how mean I can be sweetheart.”
Flush again. “Both are nice.”
You told yourself on your way over here that you were absolutely not going to sleep with him. That was too fast. It was the first date. You hardly knew him.
And yet.
You had never been quite so close to him before, not for this long. Here sitting across from him you could fully appreciate the scent that rolled off of him in waves. A spicy, salty, masculine aroma that you wanted to bury your face into the source of.
He must be wearing cologne, you would have noticed this before.
It wafts through the air mixing and mingling with your own perfume creating a heady essence you would preserve and bottle if you could.
Your food was long eaten and the two of you were well through the bottle of wine. Migrating to the couch- that looks and feels like it cost more than your car.
He continues his talkative streak, nothing wild, nothing a normal person would truly consider talkative. But he asks questions. Probes. Demanding answers - as though your desperate desire to know him is mirrored by his for you.
Your shoes had slipped off your feet and you grounded yourself on the cool hardwood floor beneath your toes.
He watches you talk and laugh with an arm slung across the back of your seat Reminding you that his hardness, his corners and edges are still there under the newly discovered softness. His bestial, sqauloid manner lurks behind the mask of a perfect human specimen.
He’s closer now. You didn’t see him move.
You can feel his body throwing heat. Surprisingly you expected him to be cold blooded.
It’s been silent since you stopped laughing. You allow your eyes to fall to his lips. And you don’t look away.
A strong hand reaches out to your neck. Not squeezing. Not applying any pressure.
Just there. Gentle. Firm.
And then your lips meet.
Its a crash of teeth and tongues in your urgency to get as close as you possibly can.
That hand on your neck encourages you to slow, to savour the taste and feel of him.
You move to straddle his lap. You have to spread your legs wide to accommodate for his thick thighs, when you sit back you feel his growing hardness beneath you.
He snarls into your mouth, the passionate clash returning for a second before he pulls away.
Pupils blown so black you can’t see the storm clouds
“Sweetheart. Let me take you to bed.”
Taglist: (comment if you want to be removed/added)
❀⋆.ೃ࿔Mrs Magic: Chapter 1❀⋆.ೃ࿔Michael Robinavitch x Single Mommy!Reader
w.c: 1.6k+
summary: So what if Robby's been skimping out on his therapy sessions with Dr. Jefferson? He thinks he's finally met his purpose, and it's come in the shape of doting on a single mother and (their) her two precious girls.
f.c: none (?), Robby is old, single and ready to mingle:3, mention of a broken arm but nothing explicit
𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.
One must imagine Sisyphus happy.
There's a certain irony coated over the fact that Robby's had the unfortunate pleasure of, out of over three hundred thousand people in the city of Pittsburgh that he could be treating, his week's been occupied with patients that have Dr. Google on speed search (or God forbid, that ChatGPT bullshit that's becoming popular), respond in semi-permanent snarky tones, and provide overall vague descriptions of their symptoms that could be anything ranging from the common cold to pancreatic disease.
So, honestly, he didn't think he could be blamed for his lack of enthusiasm during shift handoff with Jack. Still, the fruitless task doesn't rest, and neither does Dr. Robinavitch these days, so he nods along to what he's being told.
"..and I got a mother in North Fifteen, brought her eight year old with a broken arm. She's ready to be discharged, but, well-" Jack clicks his tongue and tilts his head. "Might wanna bring Kiara in."
"Think she might be dealing with burnout?"
Jack sighs. "Not totally sure. I think she was just tired. Saw my sister go through the same exhaustion when she had her first kid. But- still, y'know, just keep the option open."
"Will do. Now get the hell out of my ER, brother."
"Hello, I'm Dr. Robinavitch, or Dr. Robby, I was told your daughter has a broken arm?"
"Y-Yes. She was playing in the backyard. I was in the kitchen on a call, so I didn't even see she was climbing the ladder. I turned around to grab a pen and then I heard screaming. It was only a split second, I swear-" He's sure you already gave Jack a rundown of what went down, so repeating what you think is your fault is probably just upsetting you more.
"Okay, okay," Robby soothes. Comforting patients has never been his strong suit, in his opinion, but that didn't mean he didn't try in his own way. "Accidents happen, they're nobody's fault. Just unfortunate…and inconvenient."
At that, you give a small, weak laugh, then shake your head. "God, I shouldn't have let him build that stupid tree house," you groan.
" 'Him'?"
Please don't let it be her husband, repeats in Robby's head like a mantra, and he's not sure he's ready to confront the reason as to why he's so desperately hoping that the very beautiful mother he's attending is single.
This was a new level of low since the time his favorite deli closed down from business and he'd mourned by eating a whole tub of Ben & Jerry's Chunky Monkey ice cream and washing it down with a bottle of beer while watching the Jerry Springer Show in bed.
Not low for the fact that he was attracted to you, but because he wanted your attention (and affection-) after no more than five minutes of being near you.
"My aunt's husband, he built it for them as a housewarming gift. We just moved to the city two weeks ago."
"Oh." A pause before Robby stupidly realizes he needs to say more than that because he's at work, not trying to figure out your life story (which he wouldn't mind hearing about). "Well, welcome to Pittsburgh. Sorry it didn't welcome you better." He offers a grimacing smile that makes you smile, which in turn makes Robby's smile a bit more genuine.
He turns to look at your daughter. She still has tear streaks on her face, but she's quiet, nuzzled at your side with a purple cast on her left arm. He kneels down before her and smiles warmly. "Hi sweetheart, what's your name?"
"Fawn," she murmurs.
"That's a very pretty name. What's your sister's name?"
"Junebug."
"Nickname for June," you offer. "She was born in the summer. Really creative, I know."
"I was born in June, too," he tells you, smiling at the squirming baby on your lap. "Alright, Fawn, let's get you all ready to go, OK?"
He could, should, let one of his student doctors take over the case, let them run you through care instructions for your daughter's cast before sending you on your way, try to get a head start on the day before it irrecoverably started to pile trauma after trauma on them.
He really was going to, honest, but then your baby girl would do something cute like babble or kick her tiny feet and he'd be hooked right back. It got to a point where he was the one holding and rocking the girl while typing at the computer, just to give you a moment of reprieve and a chance for him to entertain the infant.
You give a small, tired laugh when Robby gently suggests the idea of a babysitter. "You don't have any kids, do you? These little rugrats are up way before me with twice the energy. I don't know how I could get someone to agree to work morning hours." You huff, pinching the corners of your eyes with your thumb and pointer. "Should've known better than to let Fawn run around the backyard so early, though. I just needed some time to get myself ready for the day."
"Hey, this is not on you," he tells you firmly. "It's not, OK? It's important to know that."
"Okay," you whisper, nodding.
"..And that should be it, honestly. Come back in five weeks to remove the cast, but return immediately if there's any concerning changes." You nod diligently at his instructions. "I'm sure this visit's taken plenty of time out of your day already, so I can speed things up so you can head out to work."
"Oh, no, I'm a maid!" You beam at Robby. "I clean houses for a living, so it's all freelance. It's been slow, y'know, being new to the city and all. My clients don't know me or my skills, so it's been hard getting regulars."
A goddamn gift from the heavens.
It takes Michael a unique patience that hasn't seen the light of day in years to not outright blurt the words he carefully composes as, "Well, I have been meaning to get my apartment tidied…"
The effect is immediate. You brighten, eyes crinkling.
"I'd be happy to, any day," you offer delightedly. "No charge, of course-"
"Oh, none of that. The whole point is to give you some business-"
"I don't mind!" you insist, then, rather bashfully, "Really, Dr. Robinavitch-"
"Michael," Robby offers, and tries not to flush at the forwardness in his tone. "O-Or Dr. Robby."
"Michael," you amend, smiling at him and adjusting the squirmy toddler on your hip. Robby struggles to find a single area of your body to focus on, but settles on your eyes…while glancing down at your lips just to avoid looking at the cleavage that's threatening to spill from your formula stained blouse. "It wouldn't be right to charge you. I have some cards on me, somewhere…" You rummage through the bag you came in with before plucking out a rectangular slip of paper.
A business card. On it is your full name and phone number, as well as your available services and their rates. Robby hopes the way he practically snatches it doesn't come off as weird.
"Anytime you need me to come over, I'm just a call away."
As if he'd be such an idiot as to pass up that opportunity.
Maybe this moment is what he's been waiting for his entire life, and it's now being handed straight to him in form of the family he's always craved but could never really have.
He smiles. "Let me walk you out."
"Thank you again for taking such good care of us, Dr. Robby," you say as you make your way towards Chairs.
From the Hub, Dana looks up over her readers to peer at the four of you. Had it been anybody else staring, they'd assume the doctor's missus dropped by with the kids to say hi to Daddy. She almost snorts at the thought of Robby with kids.
"It's the least I could do," he replies, a small flush of red creeping to his cheeks from his neck, which he rubs bashfully. "Don't want to give the impression that Pittsburgh's got nothing to give. I promise you the city isn't so bad."
"I hope you're right," you sigh. "If I'm being honest, I was a bit scared to move so far from home, especially with my girls. But we needed a new start." You look pensive for a moment before you brighten. "Thank you again, doctor-"
"Michael," he reminds you, and he's surprised at how easily he manages to be playful. The surprise melts into delight when you laugh.
"Say 'thank you' to Dr. Robby, button," you tell Fawn, holding her hand while your baby girl stares at him with an open-mouthed, mostly toothless smile.
"Thank you, Dr. Ronby," she recites.
"It was my pleasure. You were the best patient ever," he tells her, which causes her to smile shyly and cling to you tighter.
"Don't even think about it, Robinavitch." It's Dana's voice, coming from behind him while he stares longingly at your retreating form. He forces his gaze away to look at the nurse, who's not even looking back, instead nonchalantly swiping at a tablet.
"What? What am I doing?"
She gives him a pointed look that makes him squirm. "Whatever you're thinking of doing with her, forget about it. Poor girl's got enough on her plate taking care of those kids, she doesn't need you added into that mess."
"I was not thinking of doing anything," he lies indignantly. "I'm just…trying to boost our Press-Ganey scores."
Dana snorts. "Don't think Gloria meant she wanted you flirting with the patients to do that."
"Don't you have nurses to reprimand?" He's already walking away with a huff when she calls out after him.
"Don't do anything stupid, Robinavitch!"
This wasn't stupid, it was a long time coming, and he wasn't going to let it go anytime soon.
𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼
a/n: this has been a long time coming I just couldn't figure out the first chapter's layout....hoping to make this a pervy!robby fic series somehow too:p
Warnings: This will include dark elements. Please do not read if these elements or any dark elements make you uncomfortable.
Character: Tommy Shelby, maid!reader
Summary: you’ve adapted to your employer’s moods, but you don’t realise how attached he’s become to you .
Please reblog if you enjoy and leave some feedback! Muah 💋
“Ma’am,” Mitchell takes his hat off as he enters. You look up from the book in your lap, courtesy of your employer. Former, you suppose.
You sit by the window on the first floor, the residue of rain sticks to the panes, and the smell wafts in with your visitor. You smile at the young man as he nervously hovers in the doorway. Mr. Shelby appears behind him. You notice how the younger glances over uneasily.
“Come in,” you beckon. “I’m afraid I’m not in a condition to get up and greet you.”
“Erm, sorry, ma’am. I really am. I never meant…” He enters hesitantly.
“I forgive you. Please, no more apologies. Come closer then.” You wave him nearer.
“It’s only, ma’am, I feel awful.”
“Well, it so happens I do too. You’ll be perfect company then.” You point to the chair you had Mr. Shelby place next to you.
“How long did you intend to entertain?” Shelby asks. You sense he isn’t keen on your idea.
“So long as I need to,” you answer. “Colette’s seen to me, Mitchell has come, so you will be free to go about your business.”
“My business is seen to. I told you, I am available.”
“Then you can stay. I won’t tell you what to do in your house,” you open the book again. “How old are you, Mitchell?”
“Eighteen, ma’am,” the boy gets closer and lightly sits in the chair.
“Ah, you’ve time then.”
“Time, ma’am?”
“To turn yourself around.”
“Right,” he drops his shoulders meekly.
“Do you read?” You ask as you cradle the book. Mr. Shelby looms closer.
He drags his thumb beneath his bottom lip. “A little. Never took much to it, ma’am. The nuns… well…Eh, no, not very good.”
“Oh, well, it’s never too late,” you chime. “You bring your chair closer.” You hold out the book to him. “I need you to read to me, the tablets make me tired.”
“But, er…”
“It’s alright. You let me know if you have trouble, I’m here to help.”
Mr. Shelby scoffs. You look over at him tersely. His brows flick up. Your lips straighten.
“Go on,” you lean on the arm of the wheelchair. “Start from page one. It’s a rather good story so far and you’ll need to enjoy it from the start.”
Mitchell squints at the pages and brings the book up. You watch him. You’ll ask later, for now, you’ll let him read.
He clears his throat and shifts in his chair. He reads carefully, stuttering, then stops completely. You glance over at him. His lips slant and he shakes his head.
You lean further over the armrest and hold your middle. “Show me.”
He points to the word. Mr. Shelby steps up behind him as if trying to see himself. You resist the urge to scowl up at him.
“Cacophony,” you trace your finger under the word, a syllable at a time.
“Ca-co-phon-y,” Mitchell sounds out. “Hm.”
“It means a lot of sounds at once,” you explain.”
“Right,” he nods. “Cacophony,” he says more confidently.
You smile. “Keep going. You have a good rhythm.”
🚬
As nice as it was to get out of bed, you can't shake the sense of stagnation. Mr. Shelby carries you up the stairs and to the bedroom after supper. You made certain Mitchell had a plate before he left. You know the homeowner was not so fond of that.
Shelby puts you on the bed. You sit on the edge and touch your middle lightly. Your side is tender. The pain never truly leaves, even when you get your tablets.
"Is all well?" Mr. Shelby pauses before he reaches the wardrobe.
"All's well," you assure him.
He opens the wooden wardrobe and shifts around behind the door. He closes it with a click and returns to you. He holds a satin nightgown. Ivory and sleek.
"I'll get you changed then fetch the tea I put to steep," he explains.
You nod and stare at your lap. He lays the night gown beside you. You play with a pleat on the dress you wear. The fabric is lighter, more expensive than your cotton and wool.
"There's something..." He begins.
"I'll dress myself." You sniff.
"The doctor said not to tax yourself," he argues.
"I understand that. I can handle a change of clothes," you insist.
"But if you hurt yourself --"
"With due respect, I tire of feeling helpless. To be rather honest, it is humiliating. So please, allow me this one task to myself." You keep your head down.
He's quiet for a moment. His sole scuffs under him.
"Of course, love. I only mean to help."
"You shouldn't have to. Not this much," you say. "The tea sounds lovely."
"Right back, love." He bends to kiss your hair then backs up. He lingers at the door before finally leaving you.
You unbutton the dress and slip free of the sleeves. You roll it down to your waist and let it rest there. You remove your brassiere and shiver.
Next, you take the night gown and pull it over your head. The last part is the hardest. You'll need to stand.
You move down the bed and grab the post. You pull yourself up. Your legs ache. Only a few days without walking on your own and you're so weak.
You wiggle and groan at the pang in your side. The dress finally slips and the night gown stubbornly shifts to your hips. Annoyed, you take one hand off the post to tug it down fully.
You teeter and lose your balance. Your legs fold and despite your grasp on the post, you fall. You cushion it just enough to keep from crashing completely.
You let go of the bedframe and put your palms to the floor. You try to get up on your knees but collapse back down. You reach for the mattress and whine as you shakily pull yourself up.
You shove yourself up, just enough to get your stomach over the edge. The mattress presses into your torso and you cry out.
A click behind you causes you to slip back onto your knees. Mr. Shelby catches you under your arms and hauls you up. He angles you around to sit you on the bed.
"Hen, are you--"
"Fine, fine." You interrupt. "Sorry, I... I only slid off the bed. It..." Your shoulders slump. "I could do it. I was doing it."
"You must be patient, hen. As I am. I know it will take time." He takes your hands in his and kisses your knuckles.
"I think you make a terrible mistake. I don't think it will be soon enough. Not for you." You utter.
"Hen," he intones. He pauses and lowers himself to his knees. "I've waited. I will continue to wait. For you." He takes your hands and guides them to the side of his head. "Do you see I am your fool."
"Fool indeed if you don't see that I am not what you think. I am far from what you need--" you argue.
"Need?" He exclaims. "Darling, what do you know about what I need?" He growls. "I need you. I need your hands," he presses them to the sides of his head and drags your fingers up into the longer strands. "I need your lips. I need your eyes, your throat, your bosom..." He purrs and leans in, peering up at you with sparkling blue eyes. "I need your thighs and your soft stomach. I need all of you."
He nuzzles into the front of the night gown so it catches on his nose. You wince as he buries his face in your chest. He purrs and tilts his head back. He looks up at you as he brings his hands to your waist, gently. Your hands fall to his shoulders.
"I need you so bad, it hurts and yet I will wait. I am waiting. I am yearning." He rasps. "I will lay next to you and ache to my core. As I have done. As I always will when I cannot have you."
The year is 1927 and famed archeologist Bradley Bradshaw is running on whiskey and the last of his reputation. His best skill? Charming every woman in the room - until you show up with a sharp wit, zero patience for his ego, and a lead on finding the Lost City of Nefertari. No matter how intelligent you are, it'd be unheard of for a woman to lead an expedition, so you need a front man, someone with money and connections. Luckily (or unluckily) for you, Bradley fits the bill - even if he's more interested in chasing skirts than treasure.
Rumoured to be full of gold, jewels and one vengeful mummy, the city might kill you - or make you rich. The mummy is one thing, but can you both survive each other?
length: 2.3k
masterlist
Egypt, 1927 – Iceman's estate, Alexandria
The word fiancé echoed through Bradley’s mind like a gunshot in a tomb.
Frederick Ashbourne’s hand remained outstretched, but Bradley ignored it.
Your voice came quietly. “Bradley, can I speak to you a moment? Alone.”
Frederick looked mildly affronted, but you were already moving, brushing past glittering gowns and whispered questions as you pulled Bradley into a quieter corner off the ballroom, under a marble archway strung with roses and lantern light. He followed, jaw tight.
You turned to face him. “I was going to tell you-”
“When?” His voice was calm, way too calm. “Before or after we unearthed a cursed tomb together?”
You flinched. “It’s not like that.”
Bradley crossed his arms. “It isn’t?”
“I didn’t come here for him.” you snapped. “Frederick was an arrangement. A convenience. A way to please people who thought I should be someone I’m not.”
He looked away. “So, you’re not actually engaged?”
You hesitated.
Bradley exhaled hard. “You are.”
“I was.” you said quickly. “It’s complicated.”
“Yeah." He scoffed, "Everything with you is.”
The silence between you bristled. Not quite anger, something heavier, closer to disappointment.
You dropped your gaze, fingers drifting to the pendant at your throat. “I didn’t expect any of this. The city. The curse. You.”
Bradley didn’t move, but something in him shifted. “You should know... it wasn’t the pendant or your lineage or your map that made me agree to help you.”
You looked up sharply.
“It was you.” he said simply. “It’s always been you.”
Before either of you could speak again, the orchestra struck up a louder tune, and a white-suited waiter passed with a quiet murmur: Iceman requests your presence in the upper drawing room.
Bradley huffed. “Of course he does.”
You gathered yourself. “Let’s go find out what he knows.”
--
The upper drawing room was quieter, darker, lined with carved mahogany shelves and ancient books. Iceman stood by a table set with brandy, his white tux immaculate.
“I take it you’re here about the Heart,” he said smoothly before you’d spoken.
Bradley raised a brow. “How do you know that?”
Iceman smiled thinly. “Because you’re not the only ones looking for it.”
That landed like a stone. You stepped forward, voice sharper. “Who else?”
Iceman sipped his drink and glanced at Bradley. “Your old friend, Jake Seresin.”
Bradley’s expression hardened. “Why am I not surprised.”
“He came to me last week asking about Sekhemotep,” Iceman went on. “Thought he could charm his way into my notes. Didn’t work. He’s chasing shadows without a map, but he knows the Heart is real. And if he finds it first...”
Your fists clenched.
Bradley’s voice dropped. “We need everything you know.”
Iceman reached into his coat and pulled out a slim, battered notebook. “The last credible sighting of the Heart was at a private collection. German aristocrat. Southern Egypt. Obsessed with immortality, apparently thought the Heart could grant it. Died around 1901.”
He opened the notebook to a sketch – a palm-sized scarab, ringed in rays, with hieroglyphs etched around its edges. “This was the centerpiece. No record of it ever leaving his estate.”
“Where is it?” you asked.
Iceman jotted a name and rough coordinates on a card and handed it over. “It’s a ruin now, half-swallowed by the desert. You’ll need a small miracle to get inside.”
You pocketed the card. “Good thing we’re well-practiced in curses.”
Iceman chuckled softly, but his eyes flicked to Bradley with something unreadable. “You’d better hurry. Seresin’s not far behind. And he’s not as... careful as you.”
Bradley’s jaw tightened. “Thanks for the warning.”
Iceman raised his glass. “Be careful, miss. You’re not the only one with something worth stealing.”
As you stepped back into the ballroom, the music seemed louder, more distant.
Bradley glanced sidelong at you, and for a brief moment, he saw past the practiced calm on your face, he saw the nerves, the weight you carried. He offered you his arm.
You took it without hesitation.
But neither of you said a word.
--
The sun rose over the shifting sands as the car rattled southward, the old road trailing like a pale ribbon across the desert. The landscape had changed, no longer the manicured streets of Alexandra, but the wild empty heart of Egypt. Date palms gave way to dunes, and chatter gave way to silence.
You sat on the passenger side, hands folded tightly in your lap, eyes on the horizon. Bradley drove with one hand on the wheel, the other occasionally adjusting the brim of his hat, his jaw locked in something that wasn’t quite anger.
You hadn’t spoken much since leaving the hotel in Alexandria.
The gala felt like another lifetime.
The card from Iceman was tucked safely in your satchel, but the words fiancé and arrangement still lingered louder than any ancient warning. Bradley hadn’t asked any more questions, hadn’t pried, but the air between you had thickened like a sandstorm waiting to break.
“You’ve been quiet,” you said finally, your voice light but brittle.
Bradley didn’t look at you. “Just focused.”
You huffed. “On the road, or on how furious you are with me?”
He gave a half-laugh, bitter. “Why would I be furious? It’s not like you kept anything else from me.”
You flinched. “That’s not fair.”
“No,” he said. “It's not. But neither was finding out you were engaged in front of an entire ballroom.”
You exhaled, looking out the window again. “I told you it wasn’t real. It was expected. The kind of thing women like me are supposed to do.”
Bradley didn’t answer, but his fingers flexed around the wheel. The road narrowed, flanked by rocks and brush, and a dust storm brewed in the distance, faint but rising.
You glanced sideways at him. “You don’t get to be angry just because someone thought I was worth marrying.” you muttered.
That hit its mark. His eyes flicked to yours, sharp and wounded. “That’s not what I’m angry about.”
“Then what?” you challenged.
He looked back at the road. “That you didn’t trust me enough to tell me. That maybe I’m the only one here being honest.”
Silence again.
The engine hummed. Sand whipped against the windshield.
Your fingers brushed the pendant at your neck and your pulse thundered under it. “You think I haven’t had to fight tooth and nail for every scrap of credibility? That being born with the right last name means I wanted any of this?”
Bradley’s voice was quieter now. “Then why didn’t you just walk away from all of it? From Ashbourne, from the map, from me?”
You stared ahead. “Because I want to find her tomb. I want to uncover the truth. And maybe... maybe because you’re the only one who actually sees me when I’m not pretending.”
That softened something in him. He glanced over at you again, really looked this time. Dust spun across the hood of the car like a veil and the sun bled gold in the sky.
Still, he said nothing.
But after a long moment, he reached into the backseat and handed you a canteen. “We’ve got another two hours. Drink something.”
You took it, eyes lingering on him. “Thank you.”
His voice was low. “We’re in this together. I just don’t know which part of you to believe yet.”
You didn’t answer.
Because you didn’t know either.
--
The car rumbled over a cracked gravel path, flanked by brittle hedges and wild, overgrown gardens. Dust swirled around the tires as Bradley slowed the vehicle, his brows drawn low as the estate came into view.
“Are you sure this is it?” you asked, leaning forward slightly. The iron gate had long since rusted off its hinges, left to lie half-submerged in the earth like the bones of some forgotten creature. Ivy strangled what remained of the outer wall.
Bradley gave a slow nod. “According to Iceman, the man who owned this place – Friedrich von Helmstadt – was the last person documented with the Heart. A German aristocrat obsessed with Egyptian relics. The collection was said to be legendary.” He glanced toward the crumbling stone facade. “Now it looks like a mausoleum.”
The car came to a halt just short of the main steps, which were chipped and leaning at odd angles. One shutter hung loose, banging gently in the wind. The upper windows stared blankly down at you, glass long gone.
You opened the door and stepped out of the car, the dry heat hitting you like a wave. Dust clung to your boots as you walked forward, squinting up at the house.
“I thought aristocrats were supposed to have better taste in maintenance.” you muttered.
Bradley smirked faintly, coming up beside you. “He died in 1901. The place passed through a few hands before being abandoned. Apparently, locals say its cursed.”
You shot him a look. “Of course they do.”
His tone shifted subtly. “You sure you want to go in?”
You met his gaze. “Are you having second thoughts?”
“No,” he said. “Just wondering how many more cursed places I can drag you into before you start blaming me.”
You gave a dry smile, then looked back toward the house. A breeze picked up, fluttering the edges of your blouse, and you reached for the pendant at you neck without thinking – fingers brushing the old, smooth surface.
Bradley watched you quietly, then turned toward the door. “Come on. Let’s see what secrets the dead aristocracy have left behind.”
You stepped through the splintering threshold, the shadows swallowing you whole.
Dust hung thick in the air, disturbed only by your careful footfalls. Moonlight filtered through broken windows, painting silver pools across the cracked marble floor. Time had rotted the grandeur, curtains moth-eaten, chandeliers tilting, walls stained with age.
You ran your fingers over a crumbling banister. “He must have been mad, living like this.”
Bradley smirked. “Mad, maybe, but thorough. The man was obsessed with the Heart. We need to find his records.”
The study lay at the back of the house, half-swallowed by shadows. Shelves lined the walls, most bowed from age, their books swollen with moisture. A massive desk sat near the hearth, still cluttered with yellowed papers and ledger books.
You moved ahead, stepping over fallen beams and splintered floorboards. Your boot caught on a jagged edge of broken marble hidden beneath dust and you gasped as you stumbled forward.
Then suddenly, Bradley’s hands were around your waist, catching you before you could hit the ground.
You looked up at him, breath quick, your face inches from his. His grip lingered for a moment too long, firm but gentle.
“You alright?” he asked, voice low.
“I’m fine,” you said quickly, though your pulse was racing for more reasons than the fall. You stepped back, brushing yourself off, carefully avoiding his eyes. “Apparently I have a gift for tripping over history.”
He gave a small, crooked smile. “You have a gift for a lot of things.”
Your eyes darted to his, just briefly. There was something unspoken in his gaze, something that made your heart misstep before you turned away and changed the subject. “I think the records are over here.”
Bradley nodded and followed, the moment hanging in the air behind you like dust.
You knelt beside a half-collapsed file cabinet, gently pulling open a rusted drawer. “Here,” you said. “Inventory logs. Maps. He documented every acquisition.”
Bradley joined you. “Any mention of the Heart?”
You flipped through page after page until you froze. Your eyes scanned quickly, then more slowly. “He never kept it here,” you said. “He feared it would be stolen. Before his death, he moved several items to a private vault – one that wasn’t in his name.”
Bradley leaned in. “Where?”
You pointed to a notation scrawled in the margin. “’Athens. With F.J.’ Then further down - ‘Safe deposit box. Vault. Key hidden behind the Queen.’” You looked up at him. “Queen as in Nefertari?”
You both turned.
At the far side of the room stood a statue, half-buried behind collapsed furniture, elegant and unmistakably Egyptian.
You cleared the debris, revealing a marble bust of Nefertari perched on a pedestal. “This must be it.”
Bradley helped you search the base. After several tense moments, your fingers brushed against a hidden groove. You pressed it, and with a soft click, a panel slid open at the back. Inside: a small velvet pouch.
You opened it to reveal an antique key, etched with an Egyptian ankh.
Bradley exhaled. “Athens, it is. That’s our next stop.”
Before you could reply, a sudden gust of freezing air blasted through the broken windows and you froze.
The walls groaned. Upstairs, something scraped, long, deliberate, and heavy.
“Did you hear that?” you whispered.
Bradley drew closer. “We need to move-”
The ceiling above you buckled with a deafening crack. Something crashed through the floorboards and landed hard. Dust exploded. A monstrous form rose from the shadows, wrapped in age blacked lined, and eerie dull glow beneath its chest.
Sekhemotep.
His voice hissed from the void, ancient and commanding.
Your knees buckled. You understood every word and your blood stirred at the sound, like it remembered.
Bradley stepped in front of you instinctively. “Sweetheart-”
But the mummy didn’t move toward him. It only stared at you.
You swallowed hard. “He still thinks I’m Nefertari.”
Bradley’s voice was taut. “Then let’s not correct him.”
You bolted for the hall, Sekhemotep’s roar following behind you. Wind howled through shattered glass, doors slammed shut and then burst open again, as if repelled by his presence.
Bradley kicked through a side door and pulled you through as wood splintered behind them.
You ran, stumbling over roots and rubble, until the ruined estate was nothing but a silhouette in the mist. Bradley wasted no time in starting the car's engine, tires screeching as he sped off.
You clutched the pouch with the key, your breath ragged. “He’s not just after the Heart,” you said, eyes wide. “He’s after me.”
Bradley’s knuckles were white on the steering wheel. “Then we don’t stop until we find it. And figure out how to end this.”
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s-u-f-j-a-n-s-t-e-v-e-n-s
