Black Sheep is still getting so much love, and I'm floored. On ao3 it's in the top 3 Titus Danforth fics for hits and kudos, I'm gagged.
I've definitely wanted to return to the RON verse, though I don't know if there's anything more I could do with the Black Sheep Mrs. Danforth, that story is fairly complete.
Just binge read the whole black sheep series. I dont even think I know enough words to describe what it did to my brain. It's like a before and after reading it. It left something in me I wish I could erase my memories of it just to read it for the first time again and again.
I could actually feel like part of it through your words, the adrenaline, the pain, the anger, the lust and obsession.
Even now after finishing it, I'm filled with both love and grief. Love for the life I know it was spend with Titus and grief of losing him at the end. It's crazy how our feelings can't rationalize fictiom, because right now I'm sobbing like it actually happened to me. Thank you, this one story I'll always remember and it will be one of my favorites for Titus forever ♥️♥️
You stop that right now or you're gonna make me CRY
Tags: Canon Divergence, Marriage of Convenience, Gore, Murder, Violence, Dub Con, Cunnilingus, Somnophilia, Period Sex, Suicidal Ideation, Pregnancy
A/N: This story is done! This was so self-indulgent and nobody asked for it, I was just writing it for shits and giggles. I'm so floored and overwhelmed by the response, so glad you guys enjoyed it. Thanks for coming on this ride <3<3<3
“In the event of my passing, the matter of who succeeds me and takes the high seat will be settled in writing.”
Titus listens with a muscle in his jaw twitching. Le Bail’s attorney is present, to formalize Chester Danforth’s last will and testament – and as a warning to not let things get out of hand. Father asked him to be present as a precaution, there’s technically nothing in the rules that Le Bail needs to approve of a house’s succession.
From the moment he was born, even before when he was only beginning to form into existence, Titus has not been a whole person. He is one half of Titus and Ursula, the male twin to her female twin. Yin and Yang. He loves her, she is more than just a sibling, she is his other half. And he knows, in his bones, that she feels the same. They can’t help it, they were born this way.
But it’s kept him hungry for his entire life. A dog that’s been raised on half a meal, never allowed to gorge itself until it’s full, trying to fill that itch with excess of other kinds – never satisfied. He’s never had anything that was just his, never able to give in to something completely and let his gnawing hunger run wild.
“My wish is that you both will share the power and responsibilities of the seat equally,” Chester looks at them both with a solemn stare, “but I cannot formalize a wish, only hope that you will honor my request. One of you will hold the sigil ring. Ursula—“
Titus immediately snaps, “No.”
Ursula shoots him a poisonous look. It’s been an unspoken fact in the Danforth house that Ursula would formally be Chester’s heir. Titus chafes against it.
Chester addresses him directly and Titus bows his head instinctively. He loves his father, is always chasing Chester’s approval, never able to fully grasp it.
“If you will not agree, then under our contract with Mr. Le Bail, you will have to fight to the death to win the sigil ring.” Chester radiates scorn and contempt at the mere idea, not because he disapproves of that ruthlessness, but because he believes they are superior to such brutish trials. “Are you both prepared to do that?”
The truth is, Titus is not. As much as he wants the high seat, he doesn’t want to live in a world without his twin.
Le Bail’s attorney makes a quiet sound to clear his throat and draws their attention. “A game of succession would also include Mrs. Danforth, so it would be a three-way fight.”
Your eyes widen and you immediately shut that idea down. “No.”
The attorney insists, “As a member of this household, it is within your right to have the opportunity—“
But once again you shut him down, “No. I waive my right to succession. I don’t give a shit about your high seat.”
Bothered, you excuse yourself and storm out of Chester’s office, not even giving the attorney a chance to make another appeal. Titus watches you go, he sees the way your shoulders rise, the stiffness to your spine. You truly, honestly, hate the idea of holding that power. You’re the only person who, if someone handed you the sigil of power, would throw it away without a second thought.
It fascinates him. And it puts him at ease in a way he’s never been able to feel with Ursula. Because you are the one person he doesn’t need to compete with in this regard.
“Titus,” Ursula snaps at him, half-scolding and half-pleading, “a duel for succession would be a waste. Don’t be that petty.”
And Titus finds that his attention is split, half in the room and the other half wanting to catch up with you. “I’m not just going to lie down and let you steamroll over me—“
Chester interrupts, irritated by the bickering. “It will be recorded in my will that in the event of my passing, Ursula will hold the sigil unless…” His steely eyes silence everyone. “…and until the event that Titus has a child, then they will succeed as the head of the Danforth house and hold the high seat.”
Ursula and Titus exchange a look, she tries to read what’s on his mind. But his face is frozen, his mind suddenly racing a hundred miles a second. His child? Titus realizes his father has decided there is one thing Ursula can’t do, that Titus will not fail him in: producing an heir. A strange, exhilarating feeling sweeps through him.
“Can you both agree to that?”
“Yes,” Titus answers automatically and strides out of the room before Ursula can even respond. The discussion is over for him, it ended the second Father acknowledged the family would live on through him.
Through you and him. The both of you could create something Ursula will never be a part of.
***
You sit at your vanity, brushing your hair as you get ready in the morning, sunlight streaming softly in through the windows.
Titus sprawls against the pillows, his head resting under one arm, watching you like you’re his own private peepshow. You brought more furniture and things for the bedroom, and he didn’t argue about a single one. He liked seeing it change under your direction, looking more like a space people lived in than somewhere he crashed when he was exhausted.
A silk robe hangs over your shoulders and in the reflection of the vanity mirror, his eyes follow the stripe of your exposed creamy skin. Your eyes meet his in the mirror and he smirks.
“Do you hate my father?” He asks.
The brush pauses mid-stroke and you stare into his reflection, like you’re looking for the edges of the trap. Finally, you settle for, “Do you hate your father?”
He chuckles in response and otherwise doesn’t give you an answer.
Titus knows that he unsettles you. That you expect his cruelty and temper and rage. But it’s when he’s interested, desires you, shows you something close to affection – no matter how twisted – that you don’t expect. Or understand.
Truthfully, he thought of you as no more than a plaything when he claimed you from the hunt. Mrs. Danforth in name until he grew bored of you and then, it would have been all too easy to make you disappear.
But you throw him off guard too. He realized quickly that he hadn’t figured you out and the more he looked, the more you didn’t make sense. You were not an innocent lamb for him to corrupt, though you were new to this world. But you did not have the same twisted and dark hungers that he did, not a kindred spirit. There were parts of you that he didn’t have access to, that kept him searching.
He is a hunter, so he follows your tracks. Picks up clues here and there, like when he finds a snapped twig, or a bit of fur caught in a branch, or a smeared footprint in the mud. He looks for the stillness to your face when you’re trying not to laugh. The books you’re reading and the ones you keep. The way your face freezes when you’re angry, really angry, but don’t feel like you can show it. The ways you like being touched, something he masters quickly, because your body can’t lie or disguise how it clenches and falls apart around him.
And one thing he’s noticed, why he’s watching you brush your hair, is that he mentioned once that he liked it longer on you and you’ve been letting it grow.
“Do you love me?”
Your face stills, though you keep your hands moving. Titus likes to set little traps for you, and you’ve become good at sensing them. For as much as you like to push the limits, you do know that you aren’t invincible in this house. You need to be careful to keep your hatred a game, an inside joke, and not something real.
You finally say, “I don’t love anyone.”
You look at him in alarm when you notice Titus wrapping his hand around his thickening cock. His eyes are half-closed as he watches you, drinks you in, lazily stroking himself and grinning when he sees a red flush come up on your skin.
“Come here,” he growls, and after a moment you put down your hair brush and come to the bed.
He tugs at the silk ties and lets your robe pool onto the floor. Skims the backs of his fingers down from your through, between your breasts, across your stomach and then he slips a finger against your curls. He sees the way your mouth tightens, irritated, as his grin widens.
His fingers come back slick and shiny.
“All this for me?”
You hate how little it takes for him to get you feeling hot. Even though you’ve never said so, Titus can tell that’s not how you normally are with a partner. It makes his ego swell up so much, he could float away into the air. Instead, he sucks your arousal off his fingers – which makes your cheeks burn even redder – and pulls you over to him.
He flips you around so your back is against his chest, and with firm hands guiding your hips, sinks you down onto his cock. You try to hold in a gasp as you stretch around him, held in his lap.
“You don’t love anyone?” He croons into your ear, mocking, acid and honey mixed together as he thrusts up into you – deep and slow. “Then I’ll give you one. A pretty baby for my baby.”
A mortifying sound leaves your throat, a surprised moan. His hand wraps around your throat and he fucks into you faster, your excitement fueling his.
“Going to fill you up so you can’t walk for a year straight. Never let you leave this bed so I can come in you over and over. How many do you think you could take, hmm? Think you’d give me twins? Think I’d ever let you stop – I’ll fuck the next one into you while you’re breastfeeding the first.”
You writhe in his lap, your pussy making filthy squelching noises as you slam back down onto him over and over. Eyes closed, hands gripping on for dear life, clenching around him wildly. He wants to bury himself into you over and over until you’re big and round with his children. A spooked thrill runs through him at the thought of you being split open, life begetting life, a baptism in blood.
Titus wants to hurt everything that excites him. He doesn’t want to break the one thing that belongs to him. Pulled between those two conflicting wants, he pounds into you mercilessly, your cries edging into pain – still all pleasure – and he bites down hard onto your shoulder when he comes. You go limp in his arms, like when he snaps someone’s neck, and he breathes hard into your hair.
When he finally lets you up, he doesn’t let you clean up but pulls up your panties instead, his mess still dripping down your thigh.
“Don’t waste any.”
***
“Got you something.”
You haven’t wanted for anything as Mrs. Danforth, luxuries casually given to you as if you were being passed salt at the dinner table. Clothing, furniture, books, art, your fucking car – given without ceremony as if it’s just a necessity that you have these things.
This is the first time Titus has given you a gift, and he watches you expectantly as he presents the box. It’s heavy, much heavier than you expected, and your first guess that it’s jewellery seems to be wrong.
When you gently slide the lid off, you see a handsome wooden case and nestled on the velvet lining is a gun.
“I had it made custom to your hand measurements.”
You’re surprised, but you lift the gun out of the box and test it out in your hand. You’ve never had a weapon before, never wanted one, and you wonder what Titus is trying to do. Is it a test? Is it a strange invitation into his world?
“I don’t know how to shoot.”
He smirks. “I know. So you’re going to learn.”
“Why do I need a gun?”
He sidles up next to you, so he’s a step behind. He’s brought ammunition and he loads the gun, racking the chamber and setting it up, ready to fire, before guiding your hands over it again.
His mouth is by your ear as he whispers, “Because you’re Mrs. Danforth and there are a lot of people who will try to kill you.”
It’s a blunt way of putting it, but even in your previous life there were occasions your family required private security. Now as a Danforth, your status has increased in triplicate, and so has the target on your back.
You turn your head up and back, to catch a glimpse of his face. “My terrifying husband isn’t deterrent enough for a would-be hit?”
He smirks, preening. “Of course I am. Now use both hands, put your right over the left, just like that. Line up your thumb, arms out straight…”
His arms envelope yours and he rests his chin on your shoulder. The gun is heavy, you can already tell that you won’t be able to hold it up for a long time before your arms begin to shake. But Titus walks you through how to fire, raspy voice quiet and steady, and you can feel your heartbeat slow and sync with his.
“Now don’t pull, but gently squeeze the trigger until…”
BANG!
The shot is so much louder and explosive than you could expect, but you hold on. You don’t drop the gun or scream, though you stopped breathing for a second. You can feel Titus’ grin press into your cheek, his stubble scraping against your skin.
“Good. Try again.”
BANG. BANG.
By the third shot you’ve gotten a sense of how to aim and manage to hit the target. Not center, but not too far off.
“You like it,” Titus whispers by your ear, “your heart’s racing.”
You close one eye and line up your next shot.
“Aren’t you afraid I’ll shoot you if I get good with this?” You ask, before firing again. This time, you hit the center of the target.
Titus laughs. “Ah, ah. You said with your bare hands.”
You fight the smile threatening to tug onto your lips. You did.
***
The High Council doesn’t meet in person very often, but they do stay in constant communication. As Chester Danforth’s health declines, he’s taken to conducting most of his business from bed and relies on video conferences to sync strategies with the Le Bail organization.
You’re invited to join most meetings and you decline every one. Sometimes though, as a member of the family, you can’t wriggle out of every obligation. It’s still bizarre to you that your presence is wanted, that it’s seen as valuable. Chester Danforth sees you as a secret weapon – though less so on the ‘secret’ part and more on the weapon part.
It might be more accurate to say, he likes having you present at the High Council when he wants to make a statement. You make sure Titus comes with you every time, and he either sits at your right or stands behind your chair, dark presence looming. Chester doesn’t mind, in fact, he likes it when everyone is playing their role, and no matter how resentful Titus feels about being the Danforth muscle – he can’t help but leap to be protective of you.
Mrs. Danforth and her hell hound.
“If Mrs. Danforth wants to oversee the arrangement, we could come to an understanding.” Mrs. Le Domas smiles at you, perfectly poised and elegant. Much more nuanced and subtle than her husband. “We’re both outsiders that married into our families. We need to look out for one another.”
Titus snorts quietly in derision. And he’s right to laugh at Mrs. Le Domas’ attempt to win you over.
You don’t return Mrs. Le Domas’ smile. Your face doesn’t give her anything. “You know an offer of less than fifteen percent shares isn’t even worth our time to consider. The El Caido’s would go in with you at seven. But you want the Danforth telecom network and supply chains. So you’re going to have to give up more than you want, Mrs. Le Domas, because you are bargaining from under.”
The smile doesn’t drop from Mrs. Le Domas’ face, because she’s a professional, but the temperature drops several degrees.
Ursula flashes a quick smile your way. The Danforth’s are eating this up. Your face remains blank.
You are the one person in the High Council who cannot be bargained with. You come with leverage that can’t be bought or sold – because you are the one person who wants nothing. You have nothing to lose and you want absolutely nothing from any of them. Chen Xin tried to forge an alliance with you early on, but you were unmoved. Every one of the High Council families have tried to bend your ear, seeing you as the wedge – the crack into the Danforth fortress. Only to discover that you are competent, smart, and could not give less of a fuck for their schemes.
“Your loyalty to family is,” Mrs. Le Domas smiles, a knife hidden in her words, “commendable.”
It isn’t loyalty, at least, that word doesn’t seem to fit. But Helene Le Domas buried a war axe into your sister’s head on the night of the hunt, and they took ten percent of the Okami fortune. You are a sacrifice that did the unspeakable thing – you lived. Now you sit amongst them, an uncomfortable reminder of all the blood they’ve shed. And how you owe them nothing, the people who butchered your family, you don’t owe them any sweet deals, or understanding, or patience. Not even a smile.
You feel like you’ve gotten your point across and look up at Titus, a silent signal that you’re ready. He pulls out your chair and helps you to your feet, and you leave the conference on his arm. Ursula can take over the negotiation now. You don’t even care to witness your victory.
***
For your first anniversary, one year as Mrs. Danforth, Titus asks what you would like and you tell him “finish my degree”.
An apartment is acquired in London and it takes little effort to resume your spot in your graduate program. To your surprise, Titus comes with you. At first you wonder if it’s his jealousy, a need to watch over your every movement, but it seems he genuinely is interested in traveling with you.
“You’ve never been to Europe?” You’re surprised, for someone as wealthy and connected, you’d assumed he had traveled the world.
He shrugs, dismissive. “It was for business.”
You enjoy settling back into the routine of a student, away from the grandiosity of the Danforth lodge and all the trappings of the Le Bail organization. You get to be challenged again in an arena where the stakes are not life and death, but something smaller and saner. Grades. Prestige. Awards.
Titus recoils from the idea of setting foot inside of a school, but he asks you to tell him about your lectures. He likes it when you ramble on, eyes lit up with excitement, even if he can’t follow everything you’re enthused about. He is enjoying, what for him, is his first vacation. He joins a hunt club. Sometimes travels around Europe while you’re nose deep in drafts of your thesis. Chester sometimes sends him on some business errands to run, to take advantage of the proximity, but otherwise he has time to do whatever he wants. It’s the most relaxed you’ve seen him. It’s the longest he’s been anywhere without his twin.
When summer begins and if the sun cooperates, you like to sit on the grounds of your school to go through your reading. Titus likes to join you, lying down on the grass with his head in your lap.
You discover that when you scratch your nails through his curls, his brain turns to goo. If he’s in the middle of a sentence, he can’t finish it, eyes rolling into the back of his head as he surrenders to the sensation. It makes you smirk. One of the most powerful men in the world and you can stop him dead in his tracks by playing with his hair.
You laugh to yourself, murmuring, “neko, neko-chan”.
His eyes still closed, Titus asks, “What does that mean?”
“It means you’re a cat. Just a big old, pussy cat.”
He frowns, even as he tilts his head upwards to chase your fingers.
He huffs, “I’m not a cat.”
You stop playing with his curls. He opens one eye to glare up at you, sees the teasing look on your face. Huffs again and concedes, “Maybe a tiger” before grabbing your hand and placing it back into his hair.
A perfect summer day could fool you into thinking you were an ordinary woman, and that anything about your life was normal.
***
Far quicker than he could have anticipated, you blended into the Danforth family so seamlessly that Titus forgot there was a time before you. To him, it has always been Father, Ursula, and you. The three corners of his world.
You don’t seem to understand that yet, or believe it, but he feels it’s simply a matter of time. You’re a Danforth. And by something even more meaningful than birth. His idiot cousin Kip is a Danforth by birth. There are plenty of duds in the family tree, idiots who don’t deserve the name. You’re a Danforth by trial. You earned that name.
There is a grand opening of a new luxury resort in Hong Kong, a dream of your father’s that was never realized until the Danforth’s assumed seventy-five percent of his estate. Chester had you involved in its restructure. You drip a cold elegance walking up the red carpet beside Titus.
And it completely threatens his world view when one of the resort managers, a former staff member of your father’s business, is overwhelmed to see you in person. So relieved to see you alive and well, that they slip up and accidentally refer to you as “Okami-san”.
Stupid. Foolish. But somehow Titus forgot you used to have a different name. That you were from a different family. That you didn’t emerge from the earth, already formed, to fit in beside him.
You smile coolly at them, gently reminding them, “Mrs. Danforth” and they apologize profusely.
You think that’s the end of it, but it’s a splinter that burrows under Titus’ fingernail. A sting, a twinge that gets more raw and inflamed as he can’t help but pick at it.
You’re a Danforth. You’re a Danforth.
It’s months after the resort opening, so that you don’t suspect anything when Titus says he set up a special day for you. He tells you to bring your gun, that he’s going to teach you how to hunt. You don’t particularly care about hunting, but Titus is buzzing with excitement.
“And I’m supposed to hunt with a handgun?” You ask, sceptical. “It’s not the most practical.”
Titus hums his approval, driving the golf cart into the woodier area of the lodge grounds. “You’re right, but you’ve been practicing with your gun, so let’s stick with it for now.”
Titus teaches you the basics of tracking. He knows you’re not a natural hunter, will probably never be a hobby hunter, but you like learning new things. And tracking is a puzzle. He can see your interest grow when you realize that, your mind latching onto the search for clues and patterns. He feels a strange swell of pride, which he keeps private. He knows if he mentions it, you’ll find some way to make light of it.
“And this footprint is smeared down and to the right.”
Titus nods, teasing out an answer, “So that means?”
You look up, into the direction of a thicket of trees. “It ran that way.”
He grins, a wolf baring its teeth. You’re letting yourself get excited. You think he’s a big old pussy cat, domesticated. That you’ve tamed him. Ursula has made that mistake before. Father never has, but he did something worse – wash his hands of Titus, until you came along.
“Well, go find your kill.”
You laugh as you pick your way through the trees, following the direction of the tracks. Titus stays a few paces behind, a shadow in your wake.
You don’t scream – the first thing he noticed about you, was how you wouldn’t scream or shriek – but you inhale sharply through your nose when you see the bound person struggling on the ground. It takes you a second, but you recognize it as the resort manager.
Your eyes snap to his, wide and fearful, as you realize what their crime was. They dared to call you by a name that doesn’t exist anymore.
“Titus.”
He still has that easy grin on his face, hands in his pockets, like this is a normal activity. “Go on. You’ve tracked your prey, now you’ve found them. Finish the hunt.”
You try again, fighting to keep the tremor out of your voice. “Titus.”
But he isn’t budging. He blocks the way, you won’t leave the clearing in the trees until you do what he wants. Your eyes scan his face, searching. Like you’re trying to see if he’s joking, how serious he’s being, and then you wince. He’s dead serious, and you feel betrayed.
He leans in close, so that your noses are almost touching. You flinch when you hear the hostage’s muffled screams behind their gag, but his gaze bores into you, making it so you can’t look anywhere else.
“I watched you kill that security guard. I watched you take a life for the first time. How did it feel?”
Your eyes grow wet, you can’t keep the tremors inside of you anymore, even though you cling to whatever shreds of your composure you can. You keep your voice steady.
“I’m not like you.”
Titus doesn’t believe you, shaking his head almost in pity that you still want to delude yourself. That gets under your skin, suddenly sparks your temper red hot, to be dismissed. You shove your hands against his chest, pushing him.
“And you?” You spit at him, “How did your first kill feel?”
“I don’t know, I was too young to remember.”
He watches the horror dawn on your face as the implications of that sink in.
“It was my mother,” he continues, explaining matter-of-factly, “I ripped her open on my way out. The doctors couldn’t stop the bleeding and she died after giving birth to me.”
He watches as your mouth forms silent consonants, trying and failing to find the words. Part of him is egging you on to say ‘I’m so sorry’. To pity him. To look at him as pathetic and broken and deranged. Everyone eventually does. He was stupid to think you would be any different.
“Finish your hunt,” he snarls, getting in your face, forehead pushing against yours. Now he’s angry. He expects you to be disgusted by him, to look at him with repulsion. He’s seen you afraid, he knows that he scares you sometimes. But your quiet acceptance has always won out, at least up until now. It’s the closest thing to unconditional love he’s ever felt.
“Kill them or I will.”
You look to the victim on the ground, then back to him. He isn’t bluffing, you know him too well to buy that. The tears are rolling down your cheeks, even though you aren’t sobbing or crying. It reminds him of that night you were on your knees, the black sheep of your family.
He suddenly asks, “Do you love me?”
You’re startled, you hear something in the tone of his voice that he can’t sense, suddenly seeing him with a sharpness that makes him feel queasy.
He doesn’t know every emotion that’s on your face, as you look at him. Let him sink into you. There’s maybe a flash of hatred. Pain. There isn’t the disgust or pity he expected. Maybe you look sad. Titus realizes, too late, that he doesn’t know what love looks like on your face – he won’t be able to tell.
You throw the gun onto the ground and wrap one hand around his neck. You hiss, fierce and burning and indomitable in a way that makes his knees suddenly feel weak, “I will fucking kill you. One day.”
And you walk out of the woods, head held high, fearsome and proud.
Titus is stunned and takes a moment alone. Before he also leaves, he picks up your gun off the ground and shoots the hostage in the head. He thinks he might love you.
***
When Chester Danforth dies, it is business-like and perfunctory. He has you and the twins come to his beside where he imparts his last instructions. His health has deteriorated to the point where he will lose more functionality than he would like, and he is satisfied that the Danforth businesses are on stable ground. When he is ready, he instructs the family physician to push morphine until his heart stops. After two minutes, the physician checks his vitals, and declares his time of death.
Titus is beside himself, groaning into his hands, furiously scrubbing away tears and pacing around the room. Ursula is more composed, but her face is bloodless and pale.
The funeral is an event attended by hundreds. You wear black and hide your face behind large dark glasses. You stand beside Titus, the loyal and supportive wife, keeping a somber vigil.
Only family are allowed to remain after the casket is lowered into the ground and buried. Titus ends up on his knees in front of the grave, howling into his hands, the broken cries of a boy who loved and hated his father, and can’t make sense of his absence.
Ursula is shaken, letting herself cry now that she has privacy, and trying to get Titus up to his feet.
She looks up at you, eyes red, and asks, “Are you okay?”
You shock her when you start laughing. It bubbles up and spills over, champagne flowing out of a glass, delighted and uncontained. Ursula looks at you like you’ve grown a second head. Your laughter continues, huge guffaws, you clutch your stomach as you fight for breath, and it is offensive how funny you find all of this.
You are a Danforth today, yes, but in this moment the twins are reminded that they are murderers. And that you never got to attend your family’s funeral.
You wipe tears of mirth from your eyes, hiccupping as you try and catch your breath. You snort at Ursula, unable to keep the giggles in.
“Losing a father builds character.”
***
The sigil ring is slid onto Ursula’s finger and she officially assumes her position as the head of the Danforth family.
Titus is withdrawn and moody for weeks after his father’s death. You expect him to turn on you, to freeze you out, but it doesn’t quite unfold that way. His eyes still search a room for you, he still looks at you – his whole countenance just seems heavier.
Ursula is icier towards you, but you’re more than happy to stay out of her way. She throws herself into work, which is her favourite coping mechanism, and running an empire keeps her busy. Eventually, she starts talking to you again and things are forced to go back to normal, as you are capable and able to help when asked.
Ursula grows frustrated the longer Titus’ depression lingers, feeling the weight of the High Council on her shoulders.
“You need to stop moping and snap out of it eventually,” she scolds Titus, “Dad wanted us to run things together.”
Titus grumbles out, “You got what you wanted. Leave me alone.”
“Oh don’t be a child.”
And you notice Ursula raises her hand like she’s about to strike. And you step in between them, an eyebrow raised at Ursula, as if asking her ‘are you really going to do that?’. The tension grows instantly, thick and suffocating in the air, as you stand between the twins. You can feel Titus, breathing hard and ragged, against your neck. Ursula’s hand slowly lowers.
You had never seen Ursula or Chester slap Titus before, but the reflexive nature of that movement told you it was an old habit. When Ursula retreats, you look up at Titus, curious. But he won’t meet your eyes, only giving your arm a gentle squeeze, before leaving the room.
***
Nightmares plague you, keeping sleep at bay, and you wake up several times drenched in a cold sweat, crying.
The bed is empty, you’re alone twisted up in the sheets, and rain splatters against the window. You feel sick and hollowed out. Tired. Like you want to give up.
You find a coat to wrap yourself up in, but can’t find your shoes and decide you don’t care. You go out onto the grounds, in the middle of a rainstorm. With the night sky covered in clouds, rainfall taking over your vision, it feels like you could walk into the darkness and keep walking on forever.
You’re immediately soaked, your hair plastered to your face, but you push it out of your eyes and keep walking. Your bare feet squelch against the wet grass. You feel keenly that you walk the line between two different worlds, belonging to neither. Okami. Danforth. Heaven. Hell. Meaningless. All meaningless. You’ve been a misfit your entire life and it seems like you’re doomed to die as one.
“Stop.”
The rain makes it a little harder to hear, and at first you can’t tell who is speaking. But the voice calls out from behind you and when you turn, you see Titus standing in the rain.
He walks up to you, grey curls flattened by the rain, water dripping from his face. He cups the side of your neck, pulling hair out of your eyes.
“You’re soaked. You’re going to get sick if you stay out here.”
“Then I’ll get sick.”
He frowns, eyes roaming your face.
“You belong to me. And no one is allowed to hurt you.”
For a second, you aren’t sure what to say. “Not even myself.”
He shakes his head ‘no’. Not even you are allowed to hurt what belongs to him. You didn’t think that’s what your intention was, but as the rain continues to beat down on your skin, you feel a bit of that strangled helplessness rise up. You are drowning on land. You went out into the night storm to place a name to that feeling.
“And what about you?” You ask him, unsure where the question came from but needing to know desperately. “Do you belong to me?”
“Of course I do.”
And he brings an arm under your legs and scoops you up. He cradles you against his chest and carries you, his bride, back to the safety and warmth of your home.
***
“Come to bed.”
“I need a shower—“
But Titus doesn’t care about your protests, taking you by the wrist and pulling you back towards him. You’re only putting up a token resistance anyway, trying not to smile as he kisses the gunshot scar on your arm. Nibbles the grooved scar.
He kisses the palm of your hand and then places it against his shoulder. He has a scar there, smaller than yours, more circular, from when you dug his war pick into it. He likes that you marked him up. He takes personal offense that anything or anyone leaves a mark on you, and is zealous about preventing it.
He’s more than happy to leave his marks, though to your surprise it’s never permanent. Bites, bruises – he’ll cover you in stamps of his hunger. But for a long time you thought surely, he would want to leave a scar on you, but he’s never bitten down hard enough to break skin.
“You already wet?” He chuckles, hand slipping under your skirt, and you press against his touch.
But you feel a twinge in your lower stomach and you realize a second before he looks at his fingers and sees them shiny red.
“Shit.” Your period was a couple days late, you had forgotten about it. “Okay, I really need a shower and a change of clothes now—“
“No,” Titus’ gaze has gotten more intense, rushing now to pull your shirt up over your head, get you undressed as quickly as possible.
“Titus, come on—“
He rips your panties down, removing every stitch of clothing, and he breathes you in. “You’re perfect.”
Even though you try to salvage your white sheets, Titus throws you onto the bed. He slots himself in between your legs and pulls your lips apart. There is a feral look on his face, he just looks at you for a moment, like he’s saying grace before a meal and then he buries his face into your pussy. He moans helplessly, tasting something so forbidden, pinning you down even deeper into the bed.
Your leg kicks out of its own accord. He is ravenous, you feel him licking through the sticky blood, burrowing his face into your skin that’s puffy and hot – you can hear the sounds of him swallowing and it is mortifying. Filthy. Riding that edge of grotesque and erotic, that it’s electric. He seals his lips over your folds and sucks. You whimper. He laps at you, like a wolf tearing into a deer’s carcass.
“Titus…” you sob, feeling his tongue, teeth, lips devour you. The dull cramp behind your pelvis starts to throb, but it’s the growing pulse of the orgasm Titus is licking from you, a sore and clenching and delicious feeling making you want to fold yourself inside out. It aches and it feels so good, like pushing down on a bruise.
You shudder against him when you come, heels planted in the bed and your hips up in the air, chasing his mouth.
Titus emerges from his feast like a demon born. His mouth and chin are soaked in blood – red and dark and glistening. It drips down his neck. It’s smeared all over the grey whiskers on his cheeks, his nose, a frightening mask painted on his face of you. And he licks his chops, teeth stark white against the red.
You look down at your legs and it looks like you’ve been stabbed, there is blood smeared all over the inside of your thighs and the sheets under you look like a frenzied splatter.
“You taste divine,” his voice is wet and thick, a demented growl, “I need more.”
His cock is thick and hard, bobbing between his legs, leaking from the tip. With a snarl he pushes your legs back so that they’re down by your ears. Flayed open for him, he sinks his cock into the beating heart of your womb, a look of pure delight and ecstasy on his face.
Your pussy is hot. It’s already more sensitive than usual, and now it is throbbing and puffy and the drying blood is sticky so that when Titus’ hips come flush to yours, your skin sticks together. Then pulls apart, then sticks together again, as he starts to pump in and out.
Every inch, every movement feels a hundred times more intense. It hurts, his big cock rubbing your already aching lips and bullying your clenching walls, shoving in and carving out space. And it makes you scream in delight, every time he thrusts in you can feel your voice bouncing around your skull – you are an exposed nerve, raw and open. You’re going to die if he doesn’t fuck you harder – it looks like he’s murdered you, both of you covered in blood.
You laugh, even as your fingers dig into his arms and scratch down his chest in desperation of this glorious fucking feeling. Titus finished his hunt, you think. He got you. He got to split you wide open and feast on you, it’s finally done. The chase is over and you are his, his, his.
***
You scream yourself hoarse and leave deep scratches all down Titus’ back. He isn’t done with you, wishes he could hold off his climax forever so this wouldn’t end, but flips you over so that you can straddle him.
He kisses you, deep and hungry. You laugh around his teeth and groan and suck his tongue. He wants you to know what you taste like. It’s the devil’s ambrosia, you must know how euphoric it is. And you look wild on top of him, blood has even stuck in your hair, red smears of it all down your breasts and stomach, all over your legs, and you ride his cock with your fingers in your mouth, moaning his name.
He doesn’t think you look like prey.
Towering over him, a vision of power and indomitable will, naked and lost in violence, vice, viscera – you look like a goddess of vengeance. And he prays at your altar, your temple, hopelessly devoted.
EPILOGUE
***
The day you discover you are pregnant, Titus gets down on his knees and wraps his arms around your legs. He rests his face against your stomach, even though there is no outward difference, he wants to memorize every sign that there is new life growing.
His zealous need to protect you only gets worse, to the point that he won’t even let Ursula touch you. He intimidates the doctor and nurses who oversee your pregnancy, even though you keep reminding him that they can’t work comfortably if they think he’s going to snap their necks if they so much as breathe on you too hard.
When you show, your belly round and heavy, he sleeps with a hand pressed against it.
Titus cuts the umbilical cord himself and is the first to hold your child.
You bleed more than expected after the delivery, and you see the panic on his face, even as he cradles your newborn to his chest. He snaps at the doctors to do something, he shakes his head at you, eyes pleading – don’t do this to him. You laugh, finding it oddly funny in the moment that a little blood scares him.
“I don’t like it when you scare me.”
The bleed is resolved and you are recovering well. Your newborn is now swaddled and you hold them, cheek pressed against impossibly soft new skin. Titus is curled up beside both of you.
“I love you, little one,” you whisper to your child, “and I will never let anyone hurt you.”
Titus shares a look with you, knowing. You smirk at him, “Not even you.”
And the smile on his face is…relieved.
His voice is impossibly gentle when he says, “I love you.”
You believe him.
“Not today…” You see the startled smile on his face, the unexpected laugh bubbling behind his tongue and yours, “…not tomorrow. But one day, I will kill you with my bare hands.”
He looks hopeful when he asks, “Promise?”
You kiss him and promise, “I do”.
***
Titus Danforth is close to his father’s age when his health declines. He never stopped being a daddy’s boy, chasing after Chester’s footsteps.
But you think he found some fulfillment and peace that was outside of Chester. You, he and Ursula have run the High Council peacefully. Relatively peacefully. And when your oldest became of age, Ursula slipped the sigil ring onto their finger herself. She had enjoyed teaching them and was proud of her protégée.
You did end up having twins after the oldest. Titus joked that twins run in the family. Your children are grown, they’re spoiled as wealthy children are, but you think at least they are capable. Independent. Titus did what his father did not, which was spoil his children with love.
The latest stroke wasn’t lethal, but the family physician informs you both that it means Titus will not be able to walk again. You know that is one of his lines that he does not care to cross. His curls now are whiter than grey, but his eyes are steely and forever searching still.
He wants no oxygen, no IV’s, no ‘fucking machines that beep’. He sits in his favourite chair and you share a cigar, even though he coughs through most of it.
“My love,” he sighs, “I’m ready.”
A strange smile twists around your lips. It keeps threatening to tug downwards and open into a sob. But Titus loves that you don’t scream or cry when your world is falling apart. He sees you hesitate.
“You promised,” he reminds you.
You did.
Today has become ‘one day’.
You kiss his lips and then cover his nose and mouth with your hands and press down. You press tighter. You squeeze shut, sealing off all air. He jerks underneath your grip, chest fighting for breath, his arms flail out instinctually, trying to fight you off. You smile with tears in your eyes, yes, yes – your husband is a fighter. He scratches the back of your hand, opening a stinging red cut, before his movements eventually slow and his body grows limp.
You suck the scratch he left. You wish it would scar.
Because you belonged to someone in the end, no longer the black sheep, but the beloved wife – now widow – of the Danforth name.
Thank you so much! It's so self indulgent, I really didn't expect so many people to enjoy it, the response has been amazing :') So many people wanting to be added to a tag list for it, like wow. You guys <3
You don't even know how fuck nasty this is gonna get <3<3<3
Tags: Canon Divergence, Marriage of Convenience, Gore, Violence, Dub Con, Cunnilingus, Somnophilia, tags will keep updating with new chapters
A/N: I know I said last time this would end with Part 2 but uhhh, this keeps ballooning. So tentatively I think this will wrap up with 3, at most 4, parts. Thanks everyone who's been reading and commenting!
Read it below or on AO3
***
The corridors of the Danforth lodge seem to stretch out forever, and after the unsettling conversation with your new father-in-law, you don’t even know where you’re going. Only that you need to walk away.
You’re in a daze, wondering where your place is, still feeling around the edges of the emptiness that has come with being the last member of your family – that’s how Titus is able to ambush you.
You don’t know where he came from, only that he’s suddenly in front of you and walking you back until your shoulders bump against the wall. He’s overwhelming, a presence that goes beyond physical size, he is someone that demands space and takes over your own.
“What did my father say to you?” His voice rasps, his hand pressed against the wall beside your head, caging you in.
You freeze, somehow unable to move or breathe. Like when a mouse is paralyzed under the pinning stare of a cat.
You lick your lips, which suddenly feel so dry, trying to summon the ability to say anything. Titus’ eyes flicker down to the movement, then drag back up to your eyes, taking you in.
You don’t know what possesses you, but you finally stammer out, “Guess.”
Titus is surprised for a second, then smirks. Shifts his weight, like he’s sizing you up.
“You know, I still haven’t gotten to kiss the bride.”
His hand cups your cheek, thumb pressing almost gently against your cheekbone, before his grip tightens and he lunges in – all of your senses suddenly flooded with him. His lips on yours, so startling that you gasp, his body presses into you, giving you nowhere to run. He crushes himself to you, like he’s jealous of the very air you need to breathe. He’ll take it all.
The kiss literally takes your breath away. When your hands push against his chest, fingers curling into his shirt, you’re trying to tap out from a fight. Urgently signalling that you need air. When he releases your lips, for just a moment, to your utter mortification you let out a pained squeak. He lets his teeth drag against your lower lip, letting you catch your breath but not letting you go, the surge of possessiveness and intimacy makes your cheeks burn.
“Funny,” his breath gusts against your skin, hot, “you’re so sweet, I almost expected you to taste like honey.”
His finger trails down your jaw as he admires you, like a butcher would admire the marbling in a raw steak. He presses in again, more slowly, and you let him capture your lips. Kiss him back, your eyes fluttering closed.
When you open them again, you smile up at him and speak softly. Sweetly.
“Not today. And not tomorrow. But one day, I will kill you with my bare hands.”
Titus laughs.
“Promises, promises.”
***
You spend the rest of your day getting acquainted with the private living quarters of the lodge. Even though you’ve lived alone for your adult life, either in school dorms or nice apartments, you aren’t unfamiliar with how a large house is run. You identify the head maid, the one who knows where everything is and how everything should be.
“Have my things been brought here?”
“I’m sorry but no, Mrs. Danforth,” she explains, “we can assist you with getting you a whole new wardrobe.”
The clothes you had been kidnapped in, bloody and ruined, had already been disposed of. You were starting fresh without even the shirt on your back. Let alone your books, your computer, your plant that had survived two moves.
Eventually you ask the head maid to show you to your rooms. You tire quickly, your body still recovering. The bedroom is spacious, with large windows that have a view of the grounds. But you’re surprised by how it’s furnished. There is the bed, a desk, a wardrobe and very little else. It doesn’t seem like much thought has been put into what a woman of the house might need.
But you’re too tired to care today, so you get undressed and slip under the covers. Sleep overtakes you swiftly, and you sink into the warm darkness.
You have nightmares. Flashes of everything that happened. Your mind knows that the hunt is over, but your body does not.
You dream of the way blood splattered on your face when you struck the security guard with the flashlight. How awful it felt, to hit someone that hard that you felt it shoot up your elbow. To hear the wet crunch when you broke someone’s bones.
You hit them again. It’s Titus’ face, blood pouring from his mouth as he laughs up at you. Screaming, you hit them again. It’s now your father’s face, begging you to stop. You keep hitting them until their face is nothing but a bloody mess, and you’re crying.
And something reaches for you in the dark, grabbing you from behind, and you scream and struggle—
--and jerk awake, confused for a moment on where you are.
You are not in the security shed. The room is dark, but the drapes from the windows are drawn open so you can see the night sky. You’re surrounded by soft covers… and a thick arm is wrapped around your torso.
You panic, twisting around and trying to fight out of its grip, your instincts catching up to raise the alarm that there’s a stranger in your bed, when an annoyed voice rasps out.
“Calm down. You almost hit me.”
Titus squints up at you, groggy, and looking resentful that you so rudely woke him up. You’ve never seem him shirtless and now you’re keenly aware of how much of his bare skin is pressed into your bare skin.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” You stammer out.
He frowns, confused and getting grumpier. He obviously doesn’t take well to having his sleep interrupted. “Where else am I supposed to sleep, this is my fucking bed.”
It suddenly makes sense, why the room felt so sparse and rigid. It was Titus’ room.
“I thought I would have my own room.”
He lies back, scrubbing his hand over his eyes, now laughing at you. “This isn’t the nineteenth century. Go back to sleep. Or at least be quiet so I can sleep.”
And to your amazement, he tugs you back against him and burrows down into the covers to do exactly that – fall back asleep.
You end up lying down beside him, still in a bit of shock at how comfortable he already seems with…holding you. In fact, you can feel his hair tickling the top of your head. He’s warm, solid, and in a matter of minutes his chest rises and falls in an even rhythm.
It’s soothing.
This man killed your father. Your mother. Would have also killed your siblings if someone hadn’t gotten to them first. You hate him. You’re scared of him.
And you’re so tired of fighting. The arm around you suddenly tightens, his hand splayed against your stomach. You feel the smooth metal of his ring against your skin.
You can’t remember the last time you slept in the same bed as someone and a primal part of you, something deeper than rational thought or feeling, curls up into the embrace. Because living, breathing things need contact and to be held.
Even monsters.
***
The next time you wake, it’s a much gentler stirring from dreams to consciousness. Sunlight streams in from the windows, the room is much brighter, and you stretch your arms out. Feeling languid and loose and sopping wet.
Wet. And warm, no – hot. Drenched. You realize you’re sweating and there’s a delicious burn in your thighs and a heaviness pinning you down.
When you look down at yourself, wondering what’s happening, you see a mess of silver curls between your legs. You almost shriek and kick away, but that’s when Titus sucks hard on your clit – sending jolts of pleasure racing up your spine. Your hips buck upwards into him and even though you can’t see his face, you can feel his grin press into your folds.
“Wh-what are you doing?” You gasp, trying and failing to regain your composure as you feel his tongue press flat against your hot, aching core and drag up.
His hands grip tighter around your ankles when you try to sit up, holding you down. A humiliating noise tears from your throat – he eats your pussy like he kissed you, greedy, hungry, possessive and overwhelming. Like he had every right to push your legs apart and leave bruising kiss bites on your inner thighs, bury his face into the most intimate part of your body, and claim it as his own.
The worst part is it feels so good. You’ve never had someone lavish this much attention on you, the scrape of his stubble leaving your skin stinging, the filthy smacking noises he makes as he licks and sucks and swallows you.
When he finally surfaces, mouth and chin shiny and wet (with you), his eyes are dark, pupils wide. “This is your fault, you know.”
He crawls up your body, looming over you like an eagle with its wings spread over its kill. To your utter shame, your pussy throbs, clenches around the void he left behind, chasing after his messy touch. He looks so, so smug, propped up on his hands as you pant and squirm underneath him.
“I woke up with you rubbing against me, all panting and flustered.”
Your eyes can’t help but trail down from the sticky string clinging to the underside of his neck (from you), to the trail of greying dark hair that runs down his chest. He’s muscled and toned and soft and solid, a man who has spent his whole life being strong, and you hold in a gasp when one of his broad, rough hands reaches down and wraps around his erection.
Your breath hitches in fear. Anticipation. Embarrassment. Want. His cock is thick, it rubs against the wet mess between your legs, steel wrapped in velvet as he drags the head teasingly against you.
Part of you is stunned that he wants you. You feel foolish, how could that thought not have crossed your mind? But this whole marriage was a loophole to a game. A cheat. A contract written in Latin, a bizarre ritual where you only represented five percent of a fortune. You were a chess piece. Somehow, you hadn’t realized that he saw your body and wanted it.
Your breath stops in your throat as you feel him begin to push in, the blunt head of his cock nudging into you, and your hands fly up to his chest.
“Wait,” you plead, “Wait.”
“Don’t want to,” he whines into your ear, lowering himself down onto his elbows and sinking into you slowly. Relentlessly. Stretching you open so that you feel it burn, because he’s thicker than anyone you’ve had before, and it feels like he’s forcing the air out of your lungs.
This is happening. Whether you want to or not, the fox’s jaws are already clamped around the rabbit’s neck – and you want to. You’re so angry, furious, with yourself but you realize you can’t hate yourself into not wanting this – you like his touch so much, it makes you feel desperate.
His hips come flush against yours and he lets out a hiss, biting his lower lip, eyes closed with pleasure. “Fffffuck.”
Something about the way that word slithers out of him, rumbling above you, a silky purr, is even more erotic than Titus being buried hilt deep into you. You’re going to completely lose your mind if you aren’t careful.
You’re going to let him take over completely, if you don’t fight back. Just a little.
You notice the gauze wound around his shoulder, the bandage padded underneath. You run your fingernails over it. “How’s the hole I put in your shoulder?”
He rolls his hips, moving slowly, like he’s savouring every inch he pulls out – then pushes back into you. But his eyes flutter open as you peel away the tape, pulling the gauze away to reveal a neat row of three stitches.
He chuckles, dipping his head low to scrape his teeth against your neck. “You missed. Think you just wanted to get matching scars.”
A grin curls up your lips, your mouth parting slightly as you feel his cock rub against a spot deep inside you, and you say, “Your sister got her mark on me. Not you.”
His eyes darken. He’s above you, your entire vision filled with him, and the flash of jealousy that crosses his face – dark and turbulent like a coming storm. He looks at the bandage wound around your right arm. Remembers it was Ursula who shot you, who put a hole in you, who will leave a scar on you. Not him.
The menace on his face grows and you’re sure he’s thinking of some way to punish you for not being his prey first, but you’ve anticipated that and press your thumb into the stitches on his shoulder. The skin is still red, the wound still tender, and he barks out a surprised shout.
“Fuck.” His eyes snap to you, wild and furious, his arm buckling a little from the sudden shock of pain.
And he finds that you’re laughing. You’re pinned underneath him, skewered on his cock, vulnerable and open – and you’re laughing. Before his thoughts can grow darker, you flip him over, pushing him down onto the bed and readjusting your legs to straddle him.
He’s still angry, his pride sore, but he’s intrigued. You run your nails down his chest – admiring the freckles that dot his skin – and roll your hips in a way that buries him even deeper inside you. His lips part at the same time yours does, the friction making your heart race.
“Poor Mr. Danforth,” you croon, mocking, “can’t bear weight on his arm. Don’t worry, husband, I’ll do all the work.”
And the grin that stretches over his face is sharp like a knife. His hands circle your waist, fingers digging into your flesh so tightly that it could leave dents, and he urges you to go faster, harder. You learn something about your new husband – he’s a yapper, unable to stop the stream of filth coming from his mouth.
“Gripping me so fucking tight, I’m gonna split you in half and you’ll love it. My pretty little wife. I saw you and I made you fucking mine. Going to fill up this pretty pussy, make sure you take all of it, mark you from the inside out—“
Your eyes want to roll into the back of your head. Your toes are curled and you feel a clenching behind your gut that’s been building up, a syrupy, ticklish surge spreading upwards.
You wrap your hands around his neck and smile.
Titus is close to the edge, but even with his brain in his balls about to rocket into oblivion – he recognizes the smile of someone looking at their kill. His hands fly up to yours, even as he can’t stop you from bouncing on his cock, milking him into the most submissive he’s been.
You whisper, “And I’ll kill you.”
He looks up at you curiously, eyes fogged over with lust, “Not today?”
And your hands tighten around his collar – but so you can anchor onto something and thrust against him even faster, throwing your head back as you feel your walls clench and your orgasm hit you. No, not today. Your husband follows on your heels, coming with an almost pained sob, clutching onto you so tightly that it leaves fingertip shaped bruises.
***
Ursula remains cautious of you, but does relax once Chester’s tacit approval is made clear. She’s the one who points out to Titus that you need your own things.
“You’ve got plenty of clothes you don’t use,” he finds the whole matter confusing.
Ursula shoots a look at you – and you don’t say anything, but the silent exchange is clear ‘leave me out of it’ – before snapping, “Your wife is not going to wear your sister’s clothes, dumbass. I’m taking her shopping.”
To your surprise, Titus insists on accompanying you. Despite him griping about the fact that Ursula wants to steal you for some ‘girl time’, he climbs into the black car and sits next to you for the drive.
You’re brought to a private entrance of a luxury retailer, not the door the ‘public’ would use, and you find that the shop is completely empty.
A store closed for privacy in order to serve wealthy clients, you understand. But even the staff have all been dismissed, and instead it is employees of the Danforth estate who stand by, ready to assist.
Ursula takes this in, half-annoyed and half-amused. “This is a little much.”
You get that this isn’t a regular occurrence, but Titus doesn’t waver, eyes hidden behind a pair of sunglasses.
“I’m not letting someone who makes twenty dollars an hour touch my wife or see her naked.”
Your eyebrows rise on their own in surprise. Whatever guesses you had on what married life with Titus Danforth was going to look like all needed to be thrown out the window. There was never anything certain.
It made sense that someone like him, born into wealth and ultimate power, would be possessive. He felt like he owned you, especially after giving you a life or death choice. You were just another one of his assets, and he was free to use you however he pleased. He probably had a pathological need for control.
But you found it strange, why he couldn’t meet your eyes and resolutely looked at a distant spot in the store. If he wanted to control you, he would tell you what outfits to put on and pick for you. Instead he stood, awkwardly, until you began to browse on your own.
Ursula gave you a few suggestions for color stories and styles. You had your own personal tastes, but you found her opinions helpful on what sort of aesthetics helped the Council members take you seriously. The items you picked out were packaged up and taken away by the staff, loaded into a car to be arranged in your room while you were out.
You found a dress to change into that you wanted to wear for the rest of the day. It was cotton silk, tied into a halter top behind your neck, comfortable to move in while being fluttery and elegant.
“Titus, aren’t you going to compliment your wife?”
You noticed how stiffly he stood in the middle of the store, like he was trying to keep his distance. You found the dynamic strange. With your family, your former family you had to remind yourself, you had the same sibling arrangement. You were the youngest, with an older sister and older brother. In a way, you had stepped into something like that with the Danforth twins. But there was something off, like it was the reflection from a funhouse mirror, distorted.
Your brother and sister weren’t close, but they were familiar with each other in a way you weren’t. You were a third wheel, an afterthought, ‘child number three’.
Here, you felt like you were in the middle of an argument between Ursula and Titus. They were close, closer than you’d ever seen two people, playing into the myth that twins had a special connection. But instead of you observing from the side, you felt like you were in the center that they circled around, that you were some kind of leverage for a tug-of-war that started before you had even entered the picture.
Titus’ gaze finally moved to your direction when you stepped away from Ursula and came up to him. The sunglasses hid his eyes, but you could see his jaw clench, his attention zeroing in on you.
“Do me up?” You ask innocently, before turning around and presenting him with the nape of your neck. Purposefully vulnerable, a lamb sweetly placing its head on the wood block and waiting for the butcher to swing his cleaver. You can hear him gulp.
His fingers are rough and dry, the ones that curl around the grip of the war pick and swings down, and he gently takes the fabric straps and ties it into a knot. Lets his fingers trail down your neck before resuming his stance, crossing his arms against his chest, as if remaining stoic is his best defence.
You aren’t sure how to name it yet, but you get the sense that you’ve learned something very private about Titus.
***
You were no stranger to being rich. Your family’s wealth had afforded you privilege and opportunities that were hard to come by. The number one privilege of being wealthy was in being able to waste your time. You had spent that in academia and traveling abroad. You had met other people, sometimes another student, sometimes a cocky businessman in a bar, who thought they could impress you with their wealth by being loud. Flashy. Peacocking.
It took a lot to impress you. The Danforth wealth had your jaw on the floor.
They had so much, that they had the privilege of not needing to think of money at all.
That becomes apparent to you when you mention that you would like to drive yourself into the city, and Titus asks if you wanted a car.
“Which car do you want?”
You assume the question is hypothetical and joke, “A Porsche.”
He tapsout a text on his phone and sends it, conversation over. You’re confused, don’t know why the matter is being dismissed so quickly, and wonder if you’re being told in a way to stay home. It wouldn’t surprise you that as Mrs. Danforth, you can’t move as freely as you want.
But then his phone dings as he receives ad reply and he says, “It’ll be here in an hour.”
“What?”
He looks puzzled, like you’re the odd one for being surprised. “The car. They’ll bring it here.”
Titus doesn’t even stick around to see your reaction when a brand new Porsche coupe is delivered to the Danforth lodge, because he doesn’t see it as a way to impress you. That level of excess and…ease is unsettling. People that never have to care about what they have or how they acquire it, don’t need to care about what they lose either.
But the leather steering wheel feels good in your grip, the car tearing down the road so fast that you feel it in your gut. Like you’re trying to tame a wild beast with just a slim piece of metal between your hands, rather like the black ring on your finger and the man who shares your bed.
***
You find yourself slipping into the Danforth’s family dynamic a lot more smoothly than anticipated. Acceptance is the path to least resistance. And acceptance is becoming easier when the alternative is nothing. Literally nothing and no one. The only thing keeping you from fully embracing your new life is the guilt that it came from such a monstrous bargain.
But the truth is, your own family wasn’t too dissimilar. That was why you had tried staying away for so long. But if they had cared more about bringing you into the fold, forced you to come back home after you graduated, then you would have been witness to all this. Especially after your father had sold his soul to Mr. Le Bail.
From your observation, it’s clear that Chester and Ursula consider themselves the brains of the operation. And they view Titus as the muscle. You don’t think that’s wrong per se, because he doesn’t have the patience for strategy, logistics, and the elaborate performance of socializing that comes with securing business alliances.
But you think it’s foolish how apparent they make their disdain of his intelligence. He is perceptive. He was able to see you in the dark of night and chase you down. He can catch a whiff of your perfume and know what room you were just in and where you’re going next. He can tell when a smile means you’re afraid or when it means you’re entertained, even if the difference on your face is microscopic.
So he seethes, being shut out and bullied around by them like he’s a petulant child. You think not even Ursula has caught onto just how deeply resentful he’s grown.
“Wilkinson is going on again about how the Rajan nightclubs are encroaching on his casinos—“
“He doesn’t have the market share of gambling venues. Bill is just raising a stink so that his kids can be exempt from the debut hunt again, he always does this—“
And to your surprise, Chester suddenly interrupts and speaks across the table, where you were sitting quietly. “What do you think?”
Ursula and Titus’ heads both snap in your direction, both just as surprised as you that Chester has given you the floor.
“Bill Wilkinson is accusing the Rajan brothers of cutting into his casino business by running betting games in their nightclubs. The Rajan’s want to expand into North America and argue that not being able to bring their full portfolio of businesses is unfair.” Chester looks at you expectantly, like a teacher waiting for an answer.
Titus’ eyes bore into you, intense. He looks…jealous and hurt, and also confused by the source of the jealousy. But it’s because his father has never called for his opinion like this before.
You shrug. “I don’t care.”
Chester smirks, you do tend to amuse him, but he isn’t satisfied. “But what is your perspective on this dispute?”
You mull it over for a moment, anxious at the amount of attention on you. All three Danforth’s are focused on you. You’ve never been in the spotlight like this before, it’s unfamiliar and new.
“They’re both right. Wilkinson has a legitimate grievance, especially as the Rajan betting games are being launched on an app platform. Casinos have moved to online betting. But it’s also true that he is using this complaint as leverage for his real want – to shield his son’s upcoming debut. So…” You suck your teeth, handing out judgment for people you literally could not be paid to care about, “…maybe Mr. Le Bail should make them duel for a resolution. If Bill Wilkinson wants to maintain his control of Atlantic City, he doesn’t get to dodge having to play a bloodsport.”
Chester takes that in for a moment, before he nods, still smirking. “Creative.”
Ursula looks grudgingly impressed and somehow finds a way to turn that into a dig at Titus. “Looks like we found the brains in your marriage.”
And Titus…he isn’t smiling.
***
You gain Ursula’s respect after that and she starts to treat you like you’re on her team. It’s a subtle shift, but noticeable, the way she includes you now and speaks to you like an equal. You’re asked your opinion more often on situations with the High Council, and on the Danforth’s affairs in general, though you maintain your neutral stance. You truly don’t care one way or the other what happens to any of these people. They’re all going to hell in a hand basket.
Titus grows moody and distant. You don’t pursue him. For now, he takes out his frustration at night when he pins you to the bed and fucks you without warning or preamble. Trapping himself in a self-fulfilling cycle of being the brute.
You are reading in the study when Ursula comes in with two flutes of champagne.
“I thought we could have a toast,” she says as she sits next to you and hands you one of the flutes.
“For what?”
She shrugs, coy, “It’s Friday?”
You clink glasses and take a sip. The champagne is dry and sweet.
Ursula leans in, like you’re girlfriends at a sleepover getting into a gossip session. “I’m glad you joined the family. I know it wasn’t in the most conventional way, but you were wasted on the sidelines. Honestly, I don’t think Titus really understands what he has in you. But you’re turning into one of the best investments the family’s ever made.”
You feel your eyebrows go up slightly at ‘investment’, but you say nothing and drink a little more to keep your mouth occupied.
“Titus and I are closer than blood. We shared a womb, although, I did come out first,” she says, preening a little, “but I know him better than anyone. He wants you all to himself, because he’s always had to share. If you want to make him easier to manage, you just need to—“
“Girl time?”
Ursula’s head snaps to the doorway that Titus fills, a dark look that makes it clear he’s heard enough. His gaze burns into you, as you raise the glass to your lips and take another sip.
He stalks into the room, like a big cat prowling through tall grass. Ursula’s shoulders stiffen, sensing danger.
“I want a word with my wife. Get out.”
“We were just talking—“
He snarls at her, “Get the fuck out.”
Despite the smug way she had been talking about how to manage him, Ursula retreats quickly. Titus snatches the glass out of your hand and flings it to the side, you hear the tinkle of crystal breaking.
He radiates rage, revenge, towering over you and pressing his face in close, invading your space. You look back, calmly, without blinking.
“Getting cozy with the family?” He asks, voice dripping with venom.
You blink slowly. “Shouldn’t I be?”
“I knew they’d get to you,” he spits, crackling with resentment, “Father, Ursula, all they want to do is control me. You think you can control me?”
Now, you let the barest hint of a smile cross your face. It’s weary, the amused huff of someone who’s resigned themselves to being the loser.
“I don’t care about controlling you.”
He looks furious, but also stares deeply into your eyes, searching. He wants to know if you’re telling the truth, can hear and see the honesty, but can’t believe it yet.
“I saw you,” his voice is hushed, “I saw you. Before the hunt even started.”
With a dull thump of your heart you realize he’s talking about that night. The one that still clings to your dreams, has you waking up screaming in the dark. The hard line between everything before, and everything as it is now – the night your life changed irrevocably. You’ve never heard or wanted to know what Titus’ version of those events were.
You find it hard to breathe as he opens Pandora’s box.
And you don’t understand why he looks so…desperate, for you to understand.
“You didn’t belong with the rest of them. It was clear as day, the very first thing I noticed about you. You didn’t belong to them. You didn’t belong in that room or in that hunt.” He frowns, like he is trying to understand as well, the powerful feeling he can’t articulate, “I had to be the one to split you open. To see your blood run, to hear what you sounded like as you couldn’t breathe.”
His hand rests against the side of your face and he looks dazed, like he doesn’t know exactly what he’s looking at. Only that he can’t turn away.
“I saw you fighting to get away. And I wanted to keep you.”
His eyes silently plead with you, to help him make sense of this.
You place your hand over his, leaning into his palm.
“I don’t care,” you repeat, “about controlling you.”
Not that you couldn’t, but that you don’t care to. That you don’t care about anything, not about their evildoing, their petty games for power, their hellish world. If Titus kills, flies into rages, burns down the entire world for his own amusement – you don’t care. He took everything you cared about away from you.
“You got me.” You mean it in so many ways. That he cut off any ties you had to the world and scooped you up. That he made it so you had no one else. “Not your sister. Not your father. Not anyone else. You got me.”
You can’t read the expression on his face, but it’s the most still he’s been. Quiet, pensive, absorbing in everything you’ve said and letting it sink through him on its own time. Settle into unknowable shapes that you can’t make out.
He then gets down on one knee, in between your legs, lower now so he looks up at you. And he rolls up the sleeve of your right arm and begins to undo the bandage. The wound has healed over now, and you’re supposed to see the family physician in two days to remove the stitches.
Titus gently takes your arm, runs his fingers over the sutures and the scar that is pink now and will fade to white in time. He brings it to his mouth and you feel his teeth nibble gently around your skin before it finds its target and bites down. Saws back and forth – and the suture is cut. Carefully, his undivided attention on delicately unpicking the surgical thread and teasing it from your skin. It doesn’t hurt but it does feel like a strange, ticklish tugging.
He saw you. The spare of a spare. The other child. You realize what you’ve found so strange about being a Danforth, more so than the devil worship or puppet mastery of the world…it’s that they can’t ignore you. You are more present in their family than you ever were in your own.
And Titus is always looking at you.
He pulls out the sutures and it leaves behind a small, grooved line of raised scar tissue. You can even see the tiny holes where the thread was. He places a kiss onto the ruined skin, forever marked, and he murmurs “I’m sorry”, another kiss, “I’m sorry”, and another kiss, “I’m sorry”.
And you know it isn’t an apology for what he did to catch you. For ending your family name. For seeing you and coveting you and snatching you up. He’s sorry for letting someone else mark you permanently, that this scar is not from his hand. It’s funny, how you can understand so much of what he’s saying, without him needing to speak.
You run your fingers down his Adam’s Apple, drawing a feathery line across his throat. He smiles as he kisses your scar, because Titus is perceptive, and he understands you too.
You’re saying, not today. But one day…with my bare hands…
I know everyone is headcanoning Titus as being crazy good in bed, and to be clear KEEP WRITING THAT. Because I love reading it.
I just also think there's a version where Titus has been living under his father's heel for all of his life, Ursula is his closest relationship but she's also part caretaker part guard, and that he might not be...the most experienced man. When would he have the time, access, freedom to feel like he wasn't being scrutinized? Maybe he had a few hookups here and there, maybe his father even paid for an escort to take his virginity - I don't know. But imagine Titus, nervous. Fumbling. Doesn't really know what he's doing. Prematurely ejaculates because he's so worked up from just being touched over his pants. Absolute putty in the palm of your hand, doesn't have a clue but hanging onto your every move.
Summary: You are the youngest daughter of a family trying to win a seat on the High Council. Overlooked, ignored, the spare of a spare. When your family gambles and loses it all you are now hunted by the High Council. Titus butchers his way through your family until you're the last one standing...but he has a different idea on how to end your bloodline.
Tags: Canon Divergence, Marriage of Convenience, Gore, Violence, eventually explicit in later parts
A/N: There will be a part 2 (where all the smut is, this beginning just ran away from me). I did finally write down the plot bunny that wouldn't leave me alone, then RON2 comes out and has a fucking wedding on main and well, I couldn't not.
Edit: Part 2 , Part 3
Read it below or on AO3
***
All you knew about your family business growing up was that when you asked your older brother, “Are we good people?” he said “no”.
He used to tell you stories about how the family once lived in a small apartment above a convenience store, a hole crammed into the busy streets of Tokyo. How mother used to stretch a pack of instant ramen to feed three people, and father would be out all night. He came home stinking of cigarettes and gun powder. And not because he was a smoker, but because he worked in the gambling dens and illegal casinos.
Your older sister was born after father took out a rival gang leader and made a deal with a generous benefactor. Almost overnight, his black market gambling rooms turned into a luxury casino, the jewel of the Tokyo skyline. The apartment above the convenience store became the penthouse suite of a skyscraper.
You were born when the Okami family lived in a mansion, far away from the city, nestled in the mountains. The estate once belonged to a feudal lord and your father spent millions renovating and modernizing it. The casino was now an empire of swanky hotels, venues and race tracks across Asia. Your brother was the heir, your older sister the spare, and you…well, you were somewhat of an accident. The spare of a spare.
And so you were mostly overlooked. You knew that in Father’s office was a portrait of his benefactor Mr. Le Bail. That your brother was being trained in secret meetings where sometimes you heard gunshots ring out across the property and you found him later washing blood off his hands. Your mother spent most of her time preparing your sister for a political marriage. You were mostly ignored. You spent your childhood with tutors, playing by yourself in the mountains, and feeding the stray cats.
You were sent away to Switzerland for an international boarding school. When you turned eighteen, you went to university in England. You rarely came back home, where it was clear you were an afterthought. Sometimes the only reminder you had of your family was when someone referred to you as “Miss Okami”.
For a long time, you didn’t think Mr. Le Bail was real. But Father made some sort of deal, an update to his arrangement he called it, and the entire family needed to be present. You were confused, because normally a business meeting involved a small army of people, but gathered in your Father’s office was just your family and one man – who referred to himself as Mr. Le Bail’s attorney. There was chanting, you tried not to giggle when your Buddhist Father somberly declared “Hail Satan”, and you were disturbed when he signed an addendum to his contract in blood.
But then you saw flames rush up from the empty seat at the head of the table, and a spectral figure of a man with glowing red eyes nod at you. And you realized you had seen the devil.
The willful blinders you’d had over your eyes dissolved quickly after that. You realized many of your family’s business associates were other families who made deals with Mr. Le Bail. That the entire world, in fact, ran by the High Council’s machinations. Your wealth, your privilege, even if your life had been lonely it had been easy, these were all due to a dark cult.
You tried to distance yourself from your family even more after that. Your brother seemed relieved that you finally saw the truth, though it broke your heart to realize he had been preparing to sell his soul all your life. The kind boy you had grown up with had always been meant for the devil. He was disappointed when you grew distant, but no one really made an effort to keep you close. Not when your Father had his ambitions set to attaining a High Council seat.
All you know was that he made some sort of gamble. Father had built an empire off taking risks and betting it all. But this time, he lost.
You had gotten into a cab to meet a friend for lunch. Someone opened the door and before you could react, a needle went into your neck and the world went black.
The next time you woke, you were face to face with Titus Danforth.
You didn’t know that was his name in that moment. But it cut through the fog of the tranquilizer, the steely gaze of an apex predator and the arrogant smirk of someone who knows they’re about to play a game they will win.
He looks at you like you’re a piece of meat. Not a person, just something to bite into and chew.
The Danforth’s and other High Council families ae there, along with Mr. Le Bail’s attorney. You are on your knees, hands bound behind your back, in a line with the rest of your family. Father, Mother, your brother, sister, and you – the black sheep at the rear.
“You bet double or nothing, and you lost.” Le Bail’s attorney doesn’t look sympathetic at all. “The conditions of the wager must be honored. The High Council families will take over all of your assets. How the estate is divided will be with a game: they will hunt you and each of you represents a percentage.”
Your Father spits at Chester Danforth’s feet, calling the old man a snake. Your mother cries, screaming out for mercy. Your sister pleads with the cold smiles of the High Council, that she isn’t responsible for her father’s actions, that she shouldn’t pay for his mistakes.
You are the only one who is silent. Frightened tears roll down your cheeks, but you know that no amount of begging or pleading will change what’s about to happen.
The attorney smiles at your father, “You represent fifty percent.”
You see the blood drain from your Father’s face as all eyes turn to him. Ursula snickers as Titus whispers something into her ear, letting out a little snort of laughter. It’s obvious who has the largest target on their back.
Mother is twenty percent. Your brother, fifteen. Your sister is ten and you…
“And the youngest represents five percent.”
Strange, how a part of you feels ashamed of that number. It feels so small, measly. Your family spent most of your life making you feel less than, and this crowd of strangers, they also look at you and see nothing.
You feel a flicker of anger, and you don’t look away as Le Bail’s attorney measures you and declares you worth only five percent. You make sure not to break eye contact, glaring back at him with a quiet rage. Out of the corner of your eye, you see Titus’ head tilt to the side, like he’s trying to get a better look at you.
The attorney ends with this proclamation, “By dawn, the entire Okami family must be eradicated, or Mr. Le Baill will be very upset. You will have to the count of one hundred.”
The zip-ties that bind your hands are cut by a stone-faced bodyguard. The first chime rings out, one, and you get to your feet and run. You don’t look back.
***
Titus didn’t know much about the Okami family, though Ursula had given him a brief rundown. Honestly, there were a lot of people who wanted to make deals with Mr. Le Bail, and a lot of them were fools. Tried to renege on a deal or didn’t read the fine print well enough, and had their contracts end in a bloody mess sooner rather than later.
This new family had been the first candidates in a while who looked like they could be savvy enough to win a High Council seat. Not the high seat, that sigil ring still rested on his father’s finger, but a seat at the table. Ursula had made some vague comments about how she might have to marry their son, a prospect that annoyed her. Titus had made fun of her for years that she would have to cradle rob and marry Daniel Le Domas, and the Okami son was even younger. Ursula had very little patience for boys. She used it all up on her twin.
There had been some general anxiety among the other families about how a new player would change the game, shift alliances, what have you. Titus didn’t have the inclination for politics, something that disappointed Chester. It was just slow, inane, a waste of his fucking time. He was a man of action over pointless chatter.
So when the Okami’s failed their wager and it turned into a hunt? His blood was singing with anticipation.
He had only been told about the heir and a daughter. You were a surprise. He had his eye on you when the family was presented in front of the High Council, trying to discern what about you made you a dirty little secret. A quivering, innocent little lamb.
You were scared, of course. They were always scared.
But you were quiet. He noticed that about you, how the rest of your family wailed and screamed, but you refused to make a sound. Did that defiance come from ignorance? A misplaced confidence?
When you glared at the attorney, Titus decided you were fun.
You bolted first and everyone ignored you, set on daddy ‘fifty-percent’. It took far too much longer for the rest of the hostages to get wise to the game. The older daughter had to drag their mother out of the room. The father finally made it off the floor with forty seconds to go.
Amateurs.
Titus and Ursula had already worked out a game plan to herd off the other families, lead them away from the real prize. The El Caido’s had that stupid high velocity rifle – benefits of joining the Le Bail organization in the twentieth century – but it would be useless indoors. Titus hefted the Danforth war pick in his hands, ready.
“Ninety-nine…” The attorney clasped his hands and addressed them all, “…one hundred. Happy hunting.”
As the council families prepared to run after the Okami patriarch, Ursula set off a smoke grenade. She winked at Titus, already stationed by the door, as they slipped out – leaving a confused mess inside the board room.
Titus could feel his heart pounding in his ears, the adrenaline spiking in his veins. Senses attuned to every movement, every sound – this is when he felt the most alive.
Mr. Okami had made the mistake of trying to hide inside the manor. He may have had to dirty his hands once upon a time, but a life of wealth and luxury had let him grow lazy. He could barely fight back when Titus dragged him out of a closet by the ankle. With a growl and a vicious swing, the pick buried into the top of Okami’s head. The man twitched, eyes wide with surprise as he looked up at Titus, like he didn’t know he was dead yet.
Titus smashed in his face for good measure, blood spraying across his face, the head of the Okami family dying with a wet, crumpled sound.
“You fucking cheating cabron,” Ignacio vented when he came across the scene, hot on Titus’ heels, before running down the corridor to try and catch at least some of the prize.
He quickly linked back up with Ursula, who had already made a quick survey of the other family members. “The mother is headed for the garage. The son is already out of the building and Chen Xin will get to him before we do.”
They both pivoted towards the elevator that would take them down to the garage, perfectly in sync without having to confirm each other’s thoughts.
“Twenty is better than fifteen,” Titus agreed, “and if we get the girls—“
“—we can secure eighty percent of their assets.”
They cut the power to the garage and hunted the mother in the dark. Titus could hear her panicked sobs echo against the cold concrete walls. Now and again he let the pick drag along the ground, the scrape of iron against cement, and she would shriek.
Perhaps she thought she could steal a car and drive away. Maybe she slammed her hands against the steering wheel in panic as she couldn’t find any keys. She was too choked on panic and fear to even realize she would never be able to get the garage door open and it was made with reinforced, bulletproof steel.
“Don’t play with your food, Titus.” But Ursula had a smirk on her face.
“By all means, you do the honors.”
Ursula looked so pleased, she almost purred. She used the dainty stiletto hidden in her riding boots to stab through the mother’s hand. Titus helped drag her out from underneath an SUV, hand wrapped around her neck, ready to squeeze the life out of her.
“Wait,” Ursula had to yank his arm back before he listened, losing himself to the blood rush, “We can use her to draw the daughter out.”
He didn’t like having to stop, especially right as he was honing in for a kill. It was like trying to stop a moving train. But he finally let go, dropping the woman sobbing back onto the ground as Ursula took over.
He thought it was a waste of time. The woman was in hysterics, she wouldn’t be able to pull herself together to even spell her own name. Ursula just wanted to show off that she knew some phrases in Japanese.
Eventually he grew bored of the crying, grabbed the back of the woman’s dress and dragged her out of the garage. Ursula was pissed, but Titus wanted to be efficient. He dragged the mother outside and yelled across the grounds for the daughter to come out.
Ursula was peeved, “That isn’t going to work.”
“Really? ‘Cause I just saw movement by the tree line.”
Like a bloodhound, Ursula found the spot and tracked the movement he had seen. One shot from her flintlock, an explosion of tree bark, and Titus heard it – a wounded gasp. He grinned, that was a hit.
He snapped the mother’s neck and raced Ursula to the trees. He saw the shape of a figure, a woman clutching her arm as she tried to run away, and he tackled you from behind.
You tripped and he fell on top of you. It was dark, so he couldn’t make out your face, but he could smell your blood – the pistol round was buried in your right arm. You fought back, but you were a flurry of hands and useless kicking. You weren’t a fighter, you weren’t a killer. You didn’t have the first clue what you were doing.
Titus thought that was so sweet.
But for a split second his luck ran out, or yours kicked in. Ursula caught up to him, but in the confusion, knocked into his arm. It made him lose his grip on the war pick for an instant – in which you were able to wrestle it back and then swing upwards, burying the tip into his shoulder.
Titus roared, more out of disbelief than pain. Ursula fired her pistol again, but you had wriggled out from under him and ran further into the darkness. She made to go after you, but Titus saw red, he grabbed his sister’s arm.
“I had her!” He spat in her face, “You fucked up my kill.”
“Get over yourself,” Ursula hissed, shoving him back, “And get something on that.”
With a grimace, Titus wrenched the pick out of his shoulder, feeling the pain radiate outward in white hot waves. You, a little lamb, had drawn blood.
He was going to take you apart piece by piece.
***
You wedge a long flashlight through the door handles of the security shed and let yourself sink onto the floor. You make sure the lights were off so it won’t look like anyone is inside.
You think that if you needed to cry, right now is a good time for that, but no tears come. Instead, you just feel exhausted and overwhelmed. The inside of your mouth feels fuzzy and sour, like you’re tasting lemons. You had been running, for how long you had no idea, only knowing that every muscle in your body is screaming in pain.
With a precious moment to regroup, you search around the shed and find a first aid kit. You poke around the bullet hole in your arm, gingerly pressing the skin to see if you can find the round, but the wound is too inflamed. Sore. You almost scream when you pry a finger inside to search for the bullet, your vision hit with colored lights. Okay, that’s a bad idea, the bullet will have to stay inside your arm for now. You splash rubbing alcohol over it and wind a tensor bandage around it as tightly as possible to staunch the bleeding.
You’e fairly certain your father is dead. You had seen Titus Danforth kill your mother with your own eyes. You don’t know if your brother or sister are still alive, but if they had armed psychopaths like the Danforth’s after them, you didn’t like their chances.
Distantly, you know you should feel sad. But everything hurts, you’re tired, you feel like your entire body is being stretched apart. You hadn’t asked for any of this. The only emotion that seems to be useful right now is anger.
You’re angry that you were put in this position. You’re angry that you had been dragged here against your will. You’re angry, thinking of your father’s greed led all of you to hell, when you would have been happy – happier, even – if you had all lived in that cramped apartment living off instant ramen.
You don’t mean to, but lying down in a cramped, dark space makes the exhaustion take over your body and you drift off to sleep.
***
There was an hour left until dawn.
The Council families were fuming. The hunt had begun at midnight. No one had expected it to go beyond an hour. Everyone had been killed except for the youngest daughter, who no one had given a second thought.
And now they could lose it all, because of a five percent stake.
Ursula was beside herself, berating him for not finishing the job and letting you get away.
Titus couldn’t hide how amusing he found the entire situation. You, a backup kid that had barely dipped your toes into this world, had probably never handled or even seen a gun in real life, and you had become a thorn in the side of the most dangerous people on the planet.
Somehow you had taken what should have been a night of easy pickings into a drawn out, anxious meeting in the board room over how to flush you out and finish the game. You had dragged the hunt out to five hours and counting, and some of the families were getting nervous that Mr. Le Bail’s anger would be taken out on them.
Titus went down to the control room to view the situation from the camera feeds. For a long time, almost two hours, there wasn’t a sign of you. He wondered if you had made it over the fence, but the laser perimeter hadn’t been triggered. Maybe you were going to win simply by hiding until dawn – an outcome no one had thought possible.
Finally, he saw movement. One of the guards returned to the North gate shed and found the door jammed. Titus watched as you jerked awake, you had been holed up in your little den, and the guard managed to get the door open. You were scared, even on the black and white grain of the security feed, he could see it on your face. Your arm was bandaged, your eyes wide—
--and you brought the flashlight down on the guard’s head. The security camera feed had no sound, but Titus could hear it, clear as day. The way your chest hitched, the panicked sobs coming out of you, the scream that tore from your throat when the guard lunged for you and you had to hit them again. And again. The dull thud of the flashlight hitting flesh and bone, the way it reverberated up your arm, the way the guard’s cheek caved in and blood sprayed on your face.
You spluttered, in shock, hastily wiping the blood from your face and seeing it on the back of your hand. You looked like you were going to be sick, swaying and dizzy. But the guard, now fallen to the ground, weakly reached up and tried to hold onto your leg. Frightened, but with a grim determination he watched as your face steeled and you adjusted the grip of the flashlight in your hand. You brought it down now with purpose, hitting the guard until they stopped moving.
You sank to your knees and retched, Titus murmured “good girl” when you forced yourself not to vomit. Tears sprang to your eyes, but you wiped them away just as quickly as you had the blood – still in a red smear across your mouth. With shaking hands you searched the guard’s body, patting down the uniform pockets. You found a walkie, a set of keys, and a gun.
Titus clapped in applause. He was certain, this was the first time you had taken a life. You hobbled away from the guard’s body and the shed, moving east.
Titus grinned, it was time to move.
He whistled as he made his way across the green, on foot, war pick slung over his shoulder. It wasn’t the time to stalk and ambush, not anymore. He found you trying to punch in codes to the Eastern gate. When you heard his footsteps, you whirled around and fired the gun.
Titus smirked. Your aim left a lot to be desired, but he appreciated your instinct to shoot first.
He swung the war pick, knocking the gun from your grasp. You tried to scratch at his eyes, but unlike your first encounter, you were so, so tired. And he found it so easy to overpower you, catching you by the wrists and pinning you against the gate. You still fought, breath ragged, eyes wild, because you didn’t know how to do anything else at this point. The little lamb, gone feral. Savage.
For the first time, seeing the dried blood smeared over your mouth, your red-rimmed eyes, voice hoarse from screaming, dirt and blood under your fingernails, still fighting – Titus thought you were gorgeous.
He grasped you by the chin and forced you to look up at him.
“Your entire family must be eradicated by sunrise. That’s inevitable, written in blood.” His eyes looked you up and down, curious, “But killing you feels like a waste.”
Your voice shook, confused by his seeming change of heart. “You aren’t going to kill me?”
He shrugged. “I might have to. But there’s one other way to end your bloodline. You leave your family and marry into mine.”
Your eyes somehow grew wider. You couldn’t believe the words coming from his mouth.
“This is a proposal?”
He grinned, sinister, like he was staring down a delicious meal.
“You will become a Danforth. Your children will be Danforth’s. Your family name ends tonight.”
Even though you stood there in shock, silent for a long time, the grin never left Titus’ face. It was the smirk of someone who knew they were going to win a rigged game. Cocky, and sure.
And sure enough, you let him take you by the hand and Titus escorted you back into the manor, with you on his arm.
***
You hold onto the arm of a man who is soaked in the blood of your family. He is terrifying, a true monster who cut down your father and mother without mercy, tried to kill you, and then asked you to marry him. The situation is so bizarre, you can’t process the gravity of it, every time you try to hold onto the thought – it slips away.
Because you are trembling, your knees wobbly and your body suddenly so heavy as you crash from the adrenaline. You cling onto Titus, more so that you won’t fall over, barely registering any of the commotion around you when you enter the Danforth manor with him.
The other Council families begin shouting when you enter the board room. Something about cheating, how it’s unfair – unfair, like they’re bickering over shared toys instead of your family’s bloodied corpses. When Titus announces his intentions, they get even angrier. There’s more yelling, pointing, and you slide off Titus’ arm and sink into a chair, barely able to hold up your own weight.
Eventually, Chester Danforth gets the room to fall silent. Le Bail’s attorney confirms that this will satisfy the terms of the wager. Ursula looks like she swallowed glass. Chester chuckles a little, shaking his head, as if the whole thing has taken an amusing turn.
Mr. Le Bail’s attorney addresses you directly, “Will you agree to marry Titus Danforth and forsake your family name?”
You’re surprised that anyone has asked what you wanted, or that you have a choice in the matter at all.
But you look at the bloodthirsty people surrounding you. It isn’t really a choice.
In a numb haze, a contract is set before you. The attorney uses a sharp pen to cut a line through Titus’ palm, then yours, and both of your blood is collected in a small gold dish. Your mingled blood serves as the ink, where Titus signs the marital contract, then hands you the pen.
Weary, without any of the hesitation you anticipated, you sign your name.
“You are now man and wife.”
Titus hands you a ring. You slied it onto your own finger. Your right arm throbs where Ursula had shot you. You hadn’t thought much about your wedding day, but you certainly never pictured it like this. Shot and covered in blood.
“There is a tradition, whenever someone new joins the family.” Ursula says, waving the rest of the Council families to leave. Their business was over. “We play a game.”
A bubble of laughter rises up in you, though your voice is rough and cracked. “Another game?”
“You draw a card from this box,” Titus presents you with a plain wood box, “and we play whatever game is on that card.”
You want nothing more than for this night to be over. “And if it’s another game like ‘hunt the bride’?”
Titus smirks. “It could be, and you would still die tonight. But I get the feeling Mr. Le Bail’s feeling…generous, about this union.”
The thought of having to run, having to fight, having to struggle at all makes you want to cry. At this point, you think you would simply lie your head down on the table and let Titus chop it off. He was right though, either way you would have died tonight. This is your only chance to live.
With a deep, coiled sense of dread you turn the key on the box and flinch when a card pops out. Nervous, you pull it out, almost afraid to read what it says…
“Tic-tac-toe,” you almost weep with relief.
Titus smiles at you. “Told you so.”
So as the sun begins to rise, you play Tic-Tac-Toe with your new husband, shakily drawing a line of three ‘X’s, and the night is finally over.
***
When you wake up, you find yourself in an unfamiliar bed. But it’s soft, plush, like you’ve been wrapped up in a cloud, one of the most comfortable surfaces you’ve ever slept on.
You realize you are still in your ruined clothes and to your horror, you discover you’ve left blood and dirt all over the pristine sheets. When you stir awake, wrestling with the comforter, the door to the room opens and a group of housekeepers walk in.
“If you like, Mrs. Danforth, we have drawn you a bath.”
You blink up at them in confusion, then see they have come with towels, a robe and a tray of toiletries. You look apologetically the stained sheets, but the lead housekeeper smiles.
“Not to worry. This is only the guest room, so we could prepare your room.”
“Guest room?”
They lead you to the bathroom and when you feel the warmth of steam hit your skin, you suddenly realize that yes, you very much want a hot bath to soak away the grime and aches of your ordeal. You also find there is a new, much neater bandage over the gunshot wound in your right arm.
“The bullet was removed while you were asleep. The family physician attended to it personally, she has advised that you keep it elevated and dry. We brought a stand for you to rest your arm on while you bathe.”
You sink into the water, too hot at first that it makes your body clench, then an absolute balm once you adjust to the temperature. You’re amazed that you don’t recall a doctor seeing you, or feeling the bullet be removed at all, but you were also so exhausted you doubt being pushed out a window would have woken you.
The bath helps you feel more like yourself again. Part of you is still stuck in fight or flight mode. That you’re still being hunted, that there’s a clock that’s running out. But as you slip the robe on, see the Danforth name embroidered on everything, and look at yourself in the mirror it becomes clear. There is no more running. You are either going to remain scared or you are going to accept what’s happened and figure out what life looks like now.
When you exit the bath you find one of the staff waiting and ask, “Where is…” but realize you aren’t sure how to refer to Titus. Where is my husband? Mr. Danforth? The man who murdered my family?
The housekeeper is happy to assist, “Mr. Danforth and Miss Ursula are taking breakfast in the sun room. I’ll show you.”
You are brought to the sun room, a glass terrace with doors that open out to the grounds, with little fanfare. Ursula and Titus are in tight conversation, paying attention to the TV mounted on the wall with a live news feed.
You sit down at the table, feeling awkward, and ignored by the Danforth twins. With a slight chuckle at how familiar that sensation is, in a way it’s almost comfortable, you look at the breakfast spread and begin to pick at things. You’re starving and you eat without feeling self-conscious.
Eventually, Titus’ gaze flicks over to you. He looks amused.
“You’ve got an appetite.”
You shrug. “I had a long day.”
Ursula and Titus exchange a look, and then she gets up and leaves. The TV is turned off and Titus sits down next to you. This is the first good look you’ve gotten of him, now that it’s daylight and you aren’t running for your life. The eyes are the same, steely and hungry. He watches you eat, like he can weigh every movement you make.
Finally he asks, “You aren’t going to ask me why?”
He looks like a cat, you think, he reminds you of a tom cat that used to bring you a dead bird and then meow at you impatiently when you didn’t acknowledge his hunting skills.
You pop another piece of fruit into your mouth. “Does it matter?”
It doesn’t, what’s done is done, but Titus looks a little disappointed that you won’t indulge his game. You don’t know the exact reason why he didn’t kill you, but you get the sense he didn’t spare your life – not truly. Your life is still in his hands.
He wants a reaction, fear or disgust, and it irks him that you won’t give him one.
His eyes roam your face and he’s about to say something when there’s a sharp, “Titus.”
Chester Danforth waits by the door. Imposing and severe.
“I would like a word with my new daughter-in-law.” Chester adds, “In private.”
Titus looks like he wants to bite back, but his resentment needs to stay behind grit teeth. Chester tells you to meet him in his office once you’ve gotten dressed and made yourself presentable.
“I had to look into you on rather short notice, usually the vetting process is a bit more involved,” Chester smirks even though the smile doesn’t reach his eyes, as he looks over a screen of what is presumably all the intel he found about you. “You studied music, anthropology, economics and minored in Latin. You are pursuing a graduate degree in the military history of pre-steel age civilizations.”
He looks like a wolf, sharp and wizened, and even though he’s a frail man who couldn’t physically participate in the hunt, something about Chester unnerves you more than Titus did.
“This seems rather scattered,” he waves a hand, “someone searching for a specialty without one in mind.”
“It was a way for me to remain in Europe and not return home,” which is an honest enough answer, “and if my family were content to keep paying my tuition, then I was going to study whatever interested me.”
His eyes narrow as he looks at you, as if trying to tell if you’re lying. “And your ambitions didn’t lean towards your family’s business?”
You almost scoff, “My ambition was to be left alone.”
Chester lets out a light chuckle, which again, sounds devoid of any true warmth. “Well, I’m afraid that’s out of reach for you now. You have become very much involved in the family business, though it is not the one you were born into.”
“Why,” the question suddenly tumbled from your lips. You weren’t interested in Titus’ answer because a monster like him only cared about the thrill. But you recognized immediately who the real power of the Danforth family was, the real mastermind that held the High Seat. And you wanted to know. “Why did you let the marriage happen? It would have been easier to kill me.”
Chester regards you for a long, drawn moment. He seems to make a decision, that you don’t need to be spoken down to, that you can take honesty.
“Sometimes the easiest way to control Titus is to let him have his few amusements. He hasn’t thought beyond what a clever play he pulled on the High Council. But if the Danforth family is to continue to hold the High Seat, it needs an heir. You’re the daughter of a powerful family, you know the importance of lineage.”
You do. Even if no one had that expectation of you, being a daughter you were very aware.
“Ursula will not marry. She thinks she can prolong the situation with vague commitments to try, but I know she’s just dragging her feet. My children haven’t thought beyond what happens after I die and they assume the seat. They haven’t thought about after. It requires generations to hold onto generational power.”
You hang your head a little. Part of you knew and yet was still disappointed that it came to this. In a way, you had fallen to your older sister’s prescribed fate: sold off to be a brood mare.
“And you seem smart enough that I think you’ll be useful and not a hindrance. You have a sense of self-preservation for one, something Titus lacks.” Chester’s cold gaze bore into you. “I would suggest you try to keep his interest. He becomes unmanageable when he grows bored.”
You can hear the implicit threat hanging heavy in those words.
I couldn't get this out of my head and unfortunately it's starting to grow out of my control.
But what if: the youngest daughter of a Council family, a spare of a spare, forgotten, not expected to amount to anything...
Her family angers Mr. Le Bail, reneges on their deal with the devil in some way, which sets the Head Council loose on them. A hunt with only one rule "that family is eradicated by dawn"
Titus in particular is having fun. Down goes the patriarch, his pick smashed in the side of his head. Goodnight to the matriarch, dead along with her husband. Son One, and Son Two and now there's just one left...the girl...
She isn't a killer. Not a fighter. Terrified, running on fear induced adrenaline she escapes, hides, and is clawing her way tooth and nail to escape the Danforth estate. She kills a guard, she's never taken a life, but she's past the point of no return now...
The hunt has dragged on hours longer than it should have, all because of this one nuisance of a girl...
Titus finally hunts her down. Hair matted with blood, dirt under her fingernails, tears streaked down her face, hanging on by a thread - but still hanging.
He reaches for her...and she fights back. Even though she's exhausted and can't overpower him as he pins her by the throat...
And he has an idea.
"By dawn, your entire bloodline must be eradicated. That is inevitable. But it would be a waste to kill you."
"You...you aren't going to kill me?"
"Oh, I will if I have to. But there's one other way this ends. You forsake your name, marry me, and become a Danforth."
Titus comes into an empty room. You were supposed to stay put. Have you run? Disobeyed orders?
He finds a coffee cup on the windowsill, still warm. From this vantage point is your view of the grounds...where he sees something nestled in the grass. A shoe.
Titus follows the trail outside. The first shoe. Then the second. Then your footprints in the damp soil, barefoot and carefree as you crossed the grounds into the woods.
His breath quickens when he finds a button. Then your shirt, carelessly discarded and left on the ground. A flirtation of tossed clothing, a striptease in slow motion. He picks up the shirt, your skirt, your ripped hose, he is Hansel following a trail of breadcrumbs to a sweet indulgence.
He almost laughs at your bra hanging off a tree branch. Brazen, bold, long past any coy flirtation.
He crouches down and picks up the scrap of lace on the ground, too sheer to truly cover your modesty, a drop of blood on the underwear that mars its pristine whiteness.
He looks around. He is surrounded by dark woods without a clue which direction you've gone.
He lifts the lace under his nose and breathes in. Deep. Slow. He knows your scent intimately. This drop is muskier than usual, primal and warm.
He catches the next hint of it, a few feet away. He finds another drop of blood, this one splattered on a dried leaf.
The predatory grin curls around his mouth as he follows the blood trail you've left for him. His limping doe. Oh...this is why you're his favorite.
I couldn't get this out of my head and unfortunately it's starting to grow out of my control.
But what if: the youngest daughter of a Council family, a spare of a spare, forgotten, not expected to amount to anything...
Her family angers Mr. Le Bail, reneges on their deal with the devil in some way, which sets the Head Council loose on them. A hunt with only one rule "that family is eradicated by dawn"
Titus in particular is having fun. Down goes the patriarch, his pick smashed in the side of his head. Goodnight to the matriarch, dead along with her husband. Son One, and Son Two and now there's just one left...the girl...
She isn't a killer. Not a fighter. Terrified, running on fear induced adrenaline she escapes, hides, and is clawing her way tooth and nail to escape the Danforth estate. She kills a guard, she's never taken a life, but she's past the point of no return now...
The hunt has dragged on hours longer than it should have, all because of this one nuisance of a girl...
Titus finally hunts her down. Hair matted with blood, dirt under her fingernails, tears streaked down her face, hanging on by a thread - but still hanging.
He reaches for her...and she fights back. Even though she's exhausted and can't overpower him as he pins her by the throat...
And he has an idea.
"By dawn, your entire bloodline must be eradicated. That is inevitable. But it would be a waste to kill you."
"You...you aren't going to kill me?"
"Oh, I will if I have to. But there's one other way this ends. You forsake your name, marry me, and become a Danforth."
