Dottore/Zandik x F!Reader
You're a young lady of a noble title, questioning her religious faith. Enraged, your father brings you to a public lecture to display what could happen to you if you do not bring your beliefs back into line. Subsequently, you fall for the craziest man in London.
Potential Warning(s): Heavy mentions of religious blasphemy, loss of faith, injuries sustained from a fire, su!cide, de@th, violence, smutty smutty smut, uncharacteristically gentle Zandik (?)
WARNING: This fic has major themes of religious blasphemy. If you identify with the Christian/Catholic religion, read at your own discretion.
a/n: I won't be making anymore parts of this fic because I feel like it has a very singular, open to interpretation finality :) THIS is what college students do after finals...
oh my god...enjoy? Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays
Beneath the constant grey shroud of rain and smoke, through the thick smog rising from factories that now smothered once-green fields, and amid the ceaseless scrape of boots against slick cobblestone as Londoners pressed past one another on restless streets, a society thrived on a single, merciless principle:Â all glory for oneself.
In a city like this, survival was dictated long before one could speak a word. Birth determined everything. The rest depended on whether you possessed a respectable talent, a vagina, or the right acquaintances.
The flow of commerce put supper into the mouths of children you scarcely had the meansânor the knowledgeâto prevent having. It paid for the highly sought physician who glanced at your ailing wife and dismissed her suffering as mere hysteria. It lined your pockets only halfway, never enough to secure a respectable roof over your familyâs heads. Should you be born into the lower class, your path was set the moment you entered the world:Â work, procreate more workers, and die.
Those were the stories your maid whispered while she stood behind you, drawing a silver-backed brush through your hair, each stroke tugging the strands gently from your face. To you, such a life sounded almost apocryphalâsomething out of a grim tale meant to frighten children. You might not have believed it at all if not for the dozens of starving labourers who arrived at your gates each year, kneeling in the mud and begging for work your household seldom accepted.
Even now, you could see the smoke gathering at the far edge of the skyline, drifting upward in thick, sooty plumes. You had learned to tell it apart from any honest cloudâthe smoke curled and twisted like the tendrils from your fatherâs cigars, staining the underside of the skyâs grey quilt. The rain was relentless, and it had seeped into your spirits as surely as it had into the stones of the house, leaving you unaccountably, endlessly gloomy.
Sundays had always been your least favorite, ever since childhood. The ritual remained unchanged: hair drawn into tight, absurd styles, a corset fastened until your ribs ached, and those pointed shoes that seemed designed solely to torment. The maid behind you offered a look of practiced pity at your sullen expression, though you suspected it was more courtesy than concern. Perhaps you might appear more cheerful if only you could draw a full, unencumbered breath. What wasn't to loathe?
Considering your familyâs extreme rank beneath the Crown, you had been reminded from childhood of your duty to appear presentable at all times. Such was the life of one born into privilege: treated not only as a bargaining piece in the games of society, but as a simpleton as well. Audacity, it seemed, was the favored instrument of men in high circles.
You rose, tearing your gaze from the mirror that seemed bent on mockery. Not even the inanimate offered companionship. As you pushed open the heavy doors of your chambers and stepped into the corridor, your eyes fell upon your father, stationed by the stairwell with that air of controlled impatience so characteristic of him.
âSo very obliging of you to make haste this morning,â he remarked, voice measured yet laced with reproach. âAt this rate, we shall reach church a punctual twenty minutes late.â
You had no patience for his barbed remarks that morning, yet you kept your silence as you descended the stairs and passed through the open doors, where a waiting coach awaited to receive your hand.
âFather, we still have an entire hour,â you remarked, tone measured.
âInexperienced coachmen become hopeless in this rain. This will not be a brisk ride,â he replied, voice curt and unwavering.
Being confined within a close, stifling velvet box with your father never failed to sour your temper. He was gruff, a man accustomed to unquestioned respect and obedience, and ever eager to curry favor with the Queen. Her gaze rarely fell upon him directly, yet her closest delegates ensured he received her commands. He executed them to the letter, without hesitation or discretion. You found it utterly pathetic.
Yet he had been correct about one thing: the ride felt interminable. As if matters could grow worse, he managed to suffocate you with the poison smoke of his cigars, filling the cramped coach without the faintest thought of opening a window. You were certain a murky trail lingered behind the carriage long after you had stepped onto the cobblestones of your destination.
Before you stood the church, its stonework crafted centuries past by artisans whose hands had surely bled in devotion to their God. Cherubic faces had been painstakingly carved into weathered stone, small crosses crowning the spires, casting long, mocking shadows upon those preparing to enter through the great oak doors, bow their heads, and submit themselves to a deity who offered nothing more than a book and a tangle of confounding rules.
Everyone knew who you were. Smiling faces of lowly, ill humble clergymen greeted your father with firm handshakes, eyes alight with the deference owed to a man of his station. They regarded you with the same interest one might afford a house dog.
You followed your father to the private box that preceded the ordinary pews, a privilege you had never before enjoyed, as other families of lesser means dismissed it as âcommon seating.â Below, the congregation trickled in: mothers with flour-stained hands struggling to corral their children, young men holding their hats with dirt-smudged hands and threadbare coats, and shivering elders, faces lined with hardship and exhaustion.
You vaguely recalled seeing some of these families outside the church on other days, standing in the cold to beg for prayer, nourishment, or a momentâs solace. You remembered, too, the dismissive glance of the bishop as he passed them by, his eyes betraying no hint of compassion.
Long had you questioned your own faith. You saw the ill, the starving, the dyingâwhile you were afforded a warm bed, layered dresses that cost fortunes you could scarcely imagine, and generational wealth so vast that the significance of a price tag had never once crossed your mind.
Where was God for those poor souls? Why had He chosen you? Did His mercy extend only to the rich and the greedy? Was greed not a sin?
And so, you seldom listened to the sermons anymore. Your gaze drifted insteadâto the painted ceiling you had traced with your eyes countless times, to the tops of heads below, to the extravagant hats perched atop the women seated in boxes near yours with their families.
Soon the spring balls would commence, and sooner still the social world would descend upon you like vultures upon a carcass. You were contentedly single, yet that contentment never lasted for a girl of your station. Your name carried the weight of a golden goose, and the key to the privilege was, invariably, yourself.
Perhaps mercy on your swatting fan was something worth praying for.
For a moment, you snapped back to the present only when the tap of a displeased foot pressed against your ankle, urging you to pay attention. Your fatherâs glare was lethal. You wished, for no better reason than defiance, to humble it.
Your eyes fell upon the droning bishop, passionately engrossed in the thick text before him on the podium. When oneâs saving grace is a book, it is only sensible, in the eyes of the learned, to annotate it to oneâs own whims.
His voice rolled steadily through the nave, a calm, booming hymn echoing off stone walls for all believers to cling to the hope that its words might reach the ears of their God. Today, the bishop spoke of creation.
"In the beginning, God fashioned the heavens and the earth, and with His divine hand He placed man and woman in the Garden of Eden. Adam, the first of our kind, was given dominion over all living creatures, and Eve, his rib-borne companion, was formed to be a helpmeet, a partner in the stewardship of Godâs creation."
You had heard this story dozens of times. Perhaps that was why you could not fathom your own audacity when your mouth moved before your sensible mind could intervene.
A few startled gasps reached your ears, and your fatherâs own astonished gaze caught the corner of your vision. The bishop halted mid-sentence, eyes lifting toward the source of the interruption. Even he seemed taken aback that it was you who had spoken.
"Pardon, my lady?"Â he inquired, voice carefully measured, though the surprise was evident.
"Why was Eve only the companion to Adam? Were they not meant to be equals?"
You knew, with a sinking certainty, that you were about to face the consequences. Your fatherâs face darkened, and he growled your name, seizing your arm to drag you back into your seat with a firmness that brooked no resistance.
The bishop cleared his throat.
"The ways of our Creator are not subjects for debate by⌠young women, nor are they to be unraveled by idle curiosity. Adam was formed first, for it was meet that the head of manâs household be of stronger mind and judgment. Eve, born from his rib, exists to guide him, to support him, and to bring comfort to his labours. Such is the order set forth by God, immutable and perfect."
After a measured pause, he continued, "A womanâs station is in obedience, in the management of her home, and in the cultivation of virtue. Her thoughts are gentle, her judgment tender, and thus she strengthens man not by command, but by submission to his leadership. To question this is to question the wisdom of Heaven itself."
Other patronsâmostly those ensconced in the carved boxes near youânodded along, as though a child had asked some frivolous question about the most basic truths. Your father seethed with embarrassment, his hand still clenched around your wrist, a silent warning that your audacity had overstepped every boundary.
The stares you received upon leaving were ones of speculation, concern, and disdain. Your father practically shoved you into the waiting carriage.
"Does it amuse you," he thundered, voice shaking with barely restrained fury, "to tarnish this familyâs name with your petulant questions?! Do you take pleasure in demeaning the one who has provided you with a home and stability since your birth?!"
His face burned a deep, furious red, a finger ringed with the family seal jabbing toward your sternum with accusatory force.
"YouâYou will not disgrace me. Not after all I have cultivated for your success these many years."
You scoffed, unable to restrain your anger. "The success of being married to a man who regards me only as a tool for influence and procreation? Yes, how generous of you, Father. Truâ"
A sharp crack across your cheek silenced you before you could finish. His eyes blazed with the intensity of a man incapable of tolerance. In your shock, you scarcely noticed his whispered instruction to the coachman at the front. The sting burned across your face, crawling over your skin in prickling tendrils.
"You will remain silent at once. Do not attempt to open your mouth again."
Your hand slowly rose to cup your stricken cheek, the soft silk of your gloves cradling the growing welt. Your attention shifted to the unusual route the carriage was taking home. Before you could ask a question, you recalled your fatherâs warning. For now, it was wiser to avoid another potential thrashing, whether physical or verbal.
It soon became clear, however, that you were not returning home. The carriage wound its way into the busy heart of the city, turning corners where the homeless lay slumped against shopfronts and lamp posts, weary and ill. Passersby sidestepped them as though avoiding contagion.
At last, the carriage slowed before a grand public hall, its entrance held aloft by stone pillars. People of every class and station were trickling through the doors, mingling in an uneasy, unspoken equality. Your father straightened, preparing to enter with you in tow.
"Let me show you what happens when one is shunned."
As you stepped from the carriage into the tangle of faces, your fatherâs hand found your arm again, dragging you close to his side. Inside, the hall stretched into a grand central corridor, flanked on either side by doors that led to smaller chambers, each likely hosting its own meeting or conference. Your fatherâs eyes scanned a list of names posted near the entrance before he tugged you toward a set of doors on the left.
The room beyond was large and dim, lit only by a few gas lamps and the platform at the far end reserved for the speaker. The crowd was a mixture of social classes, all pressed into the space with murmurs and shuffles that echoed against the high ceilings. In his haste, your father had led you to the very front row, leaving you exposed, visible, and entirely at the mercy of whatever spectacle awaited.
And what spectacle awaited, you hadn't the faintest idea.
Before you on the platform was a collection of diagrams that might as well have been hieroglyphics. A human skeleton, mounted on a rolling metal frame, stood among the visuals, lending a slightly macabre air to the display.
The crowd around you gradually stilled as the soft shuffle of footsteps approached the podium. Heads turned to catch sight of the man striding down the center aisle with measured, unhurried steps, his coat rustling with each motion.
Your fatherâs low whisper cut through the murmurs.
You didn't see the presenter until he finally stepped into the light. You nearly gasped aloud.
He stood slightly apart from the crowd, an unsettling figure even before your gaze settled fully upon him. Light blue hair, long enough to brush the bottom of his neck, fell in loose disarray, stray curls framing a sharp, angular face. A scar, wide and jagged, ran across the right side of his face and continued into the collar of his shirt and on, a grim testament to some violent accident.
His eyes were a piercing red, gleaming with an intensity that made conversationâor even casual observationâfeel like a risk. His nose was hooked elegantly and a small, moderately maintained beard added to his angular features, lending him a sort of grim refinement, though it did little to soften his presence.
He wore a red undershirt beneath a black coat, the dark fabric swallowing him in shadow, black gloves encasing his hands as though ready to handle something dangerous. A singular earring, shaped like a tiny test tube, swung faintly from one ear, catching the light and hinting at a mind more curious than charitable.
There was no warmth to him, no invitation in the tilt of his stance or the way he surveyed the room. He did not look like someone who sought acceptance, but an open minded ear.
This was the same man you had glimpsed at high society gatherings, his back brushing the walls or vanishing into shadowed corners. He never socialized. Though one of the elite like yourself, he conducted himself as though above it all. Whispers followed himâthe crazy doctor, they said, rumors claiming he had murdered his own family.
They had been a wealthy and influential family, having settled decades ago from a distant eastern land. The father had served as royal physician for many years, until tragedy struck.
In the span of a single year, the family had been nearly wiped out. The father succumbed to a heart attack. The mother fell down the stairs, breaking her neck. Then came the siblings: the brother found lifeless by the river, the sister vanished entirely without a trace.
The only surviving childâthe sole remaining member of that lineâwas him. Naturally, speculation was inevitable.
Your eyes followed him as he walked across the platform, shedding his coat to move around more freely.
"Observe," he began, gesturing to the diagrams and skeletal model with gloved fingers, "the world is not as immutable as your clergy would have you believe. Species do not appear in perfection; they arise through struggle, through adaptation. Those best suited to survive endure. Those who cannot⌠perish. The forms of man, of beast, of bird, are not fixed by divine decreeâthey are consequences of natureâs ruthless arithmetic."
He moved closer to the skeleton, dragging a gloved hand along its spine as if tracing a living organism. "Consider the structures of the body, the variations, the imperfections. Do not mistake them for whimsy or divine folly. Each is a testament to trial, to competition, to the inevitable law of change."
Red eyes flicked over the audience, lingering on a few faces long enough to unsettle them. "If you would understand creation, cast aside the comfort of unquestioned texts. Observe, reason, and accept that life itself is an experiment with no master but circumstance."
Gasps echoed through the room, pearls were clutched, and disbelief rippled across every face. Your own eyes widened at the loudness of such shameless defiance and blasphemy. Whatever he was beginning to lecture on, he delivered it with unshakable confidence.
"Consider this," he began, voice calm yet relentless, "all of thisâbones, forms, limbs, and featuresâis not fixed by divine decree. Man are not separate from the beasts. He did not appear fully formed, as you are taught in hushed sermons. No. He is a product of the same relentless struggle that shapes every creature on this earth. The differences between human and ape are a matter of degree, not of kind."
He stepped closer to the skeleton, dragging a gloved finger along its spine. "Each bone, each joint, each curve of the skull tells the tale of adaptation, of survival, of trial and error across countless generations. Humanity, like all life, is forged in the crucible of nature. Those best suited to endure survive; those who cannot⌠vanish. And yet, you persist in comfort, thinking yourselves separate, chosen, exceptional. Observe closely, and you will see the lie."
He paused, letting the words settle over the audience. "Do not allow the comfort of scripture to blind you. We are children of the same processes that shaped the beasts, the birds, the insects. To understand creation, you must cast aside reverence for dogma and embrace the evidence of nature itself."
The disapproval radiating from your father was almost tangible. He had brought you here to demonstrate a lesson: question the world, and you would end up like the man before youâdisliked, derided, perhaps even deemed insane, entirely alone.
Even so, as the lecture continued, you found yourself leaning in. His concepts⌠they were not baseless nonsense. To your mind, they made immaculate sense. Scoffs and murmurs echoed around you, yet the notion that man was not divine, that humanity was part of natureâs vast experimentâit stirred something deeply curious within you.
For over an hour, he traced diagrams, unraveling religious logic with sharp, economical sentences, publicly dismantling the authority of the church for all to witness. When he finally paused, some in the crowd clapped hesitantly, while others whispered in outrage, or even muttered in near-riotous disbelief. He did not notice. He did not care.
Before slinging his coat over his shoulder, he looked down at you,
locking eyes in a way that made your heart skipâor perhaps stop entirely.
"You look like you believe me."
It felt as though the entire hall had turned to watch you, even as people filed past and out into the streets. Before you could reply, your fatherâs hand, tight and angry, yanked you back.
"Do not speak to her,"Â he growled.
He only smirked, unfazed. The first remnant of a smile he'd displayed at all.
"It would do you well to allow her to speak for herself, my lord."
Blasphemy was punishable by law.
So then, why had no one snatched him off that podium?
One could easily deduce it to reputation, to family name, to the lingering prestige of the late royal physician⌠but was that alone enough to protect thatâ
âWhat could possibly have you so engrossed that you stare a hole into your ceiling, my lady?â
You jolted upright, breath catching as your head snapped toward the maid who was laying out silk and tulle across your dressing screen, preparing your gown for the eveningâs festivities.
âPardon my saying so,â she continued gently, âbut you have been quite⌠distracted since Sunday. Are you feeling unwell?â
Right.
It was Thursday already.
Your father had been satisfied by your forced silence since the incident, assuming you had finally seen reasonâ
that you had understood what awaited a girl who dared to ask questions she had no right to form.
You were the face of your familyâs standing, after all. Soon, youâd have to find a suitor willing to overlook your outburst, to ignore the unfortunate rumor that you possessed a mind of your own. Your little slip of the tongue had, in the eyes of society, blemished your value.
And now the ball loomed at sundown.
You had done absolutely nothing to prepare.
Not outwardlyâyour servants would see to that with practiced efficiency.
But inwardlyâŚ
you had made no such effort.
Your mind was still trapped in that darkened hall, in the echo of a voice that dared to defy law and scripture.
Still replaying a pair of red eyes that had met yours without hesitation.
Eyes that did not see daughter or decorative piece, but human.
You looked like a frightened swan, layered in glittering whites and ivoriesâan opulent creature dressed for display. Your gown shimmered with delicate beadwork, the feathered headpiece echoing the downy plumage cascading from your bodice, soft as winter frost and just as cold. The dress blended seamlessly from feather to silk, turning you into something ethereal, untouchableâ
and undeniably fragile.
Tonight, you had much to prove.
To the guests, that you werenât an unhinged lunatic with dangerous ideas.
To your father, that you could be obedientâpliableâwhen required.
To the bachelors, that you were still suitable enough to be desired.
A valuable swan, not a wild one.
You stepped into the corridor, the faint hum of conversation already drifting up from below. Laughter, the clink of crystal, the rustle of skirtsâan entire world churning beneath you while you lingered at the threshold.
You knew tonight would be different.
Your father would keep you on a tighter leash than ever, his eyes trained on you like a handler watching a volatile beast. One misstep. One stray comment. One spark of curiosity in the wrong directionâ
And he would drag you from the ballroom before you had even caught the first notes of the waltz.
Conversation ebbed into a hush as soon as your slipper touched the first polished step. Faces tipped upward. Fans stilled. Champagne glasses paused halfway to painted lips. Your presence swept over the room like the rustle of wings.
Some gazes were curious, wondering how the lady skating on thin ice would present herself tonight.
Some were politeâsmiles stretched too thin, eyes glimmering with questions theyâd never dare voice aloud.
And some, unfortunately, belonged to eager young men peeling themselves off pillars and lounge chairs, smoothing their coats and preparing to greet you the moment your foot touched the marble floor.
Each step made your stomach tighten further.
How dearly you had not looked forward to this night.
You slipped through the ballroom as quietly as you could manage, praying to vanish into the glittering sea of taffeta and tulle. If fortune were merciful, your father would already be deep in his cups with his fellow dignitaries, too preoccupied to notice your absence. You did not intend to linger long enough to test that luck.
You drifted behind the largest gowns you could findâwide crinolines that cast merciful shadowsâducking past extravagant hats and glittering headpieces, all in a desperate attempt to reach the courtyard doors without drawing a single curious stare.
The last stretch lay before you. A few feet. A clear path. Not a soul paying attention.
You glanced left, then right. Safe.
You reached for the brass handleâ
âand the door swung open from the other side.
You stumbled forward with an embarrassing lack of grace, the world tilting as the stone steps rushed up to greet your face. But before the inevitable impact, a firm hand shot out, catching you squarely at the back.
The door remained open in his other hand.
The moment your eyes met his, as if you thought this embarrassing moment couldn't possibly get any worse, there he was.
By the heavens, you could die right now.
His hand was firm on your upper back, steadying you as you scrambled to get both feet beneath you. Mortified, you reached back in a panic and shoved the door shut, slamming it with far more force than necessary.
âI have to pray no one saw that,â you breathed, cheeks burning. You couldn't bring yourself to let go of the door yet, terrified someone would burst out and see you. They'd run tattling to your father immediately.
The manâs brow archedâsubtle, but unmistakably amused.
Chest rising and falling too fast, you shook your head, hair a bit tousled despite the meticulous effort put into it just moments before. âYou know what I mean!â
You blinked a few times, trying to re-center yourself. His aloofness astounded you. âI mean, I hope no one saw you catch me just now.â
He tilted his head, studying you as though you were a puzzle someone had dropped at his feet. âAre you embarrassed by me?â
âNâno! I meanâyes, I am embarrassed, but not because of you, orââ
You cut yourself off with a defeated groan and pressed your forehead against the door. If the wood could swallow you whole, youâd gladly let it.
âShall we chat elsewhere?â he asked, as though this were the most reasonable question in the world. His lack of social interaction was beginning to become painfully apparent.
You lifted your head just enough to stare at him, slack-jawed. Chat? Elsewhere? Was he absolutely mad?
âListen, Lord, umââ
âZandik, yesâŚâ You were cringing at yourself so hard you could feel it in your spine. âAs⌠interesting as it sounds to chat with you, Iââ
âI am not pursuing your hand,â he interrupted, hands clasped behind his back as if to neutralize himself as a potential threat.
âIâm aware! Iâm awareâŚâ
âThen what stops you?â
Your brows knitted together in disbelief and you looked at him, incredulous. âMy lord, you are a man.â
For as intelligent as Zandik appeared to be, he currently had the common sense of an idiot. Was it that he genuinely had no idea how high society functioned socially, or that he simply didn't care about the set of rules?
âMen and women do not engage in conversation alone,â you insisted, repeating the rule as though it were sacred scripture.
âThat is what the clergy has told you, yes.â
He said it so plainly, so devoid of concern, that it knocked the sense right out of your argument. Every word you thought was reasonable, respectable, even obviousâhe dismantled them with the tone of someone correcting a misquoted footnote.
âThe hedges just over there are tall,â he added, gesturing toward the courtyard. âIf it quells your anxiety.â
He was dead serious. You were completely discombobulated.
âThenâif you must have a word with me,â you tried again, desperate to cling to propriety, âwhy not do so with one of my chaperones present?â
âThey will tell your father that the two of us were together,â he replied immediately. That would be ugly.
The pieces clicked. Horrifyingly, sensibly, unavoidably clicked.
So, scandalouslyâor rather, foolishlyâyou slipped behind the neatly trimmed garden hedges, glancing over your shoulder every few seconds to ensure you werenât being watched or followed.
You settled onto a stone bench between a pair of dainty rose bushes; Zandik insisted on staying standing.
âWas there something you wished to say to me, my lord?â you asked, still clinging to the remnants of formality. He may not have been the most sound, but he was still a nobleman. He was the man of a single organism family, the sole survivor of a cluster of untimely disasters.
He let out a soft huff through his nose.
You werenât entirely surprised at his request to drop the title given his...eccentricity, but trust was still a distant concept. Part of you wondered what possessed him to strike up a conversation at allâsomeone so socially⌠detached, and so precise in his detachment. Never once had you ever seen him come off of the wall to speak to anyone.
âAs for your question,â he said, crossing his armsânot to intimidate, but as though preparing to scrutinize you like a specimen. âI wish to know if your mind is⌠like, or if I miscalculated your expression the during my lecture.â
Something in his expression made your guard slip, if only slightly. There was no undercurrent of maliceâthough you had no desire to accuse him of such. After witnessing his lecture, you were left with questions of your own.
The conversation began cautiously, a careful dance of inquiry and reply. Where had he obtained such notions of man as beast? Why had you dared to speak so openly in a church, in front of dozens of onlookers?
âSo then,â he asked, flipping open a small notebook he'd retrieved from his coat pocket, âdid you enjoy my sermon more?â
The notebook was filled with meticulous sketches and diagramsâthe very ones he had displayed publiclyâeach line painstakingly drawn, evidence of long hours hunched over a desk in his spare time.
âI do this when I can, which is⌠seldom,â he added, almost casually. For the amount of detailed work inside of it, you wondered just how long he'd owned the thing.
You hesitated, mind tracing back to that morningâthe Bishop's sermon, the question you had asked, the sting of your fatherâs handâŚ
âI did enjoy yours more,â you admitted softly. âBecause it answered my question.â
He looked up from the notebook, curiosity flickering across his sharp features. âWhat question would that be?â
âIf humans are all equal.â
He nodded slowly, as if weighing your words. âAnd⌠what is your conclusion?â
You raised a brow. âShould I have one?â
He tilted his head, genuine curiosity in his red eyes. There was a rare kind of appreciation thereâsomeone glad to have another mind to engage, to test, to challenge. âWell⌠if you have questioned whether all humans are equal, then what do you conclude? Youâve considered both the religious and scientific perspectives. The rest⌠is yours to decide.â
Something about that phrase clicked into place in your mind, a small spark of clarity amid the chaos of expectation and decorum.
âIf it is up to me,â you said carefully, weighing each word, âthen I would conclude⌠no. Humans are not all equal. Not by gender, by talent, by class, or by any measure that truly matters.â
He regarded you for a long moment, not with judgment, but with a quiet respectâas though confirming that you had, indeed, thought for yourself.
âI was born into a life of privilege and luxury. I have never worried about starvation, never shivered through a winter without warmth. Yet familiesâentire familiesâmere kilometers from here, face exactly that. They endure it because of the circumstances of their birth, while I have been spared every hardship.â
Something in the sharpness of your words, in the honesty behind them, seemed to embolden you further.
âWho decided which people are powerful and which are doomed to suffer? Why does God extend His favors only to those who wield them cruelly? And why⌠why does everyone accept it?â
Zandikâs chin rested in his palm as he regarded you, silent, letting the words sink in. Then, a small, approving smile cracked across his lips. His fingers came together in a deliberate, precise gesture, and he gave a slight nod.
âNow,â he said, voice low but carrying a weight that made your chest tighten, âyou are thinking like a scholar.â
Thinking like a scholar made you feel good.
Time passed unnoticed, and the sun had already dipped below the horizon, painting the courtyard in a soft twilight that you had entirely failed to register. Part of you marveled that no one had discovered your absence from the ballroom. The string quartet inside grew louder, insinuating that the social hour was over and the time for formal dances was upon the party.
He suddenly locked eyes with you again, and the air seemed to tighten around your chest.
"Before I go," he murmured, voice low and deliberate, "I wonder if you'd indulge me with a dance."
Your brows shot up in surprise, a mix of disbelief and curiosity flashing across your face. For a man who claimed no interest in courtship, who so casually defied every social expectation, he now asked for a dance. Could he be any more out of the ordinary?
"In the ballroom? Everyone would surely see us," you whispered, panic and amusement warring in your tone.
He shook his head, a faint, crooked smile tugging at the corner of his lips.
"No. Right here will do."
Your gaze followed his gestureâbehind the hedges, where the moonlight spilled in silvery patches across the damp grass. The soft scent of rain and wet earth curled around you both, and the distant echoes of the ballroom seemed to vanish entirely. Hidden, suspended in your own secret world, the two of you stood beneath the canopy of night.
A shiver of rebellious excitement ran down your spine. The aristocracy and their guillotine of gossip could not reach this place, it seemed.
His hand extended toward you, firm yet gentle, an invitation that seemed to hush the night itself. The faint strains of the ballroom music drifted to your ears, distant and muffled, yet somehow setting the rhythm for this hidden world you now occupied.
You huffed softly, heart skipping, and allowed your fingers to lace with his.
"May I ask," you murmured, voice barely above the whisper of leaves around you, "why you've decided to recruit me as a dance partner so suddenly?"
His other hand rose with deliberate care, resting lightly against the curve of your waist, guiding you with a subtle authority. You felt the press of his bodyâsteady, groundingâjust close enough to send warmth along your spine without ever being intrusive.
"I suppose," he said, his voice low, casual, yet threaded with something softer, "it's because you've spent so much of your time out here with me⌠you haven't had a single moment of dancing all night."
You blinked, caught somewhere between amusement and a fluttering heat rising to your cheeks. That was perfectly fine with you. The world in here, for what it was, hadn't yet succeeded in suffocating you.
With a small, almost imperceptible smile, you let yourself be led into the waltz, letting your movements sync to the ghost of the music, the rhythm of his body, and the quiet thrill of stolen moments like these that very seldom happened to you.
When the song ended, he gently untangled his arms from your own, offering you a slight bow.
âThat would be my cue. Good night,â Zandik said suddenly, standing and surveying the courtyard. Slowly, deliberately, he reached for your hand, pressing your knuckles to his lips in that polite, almost ceremonial fashion. At the same time, he slipped a folded note into your palm.
Before you could inquire where he was heading, he was goneâvanishing as abruptly as he had appeared.
A booming voice cut through the dusk, demanding your whereabouts.
You jumped and spun, rushing from behind the hedges to meet your fatherâs glare.
âMy apologies,â you murmured, smoothing your gown and tucking the note away into your sleeve. âI was only getting some fresh air.â
He grumbled something indecipherable under his breath, his eyes narrowing. âStay within my sight.â
Had Zandik noticed your father before he even stepped outside? Who possessed such a sixth sense, such an unflappable awareness?
The rest of the evening proved just as tiresome as you had anticipated. Fans fluttered incessantly, skirts swished with exhausting insistence, and men could not stop proclaiming how charming they found your âdefiant fireââif you had any at all.
You seethed silently to yourself: if a man could stand in a hall and deliver a lecture on matters of natural science, defying scripture without consequence beyond a scoff, keeping all of his wealth and party invitations in tact, why should a single question from your lips condemn you to public humiliation?
The hypocrisy burned hotter than the candles lining the ballroom walls, and for the first time that evening, you allowed yourself a small, rebellious spark of resentment.
You were practically itching for the gathering to end, and as soon as it did, your skirts swished behind you with each hurried step up the stairs. You glanced back once, twice, before finally retreating to the safety of your bedroom, assuring your maid that you could manage undressing yourself.
Curtly, you reached into the fold of your sleeve and drew out the small note, your fingers trembling slightly with curiosity as you carefully unfolded its meticulously creased edges.
The words inside were brief, yet they made your pulse quicken:
I will come get you at midnight tomorrow. I wish to continue our conversation.
Even as the candlelight flickered across the delicate paper, your mind spunâequal parts intrigue, anxiety, and an undeniable thrill.
His actionsâso deliberate, so attentiveâalmost felt romantic, if not for the fact that you had only truly met him today. You chided yourself for even entertaining such thoughts, knowing better than to let naivety carry you away over a mere invitation.
And yet⌠a thrill lingered in your chest, sharp and insistent, the kind that promised sleepless nights and restless thoughts long after the courtyard had emptied.
How dare he tease you so.
Never in your life had you snuck out.
Never once had the idea crossed your mindâmore than that, youâd never had a reason to. It wasnât that you didnât feel trapped in a gilded cage of gold from time to time, but you were safe. Provided for. No man, no acquaintance, no idle temptation had ever compelled you to make the long walk down the corridor, nor descend the grand stairwell to the single unguarded hatch where servants passed in and out of the kitchens.
But now, you itched with the curiosity of a little kitten opening its eyes for the first time.
And to you, you really had just opened your eyes.
The strokes to midnight were torturous. Some servants worked into the latest hours, their footsteps echoing in soft thumps across the polished floors. Youâd gone to bed early that night, telling your maids you felt particularly fatigued. In truth, you crept around trying to decide what to wear.
You werenât so simple-minded as to be unable to lace your own corset, of courseâbut having always been dressed by practiced hands, it took you a few clumsy attempts to assemble something discreet yet presentable. In the end, you chose the lightest dress you owned, fabric thin enough not to betray you with sound or weight.
For once, though, you decided against the corset.
You allowed yourself to breathe.
Just you, a simple frock, a warm cloak, and a relentless thudding in your chest that kept you poised on the edge of motion.
At last, the bustling of servants died down. Lanterns were pinched and blown out one by one, their warm glow retreating into thin lines of smoke that curled toward the ceiling. The manor settled into its nighttime hush, a vast, breathing thing finally at rest.
And yetâone detail refused to settle in your mind.
If Zandik intended to retrieve you, where, exactly, did he expect you to be waiting? He had not specified a door, nor a corridor, nor a rendezvous point whispered in ink. The manor was a labyrinth, and you doubted he had ever been invited deep enough within its walls to know its quiet pathways.
Nor could he simply arrive openly. The night guards would take note of any carriage passing through the gates, no matter how discreetly it rolled. This was not a household where visitors came and went unnoticedâespecially not after dark.
Would he signal you somehow? A stone tossed against glass, perhaps, or a soft call beneath your window like something out of a cautionary tale. The thought made your pulse jump, equal parts thrill and dread. Or had he assumed you would know where to goâhad trusted you to find your own way out, just as you had already begun to do?
The uncertainty sat heavy in your chest. Still, you pulled your cloak tighter around yourself and listened.
Waiting, you realized, was already an act of defiance.
And as you continued to wait, you found yourself staring down at the little note in your hands. His handwriting was clean and precise, each letter measured, intentionalâink slightly smudged where your thumb had lingered too long over a few words. You traced them absentmindedly, as though the act might reveal something he had chosen not to write.
You wondered why he had gone to such lengths to continue a conversation begun in passing, in a garden meant to conceal impropriety. There were others in this world who whispered of science, who questioned doctrine in private circles and candlelit studies. Men who challenged God only where it was safe to do so.
But Zandik had not whispered.
He had spoken loudly, publicly, and without apologyâstepping far beyond what was permitted, far beyond what was forgiven. And yet, he still stood. Untouched by the law that crushed lesser men for far lesser transgressions.
Not like you.
Not sheltered by lineage and expectation.
And not like someone who was never meant to stray so openly from the path laid before him.
That, more than the words on the page, unsettled you.
The lantern light from your bedroom window suddenly snuffed out, plunging the inked words before you into shadow. You stilled, heart skipping, and assumedâbrieflyâthat a guard had made his rounds and doused it without a second thought.
Until it flared back to life.
Not erratic.
Not careless.
Deliberate.
Your breath caught as the pattern repeated, slow and intentional, as though counting the seconds between each pulse. You turned your head toward the window, toward the courtyard belowâand there, standing just within the lanternâs reach, was a shrouded figure.
Not a guard.
Not a servant.
Even from this distance, you knew.
He was here.
And he was waiting for you.
Quicklyâquietlyâyou dashed.
Past your bedroom doors, closing them with a painfully slow press of your palm. Past your fatherâs chambers, breath locked tight in your chest. Down the grand staircase in near-total darkness, each step memorized, felt rather than seen, until you reached the servantâs entrance tucked behind the kitchen.
You eased the latch free and slipped through, the old door sighing open into the night. Cool early-spring air bit at your cheeks, sharp and bracing, as though the world itself were warning you back. You stayed low as you moved, keeping to the hedges, counting your steps and the intervals between lantern posts, careful not to draw the notice of any wandering guard.
You were moving only toward the light youâd seenâ
Until something fluttered into your path.
A small crow swept down and landed before you, wings snapping open just enough to halt your steps. Its black eyes fixed on you with unsettling focus. Tied neatly around its leg was a narrow strip of paper.
You hesitated. You had no experience with birdsâno confidence that it wouldnât peck or clawâbut the moment pressed in on you, urging you forward. Drawing a steadying breath, you reached out and gently lifted the dark little creature, fingers trembling as you worked the string free.
The crow took off at once, vanishing into the dark as though it had never been there.
You unfolded the note with numb fingers.
So, in the opposing direction, you dashedâcutting through the courtyardâs winding paths, weaving between statues and shadowed hedges until the grounds became a maze of darkened green.
The only thing between you and the stream where he waited was a tall, dense wall of shrubbery.
Jumping over it was impossible; you would sink straight into the foliage. Pushing through promised torn fabric, prickled skin, and whatever unseen insects lurked within. Drawing the small blade you carried for self-defense crossed your mind, but the scrape of metal would alert the gardenerâor worse, the night guards.
With a bracing sigh, you chose the second option.
You pressed your face into the greenery, thorns grazing your cheeks as you wrapped your cloak tight around yourself. Leaves snagged in your hair, branches clawed at your sleeves, and the scent of crushed foliage filled your nose. You winced, inching forward blindly, arms stretching out in search of open air.
You could hardly see anything. Your hands flailed uselessly untilâfinallyâone broke free on the other side.
The rest of you, however, remained hopelessly ensnared.
Just as you were considering surrendering to your fate and perishing, forgotten, in a decorative hedge, a hand closed around the one that had escaped. With a single, decisive pull, you were freed. You stumbled forward, leaves clinging to your dress, and were caught at the waist before you could lose your balance entirely.
A familiar voice followed, dry and unmistakably amused.
âQuite the elegant exit route.â
You nearly laughed, part relief and part disbelief, as he stood there, steadying you on your feet.
âRescuing me again,â you remarked.
âIn my defense,â he replied evenly, âyou seem exceptionally skilled at placing yourself in precarious situations.â
You straightened, brushing leaves and bits of dirt from your dress, your cheeks warm with exertionâand embarrassment.
âLet us make our departure, then.â
By the stream waited a well-groomed black horse, its head lowered as it drank from the steady current. Zandik gathered the reins and turned to you, holding his arms out expectantly.
âAllow me to assist you.â
You approached with measured caution. âIâm quite certain I could mount withoutââ
He raised a brow, unimpressed.
âYes. Alright,â you conceded.
You allowed him to place his hands at your waist. With disconcerting ease, he lifted you onto the horseâs back. From above, the ground suddenly felt much farther away than youâd anticipated. He mounted behind you a moment later, settling with practiced familiarity before glancing back over his shoulder.
âWrap your arms around me,â he said, tone flat. âUnless you intend to fly off at the first turn.â
Shyly at first, you allowed your arms to encircle his waist, securing yourself against the sudden motion of the horse.
The animal broke into a trot, then a steady gallop, and you watched the mansion shrink behind the trees, its last traces of light swallowed by thick branches. The wind tangled through your hair, tugged at the hem of your dress, and nipped at your cheeks. You had never worn anything so light outside of bedâand yet, the cool night air, while sharp, was exhilarating.
Each breath tasted of freedom, untainted by the smog and smoke that choked the city, far removed from your fatherâs study and the suffocating air of high society.
Eventually, the horse slowed. On the near horizon, a lone house emerged from the shadows. Its windows were dark save for a few lanterns guiding the path to the front door. You had never seen the family home of the old royal physician, but it seemed its succeeding heir preferred it that wayâdiscreet, secluded, and brooding, much like its master.
The horse came to a gentle stop at a well-kept stable on the side of the house. Zandik dismounted first, extending a steady hand toward you. You lowered yourself with far less grace than you had hoped, but he caught you effortlessly, placing your feet firmly on the ground.
After securing the horse, he led you toward the rear of the manor, where a moderately sized building sat tucked close to the main house. Its roof was almost entirely glass, rising in a small peak that caught the faint moonlight. A key hung from a chain around his neck; with a soft click, he unlocked the door and pushed it open with a low groan.
Inside, the space dazzled. Light refracted across the glass ceiling, spilling over tables cluttered with instruments, books, and curious apparatuses that glinted like hidden treasures. The air smelled faintly of metal and parchment, tinged with something sharper, more alive. For the first time that night, the world outsideâthe city, the mansion, the rulesâfelt impossibly distant.
Bookshelves lined the walls, crammed with spiraling texts in languages you could barely recognize. At least you were afforded the luxury of being able to read at all in your own. Half-finished models, like those he had shown at his lecture, sat on boards in various stages of completion. Glass vials and flasks of liquids in every hue cluttered tables alongside scattered parchment and quills. In a dim corner, a small dissection station was arranged meticulously, instruments gleaming faintly under the low light. He had pinned insects, models of rodents, and even creatures of the sea among his trinkets. A telescope stood near the center of the organized chaos, as if waiting for someone to peer into distant worlds.
âThis containment is far more advanced than any scientist of this time,â he said, voice steady, measured. âTake care to touch anything.â
âIsnât the saying⌠âdo not touch anythingâ?â
He glanced over his shoulder, a faint, challenging look in his red eyes.
âHow do you hope to learn more about the world without engaging with it?â
All your life, you had been given rules for every motion, every word. Sit with legs together. Never question your father. Speak only when the situation permits.
To have such freedom within the walls of this space⌠it was almost overwhelming.
âLet us start with something simple,â Zandik said, reading your hesitation. He reached for one of his rolling boards, where a meticulously sketched rabbit had been rendered in fine detail.
âNo,â you said firmly before you could stop yourself.
âChallenge me,â you added, your voice steadier than you expected.
Zandik paused, turning to regard you with a raised brow. Slowly, an amused smirk curved his lips.
âVery well. Perhaps this will meet your standard.â He moved towards the middle of the room, adjusting the telescope. âHave you ever seen the stars up close?â He questioned without looking up.
He gestured toward it. âThen come. See exactly what you never have.â
His hand motioned to the small stool beside him, and you eased yourself onto it. Then, unexpectedly, his hands came to yours. You froze at firstâgloved fingers brushing against your own as he gently adjusted them to wrap properly around the telescope. You couldnât help but notice the warmth left behind when he finally stepped back.
âThere, now you can move it around if you wish,â he said. âHave a look.â
You were reminded of childhood days spent peering through kaleidoscopes, watching shifting shapes and colors that could hold your attention for hours. A similar awe bubbled within you as you pressed your eye to the telescope.
The sight nearly stole your breath.
The night sky, magnified, spread out before you in staggering detail. Stars twinkled like diamonds, each one a tiny, brilliant show of wonder. The moon revealed texture youâd never imagined; swirls of color and shadow danced across its surface, and the vastness of space seemed almost tangible, stretching infinitely beyond the walls of the earth.
âYou certainly know of the constellationsâ His voice drew you from the trance of wonder.
You pulled back slightly, following his pointed finger toward the glass ceiling.
âThough perhaps you weren't told just why they exist to us. Theyâve been used for navigation, for calendars, and they carry legends from cultures past and present.â
You pondered his statements, nodding slowly as if to signal your absorption of the information.
âI was always told they wereââ
âA symbol of Godâs power, for the benefit of the power-hungry man. No. These notions have existed for over thirty thousand years.â
His conviction was unwavering, preciseâeerily similar to the bishops and priests who had always lectured you from their respective podiums, teaching why your existence was defined by the marital material you could provide and the children you might bear.
âZandik,â you began suddenly, âwhere did you learn all of this?â
He paused, the quiet of the room emphasizing his identity not as a man of God, but as a scholar. Questions about him, his family, and the life that shaped him pressed at the edges of your mind.
âMy father was a brilliant doctor.â
You leaned in slightly, recalling the intensity of his lecture the other day, hanging on every word as his expression shifted from purely informational to faintly nostalgic.
âWe arrived in London when I was a boy. He had been offered the position of royal physician and, as such, packed my siblings, my mother, and me along with what little luggage we owned at the time.â
His voice did not soften entirely, but it lost some of its clinical edge.
âHe served the former king well, and his performance brought status to our family. He wanted it to remain so, and he taught all of us everything he knewâmy younger sister included.â
After a pause, he added, âOf course, to us children, London was a new world: a different tongue, different customs. He could only extend his knowledge so far before it became our own to harness. I simply did just that.â
Another question tugged at your mind. âWhy did you not serve the crown in your fatherâs place?â
He looked down at you, his gaze steady.
âI was not asked to.â
Your brows knittedânot in anger, but in deep, brooding curiosity. âSo⌠how then are you able to hold such public displays of religious defiance without being arrested for it?â
He smiled faintly, a corner of his lips lifting in amusement.
âThey wouldnât dare arrest me.â
He let out a low, melodic chuckle that seemed to ripple through the quiet of the room.
âIf they arrested me,â he said, eyes glinting, âtheyâd have no one left to blame for the flaws in their own reasoning.â
His face held a look of deep resentment as he recalled the hardships his family had endured.
âAfter His Majesty passed, they blamed my father for allowing the kingâs health to deteriorate so substantially. They never considered the myriad other conditions the old codger carriedâeach one my father managed single-handedly.â He let out a sound somewhere between a scoff and a sigh. âIt caused him so much stress that he too⌠died not long after. His heart simply couldnât take it.â
âMy mother⌠lost herself. In her haze, she suffered a fatally clumsy accident. My brother was set to marry, but the relentless torment of his peers drove him to end his own life. My sister⌠I assisted her in fleeing home. She is married now, safe, at the very least.â
âYour sister is alive?â
âYes.â His tone was harsher than intended at first, before he tempered it. âYes⌠despite the rumors, I did not murder my own kin in cold blood.â
You rested your chin in your palms, studying his face. The massive scar that traced half of it was healed, but its story was impossible to ignore.
âYou survived it allâŚand stayed.â
He nodded. âI did. But they certainly tried to run me off. They did not succeed.â
You reached out cautiously, testing the waters. He did not flinch, only held your gaze, observing your next move with steady curiosity.
The tips of your fingers traced the outer edges of his scar, careful to avoid any skin that might be tender.
âMay I ask how youââ
âThere was a fire.â His tone was flat, matter-of-fact, devoid of embarrassment.
Your eyes widened slightly at the blunt honesty, noting the absence of self-consciousness. Slowly, your thumb dared to cross the scarâs surface, brushing over the softened tissue. You swore you caught the faintest twitch in his eye, a subtle, fleeting flutter.
You stepped back for a moment, watching his hands move deliberately to the buttons of his shirt. Waitâwhat? Why was he unbuttoning his own shirt?
The planes of his chest and abdomen revealed themselves slowly: lean, slightly built, faintly dusted with wisps of his pale blue hair.
You watched, stunned and unsure where this was going. Then you saw it: the scar, tracing from his shoulder, down the length of his left arm, stopping just short of the back of his hand.
âI was trapped under a beam, half-sizzled before I managed to free myself,â he said, matter-of-fact. No one had come for him.
âI am past the days of worrying about being a monster. I have accepted it.â
You shook your head instinctively.
âZandik, youâre no monster, youââ
He raised a single finger, halting your words.
âI have no problem being such. Allow me to continue being a monster, so that I might enjoy this level of solitude for the rest of my days.â
You had never thought about it that way.
âYou wish to be alone?â
âNot many people Iâve met have made me believe otherwise.â
You nearly laughedâafter all, you had asked him to challenge you.
âWell then, please allow me to try.â
Something in the air shifted, and for the first time, the certainty that usually radiated from him wavered.
Spring continued to bend in your favor, almost conspiring with you. Suitors paraded through the drawing room in careful succession, each offering practiced compliments and rehearsed devotion, yet none returned with any true consistency. Much to your relief, you allowed yourself the fragile hope that another year might pass without a ring forced upon your hand.
Your father, on the other hand, was unraveling. Etiquette lessons bled into dance, dance into social instruction, and social instruction into endless correction. You scarcely left the house unless at his side. After that day, he had been far too mortified to show your face in church, and instead arranged for a priest of the parish to visit your homeâhis idea of âin-depth guidance.â Every word felt like a cage being carefully reinforced around you.
Your only reprieve had become these secret visits with Zandik.
He arrived precisely on time, every time. Always the same signalâlight flickering just enough to set your pulse racing. You came when you saw it, heart already quickening before your feet even moved. He had gone so far as to design a discreet, manageable route of escape for you, as though your freedom were a problem he had quietly decided to solve.
Tonight, rain battered the grounds with unrelenting force. You wore only a satin cloak, thin and ill-suited for the storm, its hood pulled low in a futile attempt to protect you. The cold seeped in quickly, droplets sliding down your neck and wrists as you moved.
You nearly missed the signal through the downpour.
But when the light finally cut through the rainâsteady, unmistakableâyour breath caught. The discomfort vanished entirely, replaced by a warmth that had nothing to do with the weather. Excitement coiled low in your chest, threaded with something softer, more dangerous. Relief. Anticipation. The quiet, growing certainty that you were no longer sneaking out just for conversation.
You stepped forward without hesitation, drawn by the promise of him waiting. Of being seen, heard, and challenged in ways no one else dared. The storm raged on around you, but you hardly noticed. All that mattered was reaching the light before it disappeared.
The grass beneath your slippers was soaked and yielding, threatening to steal your footing with every hurried step. You ran anyway, skirts gathered tight in your fists, breath stuttering as you finally caught sight of that merciful steed waiting beyond the hedges, its handler holding firm against the rain.
The moment Zandik saw you, he was already moving. He shrugged off his cloak without hesitation and drew close, settling it around your shoulders with a practiced surety.
âZandik, you donât have toââ you began.
âI donât mind being wet,â he interrupted quietly.
You didnât argue. The rain darkening the fabric of his shirt, the way it clung to him as his hair began to stick to his face and neck, was⌠distracting, if nothing else. He seemed entirely unfazed by it all, as though discomfort were simply another variable heâd long since learned to ignore.
The rides to his home had grown increasingly peaceful over time. Some nights were filled with conversationâmeasured, curious, alive. Others passed in a comfortable silence that required no explanation. Tonight, exhaustion claimed you before words ever could.
The weight of endless lessons, of your fatherâs relentless reminders that you were perpetually lacking, pressed down on you until it felt unbearable. Without thinking, you leaned forward, resting your head against the back of Zandikâs shoulder. He did not stiffen. Did not question it.
Beneath the hood of his cloak, your eyes drifted closed, the steady rhythm of the ride and his quiet presence carrying you somewhere far from expectations, if only for a little while.
You hadnât even realized youâd fallen asleep on the ride there, more surprised still that the rain never pelted you awake. Consciousness returned gradually, first with the gentle sway stopping, then with the unmistakable sensation of arms lifting you from the saddle with deliberate care. He was trying not to jostle you.
You didnât correct him. You let yourself remain heavy in his hold.
Your cheek rested in the crook of his neck, warmth radiating through damp fabric as he navigated the slick ground with measured steps. There was something deeply, dangerously comforting about itâbeing held as though you were something to be protected, not corrected.
When the laboratory doors finally opened, you stirred just enough to feign a soft yawn.
âHow long was I out for?â you asked sleepily.
âNot long,â he replied. âIf you wish to rest, that is perfectly acceptable.â
The moment your feet touched the floor, you came alive again, crossing the room in quick strides toward the long table where a vast scroll of parchment lay unfurled. Ink weights held its corners in place, diagrams and careful annotations spreading across its surface like a living thing.
Zandik watched you with quiet amusement as you leaned over it, already scanning lines and symbols. The two of you had been working relentlessly on thisâlate nights spent refining calculations, disputing margins, adjusting models. Soon, he intended to present it at the city hall once more.
And this time, you would be part of it.
Your fingers brushed the parchment as you spoke, voice steadier than you felt. âIf we adjust the scale here, the projection becomes far more difficult to dismiss.â
He stepped in beside you, close enough that you could feel the warmth he still carried from the ride. âI was hoping youâd notice that.â
The rain continued to drum softly against the glass roof above, but within these walls, you felt awake in a way that had nothing to do with sleep.
In the midst of your renewed focusâyour thoughts still bright with plans and possibilitiesâZandikâs silhouette caught the corner of your eye.
In the low lamplight, he was shrugging free of his soaked shirt, fabric peeling away from his frame with a soft, wet sound. Rainwater traced slow paths along his skin, catching the light as it slid over the lines of his shoulders and down his back. His hair clung darkly to his face and neck, lashes damp, expression entirely unbothered by the state he was in.
You hadnât meant to stare.
He glanced over then, sharp eyes meeting yours without surprise, as though heâd felt your attention before you ever noticed him.
âYouâll have to forgive my indecency,â he said calmly. âMy other garments are in the house.â
You were certain you held his gaze a beat too long. Long enough to notice the way his back muscles shifted as he moved, long enough for the warmth under your skin to betray you. When he turned fully, lamplight gilded the lean planes of his torso, the gentle curve of muscle and bone made almost unreal by the glow.
It was difficult not to marvel. Not out of hunger...necessarily....but out of curiosityâof wondering. Of noticing how carefully he carried himself, how deliberately he remained fit, as though his body were yet another instrument he refused to let dull.
You forced yourself to look back to the table, pulse just slightly unsteady.
He said nothing more, giving you the courtesy of pretending not to noticeâthough the faintest lift at the corner of his mouth suggested he noticed perfectly well.
And somehow, that made it worse.
He joined you at the table, palms braced along its edges as he studied the sprawling sketch before you. Having him so closeâclose enough that you could feel warmth where rainwater still lingered on his skinâwas beginning to test your composure.
And yet, you felt⌠safe.
The weight of expectation beyond these walls fell away entirely. Etiquette, obedience, marriageâeach demand receded into a distant, muffled place in your mind. Here, there was only ink, paper, lamplight⌠and him. Still, your body betrayed you long before your thoughts could settle.
âYou look horrendously fatigued.â
The comment drew your attention. You turned your head to find him leaning closer, angling himself to read your expression rather than the page. The lamplight softened his sharp features, catching at his lashes, tracing the line of his jaw.
âIâm quite all right,â you said, too quickly. âNothing Iâm not supposed to be enduring this time of year.â
âHave you ever considered simply⌠not getting married?â
A laugh escaped you, dry and disbelieving. âDo you hear yourself, Zandik? Do you truly think that is up to me?â
âI think that it could be.â
You stared at him, incredulous. Zandik had said many things that skirted the edge of absurdity, but thisâthis was indulgent fantasy at best.
âAnd do tell me,â you said lightly, âjust how I might manage that.â
âYouâd find a way,â he replied without hesitation. âYou always do.â
Heat crept into your cheeks at the certainty in his tone.
âScience and nuptials are entirely different entities,â you said, grasping for reason.
The words were simple. Blasphemous, even. Though, what surprise was there in that?
And for the first time, you wonderedânot if he was wrongâbut how much of yourself already wanted to believe him.
Then, you felt an arm slip around your waist.
He didnât give you time to finish. A gentle but decisive pull drew you into his side, his other arm coming around you until you were fully enclosed. Your breath caught. He was shirtless. A man. Holding you in an embrace that left no room for pretense or distance.
âZandikâwhat are you doing?â
âI am comforting you.â
The answer was delivered with the same calm certainty he used when explaining a principle or correcting an errorâlike this, too, was a matter of simple logic.
âJust allow yourself to feel it.â
You stood rigid for several heartbeats, your mind racing to catch up with the reality of his warmth, his arms, the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek. Then, slowlyâso slowlyâyou gave in. Your eyes closed. Your hands lifted, tentative at first, before settling around his waist. Your forehead rested against his skin, heat seeping into you where the rain had once chilled.
It was only then that you noticed the wetness on your cheeks.
You hadnât realized you were crying.
He didnât loosen his hold. Didnât comment. Didnât flinch.
âZandik?â Your voice was small.
The question lingered between you, fragile and unguardedâfar more dangerous than any challenge youâd offered him before.
His chin came to rest atop your head.
The answer didnât settle immediatelyâit hovered, unfinishedâuntil he continued.
âI had resigned myself to the belief that anyone of status in this city was incapable of logic or reason.â There was no bitterness in his tone, only fact. âYou proved me entirely wrong the day you attended my lecture. Even if it was against your will.â
A faint smile touched his lips, more felt than seen.
âSince then, youâveâŚaltered my perspective.â He paused, choosing his words with care. âThere exists, now, at least one person in this world I can finally tolerate.â
His arms tightened just slightly, as though acknowledging the weight of the admission.
âI enjoy having you as my companion.â
The word settled uncomfortably in your chest.
You werenât sure whether to feel warmed by it or hollowed out. It was affection, certainlyâby his standards, perhaps even generousâbut it lacked the shape you found yourself yearning for. Did he mean intellectual equal? Safe presence? A temporary indulgence in solitude shared?
Or something he himself hadnât yet named?
Held there against him, wrapped in warmth and restraint alike, you wondered which frightened you moreâthat he knew exactly what he meantâŚ
ââŚMe too,â you managed softly, the last of your tears cooling on your cheeks.
âWhatâs the matter?â
The question cut straight through the fragile calm youâd been clinging to.
The urge was sharpâeasy, evenâbut youâd never lied to him before. You couldnât bear to begin now.
âItâs onlyâŚâ You hesitated, searching for language that wouldnât expose you too much. ââŚI find my thoughts rather contradictory.â
You exhaled, slow and controlled. You hated how unsettled you feltâhated even more that his calm probing made it impossible to hide.
âItâs that you and I⌠weâve grown close. I think that much is undeniable.â
The ease of his reply almost hurt.
Was he oblivious? Deliberately avoiding it? Or simply unwilling to step where you were already standing?
You drew in a steadying breath.
âTo be yourâŚcompanion,â you said carefully, âhas been deeply enlightening. Pleasant. More than I ever expected.â
Your fingers tightened in the fabric at his side.
âBut I find myself almost wishing it were⌠something more.â
You bit your lip, bracing yourself.
âYou almost wish?â he repeated, slower now.
There it wasâprecision sharpened into a blade.
His arms did not loosen, nor did they tighten. He didnât retreat, but he didnât close the distance either. Instead, he tilted his head just enough to look down at you, expression unreadable.
âTell me,â he said quietly, âwhat more looks like to you.â
And suddenly, you realized the danger was no longer in his answer...
You nearly felt your throat close on itself. How did one even respond to this? How did you begin to navigate what was happening?
âMore is⌠is this,â you whispered, your voice barely steady.
Before you could second-guess yourself, you leaned upâwhy were you leaning up?!âand froze, furious with your own impulsiveness. Your lips lingered a hairsbreadth away from his, and all you could do was brace yourself for a precise, imminent rejection.
Zandik closed the rest of the distance for you.
Your eyes widened the instant his lips met yours. There was no force, no rushâonly the gentle insistence of his arms pulling you closer, his touch firm yet careful. Soft, warm lips claimed yours with a quiet, undeniable yearning.
Youâd hesitated for so long, ever since that day in church, always watching, calculating, second-guessing your every word and action.
This time⌠you let yourself melt into it.
One of his hands slid up your back, slow and deliberate, resting against the nape of your neck as his lips pressed harder into yours. The heat of him pressed close, his body firm and unyielding, grounding you even as your senses swirled. Your lashes fluttered closed, a mix of relief, longing, and something deliciously reckless coursing through you.
For a heartbeat, you pulled back just slightly, foreheads brushing, breaths mingling in the small space between you. Your cheeks burnedânot just from the kiss, but from the weight of all the unspoken moments youâd held in, the secret tension finally released.
"Before you start," he murmured, his breath ghosting over your lips, a teasing warmth in every syllable, "because I know you willâŚ" A sly curve lifted his mouth. "You are allowed to have this."
There was no question, no hesitationâjust the quiet gravity of permission, of shared desire, and the electric thrill of a world where only the two of you existed, hidden from judgment, beneath the ironic translucency of a glass roof.
He guided you backward until the edge of the table trapped you completely before him, letting the smooth wood press against the small of your back. His lips found yours again, insistent yet tender, each kiss a careful negotiation between hunger and restraint. The cool glow of the lamplight danced across the scattered parchment and inked quills, which he brushed aside as if the world beyond the two of you didnât exist.
Then, with surprising gentleness, his hands slid beneath your dress, lifting you with ease onto the table. Your legs settled around him as he positioned himself between them, yet even with the heat of the moment, there was a careful deliberation in the way he moved, a consideration in every touch.
Zandik had never been one for social graces, never concerned with charm or decorum. And yet here he was, lips pressing softly against yours, thumbs brushing along your jawline, every movement deliberate, every gesture impossibly tender. Coarse, but careful. Intense, but gentle. You had never known a man could be both so dangerous and so safe.
Still, the part of you that clung to your noble conscience forced a pause. You pulled back just slightly, eyes soft and hesitant, hands resting lightly against the broad expanse of his chest.
"Should we really be doing this�"
His hands descended to cradle yours, thumbs brushing over your palms with a deliberate, impossibly gentle rhythm. Every motion was a quiet reassurance, a reminder that here, in this moment, you were in control.
"Only if you desire it," he murmured.
The way he framed itâso simple, so preciseâmade your chest ache. No one had ever asked you, really asked, what you wanted. None but him.
"I do⌠more than anything, butâ"
His thumb traced the outline of your lips, and he leaned in close, warm and steady.
"You have to let go," he whispered, the edge of his mouth brushing against yours in a feather-light kiss that grounded you.
"Your value," he continued, voice low and measured, "is not constituted by how well you obey your father, nor by how faithfully you cling to a belief system that has never reciprocated your love. You are more than their expectations."
The words sank deep, and you realized that here, with him, the worldâs rules no longer applied.
He hesitated for but a moment before he kissed you again, letting the moment be yours alone to decide.
You chose to lean in and give your affections back to him again.
He kissed you more passionately this time, bordering on rough. His arm supported your back, the other hand trailing slowly down your dress to stroke your thigh through the soft fabric. You felt yourself growing increasingly hot with the kind of desire that pooled in your stomach, gathering at the apex of your thighs.
Boldly, he slid his arm beneath your dress, catching the hitch of your breath as he did so.
His murmur was soft but deliberate against the shell of your ear, halting his entire body as he awaited your answer. It felt as if the whole room had frozen in time, bending to your every thought.
He wasted no time, diving back into the ambrosia that was your lips, his thumb beginning to trace gentle circles atop the garments between your legs that separated you from his skin.
No one had ever touched you like this before. You'd heard scandalous whispers here and there about the sin of lust and hedonism, and how it had brought poor souls far, far away from God.
You cried the one and only time you'd ever touched yourself, swearing never to commit such a deplorable act again in the name of the Lord that was supposed to cherish and protect you. Who were you to betray Him?
The softest gasp escaped your lips as you felt his touch ever so gently stimulating you, sending shivers through the surface of your body. His thumb found its way beneath your undergarments, locating the delicate pearl between the slick folds of your sex.
"Your pleasure is not sin" he murmured, descending his lips upon the dainty junction of your neck. His thumb continued to gently work the bud of your clit, your hands clenching down on his shoulders. You moaned softly, chest rising and falling with the exertion of allowing this new sensation.
"Your body is a temple" He continued, applying careful pressure as he shifted this fingers, allowing his middle and index to lower themselves to the slick heat of your entrance, pushing in to find your sweetest spot.
The gentle stretch made you whine a little louder this time, head tilting back as his hand worked its magic where you couldn't see.
"Temples are places of worship", He continued to suck dark spots down your neck to your shoulder, soothing the sting of his bite with his tongue, "Let me worship you."
His lips broke away from your skin, knees folding to kneel before you on the floor. Before you could ask exactly what he was doing, he hiked your dress up to your hips, his other hand never ceasing its motions.
He looked up at you for a moment, placing soft, deliberate kisses up the path of your inner thigh. His fingers continued to pump in and out of you, curling around a spot that made your stomach tighten. His eyes fluttered closed, tongue darting out to taste the arousal you'd produced.
He shifted your thighs to be resting on his shoulders whilst he devoured your sensitive sex, his tongue dragging along your folds and heightening the maddening sensation descending upon your clit.
For once, the heat you were feeling in your face was not borne of shame, but indulgence. Slowly, you lowered yourself to lay your back flat against the table, arching up a bit as a pressure begun to build at the base of your spine, hands fisting in his hair and earning a groan from him in response.
His voice was soft and uncharacteristically sweet, muffled only slightly by your skin.
A deeply grounding feeling took hold of you, yet intensely explosive in its same right. His name fell from your lips in desperation, hips unable to remain still, gyrating erratically in his hold. The pleasure was electrifying, the pulse of your heart radiating to every crevice of your body.
He rose back to his feet, pulling you up into his arms and into a maddeningly slow kiss.
"Orgasm," he begun, "is a natural release that harbors numerous health benefits. And I..." he nudged the slope of your nose with his own, grinning, whispering, "will provide them endlessly."
He helped you down from the table, pushing the lace trim of your dress slowly down your shoulders. You hadn't realized until he came back up to you that he'd swiped your undergarments already.
The fabric pooled into a heap at your feet, leaving you completely naked before him. The natural instinct to feel self conscious nearly overwhelmed you, until Zandik swooped in, lifting you by your upper back and the backs of your knees.
He led you over to a small, tidy space that he used for rest during particularly lengthy experimental periods, laying you delicately atop the simple mattress and sheet.
He worked at his own belt, discarding the last of his clothing with haste You could distinctly make out the outline of a bulge that wasn't there before.
"We're certainly not married" you mentioned offhandedly, chuckling softly at the taboo of it all.
"I suppose not" He replied, finally unbuttoning the fabric, allowing it to slide down his legs, "But I see no need to dwell on that now."
The sight caught your breath. Of course he was sculpted, but seeing his entire body exposed like this made you think of the elegant statues in homes, gardens, and museums you'd seen all your life. Refined, strong, and immaculately admirable.
And in the middle of it all, his manhood hung low with sheer weight, long, tanned and curved with a rosy tip. Was all of that supposed to fit inside you? You could only hope quietly.
He approached you, leaning over to take your face into his palms that had grown warm with your intimacy.
"I need to know that you're alright with this..."
There was no lust in his words, only the sheer adoration a man like him can only feel when deeply persuaded. He cradled you like the most fragile thing on this earth, kissed you like you might disappear at any moment.
You nodded, murmuring a string of soft yesses against his skin as he positioned himself, dragging his bulbous tip between your folds, making both of your hips twitch.
The pressure of his dick pressing against your entrance only lasted a moment, bracing his arms as he slowly slid inside you, inch by inch. You gasped in sync, the stretch burning even at this torturously slow pace. He continued to murmur sweet encouragements to you, promises to stop at any time should you need it.
You watched him shudder as he bottomed out, forehead briefly dipping to rest on the crook of your shoulder. His hips retracted out and back in in small intervals, helping you adapt to his size little by little.
The sound of his pleasure was a heavenly privilege, the sweat glistening off of his chest giving way not to exertion necessarily, but pure heat.
Your sounds echoed through the open space of the lab, hips beginning to meet each other in the middle. In reaction to this, Zandik pinned your hips down a bit roughly, ramming himself into you faster, light shifting over his ever moving body.
You swore the roof was fogging up. The birds certainly had quite a view from the trees.
The way his face scrunched with pleasured groans and grunts, his muscles tightening with every movement, the faint halo of light surrounding his silhouette making him appear ethereal, all had you spiraling into an uncaring haze. If hell was real, let you be taken. If the price of this kind of pleasure was damnation, then damn it all.
"If there must be sin", he huffed, looking down at where the two of you connected through heavy breaths, "Let me bear the weight. Let me be your sin."
Your breasts bounced with every thrust, prompting Zandik to release one of your hips and fondle one of the soft, rounded mounds.
His name was the only prayer being chanted between these walls while he effectively invaded yours. The push and pull of his dick inside your walls was the only thing you could hope to focus on in this moment, the tip bumping your cervix with a barely restrained vigor.
In that moment, everything came together for you, with your legs strewn around him without grace, his name the only word in your mouth.
Your pleasure was celebratory.
Not because of anyone else's will, but because you possessed the courage to seek it out.
You were certain you wouldn't stop now.
Heaven wasn't something you had to wait and pray for.
As Zandik leaned forward, yearning for closeness, your nails trailed down his back in a deliciously vibrant scrape. He moaned with you, let his tongue be known beyond your lips, sharing the moment as your name spilled from his mouth as many times as yours did his.
His teeth clenched tighter, looking down at you with something akin to panic in his eyes. Uncharacteristically clumsy fingers found your clit once again, giving you the leverage you needed to find that beautiful peak once again, convulsing in the safety of his arms.
As soon as you came, he pulled out quickly. You gasped with the loss of contact, his release spraying over your exposed chest and stomach as he stood there, head thrown back and panting. He looked more angelic than any entity you'd heard described in the Bible.
The only thought that remained in your mind was that of keeping this forever.
The news came early, delivered far too calmly for how violently it split your world apart.
You had barely slipped back into your room hours earlier, slippers damp from dew, pulse still humming with the memory of stolen laughter and shrouded intimacy. June was nearly gone, and for the first time in your life, you had allowed yourself to believe in something dangerously fragile: that you were safe. That thisâhe, this life between shadows, might be allowed to exist.
Your father announced it over breakfast, as casually as he commented on the weather. Buttered toast. Hot tea. A measured tone.
He had chosen a suitor.
You were engaged to be married.
Three weeks.
The words hit like a gunshot fired into silk.
The argument that followed would have been unthinkable a year ago. You would have gone quiet then: retreated, folded in on yourself, swallowed your grief until it tasted like obedience. You might have cried later, alone, into pillows you were taught to be grateful for. You might have convinced yourself this was simply the way of things.
But that girl no longer existed.
She had been ruined, no, rescued by a man who asked questions that had men thrown in prison. By hands that explored instead of restrained. By words that taught her her mind was not a defect, nor her will a sin.
So this time, you did not cry.
Only it didn't stop you this time.
You raised your voice.
You stood your ground.
You looked your father in the eye and refused to shrink.
For the first time in your life, you were not asking for permission.
You were willing to fight.
But, oh, was the fight ugly.
It was not the sort of argument one could quietly recover from. There was no civility, no careful phrasingâonly teeth bared and weak points deliberately struck.
Insults flew from your lips like thrown glass. Curses followed from his, heavy with venom and authority. He roared that a demon had taken residence where there had once been an obedient, respectable daughter. You spat back that his selfârighteousness wore the same infernal face he feared so dearly.
Servants froze in place. Some covered their mouths and fled. Others remained rooted where they stood, trapped between terror and disbelief, watching something sacred unravel.
âYou have the fortune of a man of status willing to look past your...your madness!â he bellowed, face red, spittle flying. âYou will consider yourself very lucky for all I have done for you, you ungrateful little witch!â
The word rang through the room.
âYou do this all for yourself,â you snapped, voice sharp enough to cut bone. âMother left you with a daughter before she died. No son. No eligible heir. And youâve been terrified ever since.â
Silence struck harder than any slap.
âYouâre scared,â you continued, breath shaking but unbroken. âScared of losing your name, your power, your place among men who only respect bloodlines. So you dress your fear up as duty and call it Godâs will.â
His hand shook where it hovered at his side.
âYou donât want to save me,â you said, quieter now, deadlier. âYou want to use me.â
The room held its breath.
And in that moment, you knew whatever happened next, whatever punishment came, you had crossed a threshold that could never be uncrossed. At this point, however, you hadn't anything to lose.
He dragged you to the carriage and through the church doors kicking and screaming, your protests swallowed by the cavernous echo of the stone hall. Months had passed since youâd set foot here, yet the scent of beeswax candles and damp pews struck you immediately, like an accusation. The clergy didnât bother with subtlety. They restrained you as if you were a dangerous animal, their hands firm and unyielding.
The room they ushered you into was a cell masquerading as a chamber: windowless, suffocatingly warm, with stone walls that seemed to close in. In the center, a simple wooden chair waited, its leather straps hanging like instruments of torment. They forced you down, locking your arms and legs with a cold efficiency that left no room for argument.
You thrashed, screamed, and spat, your voice bouncing off the walls with maddening resonance. Each plea for father, passerby, God, was met only with ritualistic calm, the men misreading terror for possession.
The prayers began as murmurs but quickly swelled, a chorus of voices drowning your own. The faint hiss of holy water against your skin made you flinch violently, and you could almost hear them muttering behind you, convinced your reaction was proof of demonry.
You had made a choice, a rational and human protest, yet here they treated you as a vessel of sin. Every shout, every resistance was twisted into evidence against you. You couldnât help the bitter thought that if a man had openly rejected an engagement, he would be dismissed with a scolding word and sent home, never trapped in a chair and assaulted with prayers until his voice was hoarse.
The room pulsed with heat and the weight of intent. Each exclamation, each sprinkle of water, each word of scripture felt like a claim against your very soul. You werenât crazy. You werenât possessed. But the world was intent on proving otherwise.
At first, you tried to retreat inwardâto barricade your mind against the assault unfolding around you. If you could not save your body, perhaps you could salvage a shred of dignity. You let your thoughts drift where the prayers could not follow.
To nights spent bent over parchment in shirts far too large for you, ink smudged on your fingers. To arguments that meant nothing and everything. To laughter whispered into the dark. To rain-soaked kisses stolen between wet skin, when the world felt briefly, mercifully quiet.
You replaced the droning scripture with his voice, steady and unafraid. You imagined his fingertips where rough hands restrained you now, grounding rather than claiming. For a moment, it worked.
But willpower, you learned, had limits.
If you wanted to leave this room alive, intact in body, if not in spirit, you had to think, not hope.
And then it struck you with terrifying clarity.
Even if you escaped this chair, even if you shattered free tonight, your single act of rebellion would never overpower a belief system generations old. You could not outthink faith sharpened into law. You could not reason with men who mistook obedience for salvation.
You would not win by fighting.
You would survive by surrenderingâconvincingly.
As the prayers climbed toward frenzy, you let your resistance ebb. Your head lolled against the hard back of the chair, lashes fluttering as your breaths grew slow and exaggerated. Your body went slack, pliant. Harmless.
When you opened your eyes again, you made them vacant. Soft. You let confusion settle across your face, hollow and childlike, and summoned tears just enough to glisten at your lash line.
Your voice, when it came, was weak. Awed.
âHeavens,â you breathed, reverent and broken in all the right ways.
âIâve been saved.â
And for the first time since theyâd dragged you inside, you felt the weight of their hands hesitate.
Your eyes were glassy in that way only the truly broken can mimic. You lifted your head square to meet your fatherâs, a trembling smile teasing your lips as tears streaked down the slope of your nose, dripping to the cold floor beneath you.
âThank you⌠I understand now.â
Technically, you werenât lying.
The instant they released their grip, you collapsed like a ragdoll, letting the world catch you entirely. For the first time, your father looked genuinely concerned. The clergymen murmured their final blessings while you remained cradled in his arms, steady as a leaf in a storm, before he carried you back to the carriage, fearing one wrong move might undo the fragile illusion.
You sprawled across the seat, expression unnervingly serene, almost euphoric. Silence draped over the carriage, and your father seemed relieved at the absence of your prior chaos.
His hand reached out, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face. âAll is well now. You will be married, knowing you are no longer tormented by the devil.â
You smiled, sweet and vacant.
The moment they left you to your rest, you rose. Not in surrender, but in purpose. There was work to do.
The door had barely clicked shut before the smile slid from your face like a discarded mask. Whatever softness had pleased them drained away, leaving only clarity: sharp, focused, alive. Your limbs still trembled, whether from fear or fury you couldnât tell, but they obeyed you again. That was all that mattered.
You sat up slowly, listening.
Footsteps retreated down the corridor. A murmur of servants. The manor settling back into its familiar, complacent rhythmâutterly convinced it had won.
You moved carefully, every action deliberate. The mirror caught you as you crossed the room: hair disheveled, cheeks blotched from tears, eyes still glassy enough to sell the part if anyone happened to look in. You practiced the expression once more. Vacant, pliant, then let it go.
They thought you were cured.
They thought you were grateful.
They thought you were theirs again.
What they did not realize was that obedience, once learned as a performance, was a weapon.
You opened the small escritoire by the window, fingers steady despite the ache in your wrists. Inside were the things they never bothered to confiscateâwhy would a ârestoredâ daughter need them? A folded note, edges worn from being handled too often. A small pouch of coins, accumulated quietly, patiently. A ribbon you no longer wore, but kept anyway, because it reminded you that you had once chosen something for yourself.
And tucked beneath it all, proof you were not alone.
You exhaled, slow and measured, letting the house hear only what it expected: a girl recovering. A girl resting. A girl resigned.
They had broken nothing essential.
They had only taught you this: if freedom required deceit, then deceit would be holy work.
You lay back down just as the maid approached your door, pulling the covers up to your chest, arranging your face into gentle emptiness. When she peeked in, you rewarded her with a soft, distant smile.
âIâm very tired,â you murmured.
She nodded, relieved, and closed the door.
In the quiet that followed, your resolve settled like iron in your bones.
Three weeks, they had said.
Plenty of time to disappear.
Zandik was due tonight, and with him, youâd never returnâ
even if he didnât know that yet.
You thought back to the night he asked that ridiculous question:
âHave you ever considered simply⌠not getting married?â
Then, it had seemed absurd. Now, it was your plan. Your rebellion. Your escape, a concept now stuffed into a velvet satchel along with everything else that mattered, the weight of it somehow grounding and reminding you that this was real.
Nothing had changed about your ritual. You waited for the signalâthe flicker of light he always used to catch your eye. The thought of him made your chest ache. To see him. To be held. To kiss him until the world narrowed to only the two of you and the lack of oxygen in your lungs.
Minutes stretched like hours. Your fingers clenched a little pocket watch until your knuckles turned white. You watched the lantern by the gate, waiting for it to snuff out, to flicker againâbut it never came.
Panic crept in. Heart hammering, breath shallow, you whispered to the empty night: something was terribly wrong.
So, you did the only thing you could and went to investigate. You crept past your bedroom doors, down the corridor that stretched too long, down the grand stairwell, and into the servantsâ kitchen where your door to freedom awaited.
Your hand undid the latch, pulling the door open, andâ
The booming voice froze you completely. Shadows swallowed the courtyard, and there he stood: your father, massive and immovable, arms crossed, blocking your escape entirely.
âAnd where do you think you are going?â
You tried to stammer a believable excuse, a lie that might buy you time, but fate had no mercy tonight. Before you could even breathe, his larger frame closed in. Strong hands gripped your neck, hoisting you up, pressing you against the cold, hard doorway.
You clawed at him, desperate, but every movement only tightened his hold. Your lungs screamed for air, your vision blurred at the edges, and the world narrowed to the sharp pressure around your throat.
âIt was a rouse,â he spat, voice thick with rage. âYou, devil, still dwell strongly within my daughter!â
Panic set in like fire. Every instinct screamed at you to fight, to scream, to escape, but you could hardly force a sound through the crushing grip.
Would a father truly strangle his own daughter for defiance?
Your body was prepared to go slack.
Zandik was prepared to counter that possibility. Literally.
Before darkness fully swallowed the courtyard, you suddenly slid to the floor, your legs giving way beneath you. A sharp thud rang through the night, followed by your father groaning violently before slumping to the ground.
A pair of strong arms scooped you up before you could even comprehend it, holding you tightly against a familiar warmth. His scentâthe rain, the night, himâwas undeniable.
He ducked behind a tall shrub, cradling you carefully as he scanned your surroundings.
âHe wonât be waking up,â he said quietly, near guiltily, yet matter-of-factly.
And yet, the same hands that had just subdued your father with brutal precision now brushed your face with impossible gentleness, coaxing your ragged breaths back into steady rhythm. Once you were stable, he pressed a soft kiss to your lips.
âNot to steal your breath away again,â he joked, voice low and teasing.
âZandikâŚâ you whispered.
âYes. Alright, we should go, butâŚâ He glanced at your fatherâs body, then back at you.
You only shook your head.
âI wasnât planning on returning anyway.â
After a beat, you lifted your head to look at him again.
âBut⌠you never signaled meâŚâ
He gave a slight nod, eyes scanning the shadows. âI saw movement outside. I didnât wish to alert the wrong person.â
It all clicked. Your father hadnât just caught youâit had been deliberate. Every glance, every moment, had been a trap.
âWe should go,â Zandik murmured, shrugging off his coat and draping it around your shoulders. The fabric smelled faintly of him, dry and warm, offering a small comfort against the night chill.
He carried you to the waiting horse, holding you firmly but gently. His grip was steadier than usual, careful not to hurt you more than you had already endured tonight.
Over his shoulder, the courtyard blurred past: frantic servants and guards spilling out of the open doors, shouting, waving, trying to rouse your fatherâbut it was already too late.
He settled you onto the horse, hands lingering on your waist for a moment longer than necessary. Then, with a firm motion, he mounted behind you.
The horse leapt forward into the night, hooves pounding the wet ground. Rain splashed against your cloak and face, but it barely registered. All that mattered was the steady warmth behind you, the safety in his presence, and the intoxicating, terrifying taste of freedom.
You both disappeared into the night.
The days that followed were a blur. A noble of Her Majestyâs court had been found dead in his homeâblunt trauma to the headâand his disturbed daughter vanished without a trace. Murder, surely. The so-called Crazy Doctorâs manor had gone up in flames, leaving the house behind in ruin, his strange shed charred and abandoned without its master in sight. London whispered that the last of the old physicianâs bloodline had been extinguished.
High society was in upheaval. Even Her Majesty herself raised an eyebrow at the news. Commoners chuckled and murmured at the absurdity of it all. But in a city like London, attention was a fleeting currency: stare too long at misfortune and you risked being swept away in the current of your own struggle.
Inevitably, the story was buried beneath the next scandal, the next tragedy, as life marched on. And that, as it happened, suited you perfectly.
You and your new husband had disappeared into your own corner of the world, a quiet somewhere of your own making. London, with its suffocating expectations and constant surveillance, was finally behind you. Here, existence was yours. Free thought flourished. Quiet laughter filled empty rooms.
Everything was all right.
Because lifeâtruly, whollyâbelonged to you, by your own volition,
And that was all you needed.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------oh my god, I can't believe I just wrote all that.
