a messy, personal essay from a messy English major in her senior year.
hopefully another woman reading this knows what I'm talking about
<3
CW: mentions of body dysmorphia, religion, menstruation/bleeding, and SA
—
When I was a child, I sleepwalked out of bed to the landing at the top of our stairs in the middle of the night. My dad was at the bottom, likely having gotten up for a midnight snack because people who go to bed at 7 pm are undoubtedly going to bed hungry. He looked up at me, perplexed, and asked what I was doing, and like a suicidal bird with a broken wing, I stretched my arms out wide and fell forward, leaping to a weird, unprompted death. My dad caught me, as is evident by my ability to be alive and writing this, and when I think back on it now, I don't think about how lucky I was that my dad was there to catch me. I think, instead, I wish I were still light enough to be caught.
I write about things that matter to me—things with an importance that I hate to admit out loud—when I'm on my period, and the most important thing in the world to me is my body. Growing up with a granola-focused mother, who herself grew up with a “you’d be so pretty if you only lost about five pounds” mother, planted this seed for me at a young age. My “no thank you at the dinner table/gobble up everything illuminated by the fridge light at 1:00 am” father cemented it in my future. My body is a reflection of my age, my wit, my womanhood, each and every individual failure, and my period provides the magnifying glass required to properly pick it all apart once a month.
My period makes me think about what I believe in, and how nothing it all feels. I want to believe in a womanhood like witchcraft, but not in the way that other white girls you meet at house shows believe in it. I want a coven of women, all taller than I, with wild hair and long, yellowish nails, that will hold my bangs back as I expel whatever concoction they’ve brewed for me, so that I may fall out of love with any boy instantly. I want to sit in a circle with them, around candles that don’t smell like anything but dust and fire, and cut each other's hands, kissing the cuts and wearing our newly red lips as badges of pride in our sisterhood. But I don’t believe in any of that. It’s only a fantasy that stems from my love for women who look beautiful even when big. “God is a Woman” might come on the radio, and I might hum along until the notes get too high for me, but I don’t believe in God most of the time. If anything, I believe in it out of convenience. I actively roll my eyes whenever I stumble across an earnest millennial proudly displaying their pastel portrait of a weeping jesus on the internet (“everybody hates my Christian art”), as if I wasn’t going to bed in 2012 praying to a higher power that I always pictured as a man wearing a blue button up shirt, that I would get a solo in “Holly And The Ivy” in the Christmas Eve service. I don't believe in God being a woman until I think about one day losing my mother, and then suddenly everything shifts. I imagine the man in the button up shirt is gone, and she’s standing in a wide open field. It's 70 degrees and sunny with plenty of pockets of shade and my first dog Maggie, who died of a tumor, runs circles around my second dog Ollie, who lived a long happy life. My mother has the body she had in her 20s, the one that worked to lose those five pounds, and hair down to her ankles. She’s sketching portraits of my brother and I as babies like she loves to do. That heaven is womanhood, and it is something to be earned. I have no doubt in my mind that my mother will have paid her dues when her time comes—ever the good Episcopalian—but I lie awake at night, fearful that I will not be so lucky. I have not feared God more than the scale, and therefore I will be fated for some forever darkness—lost to a man in a button up, in a space in which I slowly forget my mother’s voice but never forget the number on the scale, down to the decimal.
I don’t weigh myself, except for when I’m on my period. During my period, I weigh myself in my head. The scale is the greatest equalizer. It tells me all my justifications were nothing but—that I didn't truly deserve fast food just because I woke up bleeding. I didn't truly deserve to sit on my bed all day and watch other people watch fun, belting girl movies like Hairspray on YouTube until the sun went down just because I woke up in pain. Periods are the third strongest things in the world, second only to the uteruses that shed for them, those of which are second only to the brains and hearts attached to those uteruses that decide every day not to kill themselves, to end the pain and suffering. During my period, I close my eyes, and I weigh as much as the sun.
I once got in an argument with a Lyft driver about periods, which I think he thought was flirting which was weird for three reasons: 1. He was my Lyft driver. 2. He told me that he had a girlfriend, unprompted. 3. It was an argument about periods. He told me women go “insane” on their periods, that he grew up with sisters and knows better than to “mess” with a woman on the rag. I asked him if he’d ever woken up, looked in the mirror and not recognized his reflection. If he’d ever stared into the face of something horrible and ugly and massive. If he’d ever felt like his intestines were being scrambled by two chainsaws, like a hellish salad. If he’d ever sat down on a plush chair and experienced a sensation akin to shoving a large ice pick up his rectum. If he’d ever spent a week convinced that everyone who loves him absolutely despised him, and he didn’t know why but he did know that it was all his fault. If he’d spent that very same week incapable of sympathizing with slim people and thinking about his mother dying someday. If he’d wept for a grief of his self-image he’d sworn every month he had already long dealt with. He technically didn’t answer, but he laughed, short, sharp and very loudly, so in a way he did.
Period or not, my body is about men. As I get older, I fight tooth and nail to make it about women, so maybe someday it won’t be about anything at all. I think about men when I fall asleep. My AC is on full blast, and I shiver under the covers. I think about my body, and how maybe men would like it that I get cold, because skinny women get cold, don’t they? I didn’t used to get cold, or maybe I did but I can't remember it. When I was at my biggest, everything was hot and tight and itchy and uncomfortable. I would've given anything to shiver and huddle close to another person's body fat. I was the space heater to huddle close to, the friend to ask for advice. I was a fat girl in a movie—Hairspray without the Efron. In most other movies, fat girls are only beautiful when men don’t want to be rude. My first boyfriend was skinny as a rail, and he would huddle close to me. Now in our 20s, he’s even skinnier. His partner looks like a Pinterest page, and he’s so happy, and I’m happy for him, but my body still revolves around him. I still ran a mile before getting coffee with him. My body still revolves around my dad complimenting my face and how it’s slimmer than it was—it revolves around my silent, shameful reveling in that remark. It revolves around male professors reading my writing and thinking it’s any good. It revolves around a guy on the bus across the aisle from me who I am inherently afraid of. It revolves around men I love, men I’m indifferent to, and men I want nothing to do with. My body is mine like a punishment is mine—given to me by another out of some kind of spiteful justice.
My body and my period are one and the same at the gynecologist. My gynecologist is a man, which stuns all my friends, but makes sense to me for some reason. He’s older and doesn’t care about anything that creepy older men care about, so I only panic for a moment when he manually checks for ovarian or breast cancer. When he removed my old IUD, we chatted about my major and if I had any internships lined up for the summer yet. When I told him I wanted to get off the pill, he told me I shouldn’t be taking anything I didn’t like, and I pretended that was the reason—not my subsequent weight gain or acne flare up. Right after the election, I was more afraid of rape than I’d ever been in my life, not for the torture of it, but for the aftermath. I want to be a mom in my version of womanhood; I want to be a single mom, but I want it to be planned. I want to be 35, with an uninvolved sperm donor and a circus nursery I paint with my best friend. I want to watch my baby grow, and fill a notebook with all the things I wish my parents had done differently—all the things said about my body that I wish I didn’t remember—so when the time comes, I’ll know what to do and what not to say. When he inserted my new IUD, my 2025 administration IUD, it hurt more than anything I'd ever felt. It felt like rape. He was so apologetic, and the female nurse was so apologetic and held my hand gently and stroked the back of it with her thumb. How sex can be both my greatest source of envy and my deepest pit of fear, I don’t really know. My body is mine like a punishment is mine. I prepare it for a fate I work tirelessly to avoid.
When I go to sleep tonight, I'll feel the way my pelvis aches and my menstrual underwear expands with blood. The IUD makes me bleed more, makes my muscles ache more. I’ll feel everything wrong with my body—the way my stomach pours out onto the bed on my side, the way my thighs touch—even though they have to, the way my arms feel heavy even though they don’t have to. I’ll feel the weight of the sun. I'll think about the way I would feel to a man like Efron—heavy and touching and pouring out—and I’ll remember to shiver, to be cold. I'll tell myself, so as to finally fall asleep, that it will all feel smaller and lighter in the morning, and in my mind, I spread my arms out wide and fall forward, leaping to a weird unprompted dream, praying I’ll be caught.
AN: sorry i haven't posted a story in a while. every time i'd start a story, i'd either jump to a new one because a new idea would come to me, or i'd lose motivation to write at all for weeks at a time. i hope you enjoy my first smut of the year. let me know by giving me feedback. xoxo
This story contains: pure smut, riding dick, cursing
{ husband!harry - current harry era - softrry }
word count- 1,347
When you arrive back to the studio with your lunches, you see Harry lying on the floor listening to his music and think his lap looks a bit too empty to ignore.
It was just you and Harry at the studio today. He'd basically finished the album, but wanted to do some final touches and re-listen to each song to make sure they sounded exactly how he wanted them to sound in the final production.
Around noon, you ran out to grab lunch for the both of you. While you were gone, Harry decided to move to the carpeted floor and put his headphones on, listening to the finished album once again to make sure nothing needed adding or worked on. He had his eyes closed and was in a near meditative state as he really focused on the music.
Upon your arrival back, the studio is silent, leading you to think for a moment that Harry might've disappeared. However, as you walk further in, you see him lying on the floor with his knees propped up and his black headphones over his ears, his eyes closed as well. You realize that Harry can't hear or see you. You set the food down on an unoccupied table in the studio and quietly approach him, even though he has music blasting in his ears and can't hear you anyways.
You debate for a moment what your next move is, and than decide to be a bit cheeky. You carefully place a foot on either side of his hips and gently squat down until your bottom is sat on his crotch. Harry nearly jumps out of his skin. He opens his eyes and gasps, reaching up to push his headphones away from his ears. "Wh...what are you doing, baby? You scared the shit out of me."
Giggling, you reply, "Sorry, you just looked so comfy and your lap looked too empty."
"Too empty?" Harry smiles up at you.
"Mhm," you hum, "think it needed me to be sitting on it." You lean forward and place your hands flat on the floor behind his shoulders. This new angle makes you feel the hard lump in his shorts more clearly. "You're not wearing underwear are you?" you question, knowing the feeling pressing against your clit is a bit too good for him to be confined in a tight pair of briefs.
"Nope, decided to go bare today. Let it all air out down there."
You grin at his answer. "We're the only ones here today, right?" you ask, just wanting to be sure before you make your next move.
Harry nods and replies, "Yep, I requested to have the studio to myself today, with of course you here too. So the whole band and Kid knows not to come today. Why'd you ask?"
"Perfect!" you cheer mischievously. You began rocking your hips back and forth over his crotch and Harry tilts his head back with a groan.
"Baby, this is your idea? You wanna have sex on this dirty, studio floor? Really?"
Your breath begins to pick up as you respond, "Yeah, why not? No one is coming in today, like you said, and we can mark studio floor off our sex bucket list."
Though Harry was skeptical at first, he gives you the go ahead. "Alright, have at it, m'love. Take m'clothes off and ride m'cock."
Without hesitation, you take off both of your clothes and then kneel down, rubbing your bare pussy against his naked cock. The dry rubbing you were doing moments ago made you extremely wet, so you're super slick now. After a few more rolls of your hips, you stand on your knees and reach down to grab his shaft in your fist, and begin to align him with your dripping hole. The both of you moan at the same time.
Harry settles his hands on your hips as you slowly sink down on him. "Fuck!" you curse, throwing your head back as your hands settle down flat on his chest. Once you're fully sat, you waste no time in riding him. With your knees pressing into the blue carpet and your hands pressing on his muscular pecs, you start rocking back and forth at a fast pace, searching for a quick release.
Occasionally, you switch your technique, bobbing up and down or swiveling your hips in a circular motion, yet you always return to grinding back and forth. This is because you know it will lead you to orgasm the fastest, as the back and forth motion allows Harry to rub with your g-spot while simultaneously providing stimulation to your clit against his neatly trimmed pubic bone.
"Shit baby, you feel so fuckin' good." Harry breaths out, holding your hips as he helps you keep your grinding rhythm.
Panting, you announce, "I'm gonna come."
"Already? That's fast. You must've been really turned on, baby."
Your speed picks up as you chase your high. This was unusually fast for you to come when on top. Not that you struggle to orgasm when on top, but usually you either take your time on purpose if you're having more romantic sex, or you start to lose your energy before your orgasm can develop all the way and Harry has to take over. Not today though.
Maybe it's due to the slight thrill you feel that someone could walk in the studio at any moment and catch you. Or maybe how hot your husband looked prior to you pouncing on him, but in less than three minutes, your orgasm crashes down on you. You suddenly gasp, eyes squeezed shut, body trembling, as your walls flutter and pulse around Harry's cock. Usually you need more than just some grinding on your clit to orgasm, like either your hand or Harry's, but not today.
"Oh my God! Fuuuuck!" you shout as your face stains in pleasure. Right before your orgasm vanishes, Harry props his feet flat on the floor and begins thrusting upwards to help make your orgasm last as long as possible. By doing so, he feels the band of pleasure snap in his belly and his orgasm follows soon after yours.
As you're coming down from your high, you finally open your eyes and peek down to see Harry's head thrown back on the carpet, his breath coming out in harsh pants, his knuckles nearly white on your hips. You can feel his dick throbbing inside of you, as well as his warm spurts of cum coating your sensitive walls.
After what felt like ages, you both come down from your highs. You start to lean down and kiss Harry's lips, but he yelps out due to how sensitive he is. "Ow baby. M' sensitive."
"Sorry." you mutter sincerely. You slowly lift off his shaft and immediately realize a problem. "Fuck, I'm gonna leak on the carpet, do you have napkins or something?"
In quick thinking, Harry reaches off to the side and grabs his t-shirt, handing it to you to place between your legs. "There, I've got another shirt in m'bag, don't worry about it.
You stand on wobbly legs and reply, "Thank you." before wobbling to the bathroom, hand cupping your vagina with his t-shirt so you don't drip his cum on the nice blue carpet. As Harry watches you wobble to the toilet, he begins laughing, finding the scene comical. You turn around with an irritated smile. "Don't laugh at me."
Getting redressed himself, Harry apologizes while still giggling, "Sorry, sorry. But in hindsight, it is slightly funny." You clean up in the bathroom and Harry brings you your clothes for you to get dressed again. Once you're both properly clothed again, you walk over to the table you'd sat the food on and begin to eat.
Sex is always good after eating, but Harry finds it even better before eating because that way you're not fucking on full bellies with the potential of getting sick from all the sloshing around.
After devouring the food, you pack up all your things and head out, tired from the sex and food. You make a mental note to check studio sex off your sex bucket list when you get home. That is, if you can stay awake long enough.
(PLEASE REBLOG BECAUSE WRITING IS NOT EASY AND IT'S FREE SO JUST DO IT)
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Harry is the Head Chef of the kitchen you work in, but the two of you share a big secret.
A/N: Helloooo! What a whirlwind it's been with this story. I'm so very grateful for the love you've given it. I work on a very basic principle of Validation = Motivation = Production, so just know that all your likes and messages and reblogs of part 1 are the reason I was able to get this out so quickly. I hope you all like the conclusion <3
Harry 23:04 Friday
Where have you gone?
Harry 23:04 Friday
1 Missed Call
Harry 23:05 Friday
Hey?
Where’d you go?
Helloooo?
Harry 23:06 Friday
2 Missed Calls
Harry 23:07 Friday
You could’ve stayed.
Harry 09:32 Saturday
Please don’t give me the silent treatment. My big head and my big ego can’t handle it.
I’m not back at work until Monday and I know you’re working today but I’m coming over later. We’re going to talk about this.
Harry 22:46 Saturday
1 Missed Call
Harry 22:46 Saturday
Are you home yet?
I’ve been sitting in my car for 20 minutes waiting for you to come home and Dimas said you left before him tonight.
Come on, I feel like an idiot sitting here waiting. Please just answer me. Even if it’s to tell me to fuck off.
Harry 22:59 Saturday
I’m outside your door. Knocking. Even though I’m not entirely convinced you’re home. And your door is locked.
Harry 23:00 Saturday
1 Missed Call
Harry 23:15 Saturday
Alright. Message received.
Me 08:45 Monday
I’ll be late this morning, I’ve got an appointment across town. Faith is coming in early to get started.
Harry 08:46 Monday
1 Missed Call
Harry 08:46 Monday
Seriously??
~~~
I leave the patisserie feeling conflicted.
On one hand, the interview went well. I’ve never struggled with interviews generally and the lady that interviewed me was lovely, and almost exceedingly complimentary (apparently she has been to the hotel a number of times to eat in the restaurant and always enjoyed my desserts).
On the other hand, I felt like a deserter and a traitor, going for an interview behind everyone’s backs when I’ve just been nominated for an award based on work I’ve done with the hotel.
I’m not even sure if I want the job. I sent them an email saying I’d love to come for an interview while I was tossing and turning in bed in the early hours of Saturday morning. I even sent it from my laptop so I wouldn’t have to turn my phone back on.
I went for the interview because the situation with Harry has changed. I don’t know what’s happening—why I’m so flustered by the sight of another woman in his house. We’ve never discussed labels, and we’ve never even spoken about being ‘exclusive’. Technically, he can sleep with whoever he wants to. And so can I.
I know I’m jumping to conclusions. They might not have been doing anything—she might be a friend, and that’s fine. But it doesn’t change that my immediate reaction was a stomach-eating jealousy. I have no claim on the man, and I hadn’t realised I even thought of him even remotely as mine until I was confronted with the possibility that, actually, he might not be, nor ever will be.
By the time I get to work, my nerves are at an all-time high. I’ve been ignoring Harry’s texts and calls. I stayed at a friend’s house on Saturday night knowing he was coming to find me. It most definitely makes me a coward, but I wasn’t ready to see him yet. I’m not sure I’m ready now, but I don’t have a choice. We work together and he is my boss.
That’s the bottom line. I can’t avoid him forever.
I change out of my interview clothes and into my whites, then head into the kitchen. Harry isn’t there, but I saw his car parked across the street, so I know he must be here. Maybe he’s in his office.
“Morning,” I say to Faith, who’s cutting up sandwiches for afternoon tea.
“Hey.” She stops what she’s doing to look at me. “How was your appointment?”
I haven’t told her what I was doing. I haven’t told anyone, actually. “Yeah, fine.”
“What was it? Dentist? Smear test?”
I shake my head with a laugh. “You’re so nosy.”
“Of course I am. I’m a Gemini.”
“Okay,” is all I can think to say, because unfortunately, astrology is lost on me.
“You didn’t answer my question,” she accuses.
“And I’m not going to.”
“Boo, you’re no fun,” she says with a pout. I feel that familiar prickliness down the back of my neck, but Faith is on a roll. “I would ask if it was a pregnancy thing, but you’d have to be having sex for that. Unless you’re the Virgin Mary.”
I freeze, eyes stuck on my station. Harry, who has decided to move in our direction rather than to his own part of the kitchen, clears his throat.
I chance a glance at him and find his expression unreadable, which is somewhat infuriating. I wish I had the ability to know him.
“Do I even want to know?” Harry asks, an impatient tic in his tone.
“Probably not.” Faith, who has less respect for authority than a disruptive child, simply shrugs and turns away, back to cutting sandwiches.
“Right… Anyway,” Harry turns that green-eyed focus on me, “can I have a word please?”
“Now?” I ask, as if I have any excuse to stall.
“Yes, please. In my office.”
The fact that he’s used the word ‘please’ twice in less than a minute is, frankly, a miracle. “Um, sure.”
Harry leads the way to his tiny office one floor above the kitchen. There’s a number of staff offices up here, but his is easily the smallest. It doesn’t even have space for a second chair.
He shuts the door behind me, and I feel claustrophobic in an entirely new way. He folds his arms across his chest and simply waits.
It’s nearly impossible not to roll my eyes. “I’m not, by the way.”
He tips his head. “You’re not what?”
“Pregnant. I’m not having a baby. That’s not why I was late this morning.”
Harry studies me like I’m a squished bug under a microscope. “Why were you late, then?”
My belly swoops in an uncomfortable way. “I had an interview.”
“For what?”
“A job.”
It’s so infinitesimal I might have imagined it, but I swear he flinches. “A job.”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“Is that relevant?” I ask, feeling somewhat defensive.
“It is to me. I want to know if I’ve fucked up so badly that you’d feel the need to interview for a job that is completely beneath you.”
I scoff. “What makes you think it has anything to do with you?”
He lifts a brow, and it says everything and nothing.
Really?
You expect me to believe that?
You’re going to pull that card?
Egotistical dickhead.
“Perhaps I was wrong,” he continues when I don’t say anything, “but I’d like to believe that, after everything, you’d feel comfortable enough telling me you’re going for an interview.”
I think about that for a minute. Because, would I? If I hadn’t gone to his apartment and found another woman answering the door, would I have told him?
And I think the actual answer is that I probably wouldn’t have gone for that interview at all. For all his flaws, I like my life right now. Or, at least, I did until Friday night, when the reality that I might not get to have him all to myself forever came crashing down on me.
Either way, I decide to be honest about one thing. “I’m not taking the job.”
“Well, that is a relief,” he finally drops his arms and lets out a frustrated sigh. “I don’t want to lose you on this team, darling.”
For some reason, that has everything to do with us being at work and not at home, I wince at the nickname. “I don’t want to leave, either. I love this job.”
“I’m glad to hear that. I might not always act like it, but I respect you, and so does the team. And I need you to balance out my heavy-handed attitude.”
“You are a prick at times,” I agree.
His mouth twitches with a smile. “I am. Now, are we going to talk about Friday?”
I immediately tense up again. “I’m not sure that’s appropriate, given we’re at work.”
“Baby—,” he notices me flinching again at the nickname and sighs, “if you think I’m going to be able to get through a day at work without knowing what happened, you’re going to be disappointed.”
“I just think we should wait to have a discussion about it until after work.”
“You’ve been ignoring me,” he points out.
I roll my lips into my mouth, because he’s got me there. “I just needed a couple of days. To get my shit together.”
“Okay. That’s fine. You could’ve just said that though, and I would’ve got it. You didn’t need to drop off the face of the Earth.”
“I panicked, Harry. I didn’t realise how…attached I’d become. To you.”
“You make it sound like a bad thing.”
I rub my hands over my face, frustrated. “I don’t know what we are.”
“Why do we have to label it? Why do we have to change anything?”
Unfortunately, that is exactly the wrong thing to say. “We don’t. But we need to have these conversations. I know I swung by completely unannounced, but that’s kind of our thing, right? We just turn up and fuck, and it’s been fine for months. But you can’t stand there and tell me that nothing has to change, because it already has. Giving me nicknames and saying things that sound like stuff people in a relationship say is changing. And I don’t like being blindsided when there’s another woman in your house, answering your door and asking if she can help me.
“If you don’t want to label us, fine. I think I can deal with that. But don’t call me darling, and baby, and tell me things that are misleading, because I can’t handle knowing it doesn’t really mean anything. It hurts my feelings. And, for the love of Christ, if you want to sleep with other people, I’d like to know that too. Not all the gory details, but…I’m clean, Harry. I’d like to stay that way. Okay?”
Once again, his face has slipped into an unreadable mask. His jaw works for a minute, like he’s chewing on his words. Eventually, though, he settles with a simple, “Okay.”
When he doesn’t expand, I give him a terse nod, feeling my heart in my throat, and leave.
~~~
Later that day, during dinner service, Harry calls out a VIP check. I don’t think much of it, as with most VIPs, because all food should go out with the same quality and care, important person or not.
Faith has been throwing me wary glances all day. I haven’t spoken much since I came back from Harry’s office and I’m sure it’s bothering her. I can see her brain working overtime trying to figure out what’s going on, and the fact that I’m barely talking is probably adding fuel to the fire.
The dessert for the VIP goes out in the hands of the restaurant manager, and I move onto the next check. Ten minutes later, I watch Harry disappear into the restaurant, presumably to talk to the very special people at their very special table.
Faith finally breaks her silence. “Am I missing something?”
I don’t bother facing her. “You plate these dishes multiple times a day, three days a week. You should know by now whether something is missing or not.”
She mutters something under her breath that I pretend not to hear for the sake of our friendship. “I’m not talking about the food, dipshit.”
I whirl on her. “Excuse me?”
“You’ve been acting weird all day, ever since you came back from your little meeting with Chef.”
“No, I haven’t,” I lie.
“Puh-lease,” she groans. “I’m not blind or deaf. You either got a telling off this morning, or you had a fight, ‘cause the two of you won’t even look at one another, and you’ve barely said three words all day. Is it something to do with this mysterious appointment this morning?”
“No, it’s not. And even if it was, it would be none of your bloody business.”
“Er—,”
We both look at the pass where the restaurant manager is waiting. “Yeah?” I prompt.
“Sorry to interrupt, but Chef has asked you to come and meet the VIPs.”
I grimace. “Do I have to?”
He shrugs with a sheepish smile, because we all know the answer is yes, I do have to.
With a sigh, I wipe my apron down and wash my hands before heading out to the restaurant. Chefs don’t like going out and meeting customers. We prefer our feedback in the form of emails or totally unhinged Tripadvisor reviews.
Harry is standing by a table in the window, chatting animatedly to the couple sitting there. I approach slowly, not wanting to interrupt.
He glances my way, does a double take, and then encourages me to come closer. “Here she is,” he says proudly. Harry introduces me by name and then says, “This is Mabel and Peter. Mabel and I trained together.”
“It’s nice to meet you both,” I say, shaking each of their hands. But when I shake Mabel’s, I feel the world tilt a bit, because I recognise this woman. This is the woman who was with Harry on Friday night. The woman who answered the door as if she belonged there. And it’s only now that I register the cold bite of her wedding ring against the palm of my hand.
I pull back, bewildered and off-kilter. She’s studying me in a different way, like she can’t place me but knows she’s seen me before. I wonder if she’ll ever marry me with the woman who showed up randomly and then ran away at the first sign of trouble. Perhaps I was right to be upset all along.
I glance at Peter, who gazes fondly at Mabel, like he orbits around her world.
I wonder if I’m missing something, or if the conclusion my brain has jumped to is the reality. I’d like to say that Harry is not the type for infidelity. I really fucking hope he isn’t, and the next time I look at him, there is no sign on his face that I’ve caught him doing something he shouldn’t be. So it’s either I really am jumping to conclusions, or the man has no shame.
Either way, I am embarrassed and uncomfortable, and I just want to go home.
I take their compliments with all the grace I can muster, politely excuse myself, and hurry back to the kitchen to finish service. All without giving Harry a backwards glance.
“Why do you look like you’ve seen a ghost?” Faith asks, frowning at me.
Because I feel like I have. “I’m fine.”
“Seriously mate, I have never seen you so highly strung. Do you want me to call my dealer? I can get you some good weed.”
I wrinkle my nose. “Absolutely not.”
She shrugs. “Alright, suit yourself.”
I finish the day in a bit of a trance. Harry leaves without saying anything to me and I feel worse for it. I am a mess of epic proportions.
When I get home, he’s waiting outside my building with a permanent scowl. Without saying anything, I let him follow me in and up to the flat. Inside, I kick my shoes off and head straight for my bedroom. Harry watches as I change, a silent, stoic study of me from the edge of my bed, and then I get under the covers, turning to face him.
“Who is Mabel, Harry?” I ask, looking at his knee rather than his face.
“I told you, we trained together.”
“Yeah, but who is she? Why was she at your flat?”
“Why do you think she was?”
I squeeze my eyes closed, patience wearing thin. “I don’t know, that’s why I’m asking. I am tired, and on edge, and I just want a simple answer and not another argument. Please.”
“Alright,” he says, unmoving. He’s not touching me and I kind of hate it. But it’s probably for the best. “She’s in town interviewing for jobs. Peter is a chef too, but he couldn’t get out of work over the weekend, so she came to stay with me rather than spending money on a hotel. They’re staying at our hotel tonight and she’s got an interview in the morning with me and Janice.”
I frown. “I didn't know we had any positions open.”
“Dimas is leaving. He gave a long notice period so he could train his replacement. I hadn’t told anyone yet. Mabel said she would be around this weekend as she wanted to come back home. I said I was about to start searching for a sous chef and she should interview for it while she’s here. It would bump the process up a bit, and if she wants the job it would save me a lot of trouble having to vet a bunch of other candidates.”
I sigh, turning onto my back. “That makes sense.”
“I forgot to tell Mabel that you sometimes come over. That’s my fault.”
“You should have told me you were home but had guests staying. I would’ve waited.”
“Probably. But I wanted to see you. I was hoping you’d turn up.”
I roll onto my front, shoving my face into the pillows piled there. I hear Harry shuffle, and then his hand is there, stroking my head, down my neck and back. I debate telling him to stop but I don’t want to. It feels so nice I might fall asleep from it.
We stay like that for a while—me despondent and him soothing me. It’s strange, having him comfort me. I told him not to give me mixed messages this morning, yet I can’t bring myself to stop him now. I am a weak, weak woman.
He pinches my chin and encourages me to look his way. When I meet his gaze it’s soft, tender. “What are you thinking?”
I swallow, taking a breath. “I’m embarrassed, Harry. I jumped to a hundred conclusions today and you didn’t correct me on any of them. I feel like a fool, and I think you were smug earlier when I came out to meet them. You knew I was thinking the worst all weekend and enjoyed my reaction when I realised I was wrong.”
He slowly pulls away from me, letting out a slow, sad breath. He runs a hand through his hair, nodding gently as if he agrees with me. “I’m a bastard.”
“You really are,” I say with a miserable laugh.
“What can I do to fix it?”
My heart squeezes. I look at him, taking in the lines of his body and that beautiful face. “I think we need to take a break for a bit. Right now, I’m too sensitive for you. I’m not the type of girl you need. I think you need someone less…affected. And maybe someone you don’t work with.”
“Please don’t tell me who I do and don’t need. It’s not about need.”
“But it is for me, Harry. I need someone who won’t thrive at the opportunity to embarrass me.”
“I’m sorry,” he mumbles, cheeks going pink.
I’m not sure he’s ever been called out this way before. “I know you are. I’ll be good at work. I won’t make your life difficult or anything, I promise. I just…need to be left alone.”
His jaw sets and his lips disappear, but he nods, reluctantly. “Okay. I guess I can only respect that, if it’s what you want.”
It isn’t what I want, like at all. I wanted to be respected by the man who uses my body for his own pleasure pretty much whenever he wants. But I guess we can’t always get what we want.
“It is.”
He sighs, but nods again, firmer this time. “Alright, then.” He takes my hand and kisses the palm. It’s so sweet it catches me off guard. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Yeah… Goodnight, Harry.”
“Night, baby.”
I let the nickname slide, just this once.
~~~
By the time the La Liste awards night rolls around, Harry and I can barely even be called colleagues. Acquaintances, maybe. Two people who are in the same room together for hours and hours at a time but do not interact.
We float through our days passing but not speaking, barely looking at each other, or even acknowledging each other. It’s cordial, amicable even, but we are not overly friendly. We never have been that, I guess, but it feels even more obvious now.
The staff don’t seem to have noticed, so we must be doing something right.
However, the prickly sensation I get when he walks into a room has transitioned to full blown cold sweats. Not having him has somehow made him more attractive, and I find myself yearning to touch him most nights when I go home and find myself alone, yet again.
My vibrator has become my best friend.
Faith thinks I’m possessed by a melancholy demon.
I’m convinced I did the right thing, and yet it’s his face I pray will walk through the door on any given night and fuck me through my mattress again.
And now, I’m tortured enough to be sitting on a train to London next to him. As if it wasn’t bad enough.
We’ve got a table seat, and I’m by the window with a book and snacks. Harry is beside me, because there are people opposite us—corporate types doing work on laptops so thin they look like they might snap with the slightest amount of pressure—and his arm is pushed up against mine, heat radiating off him like a furnace.
I’m hyper-aware of him and everything he does. We haven’t spoken much, but he keeps pinching my Skittles and fidgeting like a cat struggling to get comfortable.
He drums his fingers on the table, and I have to reach over and stop him.
He seems to startle at my touch, and I force myself to ignore the way he leans into me after. “Sorry,” he mutters.
“It’s fine.”
With this, he folds his arms across his chest and leans his head back, as if he’s going to sleep. And I think he must for a while, because his head lolls, and he ends up resting on my shoulder.
My heart kicks up a fuss but I pretend not to notice.
Twenty minutes later, a scoff brushes my ear. “He’s a dick.”
I realise Harry is talking about the love interest in the book I’m reading. “He’s what the ladies call ‘morally grey’.”
“And you’re into that?”
I wrinkle my nose. “In a book, yeah. In real life, no.”
“Thank God. I can’t imagine you taking lightly to a man like that.”
I squeak a little laugh. “You’re right, I wouldn’t.”
He shifts, his head turning against my shoulder, and his hair tickles my neck. “I hate trains.”
“I can tell.”
“I asked if I could drive us but Janice said with petrol, parking and congestion charges it was too expensive.”
“Never mind,” I say, patting his thigh without thinking about it. “At least this way only one of us is suffering. And we can drink more.”
He sits upright, and I hate how much I miss the warmth of him. “Do you plan on getting really drunk?”
“I don’t know. Depends how much is free.”
He stares at his thigh for a second, then abruptly stands up. “Be right back.”
He’s gone for ten minutes, and pink-cheeked when he returns.
~~~
I can’t remember the last time I had an excuse to dress up. It was probably a long-forgotten wedding for some distant relatives I never see.
Being dressed up now, I feel both exposed and weighed down. My dress is black satin with an A-line figure and cowl neck. The straps are made of pearls. I’ve put in small hooped silver earrings and a matching bracelet sits on my left wrist. I’ve done my makeup, which I never do (because I can’t stand the feeling of it melting off my face when I’m in the kitchen), and I’m wearing heels. They’re little more than an inch off the ground, but still. This is effort for me.
I’m making sure I’ve got everything I’ll need for the night in my small bag when the door knocks. I quickly recount everything and then sling the slim strap over my shoulder.
On the other side of my hotel room door, Harry stands with his hands in his pockets. He’s wearing a baggy double-breasted black pinstripe suit and white trainers.
His eyes do a slow sweep of me from head to toe, rubbing a hand over his mouth. He gestures to me, clears his throat, and says, “You, er, you look amazing.”
I feel my cheeks heat. “Thank you. It’s not too much?”
“No. Not at all. It’s perfect. You look…perfect.”
The urge to giggle and kick my feet is overwhelming, but I refrain. Because things are still tender between us, no matter how complimentary he is. “Okay, funny guy, let’s not push it.”
“I’m being deadly serious, but okay.” He takes a breath. “Are you ready?”
“Yeah, I think so.”
He offers me his arm. “Then let’s go.”
~~~
The awards are hosted in the large ballroom of the hotel we’re staying in. Apparently there are nearly 400 people here, and I feel like a very small fish in a very big pond.
Harry and I are seated at a table with people we know of but have never met. Some of them are really big names in the professional cooking world, and it takes Harry a while to calm down from his fanboying. I find it oddly endearing. I guess, in the grand scheme of things, we are quite young compared to the other nominees here. Not the youngest, but far from the oldest.
We’re served dinner, which is surprisingly tasty considering it’s mass produced. The waitstaff are a masterclass in event service, and everyone is fully fed within the space of 90 minutes.
The awards start, and my nerves get the better of me. By the second category, I’m sitting on my hands. I’ve had three drinks and I somehow feel more anxious than this morning when my worst fear was sharing a two hour train with Harry.
The man himself leans into me during a particularly long acceptance speech. “You doing okay?”
I make a noncommittal noise. “Not sure.”
“What’s the matter?”
I feel the backs of his fingers stroke down my arm and try to suppress a shiver. “I’m nervous. If I win I have to get up there and do a speech. But I think I want to win more than I realised too, which means I’ll be devastated if I lose.”
“I would say just picture everyone naked, but I’m not convinced that actually helps.”
I can’t help it—I snort. “No, thank you.”
“I know this might not be what you want to hear, but we—the hotel—are really proud of you for just getting here, getting nominated. You don’t need to win for our opinion of you to change. And I’m especially proud of you. I’m really grateful to be here, and to watch you win, or come second, or third—,”
“I don’t think there’s a second or third place, Harry,” I interject.
He covers my mouth and shushes me. “Irrelevant. Whatever happens, win or lose, we’re gonna get absolutely battered at the after party, and go home hungover on the train tomorrow. Sound good?”
I'm laughing by the time he’s done. “Yeah, alright. Sounds good.”
“Great stuff. I’m going to the toilet, I’ll be right back.”
“Okay.”
He slides out of his seat and sneaks out of the big room in search of the loos.
Meanwhile, I turn my attention back to the actual awards taking place.
“Sorry,” someone says, tapping me on the arm.
I turn over my shoulder to see the woman sitting on Harry’s other side leaning across his vacant seat. “Hi?”
“Hi!” She smiles at me and it’s quite disarming. “Sorry to bother you, I just…you make such a cute couple!”
I blink at her for a second. “What?”
“You and Harry!” She’s maybe a few years older than I am but not by much. Blonde hair in a chignon. Silver dress an assault on the eyes but in the most pleasant way. Her bold red lipstick is perfect and I kind of want to be her.
“Oh, we’re not…we’re not together.” I can’t control my facial expressions.
“Seriously?”—I shake my head—“Damn. Could’ve fooled me. So he’s single?”
I swallow thickly. “Er, yeah, I think so.”
“Well then I might have to divorce my husband!” She laughs, but I struggle to find the joke in her words. “What’s he nominated for?”
I clench my teeth. Okay so maybe I don’t want to be her. And I’m suddenly finding it really hard to be polite. “He isn’t nominated for anything.” When she tips her head, evidently confused, I clarify that “I am. Nominated for something.”
“Oh, shit! Good for you, girl. But seriously, you should consider hitting that.”
I am…baffled. “He’s my boss.” Although that hasn’t stopped me before.
“No one gives a crap about that stuff anymore! Unless you’re not attracted to him, which is fine, but I would have to check your eyesight. Unless,”—she gasps—“holy cow, are you a lesbian?!”
“Er, no.”
“Damn. ‘Cause you know, I’d probably divorce my husband for you, too.”
I’m at a loss for words at this point. “Thank you?”
Harry comes back, smoothly slotting in between the two of us. He gives my new friend a polite smile, but turns his body towards the stage, and coincidentally, me.
He slings his arm across the back of my chair, leans in, and asks, “What’d I miss?”
Blondie will be eating this up. “Oh, um, I have no idea what’s going on with the awards anymore, but the lady sitting next to you just offered to divorce her husband for you and me.”
“Fair. I’d divorce my husband for you, too.”
Finally feeling the effects of all the alcohol I’ve been drinking, I crack up. “What if I wanted your husband instead?”
“Not happening,” he says this casually, as he picks up his wine glass and finishes the rest of the contents in one go. “I don’t share.”
I feel that statement all the way down to my toes.
~~~
The rest of the night passes in a blur.
I drink my weight in wine. I don’t win the award but I am given an honorary mention, which Harry insists is “basically second”. We go to the after party, where I spend an unprecedented amount of time dancing. I lose my shoes and end up walking around barefoot. Someone serves us shots, and we take two each. Harry finds my shoes but I don’t want to wear them anymore, so he carries them for me. Someone offers us an entire bottle of champagne, and we are thrown back to the night he fed it to me on top of my kitchen counter.
Some time around 2 a.m. I complain that my feet hurt and that I’m hungry. Harry offers me a piggyback and we go in search of the closest kebab van we can find. I stuff my face with doner meat and chips. Harry teases me for the sauce on my face.
“I can’t reach my tongue that far!” I complain, because garlic mayo is smeared across my cheek.
“No, but I can.”
His words are like catnip and I’m a horny drunk. “Go on, then. Clean it up.”
Surprise registers on his handsome face, but he doesn’t need to be told twice. His kebab is left to one side. He leans in, kisses the apple of my cheek where I’ve managed to make a complete mess of myself, and then licks it up.
Before he’s even finished, I turn my face and meet his mouth. Once again, we are all over each other. His hands are holding me, manoeuvring my head to the angle he wants me. I drop my kebab in favour of holding the lapels of his jacket.
I pull away to mourn the loss of my greasy meat, but Harry keeps my attention on him. “You can have mine.”
This only makes me kiss him harder. “Can I have you?”
“Yeah, baby,” he says, panting. “For as long as you want.”
I am suddenly very keen to take this back to the hotel. “Can we go back now?”
“If that’s what you want.”
I nod fervently, and I must have my intentions written all over my face, because Harry laughs and kisses me again, just once, quick. “Come on then, darling. Let’s get you home.
He carries me back to the hotel on his back, while I finish off his kebab and feed the odd bite to him when I feel like sharing.
He still has my shoes dangling from his wrists.
I think I might be in love.
I worry I’ll regret it in the morning.
~~~
I wake with a fuzzy head and a throbbing headache behind my eyes. Sheets are tangled between my limbs and there’s a heavy weight slung across my middle.
Peeling my eyes open is a near impossible chore and I just know I was too drunk to take my makeup off before I got into bed last night. Shameful behaviour. Rookie error.
It takes a while for my sight to adjust but when I do, I’m met with the back of a dark head of hair and a soft neck.
I know it’s Harry.
He’s on his front, head turned away, arm thrown across me possessively. That’s what the weight is. With a slow perusal down his body, the only item of clothes he wears is his boxers.
Frowning, I peer under the covers and find I’m in my pyjama bottoms and not much else. Weird.
I’m hit with the startling reality that I need to pee. I’m dreading getting out of bed, but I’m not about to wet myself in front of the man who employs me, so I slip from under the covers and all but sprint to the loo.
The room spins while I relieve myself, and I have to grip the sink to stay upright.
Jesus. How much did I drink last night?
I clean my teeth, finish up in the bathroom—including a thorough detox of my face paint—and head straight back to bed. I notice that my clothes are in a scattered mass across the floor, whereas Harry’s suit is neatly folded on the chair in the corner of the room. That tells me everything I need to know, really: I was twatted, Harry was not.
I’m surprised how…calm I feel, discovering him here in my bed again. I thought I’d be panicking, or angry, or maybe even sad. But I’m not. I know we didn’t have sex—hello? I’d be feeling it between my legs by now if we had—and I have a faint memory of kissing him on a low wall some streets over. I’m not mad about that either.
Wonders never cease.
It’s as I’m about to slip back into bed that I notice a glass of water and a packet of Panadol on the nightstand. I take two pills and down the entire glass of water.
Once I’m tucked back in, I lie on my side and stare at Harry’s still sleeping form. I wait and wait and wait for the panic to set in, of having him here in my bed, almost naked, but it never does.
Maybe I’m still drunk?
It’s around another ten minutes or so before he stirs, and I’ve spent all of that time staring at him. He groans as he shifts onto his back, and rolls his neck one way, then the other.
“Morning,” he says, voice full of gristle. He never looks at me, but he reaches over and squeezes my hip over the duvet cover.
I blink at him. “How’d you know I was awake?”
He smiles softly up at the ceiling. “I always know when you’re looking at me.”
“Dammit,” I mutter, scowling at my hands where they rest between us. Must learn to be less obvious.
He chuckles, both hands now flat on his toned stomach. “How do you feel?”
My mouth salivates when I look at him again—the dips of his muscles and the scruff around his chin and mouth. His strong nose and long eyelashes. And when he finally looks at me, my tummy drops low. No amount of time changes my level of attraction to him.
“Rough,” I finally answer.
He glances at the bedside table and nods, seeming satisfied with the empty glass. “I asked for a late check out. We’ve got an extra hour.”
I groan happily. “Godsend.”
“You’re welcome.”
I watch as his fingers play a tune against his stomach. I itch to curl up against his side and go back to sleep, but I can’t bring myself to bridge that step yet. “Harry?”
“Yeah?”
“Why am I not wearing a top?”
He finally looks at me, a glint in his eyes. “You don’t remember?”
I shake my head. “I don’t remember getting back to the hotel at all.”
He purses his lips and rolls onto his side to face me. We are a mirror image of one another. “You were a lot more drunk than I was.”
“I am a lightweight,” I agree. Especially when fresh air is involved. “I know we kissed.”
“You remember that much?”
I nod. “I do.”
He takes stock of my face, eyes flitting around as if he’s looking for something. “Do you regret it?”
I take a slow, deep breath, and answer honestly: “No.”
His eyes close on a smile. “Good. What else do you remember?”
“I remember the piggyback home, and sharing your kebab.”
“Okay.”
“And that’s it.”
He laughs. “Great. I’m so glad I get to tell you the next part.”
I bite my lip. “Can’t wait.”
“So… I carried you all the way up here, helped you get inside. And we—we kissed again. Against the door.”
Heat floods me. “Who instigated it?”
He opens his mouth to answer, but pauses, reconsiders his words, and tries again. He starts with my name, caressed on his tongue, and my heart squeezes. “Right now, you’re in charge.”
I know what he means. It was my decision to stop seeing each other. I asked for space, so the only person instigating anything between us until we’re back on solid ground, is me.
“And then what happened?” I whisper, hands clenched together.
“Then, you tried to drag me to bed. You…stumbled off, started stripping out of your clothes and rambling on about wanting to feel like you were being squashed. I didn’t follow you straight away and you took great offence to it.”
I laugh at this, hiding my face. “Oh, no.”
“Oh, yeah.” He pinches my waist. “You went on and on about how nice my face is. That you couldn’t wait to see my tits again?”
I laugh so hard I snort.
“You…you starfished, on your back, right in the middle of the bed, as if you expected me to just…do it with you like that. But before I could even tell you no, you passed out.”
“Oh my god,” I whine, still laughing.
“So then, I found your PJs and put them on, and tucked you into bed. And—,” he scratches his eyebrow, frowning at nothing, “I didn’t want to leave you. Not in that state. I argued with myself for ages ‘cause I didn’t want you to be angry with me in the morning, but I also didn’t like the idea of you being alone. If you had an accident or hurt yourself, I would hate myself. So I gave in and I stayed. I hope that’s okay.”
I meet his earnest gaze, the urge to burrow into him sharp and sure. But I keep to myself again. “Yeah. It’s okay. I’m glad you’re here. But it still doesn’t explain why I’m not wearing a top.”
He huffs playfully. “Well it’s nothing to do with me. You were fully dressed when I fell asleep.”
“Sure.”
“It’s true! I mean, fine, you know how much I love your tits and would find much joy in getting to stare at them all night, but that’s a sleazy move. I might be a bastard, but I’m not a sleazy one, and if I’d let you go to sleep naked you would hate me.”
I watch him for a moment, the way his chest rises and falls. “I wouldn’t hate you. I don’t think I could ever hate you.”
“Well, that’s…a relief.”
I give him a tender smile, and then roll onto my back. We’re silent for a moment, and I wonder where we go from here. What does this mean now? We’re friends, I guess. But I don’t want him to be my damn friend. Not when the only thing I think about us doing is fucking like rabbits at any available moment, or curling up to him, seeking his warmth, kissing him.
“Are you hungry?” Harry asks some minutes later.
“Starving,” I admit, my belly rumbling. I feel sick but I know it’s the alcohol talking.
“Do you wanna get room service?”
I wriggle happily at the suggestion. “Duh. Might as well make the most of this late check out, right?”
“Cool, well, I only got it for your room, so I need to go and get my shit together and bring it here if that’s okay?”
“Sure,” I say, watching him get up. He stretches that long torso, muscles of his back shifting. I’m suddenly hungry for an entirely different reason. I sit up, feeling hot and bothered. “Take my key. I’m gonna have a shower while you’re gone.”
He nods, dressing in his suit trousers and shirt, only doing a few buttons up. He doesn’t bother with his socks, his shoes, or his jacket. Turning to face me, he startles at the sight of my naked chest. I watch his Adam’s apple bob as he stares, shamelessly, and I eat up the attention.
I’m sure he mutters a “Fuck,” before shaking his head. “Won’t be long.”
And with that, he’s gone.
I dash out of bed to the bathroom and turn the shower on. I discard my shorts and step under the spray, letting the warm water wash over me. I wash up quick, but I’m wound up like a children’s toy ready to spring.
Washing my body feels great for all the wrong reasons. I don’t want to be cleaning myself—I want someone else’s hands on me. One man’s hands in particular.
I scrub between my legs, and I’m so sensitive I let out a little whine. I’m so touch starved I brush over myself again. And I keep going, working myself up and up and up, but my release is always just a hair’s breadth out of reach.
I give up, whimpering like an injured puppy, and finish my shower with my head against the tiles, unsatisfied and miserable.
Resolving to get over myself, I wipe the excess water off my body and step out of the shower. I search for a towel and come up short. What I’m not expecting to find is Harry standing in the doorway with it, pupils blown out and a hungry look in his eyes.
“Need some help?” he asks, voice thick.
I don’t give him an answer. I just launch myself at him and hope for the best.
I sling my arms around his shoulders as our mouths meet again, and he hoists me up by the back of the legs. He moves us blindly back into the bedroom, refusing to let me go, and I’m shoved up against a wall somewhere in the room.
I groan at the weight of him, at the feel of his already hard cock pushing against my exposed core beneath his jeans. Because once again, I am stark naked and he is fully dressed.
Our tongues tangle in a frenzy, like no amount of physical contact will be close enough, will be enough full stop. His hands squeeze my thighs where he’s holding me up, his chest pressed flush to mine, and it’s perfect. Totally fucking perfect.
Harry keeps me against the wall for what feels like ages, and also no time at all. I start rocking my hips and he starts speaking in profanities.
“Fucking shit,” he pants, “baby.”
“I need it, Harry,” I whine. “I’m losing my mind over here.”
“Shit, okay.” He pulls me away from the wall but I don’t stop kissing him. “Hang on.”
Somehow, some way, he gets us to the bed without injury. He lays me down, laughing when I refuse to let him go.
“I don’t have a condom,” he tells me.
“Really?”
“No, I didn’t think I’d need one.” He puts his forehead against mine. I can smell the mint on his breath when he speaks. “‘Cause the only person I’m even remotely interested in sleeping with hasn’t wanted me near her for the past three weeks, and I’m definitely not about to sleep with a stranger right under her nose.”
My chest constricts painfully. I slip my hands under the threadbare fabric of his t-shirt and kiss the tip of his nose. “Well, you’re lucky I always have an emergency one in my wash bag.”
He pulls back, eyes reading mine. “Seriously?”
“Yup.”
His entire face lights up. “Fuck yes.” With a kiss on my mouth, he scrambles away to get it and strips as he goes. On his way back, he’s rolling the condom on as he walks.
He pauses when he notices me, hardly moved but propped up on my elbows watching him with a hooded gaze. He runs his hand over his hair, scratching the back of his head. “Before we do this, I need you to know something.”
My stomach bottoms out. I have no idea if what he’s going to say is good or bad. If I’ll love it or hate it. If it’ll make my day or break my heart. But I don’t want to stop him regardless. I sit up again. “Okay…”
Harry chooses his words carefully. “I haven’t felt…sane since that day you turned up at my house and Mabel answered the door. You have never had a problem telling me how you feel. At work and outside of it, and so to have all my messages and calls go unanswered… I knew I’d fucked up somewhere. I hated it.
“But I hated it even more after that, after you asked me to leave you alone. These weeks have been torture. You were right—we have changed. What this is between us has changed. And it must’ve changed without me realising, because I haven’t even thought about another woman besides you in months. Even more so since we stopped talking.
“I think about you all the time. I want to be with you all the time. Working with you isn’t enough anymore. I want you at home at night. I want you on my days off. I think there’s a reason I seek you out at the end of the day, and it’s not just because I love fucking you—which I very much do. It’s because I love being with you. I mean, fuck, I think I just…love you.”
“Harry—,” I choke.
“I know, baby. I just wanted to tell you. Because if I get to be with you again, I don’t want it to be the last time. And I especially don’t want you to think it doesn’t mean anything to me, because it definitely does. It means everything to me.”
I have to swallow the urge to cry. And I really, really feel like crying. “Come here.”
He comes to me cautiously, but I take his hands and tug him closer. He stands between my legs, a subtle frown pulling his brows down.
“I only remember things up to a point last night. But through my drunken mess I remember quite clearly, as I watched you carry my shoes and me, thinking that I might be in love.”
Harry gazes at me, his worry slowly morphing into something else. His lips turn up a fraction. “With me?”
“I think so. It might’ve been that kebab you gave me I was thinking of but—ow!”
He collapses on top of me after pinching my waist. I wrap my legs around him again, encouraging him closer. He kisses me deep and slow, our first of its kind, and I’m not sure I ever want it to end.
“Say it again,” Harry says against my lips.
Inconceivably, I blush. “I love you.”
He hums contentedly, kissing me again. His hands are stroking my sides, hitching my legs higher, squeezing my ass, playing with my tits.
“You tell me now,” I demand in a whisper.
He bites my lip and says, “I love you.”
And then he enters me slow and steady. I feel complete again, fuller than ever.
This time it’s different. We’re not fast and furious, or rough and tumble. We’re gentle, tender, and a little bit playful. He doesn’t call me a brat and I don’t call him a bastard. We take our time.
It’s like Sunday morning sex.
We kiss a lot, we touch a lot. His movements are reverent and mine are lackadaisical. He feels big inside me and I am insanely wet. It’s an utterly insatiable sensation.
At some point we switch positions, and I end up on top, our fingers interlinked as I roll my hips in a measured, sensual manner. Harry never takes his eyes off me while I move above him, and I imagine it’s what being a renaissance painting feels like. Revered. Appreciated. Loved.
We go at it for ages, with bouts of laughter and minutes of quiet concentration.
We wind up on our sides eventually, locked together. Harry’s arm is hooked around my neck, the back of his hand stroking my cheek while the other grips my hip. I hold his face between both my palms, and we’re moving in perfect sync together as we kiss.
I think it’s the closest we’ve ever been.
Our skin is tacky, damp with sweat. I see it in his hairline and on his top lip. On his temples and the pads of his fingers.
He tells me I’m beautiful, I’m perfect, I’m the best he’s ever had, and that he loves me. I tell him I love him too, and that I’m ready to come whenever he is.
And then I’m on my back again, and the urgency has returned to his thrusting. We come together, a crescendo of pleasure and joy. My orgasm seems never ending, and Harry’s even longer.
“Holy fucking shit,” he pants, sucking another mark into the skin on my neck. “It’s never been like that before.”
I laugh, breathless still. “No, it hasn’t.” I turn my head to look at him and find my heart in my throat. He’s a vision.
He’s grinning, chest heaving. Sweaty and flushed, like he belongs on the cover of Sports Illustrated or something. “I still get to fuck you when you’re being a brat, right?”
“That depends. Do I still get to be a brat?”
“I think I fell in love with you while you were being a brat. I’d hate for you to stop now.”
I whack him on the chest with the back of my hand, but my ire instantly melts when he snatches that same hand by the wrist and kisses the back of it.
“Are you ready for breakfast now?”
I gasp. “Oh my god, yes. I completely forgot.”
“Alright,” he says, laughing as he sits up. “Let’s get you fed.”
~~~
Two days later, Faith is incandescent. “I cannot believe you didn’t win that award. Honestly, it’s bullshit. I looked at all the other candidates in that category and none of them held a fucking candle to you. And the dude that won? Trash.”
I snicker, focussing on the traybake in front of me. “Sorry to disappoint you, mate.”
“I’m not disappointed with you! I’m disappointed with whatever dipshits are on that judging panel!”
“Well, thanks. Maybe I’ll win next year. If I get nominated.”
“I’m gonna write an email. Complain.”
“Do not do that,” I warn her. Just as I do, my phone buzzes on the table.
Harry 11:17
Where are you?
Me 11:17
In the kitchen…?
Harry 11:17
Can you come to my office?
Me 11:18
Why?
Harry 11:18
Can you stop answering my questions with more questions?
I sigh and shove my phone in my pocket. “I need to go to the office for a sec—can you finish this, please?”
“Sure. I’ll make it worthy of next year’s awards,” Faith grumbles.
With a snort, I leave her to it.
Upstairs, Harry’s office door is shut, so I knock and poke my head in. “You called?”
He’s scowling at his computer screen, but once he sees me, his face lights up. “Hey.”
“What’s up?” I ask, slipping in and shutting the door behind me.
“I missed you.”
I ignore the way something fists my heart, and the butterflies in my belly. “You saw me this morning.” Because we haven’t spent a night apart since we got back from London.
“I know. But I’ve been stuck up here all day doing this new menu.” He pouts.
I pinch his lips between my thumb and forefinger, which he tries to bite. “Poor baby. Having to do his job.”
“You’re so mean to me,” he grumbles, and pulls me down onto his lap.
I hook my arm around his shoulder and kiss his temple. “And yet, it’s you that everyone is terrified of.”
“It’s all a lie. I’m innocent. A peach, really.”
“Okay. Sure.”
He pinches my hip and I yelp. “Brat.”
“You love it.”
He sighs. “I really do. One day I’m gonna bend you over this desk and prove it.”
Jesus. I did not come prepared with the right underwear to be turned on like this. “Well…how about now?”
Harry stops looking at his computer all together, turns us away from it. “Are you serious?”
I shrug. “You clearly need a break. Faith is covering my to-do list for a bit.”
“You still haven’t told her about us?”
“No. I will. But you know the second I tell her she’ll be screaming about it from the rooftops.”
He chuckles. “True. Maybe take her out for a drink when you do that. Far, far away from here. Like, at least ten miles away. Maybe twenty just to be safe.”
“Smart idea,” I concur. “Now are you gonna bend me over this desk or not? Chef’s whites are a nightmare to get in and out of.”
“That depends,” he says, low and deep, and slips his hands under the waistband of my trousers. “Can you stay quiet? There’s a lot of people around today and I know how much noise you like to make.”
I gasp when his fingers brush over my clit. “I’ve always found your hand to be the best gag.”
Harry’s grin is utterly wicked. “As you wish, darling.”
~~~
Thank you for reading! Don't forget to share, like, comment and/or message me with any thoughts <3
Harry is the Head Chef of the kitchen you work in, but the two of you share a big secret.
A/N: Lordy, this might be my most depraved piece yet... I would like to start by saying that this version of Harry is a complete departure from the real one and I do not believe he acts even remotely like this in his day-to-day life. I shouldn't really have to say it, but I will - Harry is just a face for a character I made up. Please don't take his behaviour in this as gospel. Anyway, I hope you likey.
Word Count: 7,722
Trigger Warnings: Weaponised cream and champagne, language to make your grandma blush, super sexy sex (I hope).
~~~
There is something about bread dough that centres me. Especially kneading it. The monotonous, repetitive motion of pushing my hands through the bloated, tacky mass of it is a catharsis I have never quite managed to replicate anywhere else, with anything else.
Not even beating the shit out of cake batter on a bad day—because, let’s face it, I’m not going to give a machine all the credit all the time—compares.
The dough moulds under my palms and sticks to my skin between my fingers as I knead and knead and knead, until all the air pockets burst. I stretch it out and roll it into a long cylinder, then separate it into 16 even pieces.
I’m dusting a tray with flour when I feel a prickling sensation on my neck, spreading down my spine. My chest gets hot but goosebumps litter my arms.
I clench my jaw. I know he won’t say anything. He never does. He just appears like a wraith and expects me to acknowledge him because he’s in charge.
I wonder how long he’d stand there without speaking before cracking. I’ve never tried it before, but I’m tempted today.
I’m annoyed he’s interrupted my flow. Part of me thinks he might have done it on purpose.
Resolving myself to be petty, I carry on with what I’m doing and pretend he’s not there. I dust the tray and then line the dough buns on top in four rows of four. I move to put the tray in the oven, catching a glimpse of the head chef standing at the entrance to my pastry section, arms folded across his chest.
Harry cranes his neck and clears his throat in an attempt to get my attention, which I purposefully ignore.
When I pull the next proving dough to my station, dump the entire thing on the counter, and start kneading, the chef lets out an almighty sigh. I have to squeeze my mouth closed to stop laughing.
I knead, roll, cut, and line a whole other tray without him saying a word. This cannot be a productive use of his time, but the man is bull-headed at the best of times, and it’s clear he’s in a mood. I can’t help but find it entertaining.
A chef-de-rang bothers him with a question, and the response is not polite. If I weren’t ignoring him, I’d snap at him and remind him a chef can still have manners.
Unfortunately, by the time I slide the next tray of buns in the oven, the novelty has worn off.
“Can I help you, Chef?” I ask, matching his closed posture.
“You just spent nearly ten minutes ignoring me,” is all he says.
“I did.”
“Do you think that’s productive?”
“Productive? I was actually doing something, unlike someone I know.”
I swear I see his right eye twitch. “If I come to you, I expect you to acknowledge me.”
“I’m sorry. I thought you were being obstinate.”
Those green eyes narrow sharply. “What have I told you about using big words in my kitchen?”
A laugh bubbles out of me, but his demeanour doesn’t change. I exhaust the man. “It means st—,”
“For the love of my sanity, woman, do not finish that sentence.”
I push my lips together and bite on the lower one. I don’t know why I find his ire so absurdly funny, but the flaring of his nostrils isn’t helping.
“I need a favour from you.”
I hold my tongue from commenting on the fact that he asked rather than told me to do something, and simply nod.
“You need to be sous chef tonight.”
Never mind, I take it back. “You have a sous chef. His name is Dimas—he’s very nice. And very good at his job.”
Harry runs his tongue along the inside of his mouth in the general sign that I’m starting to push my luck. “I don’t think the fact that he’s vomiting right now will make him very good at his job, nice as he is.”
I purse my lips. “Hm, no, probably not. Even still, you have an entire brigade to play sous chef with. Pick one of them.”
“You are in my brigade and I pick you.”
Now I can feel my right eye twitching. “It’s the busiest day of the week, and I have too much to do today.”
“It’s just for service. Just to get the rush out of the way.”
I take a deep, centering breath. I could argue with him about this until I’m blue in the face but I’ll end up giving in, because he is the boss and, general ribbing aside, I do respect him.
“I’ll owe you,” Harry adds, knowing it’ll butter me up.
“What about all the other times you said you’ll owe me?”
His nostrils flare again and his eyes take a slow blink. That look says many, many things, none of which I have time to pick apart here and now. If ever. “Add it to my tab.”
If I had the ability to growl, I would. “That tab is never getting paid. But fine.”
I know he wants to argue again, and I know exactly what he would say. But he thinks better of it and settles on, “Thank you. I will leave you alone until then.”
Yeah right.
~~~
The afternoon goes by in a blur of bread, cake, tiffin, and tart. I shout “Service!” no less than 80 times, if only because the front-of-house staff either don’t hear me or simply pretend not to. At one point I’m so sick of yelling and waiting, I pick the afternoon tea stand up and force it into the hands of the restaurant manager, just so it’s no longer in my way.
I have a bit of rant, loud and clear for every chef and waiter to listen to, which shocks most people into silence, and has Harry’s shoulders shaking with silent laughter. I do not rant, and I do not lose my temper, so I can understand the shock. Of all the chefs in the kitchen, I’m the patient one. But my rant is effective, because my pass is never full for more than a handful of seconds at a time for the rest of the day.
Once the afternoon service concludes, I spend an hour with the pastry team making sure they’re set up and ready for a dinner service without me. I mean, yes, they do this weekly when I take my days off, but I have never left them in the lurch on one of our busiest Saturdays ever.
When I’m satisfied they’ll be able to handle it, I grab a plate of food and go and hide somewhere for thirty minutes to mentally prepare myself and eat.
This is not the done thing as a chef. We eat while we cook. There are not enough minutes in the day to take a whole thirty minute break. Ten at most, maybe, on a good day. But not half an hour.
That being said, I don’t work in the main kitchen, and I haven’t been behind the big pass during service for a few years. I’m scared of failing.
Ten minutes before the start of service, Harry and I join the front-of-house team for the daily briefing. The restaurant manager reads out all the guests that have booked, with any special occasions, dietary requirements, and allergies we should know about. Harry reminds the team that they need to note who has allergies on each check and which dish they’re having. I say nothing, as usual.
Back in the kitchen, we finish preparing the pass for service and wait for the first order to come in. The anticipation feels like waiting for the main act at a concert.
The metallic chugging of the Micros machine alerts the room to the first check of the night, which Harry snatches up, quickly assesses, and then calls out to the team.
“Check on! Two covers, one salmon and one soup to start, followed by one lamb and one sea bass.”
A chorus of “Yes, Chef!” replies, and we all get to work.
My main role is plating, taking different elements from the chef de parties and commis chefs—meat, fish, garnish, etc.—and assembling them on the plate the way Chef likes it. Then I present it to him for inspection. I try to do quality control where I can, but the man is eagle-eyed at the worst of times.
“Stop,” Harry barks when the commis working on garnish leaves a tray of char-grilled greens in front of me. “Remake that, now. People aren’t going to eat a tenderstem broccoli when it looks like it could turn to ash at the slightest touch. Don’t insult me by bringing shit like that to the bench again.”
“Yes, Chef,” the commis mutters, and scurries away with his burnt broccoli in tow.
I keep my eyes averted and carry on plating the other dish while I wait.
Harry’s face appears in my periphery. “Something to say?”
I give him my dirtiest side eye. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
He scoffs. “Now we both know that’s not true. Out with it.”
“I have nothing to say.”
“Bullshit.”
Now I do turn to face him, keeping my voice low. “Do not try to embarrass me, Chef. I am here doing you a favour, as asked, and respecting your authority. Please don’t make me regret it.”
Fire burns in his green eyes. “Indeed. And I asked you because I don’t trust anyone else. Which means I rely on you to catch stupid fuck-ups like eviscerated vegetables.”
“He hadn’t even put the fucking tray down. I can’t catch fuck-ups if I haven’t even seen them yet.”
“You should be more vigilant.”
“And you shouldn’t claim I’m the only one you trust and then spend the entire service looking over my shoulder. Because now I know you’re lying.”
I know I’ve got him by the tightening of his jaw. “Fine.”
I roll my eyes once he’s turned away.
The commis comes back with a fresh tray. “Much better,” I tell him, not just because they are better, but because I want to piss Harry off.
I refuse to be a pawn in a man’s quest for power.
~~~
The dinner rush comes and goes, and by the time the last ticket is completed, I am dead on my feet. I help finish service in the pastry section as well, and then slip out the door with a quick goodbye.
Sometimes, working 13 hour days on my feet feels like being lobotomised. My head buzzes like it’s full of TV static.
At home, I shower and change then flop down on the sofa. Sometimes I fall asleep here if I can’t find the energy to get up again. It’s not always comfortable and it’s no doubt fucking with my body, but exhaustion weighs heavy.
I pick up my book and try to read a few chapters.
I can’t have been reading for more than twenty minutes when my front door bursts open.
My neck barely has time to prickle before the door slams shut again, and I’m yanked off the sofa and thrown over a strong shoulder.
“What the fuck!” I scream, forgetting about my neighbours and the late hour.
All I can see is my living room floor and the long, jogger-clad legs of my assailant. My book is still in my hand but tumbles to the floor when I get a hard slap on my backside.
“Hey!”
I’m unceremoniously tossed onto my bed with a bounce, and I scowl up at the man trying to overpower me. “What the fuck are you doing?”
My demand doesn’t bother him. A pair of green eyes glare back at me, dark brown hair recently cut short and but still managing a rakish, tousled quality. “Teaching you a lesson.”
“Excuse me?!”
He straddles me and grips my cheeks in one hand, using the other to trap my wrists. “You were a brat today.”
I huff a laugh. “And you were extra dickish,” I retort, and try to buck him off me.
His eyes flare and he lowers himself so our faces are mere centimetres apart. “You usually like it.”
“Fuck off, Harry,” I say with a bite.
But I can’t ignore the way the bulge in his joggers has come to life.
“You don’t mean that.”
“I do,” I lie, and attempt to wriggle free of him.
I know he finds my attempts funny given the look on his face, filled with quiet amusement. “I know that’s not true. You want me all over you.”
This fucker.
I never wanted to be in this position—intimately beholden to the man who employs me. But here I am, weak and defenseless against his pretty face and capable body.
I do want him all over me. Because it takes my mind off everything, and I don’t have to think for a while. I can switch off and let him take charge.
But I can’t let him know that.
“Does the size of your head match the size of your ego?”
He rears back, visibly shocked. “Woah, now.”
“I’m being serious. Does every dick stroke you receive make your head get bigger? Like, literally and figuratively?”
Harry’s mouth drops open, and a single baffled laugh comes out of him. But he quickly recovers. “Do you want to test that theory?”
I narrow my eyes at him, and that perfect, beautiful, dimpled smile appears on his face. He doesn’t smile like this at work. He keeps this smile for me when he wants something.
And it works every time.
I roll my eyes, which he takes as acquiescence, and moulds his mouth to mine. Our kiss is at once hot and desperate. Harry feels familiar but also like a complete stranger. I know nothing about him except that he is a bastard at work and exceptional in bed. And this kiss only amplifies that.
His tongue is in my mouth and his hips grind into my pelvis—a prelude and an indication of what he wants from me. He finally releases his grip on my wrists so he can start touching me as he pleases, hands stroking my neck and collar, down to my breasts.
Harry is not gentle. He squeezes and pinches my boobs over my top like they’ve personally offended him and need reprimanding. Maybe they have offended him, I don’t know. Men get upset over the strangest things.
On the other hand, I’m a simple woman. My fingers thrust into his soft hair and stay there.
He grunts when I tug on his short strands and bites down on my lower lip.
“Ow,” I grumble.
“I’m gonna fuck the brat right out of you,” he promises.
I laugh into his kiss, and he grins right back.
He kisses my cheek and my neck, and then moves lower to my breasts. He sucks harshly and it makes me gasp, but he doesn’t linger. He keeps going until he’s between my legs.
Harry rids me of my PJ shorts and gets comfortable, sucking another kiss into the fleshy part of my inner thigh.
“I can smell you,” he says, moving closer to the apex of my legs.
“Shut up.”
He gives my thigh a teasing squeeze but doesn’t waste any more time. When he licks up my slit, he meets my gaze, knowing I can never take my eyes off him when he does this.
It fascinates me, seeing his face nestled in my most intimate part. You can’t really get much closer than that.
There’s a wolfish gleam in his eyes as he starts eating me out with gusto. I moan, gripping his hair tighter at the wet feel of his tongue on my clit and in my hole. It’s a heady sensation—not unfamiliar at this point but always a pleasant surprise. Hard not to appreciate a man who knows how to give good oral.
He licks and sucks and licks and sucks, his nose rubbing against my clit with each and every tiny movement. He reaches for my breast with one hand again, always fixated by them. I cover his hand with mine.
I let my head fall back, my entire body writhing. I push my pussy into his face and squeeze my legs around his head.
He groans into me and it sends liquid fire through my veins.
“Fuck, Harry,” I moan, on the cusp of coming. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, that feels good.”
He hums, pleased with himself. I feel his tongue pushing into my cunt, and then he sucks the life out of me. My orgasm detonates and I cry out, using his hair once again as some kind of lifeline.
Harry keeps on eating me until I’m clean and sensitive. He kisses down my thigh and my leg twitches. “I could live here,” he tells me.
That’s oddly…sentimental.
As if he didn’t just blurt out words that I’ll ruminate over for days to come, he crawls back up the length of my body, kissing my skin as he goes. Tugging at the hem of my top, he instructs, “Take this off.”
I sit up and do as he says while he flops down on his back and starts shucking his joggers off. Then he yanks me down over him, my thighs cushioning his hips.
His dick is already hard as I sit atop it, rubbing my soaked pussy along its shaft.
“Shit, that’s good,” he groans, and grips my hips in encouragement. “Keep doing that.”
So I do. I roll my hips and grind my pussy up and down the length of him. My hands smooth along his forearms where he holds me, and then up to my breasts where I play with them a bit, just to tease him.
The feeling is…sensational. I’m still sensitive and I’m working myself up all over again just by doing this.
He mutters praises and profanity, mixing the two together like a prophetic poem. And then he says things like, “Fuck, I’m gonna come.”
I pause. “Already?”
“Yes, already. Quick, get a condom.”
I lean over to my bedside table and pull out a foil packet, tossing it at him. Before he puts it on, though, he manoeuvres me into an entirely different position. I’m suddenly on all fours, and Harry issues a well-placed slap to my backside.
“Ow!”
I hear him snicker and glare at him over my shoulder. His face is concentrated, fixing the condom on his cock rather than looking at me. Annoyingly, I find that I don’t like it when his gaze is elsewhere.
“I said I was gonna fuck the brat out of you,” he says conversationally, as if we’re discussing the viscosity of various creams and not our clandestine practices. “But I obviously haven’t been trying hard enough.”
With that, Harry enters me on a single, smooth puncture of his hips, and fills me up. I’m wet enough that it’s not a chore. And I like it so much that a long, breathy moan is my only reaction.
I bury my face into my sheets and stick my ass up higher, adjusting the angle slightly, feeling him in a totally different way. He chokes, and starts fucking me with abandon.
He doesn’t hold back. His pace is punishing and his thrusts are hard. I find myself grappling to hold onto something, but all I can get my hands on is the bed sheets and they are not sturdy enough to keep me upright.
Harry slides in and out of me, grunting every time his hips meet my ass. He slaps it again and I let out a broken cry. Sweat covers me—I can feel it in my hairline and along my spine, in the space between my legs and on my chest, between my tits.
I feel his weight on me, one of his hands squeezing my breast as he places a single open-mouthed kiss to my shoulder blade.
“You’ve gone quiet,” he accuses.
Unable to help myself, I clap back with, “Hard to speak when you’re fucking me so hard I can feel your dick in my throat.”
He rumbles a pleased noise. “I can put my dick in your throat if you’d like?”
I am assaulted with the image of me on his bed, head dangling over the edge and mouth open while he face-fucks me from above. We did that last time and it was…I felt ruined afterwards. It was the first time I’d been nervous to go to work the next day.
I clench my core and his pace falters. “No, thank you.”
Harry chuckles, biting my shoulder now, and carries on. He smacks me again, and again, on my ass, no doubt leaving raw red marks.
I start playing with my clit, needing a little something to push me to the edge.
Harry groans again when he realises what I’m doing. “You’re so,”—thrust—“fucking,”—thrust—“hot.”
Well. That’s new.
I’m not sure, in all the months we’ve been doing this, that he’s ever complimented me like that. He tells me I take him well and I’m such a good girl and my pussy was made for his cock. You know. Things he could be saying to literally anyone with a vagina and a pulse.
I clench again, squeezing my eyes closed, and I can feel my orgasm cresting. “Harry,” I gasp.
“Yeah, baby?”
Baby? So many firsts tonight. “I’m gonna come.”
“Do it. Come all over my cock.”
That’s more like it.
I let my orgasm tear through me, crying out into my pillows. My body is on fire, and Harry is back to fucking me as if he was put on this planet for that reason alone, until he comes with a roar, too.
I feel the warmth of his seed filling the condom inside me, and then his weight collapses on me, covering me entirely.
“Fucking hell,” he pants, then buries his face in my neck.
I can’t move—not with his big frame atop me—so I concentrate on my breathing, trying to settle my heart rate while he sucks a mark into my neck. Usually I would complain about him doing such a thing, but I’m too knackered to speak, and I think he knows it, too.
We lay like this for an undetermined amount of time, and I hate how nice it feels, having his weight on me. I think he might’ve fallen asleep, but when I start tracing idle patterns between his patchwork of tattoos, he lets out a satisfied sigh that tickles the back of my neck.
“I need to go,” he says, unmoving, voice muffled by my skin.
“Okay,” I whisper.
There’s a long pause. “I don’t want to.”
This is a dangerous game to be playing, but I don’t think the butterflies in my stomach are aware of that. “You don’t have to.”
“But I should.”
Something fists around my heart, but I ignore it. I decide I hate this game. “I need to go to the toilet.”
He rolls off me, his soft dick slipping out of me as he goes, and I scramble my way off the bed and out of the room, all without looking at him.
I’ve lost track of how long it’s been since we started doing…this.
It all began at a staff Christmas party, so probably January (you know, because hotel staff can’t have a Christmas party at Christmas time). When I first started working for Harry we were both in a relationship, so I didn’t really think the fact that I found him attractive meant anything.
Then one day he was single. Some months later so was I, and hurting. Retrospectively, that first night we slept together was very much just to get over someone, get under someone else. It certainly helped that my someone else was six feet of Just My Type. Dark, messy hair, green eyes, voice like beef dripping. If I drew my dream man based on looks alone, Harry wouldn’t be a far off alternative.
But he’s my boss. Although there’s no rule in the hotel that staff can’t form attachments with one another, it didn’t look great. But, because I was the senior pastry chef, and mostly ran my own team in my own section, it didn’t much feel like a boss-employee relationship. It felt like a partnership.
Maybe that’s why we’ve got to where we are now: an open door policy and fucking pretty much every other night of the week whenever one of us feels that urge. Harry turns up here more than I do his, but I’ve never tried to take more out of it than I should.
It’s just sex.
Sometimes we’re so tired after fucking that we fall asleep but it’s never been intentional. And I’m not sure we’ve ever even spooned.
Tonight, though? It felt different. Like we evolved past just fucking. And I’m terrified.
When I come back from the bathroom, I try to relax, to be as normal as possible.
Harry is sitting on the edge of my bed, still naked but the condom disposed of, and staring at the floor.
“You okay?” I ask in the most nonchalant way I can manage.
He inhales sharply and nods. “Yeah. All good.”
Harry stands and starts collecting his clothes. He dresses in silence while I get ready for bed.
It’s the strangest feeling I get, because for the first time since we started doing this, I feel like a spare part.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says with barely an ounce of feeling, and then he’s gone.
~~~
I don’t find myself in the GM’s office very often. In fact, I don’t find myself out of the kitchen very often, so it’s always unusual to wind up in a different part of the hotel. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen a bedroom in the three years I’ve worked here. I only go to the reception when I need something printed, which is maybe once in every month or so.
Standing in the General Manager’s office with Chef by my side is a little unnerving. I don’t know why I’m here, just that I was summoned. I wonder if I’m in trouble, although I can’t think of why. Unless…
I glance at Harry, who is just as silent as I am. He doesn’t bother meeting my gaze.
Holy fuck, do people know? Did someone find out we’re fucking? I sincerely hope not. I think I might die if that’s the case.
Janice, the hotel’s senior manager, finally ends her phone conversation and grins up at the two of us. “Sorry about that. Thank you for coming over here.”
“It’s no problem,” Harry says for the both of us.
“I’ve actually got a bit of news,” she tells us, searching for something on her computer, and then turning to look at me. “You’ve been nominated for an award.”
I lift my brows. “Me?”
She chuckles. “Yes, you.”
Harry nudges me, and I look up at him. “Well done.”
“Thanks,” I turn back to Janice. “What award?”
“Pastry Talent of the Year at the La Liste awards.”
“Shut the f—,” I cover my hand over my mouth before I can swear at the lady who pays my wages. “Are you serious?”
“Absolutely. And it’s well deserved.” She ruffles through some papers. “You get to go to the awards ceremony. Harry will go with you and we’ll pay for your hotel rooms and your train to London. It’s in a month’s time. And it’s classed as a work trip, so technically a working day, which you’ll be paid for.”
“Wow. Thank you so much.”
“No, my dear, thank you. You’ve been a great asset to your kitchen and I’m pleased we finally get to show you some recognition for it.”
I leave the office feeling a little…floaty. I won awards years ago as a trainee chef, but never as an adult based on my own merit and my own ideas. This feels crazy.
“How do you feel?” Harry asks as we make our way back to the kitchen.
“Bewildered?” I say with a laugh.
“Why? Janice is right—you deserve it. You’re an excellent chef, a fantastic leader to your team. There’s a reason people prefer to come to you with questions than to me.”
“Yes, well, I am much kinder than you, and nicer to look at,” I joke.
He pinches my elbow and I hiss at him. Chuckling, he says, “I think we should celebrate.”
“I haven’t won yet.”
“Yet,” he emphasises. “But being nominated is still an achievement, and I want to celebrate it.”
“And how do you propose we do that?”
He pauses just outside the kitchen door and leans closer to me. “Leave your door unlocked for me tonight.”
The quiet depth of his voice has me wet in an instant. “Okay.”
~~~
I’m reading again when the knock comes on my front door. Well, it doesn’t really sound like a knock. More like two impatient kicks to the bottom.
Frowning, I abandon my book on the coffee table and go to answer the door.
Harry is on the other side, holding champagne in one hand, a bouquet of tulips in the other, and something else hooked under his arm.
“Wow. You suddenly remembered how to knock,” I deadpan.
He gives me a resigned look. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’ve got my hands full.”
Pleased with myself for getting under his skin, I open the door wider and move out the way for him. He charges in and heads straight for the kitchen, dumping his purchases on the side.
“Do you have a vase?” he demands, already rummaging through my cupboards.
I struggle to comprehend what’s happening for a moment, and then I remember the tulips he was carrying. “You bought me flowers?” I ask dumbly.
“Are we stating the obvious today? Yes I bought you flowers.”
I am…a bit speechless.
When I don’t say anything else, he turns to face me with raised eyebrows. “Vase?”
“Oh, right. Um, hang on a second.”
I shuffle through the flat to a cupboard I keep miscellaneous things in, pluck out one of the two vases I’ve somehow acquired but never actually bought, and take it to the kitchen. Harry takes it out of my hands, fills it up with water and then plonks the tulips inside, cellophane wrap and all.
I am horrified. “What are you doing?”
“What?”
I take the flowers back out and dig a pair of scissors out of the drawer. “You can’t put them in there like that! They need to be unbound and trimmed.”
“Darling,” he wraps his hand around my wrist and pulls me away from the counter, confiscating the scissors, “if I wanted a lecture on flower arranging, I’d speak to my mother.”
I glare at him, but he ignores me. Instead, he walks me backwards to the empty surface I use when I’m baking, and helps me up onto the counter.
“Now, lie on your back.”
“Why?”
He gives me another impatient look. “Please, for the sake of my very short tether, just do as I say.”
Feeling a little out of sorts but unable to deny him, I lay down on the hard surface, wincing at the way the unforgiving laminate bites into my back. I turn my head to watch him as he takes the champagne bottle, unwraps the foil and the cap, and eases the cork out with a satisfying pop.
“Glasses are in the small cupboard on the left,” I tell him, voice breathy.
He doesn’t acknowledge this in the slightest, instead prowling towards me, wielding the bottle like a weapon. “Open up, baby.”
My eyes widen. “What?”
“Open up. I want to feed you tonight.”
“Why?”
“So many questions.” He strokes his free thumb over my cheek. “I told you, we’re celebrating. Which means you get to lie there and look pretty, and I get to do whatever I want to you.”
“Isn’t that counter-intuitive since I’m the one being rewarded?”
“You’ve really gotta stop using big words around me.”
“But you like me most because I’m smarter than you,” I argue.
He grins, all boyish charm and big dimples. “True. I promise everything I do will feel like a reward in the end.”
I sigh, but settle as best I can against the counter and open my mouth.
He cups my chin, fingers and thumb digging into my cheeks, and pours the gold liquid into my waiting mouth. It bubbles and fizzes, dribbling over the corner of my mouth and down my neck. I feel it in my nose, tingling and sparkly. But I manage to swallow without choking.
Harry watches in fascination the whole time, especially my chest with every breath I take, and then when I’m done, he turns my face away and licks a path up my neck to my mouth, following the trail of alcohol.
It is strangely, inherently sexy, and I can’t help but moan when he kisses me, slow and deep.
He pulls back, and I watch with a measured infatuation as he takes a pull straight from the bottle this time and swallows it down. His Adam’s apple bobs and the lines of his throat stretch. I feel a need to bite him there, like a leech in need of a fix.
When he glances my way I feel my heartbeat thunder, and his eyes stay on mine as he takes in another mouthful, but this time he doesn’t swallow. Instead, he leans over me, presses his lips to mine, and lets the champagne flow from his mouth to mine.
I fist his shirt as I swallow and keep him there for another bruising kiss. He doesn’t try to pull away. He matches every stroke of my tongue, every nip of his lips.
Harry’s hand travels to the valley between my legs and presses against my core. “You love this, don’t you?”
I do. I don’t know why I find it such a turn on. Perhaps it’s the uninhibited filthiness of it. The sheer taboo-ness of it all.
His question is apparently rhetorical anyway since he keeps on kissing me without waiting for an answer, and starts rubbing my clit over my clothes. We do this for a while, just kissing and touching each other. I’m still on my back on the counter while he crowds over me with his feet firmly on the ground. I’m groping his cock through his joggers, loving the way he tents against the fabric.
We just kiss and grope and kiss and grope until I’m nearly there, hanging on the edge of a precipice and ready to let my orgasm take hold of me.
And because he’s an absolute bastard, he steps completely out of my reach just before I come.
“No!” I squeal, petulantly, like a child denied a new toy.
He smirks at me, hands in his pockets, thoroughly entertained. “Don’t be upset, darling. I don’t want you to come yet.”
“Why?” I whine, covering my face from the shame of being so outraged.
“Because there’s so much more I want to do with you before you do.”
“Fuck you, Harry.”
“You will. Eventually.”
He grabs the mysterious third item I couldn’t work out when he arrived—a can of whipped squirty cream. I track his every move as he gives it a vigorous shake, yanks the lid off, and squirts some into his mouth. He hums, all suggestive and dirty, and then approaches me again.
I taste the lingering sweetness of cream when he kisses me, not hurried but not slow either. Then, back to concentrating, he pushes my top up from the hem, and it bunches around my chest, exposing my tits and stomach.
Harry uses the cream to draw a single, infuriatingly straight line from my cleavage, down my abdomen and over my navel, before stopping at my lower stomach, right above the waistband of my PJ shorts. And without any preamble, he lowers his head and slowly licks up that same line, tongue on my flushed skin, cleaning it right back up.
I squirm when he reaches my bellybutton and shove my hands in his hair, fisting it tight.
He grunts around a chuckle. He wraps a hand around my bicep, the other gripping my waist. As if I’m going anywhere.
When he’s done, he immediately takes my nipple into his mouth. The combination of cream and his tongue is like silk. I am a whimpering mess.
He snatches the can from where he left it, and squirts more cream on me, this time a big blob on each of my breasts over my nipples. And then he sucks them clean again.
This carries on—him strategically placing blobs of cream onto my body and then licking it or sucking it up. Sometimes he lingers, doing his best to leave a mark.
All of these things make me mindless with want, but he’s stopped touching me with his hands, and I’m close to losing my temper.
“Stick your tongue out, baby,” he instructs, and I do. I stick it out as far as it’ll go, eyes glued to him as he squirts a blob onto my tongue, and then sucks it away. But I cling onto him, demanding a kiss of my own, and he thankfully doesn’t deny me.
In fact, this time, he abandons the cream entirely and just keeps on kissing me. And his hand? It’s back to giving attention to my pussy, but now it’s beneath my waistband and he’s got two fingers inside me.
Harry fucks me with his fingers until I’m about to come, and then he stops. Again.
“Harry,” I groan, exasperated by him.
“I know, I’m such a bastard,” he mocks, pouting at me.
I want to punch him in the dick. “I do not enjoy being edged.”
“That’s a shame,” he coos, then tugs me to the edge of the table by my hips, “because I enjoy edging you very much.”
He carries me bridal style to the sofa and drops me on the cushions, crowding over me. He studies my scowling face like it’s utterly fascinating, a tiny smirk pulling at the corners of his lips. He strokes his thumb over the crease in my brow, pinches my chin and kisses me once, chaste.
Then he stands, making me watch in suffering silence as he strips naked, discarding his clothes in the middle of my living room floor. When he’s done, he starts ridding me of mine, too.
Once we’re both completely naked, he rolls a condom on and covers my body with his, lining himself up at my entrance.
“I don’t know if you’re aware of this, darling,” he says this while making sure my eyes are on his, “but fucking you has become one of my favourite hobbies.”
He then proceeds to fuck me so hard, I come twice.
~~~
My favourite colleague is a 20-year-old part-timer who has no filter and makes the best chocolate cake I’ve ever tasted.
Faith comes in three days a week—Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays—to help with service and bake any celebration cake orders we get. I don’t know where Harry found her, but she is a breath of fresh air. I’ve been trying to get her to move to us full time, but she likes her freedom, and I honestly can’t blame her for that.
“I don’t know why she thinks I’d be up for that,” Faith says as she pipes buttercream between layers of lemon sponge. “Not once have I ever even remotely insinuated that I would be interested in a threesome. Let alone with a man.”
The commis waiter coming to collect a portion of ice cream looks scandalised. I give them an urgent look to go before Faith can rope the poor sod into giving his opinion.
“So how did this meeting conclude?” I ask, starting on the next check.
“Well, I’m not going to sleep with her boyfriend. She was misleading in her profile and I didn't appreciate it. If I wanted to sleep with a man,”—she shudders at the notion—“then I’d be on Plenty of Fish. Or one of those other boring ones.”
“Is Plenty of Fish still a thing?”
“You should know the answer to that—you’re more their target demographic than I am.”
“How’d you work that out?”
“No offence, but you’re old. Old people are on Plenty of Fish.”
My mouth falls open. “Offence taken. People my age use Tinder. I think.”
“Tinder is full of reprobates and men with no hair. It’s no wonder you’re still single.”
“I’m not on Tinder,” I remind her.
“Maybe you should be. It might clear the cobwebs between your legs.”
“Rude. There are no cobwebs there, I am perfectly sexually satisfied.”
“I hate to be the one to tell you this, Boss, but your vibrators don’t count.”
I ignore the jibe. Granted, my vibrator has seen a lot more use this week than in recent months on account of Harry being out of the country on holiday with his family. It doesn’t really bother me, however I don’t have much imagination when it comes to masturbating, which means I can spend anywhere up to half an hour per session trawling porn sites for something that floats my boat. It’s been a while since I’ve had to, and the amount of AI porn that’s cropped up is frankly disturbing.
I don’t know where Harry has gone given we don’t really text unless it’s about work, and our conversation when we’re together is contained to the parameters of whatever sexual activity we’re partaking in.
I’ve been reduced to the breadcrumbs he’s posted on his Instagram stories, which have amounted to a bistro table with a croissant and a coffee, the half profile of an infant I can only assume is his ‘nibling’, a duck and her ducklings swimming in a neat line through an unknown breadth of water, and a still shot of a train in motion.
The man’s need for ambiguity is infuriating as hell.
He did, however, tell Dimas that he would be home this afternoon, which means I’m going to surprise him at home. Well. I’m going to turn up at his door unannounced and demand he fuck me into next week. There’s only so many times a girl can tolerate a subpar orgasm from the effort of an insentient object.
So when we’re done for the day, I change into my ‘civilian clothes’—or ‘civvies’, as my cadet friend calls them—and drive out to Harry’s place.
Because he is paid considerably more than me, his flat is bigger—two bedrooms not one, an entirely separate kitchen with an island, and a bathroom with an actual bath—and in a nicer part of town.
I park up on the street outside and quickly check my phone. There’s an email there sent from a very well-known patisserie. And it’s not a sales email.
Congratulations on your recent nomination. We wish you the best of luck at the La Liste awards and will be rooting for you to win!
Separately, an opportunity has become available and we are looking to hire a senior baker. We are getting in touch as we think you would be perfect.
I have attached the job description for your perusal. If this is something you might be interested in, please do let me know and we can arrange an interview.
I hope to hear from you soon.
I gape at the email.
Am I being headhunted? Is that what this means?
I take a moment to let that settle in.
Obviously I’m not going to make a decision right now, at 11 o’clock at night. But it’s a really cool opportunity. And I don’t see the harm in interviewing.
I shake my head and vow to deal with it tomorrow.
Inside, I head up to Harry’s floor in the lift. I watch the numbers tick up and up until it pings and the doors slide open.
There’s a lot of noise on this level and I wonder if someone’s having a party. I mooch down the corridor to Harry’s flat. On the other side of the door I can hear voices, but just assume it’s something on the TV.
Unlike my counterpart, I have a much politer temperament, so I knock rather than just let myself in.
I wait, hearing shuffling inside, then the snick of the Yale lock.
I’m smiling when the door opens, but the expression quickly slips from my face.
A woman stands over the threshold, a patient, open look on her face. “Hi.”
“Er,” I stutter, double checking the number on the door, “hi.”
“Can I help you?” It’s not rude, but rather curiously intoned, like she is just as surprised to see me as I am her.
I’m still not sure I have the right door.
The woman is pretty. Short dark hair half pulled off her face. Pixie-like bone structure and waifish in her figure. I feel at once jealous and unworthy.
“Sorry, I…” I check the door again just to be absolutely certain, “I must have the wrong flat.”
“Oh, no problem.” She smiles and I turn away, all but sprinting back to the lift.
I’m pushing the button for the ground floor when Harry’s head appears out of his apartment, a concerned look on his face. When he realises it’s me, he starts pacing his way down the corridor, calling my name. I press the button to close the doors faster.
I manage to get downstairs and into my car without him catching up, so I peel out of my space and head home, trying my best to ignore the way my throat has closed up. I don’t know why I’m so upset. Harry and I have never labelled anything. He’s not my boyfriend and I have no claim on him.
By the time I park up at home, I have multiple missed calls and texts from him. I decide to turn my phone off without reading any of them.
I despise this feeling of jealousy that curdles inside me. Still, I get up to my flat, lock the door and leave the key in, and then crawl into bed.
The metallic chugging of the Micros machine alerts the room to the first check of the night, which Harry snatches up, quickly assesses, and then calls out to the team.
“Check on! Two covers, one salmon and one soup to start, followed by one lamb and one sea bass.”
A chorus of “Yes, Chef!” replies, and we all get to work.
My main role is plating, taking different elements from the chef de parties and commis chefs—meat, fish, garnish, etc.—and assembling them on the plate the way Chef likes it. Then I present it to him for inspection. I try to do quality control where I can, but the man is eagle-eyed at the worst of times.
“Stop,” Harry barks when the commis working on garnish leaves a tray of char-grilled greens in front of me. “Remake that, now. People aren’t going to eat a tenderstem broccoli when it looks like it could turn to ash at the slightest touch. Don’t insult me by bringing shit like that to the bench again.”
“Yes, Chef,” the commis mutters, and scurries away with his burnt broccoli in tow.
I keep my eyes averted and carry on plating the other dish while I wait.
Harry’s face appears in my periphery. “Something to say?”
I give him my dirtiest side eye. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
He scoffs. “Now we both know that’s not true. Out with it.”
“I have nothing to say.”
“Bullshit.”
Now I do turn to face him, keeping my voice low. “Do not try to embarrass me, Chef. I am here doing you a favour, as asked, and respecting your authority. Please don’t make me regret it.”
Fire burns in his green eyes. “Indeed. And I asked you because I don’t trust anyone else. Which means I rely on you to catch stupid fuck-ups like eviscerated vegetables.”
“He hadn’t even put the fucking tray down. I can’t catch fuck-ups if I haven’t even seen them yet.”
“You should be more vigilant.”
“And you shouldn’t claim I’m the only one you trust and then spend the entire service looking over my shoulder. Because now I know you’re lying.”
I know I’ve got him by the tightening of his jaw. “Fine.”
~~~
Part 1 coming tomorrow (Sunday 8th March) at 5pm GMT
harry has to walk his drunk girlfriend home after girls night, but is that even his girlfriend?
wordcount: 2.2k+
—————
Harry swore he could have spotted (Y/N) from a mile away, even without the liquid shimmer of her dress wrapped around her form. Despite the glow of the neon lights over the entire sidewalk with the club name displayed in all caps, she still outshone every person still waiting in line to get in, the grouping of others on standby for their ride shares, and her group of friends that had been so gracious as to let him know that she was ready to go home and much too tipsy (read: drunk) to walk herself home despite her insistences.
Only when he made it close enough to hear the soft echoes of laughter and drunken conversation, sparkling heels clicking against pavement, was he spotted. It was almost heartbreaking to watch the way her jaw dropped in grinning surprise. He could feel his own lips stretching into a dimpled smile, though he attempted to temper the reaction when her grouping of friends followed her line of sight to catch his approach.
"Harry!" she bubbled, closing the distance between them on wobbly legs. Despite the even, obstacle-free length of the sidewalk, she still found something to catch under her heel to send her right into his arms.
"Woah," Harry laughed, wrapping a steadying arm around her waist with their chests now pressed flush together. Swathes of bare skin displayed by the heart-shaped cutouts stations on either side of her waist allowed him to graze his fingertips over the warmth of her. The candied raspberry liquor on her breath was especially sweet with the way her eyes sparkled up at him. "Hey, you."
"Hey yourself," she giggled, unperturbed by the lack of distance between them, "What are you doing here?" Her eyes momentarily widened as her arms clumsily looped around his neck. "Oh my god, did you come here to dance with us? 'M so sorry, H—we're just getting ready to leave!"
The silky material that made up her dress in between the sweetheart cutouts fluttered around her thighs as a faint breeze glanced between them. Goosebumps erupted over her skin though her moony eyes didn't so much as flick away from his.
"'M actually here to take y'home, love. Tara called me, said y'were trying to walk home all by yourself," he explained, tipping his head to the side only for her to mimic the movement without a thought.
"Tara called you?" she asked, voice suddenly quiet, heels teetering underneath her. "How'd she get your number?"
A small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. "Y'called her from m'phone the last time y'stayed the weekend with me, remember? When y'didn't have service, but y'wanted to see if she'd watered your plants?"
Harry wasn't prepared for the way she practically went boneless in his arms. Her eyes went from moony to completely dreamy as she gazed up at him, her arms around his neck now shifted to card her fingers through his hair, nails drifting over his scalp.
"Oh yeah, huh," she smiled, just barely containing a giggle just short of being described as girlish, "We should have a sleepover again soon."
"Yeah?" Harry prodded, unable to help himself as he raised a single brow, dimples denting his cheeks, "Y'wanna? Y'have a crush on me or something?"
This time she really did giggle, pitched and sticky sweet, before diving into his neck in a clinging hug. Stumbling some on his own feet, Harry let out a puff of laughter before steadying the both of them, hands warm and heavy on her waist.
She was going to have a hell of a hangover tomorrow. Hopefully she'd had all the fun she wanted tonight to make it worth it.
Tara, dressed sleek and dark in a velveteen black dress, approached then. Her own eyes were glossy though they held much more clarity than the girl who was currently hanging off of him.
"Thanks for coming," she smiled, words only a tad slurred and slower than normal, "She's—Yeah, you see. There's no way she can go home by herself."
Another short breeze skimmed over the pavement, Harry bringing his hand down to his giggly girl's skirt to keep it pinned to the back of her thighs. A quiet hiccup sounded against his neck.
"No way," Harry agreed, speaking through his smile, "Thanks for calling me. Y'guys all have a way to get home?"
Tara glanced over her shoulder to the small grouping of the other girls who were half-watching the interaction. Harry was sure there had been an audience from the first moment (Y/N) had stumbled into his arms.
"Yeah; Gena's boyfriend's picking her up and then the rest of us are sharing an Uber," Tara rattled off, casting her eyes out to the street. "But, you two are good to start home whenever you're ready."
"Wait," (Y/N) suddenly chirped, pulling her head from where she had burrowed herself away in Harry's neck, "I didn't pack for a sleepover. I don't have any of my stuff, and I can't sleep in my dress."—her eyes abruptly widened, fingers tightening in his hair—"Oh my god, I cannot sleep in my makeup. I can't go home with you, H."
Tara just managed to stifle a laugh behind pursed lips. "Goodnight, guys. Text me when you make it home—whoever's home you get to," she teased, almost cracking herself into laughter.
Momentarily distracted, (Y/N) twirled away from Harry, though he made a point to keep his hands on her waist when she almost toppled face-first into the concrete before getting to hug her friend goodbye with coos of how much she loves her and how much fun she had.
Not long after she sent a tinkling wave to the rest of her friends did she spin again, back into Harry's chest. The lightness she had shared with her friends had fled as soon as she matched his gaze, canting her head with a puffed pout to her lips.
"Harry," she all but whined about the syllables, "I can't go home with you."
The pads of his thumbs ran careful, hopefully soothing circles, on the exposed skin framed by the heart cutouts of her dress. "Then, can I come home with you?"
This had been the original plan anyway, but she didn't need to worry about that right now.
She perked up at the offer, glittery lashes fluttering against her browbone. "You'd have a sleepover at my house?"
A lopsided smile took over his features. "If you'll let me."
An eager nod of her head threw her tousled hair over her shoulders before she pulled Harry in for another hug. "Yes, yes, yes," she practically cheered, "Of course, I'll let you."
"Thank you, love," he murmured, dropping a careful kiss on the line of her jaw just before drawing away from her embrace. "Let's head home then, 'kay? 'S getting a little cold, isn't it?"
"It is, huh?" she bubbled, taking it upon herself to tuck herself under his arm and right up against his side. "Has it been cold the whole time out here, or have I been too drunk to notice until now? You can be honest, it's okay."
Harry didn't even try to hold back the burst of laughter that left him at her words. His volunteered arm around her shoulders tightened, leading them away from the small club and towards her home. "I think you've been a little too drunk to notice until now, but 's alright, love. Y'had fun tonight, right?"
"So much fun," she sighed, steps slowing into lazy stumbles as she reminisced about times only hours earlier. "Those girls are my best friends, it's crazy, you know?"
The amusement on his features melted into pure affection as he glanced down at her. "'M happy y'had fun—especially with them. Are y'gonna see them again soon?"
"Maybe, I don't know," she drawled, "I think we made plans, but I really can't remember. There'll probably be something in the group chat tomorrow, maybe."
"Well, let me know, and I can plan on dropping y'off and picking y'up. That way y'don't have to worry about figuring out how you're getting home or packing to stay at my house, or anything like that."
She had her eyes trained on him only as he gently steered her out of the way of a murky puddle, the kind that would have no doubt ruined her shoes. Her starry eyes were on him only as she fluttered a blink up at him, just about making Harry forget which street to turn them down to head them down to her apartment.
"Okay," she sighed, "Can I ask you something?"
"Sure."
Did she even know that a pink glitter from her dress had somehow ended up on the tip of her nose? And that it was possibly the sweetest thing he'd ever seen?
"And promise me you'll be honest."
One corner of his mouth quirked up. A sly glance was sent her direction from the corner of his eye.
"Okay. I can be honest."
She coiled her fist in the fabric of his shirt, anchoring herself to him—as if there was anywhere he was going to be that wasn't right here.
"If I ask you to be my boyfriend, would you say yes?"
In his heart, Harry knew that the right reaction was not to laugh. Not to let his grin stretch wide enough over his lips that his eyes creased, lashes tangled, dimples deepened. That his chest could ache from the lack of air in his lungs. That was far from the right reaction to a question like that, Harry knew that.
And yet.
At his side, despite the fact he hadn't slowed his own steps, the girl at his side significantly stalled. She still had her fist tucked into his shirt, his arm around her shoulder, but was not as enthusiastic to keep up with his pace as before.
Stifling back any more chuckles, Harry looked down to his girl, tightening his arm around her shoulders before he dropped it to her waist. He corralled her in, looping her closer to his side and closing the distance that had opened with her slowed gait.
"Love, 'm sorry, 'm sorry," he started pleading. Though, he could admit that he may not be the most convincing given the fact that he was saying all of this through an amused grin. "I didn't mean to laugh, I promise."
"Then why did you? I wasn't trying to be funny, Harry."
At the sound of her wavering voice, Harry immediately sobered. This wasn't so funny now that she wasn't so much as pouting as she was pursing her lips to keep her chin from wobbling, that her fluttery lashes weren't something cute and flirty, but a technique to keep her tears at bay. The pretty, glossy sheen over her eyes wasn't the stars descending to her irises, but her hurt feelings coming to the surface.
"Hey," he started, pausing their journey home to tuck her out of the way and into an alcove between two late night restaurants. "Hey, 'm sorry, love. I didn't mean to, really. I wasn't laughing because—like... I don't think the idea of being your boyfriend is funny, I jus' thought your question was funny because...I already thought I was your boyfriend, love."
That wobbly bottom lip dropped, leaving (Y/N)'s mouth open in awed shock, brows pinched. Glossy eyes remained, though more from the alcohol than the tears that were now wading away.
"Huh?"
A gentle smile spread over his lips. A hand that had made a home over her waist drifted up to cradle her cheek, the pad of his thumb resting on the height of her cheekbone, the very tip feeling the tickle of her eyelashes.
"Remember?" he prompted, "I asked you a week ago. With all those roses, and the strawberries in the shape of a heart after dinner? It was Valentine's Day, baby."
Harry watched the moment that the memory returned to her. He got to see in real time as she relived the moment she had teased him, calling him "lame" as if she didn't have this same glossy sheen over her eyes though it was definitely from tears back then, before covering his face in kisses.
Does this mean yes? he'd said when he'd had a chance to come up for air.
What do you think? she'd said back, kiss swollen lips and moony eyes, You did all this just to ask me to be your girlfriend, of course I'm saying yes.
She'd spent a long weekend at his house then. Tara was on plant duty.
"Oh," she sounded, "Oh, yeah. Oh my god, I'm sorry. I'm way drunker than I thought."
"A little bit," Harry laughed, this time only a puff of air shaped by his smile. "'S alright, baby. No tears, yeah."
"No tears," she agreed, pliantly nodding, "I'm sorry I got upset—I can't believe I forgot all of that."
"But y'remember now, right?"
"I do," she nodded, a sweet smile on her lips, "I really, really do. Best weekend ever." She let out a dreamy sigh only for her features to melt into something sweetly distressed. "I'm going to be really sick in the morning, huh?"
"Probably," Harry deigned, unable to bite back his smile, "But I'll make sure y'have water and some medicine, and I'll hold your hair back."
Starry eyes, sweet smile, fluttery lashes were all trained up at him as Harry held her cheek in his warm palm. Her hand on his chest flexed, right over his beating heart, the pumps surely beating out the syllables of her name.
"Best boyfriend ever."
Harry could only manage to press a kiss to the tip of her nose—right over that pink glitter.
—————
I wrote this over a week but in a collective of like an hour and a half so I fear this may be rough but I really wanted to just get something out since its been so long since ive even written anything and I wanted to just try! thank u sm for reading, sorry for any mistakes, and if you have any ideas or anything u want to send please send them in!
Series Summary: Harry, a handsome, but ill-mannered new king, bound by tradition, must select a queen, and against all expectations, he chooses Y/n, a street beggar. Now, Y/n finds herself caught between the gilded cage of royalty and the cold, harsh simplicity of her past, navigating a court shocked by her presence and a king who revels in the scandal of it all.
A/N: Thank you for being so patient with me! It's been an especially busy past few months for me. I love you all so much for sticking with me and this story! xoxo
Ch. 10 Word Count: 7.1k
Ch. 10 Warning: Smut, mentions of pregnancy and symptoms, implied threats, light emotional distress
. .
Harry’s hand rested warm over the swell of Y/n's hip, the two of them turned toward one another, face to face on the pillows as if the past days had not stood between them at all. They had made amends the night before in the most ancient fashion… with their bodies entwined, apologies and forgiveness spoken in sighs and shudders. Y/n could still feel the way he'd apologized when he lay between her legs, and his whiskers tickled and scratched at her inner thighs.
The chamber lay quiet as the grey winter light barely slipping through the curtains. The fire in the grate was all but ash, and the king had instructed Fred to hold his appointments until noon. He had no intention of sharing her yet, not after so many days without the warmth of her skin, the feel of her thighs parting beneath him, her lips breathless against his ear.
He was already halfway to that hunger again. His mouth found her breast, warm and bare, and he suckled her with the languid contentment of a man who had no need to rush. His tongue rolled gently over the peak, then suckled harder, lips closing firmly around it until her back arched and her fingers pulled at his hair.
She giggled when he nipped softly. "You are the devil," she said with a gasp.
"The devil you love, little mouse," he replied, voice muffled against her skin, and then sucked harder, drawing a soft moan from her lips.
"Mmm… The king has grown terribly wanton since last night. What would your ministers say if they knew you’d deferred council to bed your wife?"
"I have missed you," he said, his nose brushing lightly over hers when he lifted his face up, breath warm and steady. It sounded less like a confession and more like something torn from him at last. "They will wait."
Y/n closed her eyes as he pressed his mouth to hers. She felt the rough edge of his beard against her chin and cheeks as he kissed her again. She loved the feel of him, even so. Between her thighs, her mouth, her tummy, her breasts… all sensitive to the rough brush of his beard from the way he'd devoured her the evening prior.
His fingers shifted at her waist, stroking the bare skin down to her thigh, then tracing upward again, along the plush of her bottom. She opened to him, the parting of her lips a subtle invitation. It was all he required. The restraint he’d worn gave way in a single breath, as if her acquiescence had unlatched something deep in him. The control he’d been clinging to gave way to his deeper urges.
He slid his hand from her hip to the small of her back to draw her closer until there was no room for air between them. She smoothed her fingers up from his chest to his shoulder, then into the warm hair at his nape, feeling the little shiver that went through him when she did.
"You are so beautiful," he breathed, kisses turning heated and rough. "I don't know that I'll ever have enough of you."
She gave a quiet moan and rolled her hips against him. His member, already fully risen, throbbed against the curve of her abdomen. It pleased her beyond words to know that he still desired her, that he still found her worth this kind of admiration, despite everything she'd done. There was no greater relief than to be taken by him, a man who craved her. However, part of her doubted she could reach that trembling peak again so soon. He had already coaxed two sobbing climaxes from her the night prior. It wouldn't be possible again, would it?
And yet, as the king's hand wandered downward and slipped between her thighs, she felt the unmistakable heat of readiness. His fingers found her slick and wanting, the wetness gathering on his knuckles. She gasped aloud, half in disbelief, her eyes lowering to witness it. Her body, it seemed, had made up its own mind.
She had been told such things were impossible. That the marital act was for the husband’s need and not the wife’s pleasure. She had been warned it would be painful, distasteful, that she would learn to lie still and let her husband have what he needed. That it shouldn't take very long and that she should endure if she wanted God to bless her with a child.
But none of that had been true. At least not for her. Not with Harry. For every time he touched her, she found herself slick and open, her quim aching for him, her heart thudding like a trapped bird. Her legs parted when he approached her. Her mouth watered for his kiss. When his body pressed against hers, she did not resist. She yielded because it always felt so good… from the first time he touched her before they were married, to right then.
She still had to come to terms with what she'd been led to believe. Because now, with a little bit of experience behind her, she found that she enjoyed the act more than almost anything else in the world.
He smoothed a hand up her back, over the line of her spine, and then down again, lingering at the curve of her waist as he smirked at her. "It seems the queen is also quite wanton."
He pressed two fingers inside of her, and she arched her back, breasts pressing his chest as she panted. "The court would lose their minds if they knew the way the Queen wetted her King's fingers. So ready for me, mouse. So soft and warm."
"Oh, Harry…"
He groaned at the sound of her. "Yes," he whispered, pressing his mouth to her breast as she gasped. "The court would faint dead away if they knew how their queen takes her king. If they heard the sounds you make when I’m inside you, filling you to the hilt."
He drew his fingers from her dripping entrance and brought them to his mouth, licking them clean with a sound of approval. Then, bracing himself, he rolled her gently onto her back and followed her down, his body covering hers, the mattress dipping beneath their joined weight.
"I need more of you," he said, voice low and roughened as he raked his gaze over her bare body underneath him. "I cannot resist the way you feel, the way you sound…" he dipped and kissed her chin and then her neck. "The way you taste."
He guided his thick cockhead to her opening, and her legs fell open wider, thighs parting to cradle his hips. She felt the broad, aching length of him press against her entrance, nudging, seeking. Then, with a slow thrust, he entered her.
Her eyes fluttered shut at the stretch, the deep, aching fullness. He pushed in until the whole of him was buried inside her, his hips flush against hers. Her body adjusted around him, snug and wet, muscles fluttering.
"Heaven above," he groaned, head tipping forward briefly, closing his eyes to savour the way her insides squeezed snugly around the whole length of him.
Her heart was filled to the brim by his praises as he pushed harder, the tip of his member carving through her end sharply until she hissed. The corner of his mouth twitched, the shadow of a smile there and then gone. His lips followed the line of her jaw, the hinge beneath her ear, the fragile, racing beat in her throat.
Her palms slid over the breadth of his back. He shivered, and the sound he made into the hollow of her throat was unguarded, almost boyish. She smiled at the way he reacted to just her touch, to the feel of his length encased by her.
"You undo me," he said.
"And you me," she answered, fingers tracing the scars and sinew.
She whimpered when he drew back and shoved forward, grasping at his back, nails pressing into his skin as he began to move. He withdrew, then thrust forward again, the rhythm careful but with purpose.
The friction sent sparks of pleasure darting through her spine. Her legs locked around his hips, keeping him close, deeper. He grunted softly at the feel of her tightening around him.
She opened her eyes to look up at him. His gaze already held hers, dark and intense as he drove into her.
"You are my heart, mouse," he whispered, lips brushing hers. "Do you know that?"
"Yes," she breathed.
The thrusts grew bolder. He found a rhythm with deep, rolling strokes that made her moan aloud, her back arching, hips rising to meet his. Each movement stoked the fire low in her belly. Their joined flesh was slick now, the sounds of it unholy, shameless, damp.
He took her hand and laced his fingers with hers above her head, pinning it gently to the pillow. With his free hand, he cupped her breast, thumb circling the peaked nipple, teasing it until she writhed beneath him. His mouth found her neck, her collarbone, her shoulder, lavishing kisses between gasps.
The wood that held the bed together groaned under the movement. The sheets twisted beneath them as Y/n's limbs began to tremble, her breath coming in uneven, pleading gasps. His thrusts were steady, deep, each one seeming to reach further inside her, rubbing against a spot that sent bright, helpless shocks up her spine.
Harry felt the tremor in her thighs and growled low in his throat. "That’s it… let me feel you melt for me."
He shifted his weight subtly, angling his hips until she gasped, her nails dragging down his back. The sensation only spurred him on. He pressed closer, chest flush with hers, his breath hot against her cheek as he drove into her with slow, merciless strokes.
Her breasts brushed his chest with each movement, then he pushed up, eyes lidded as he looked down at her, heavy cock stuffed into her deep before he dipped down, his mouth sought a nipple, lips closing greedily around the rise of it as he thrust. She curved into him, offering more, her fingers tangling in his hair to hold him there.
"Harry—oh—Harry, please—"
Her plea dissolved into a soft sob as he suckled harder, tongue circling the peak, pulling at her until her back bowed. Her hips lifted to meet him, the wet slide of their bodies distinct in the quiet room. Every stroke filled the air with soft, sinful sounds… his low grunts, her breathy cries, the slick joining of their flesh.
He lifted his head, beard scraping gently over the curve of her breast as he kissed upward, slow and indulgent, still driving into her in languid, thick motions, until he reached her throat. He mouthed at the racing pulse there, teeth grazing lightly.
"I want you undone beneath me," he murmured against her skin. "I want your legs shaking again… your voice gone hoarse… I want all of you, mouse."
He lifted and sat back, throbbing member still buried, spreading her insides as he pulled her thighs over his. He slid his hand over her breast downward to her trembling stomach, until his thumb found the tender, aching bud nestled between her folds. He circled it gently at first, drawing a startled cry from her lips. Then he pressed more firmly, stroking in time with his thrusts, every movement deliberate and devastating.
Her body jolted beneath him, hips jerking in helpless response. She was almost embarrassed by how quickly he could work her to her end that way. She reached for his hand, panting as her body began to uncoil under him. "N-no, I cannot—Harry, it is too soon—"
"Yes," he whispered, voice rough as he rocked in deep. "You can. As many times as your body wants. Open for me, my love, come for me."
Her head fell back, fingers gripping his hand with near-desperation as he rubbed her faster, the pleasure rising inside her so swiftly she could scarcely breathe. Each thrust drove the sensation higher, sharper, until she could do nothing but cling to him, legs shaking around his waist as the pressure built unbearably.
As good as he felt, what really had her unable to control her body was the way he looked above her, his hips thrusting, abs flexing, the line of sweat that dripped between the sparse hair on his pecs. Broad, thick chest, strong arms, soft pink lips held open as he trailed his jeweled green eyes from her face to her breasts, and down to the space he was filling her. He truly was every bit the vision of a king she could worship.
He moaned her name softly, the gushy sound of his girth sliding through her arousal only more noticeable with every stroke. He pulled at her hand and pressed it down to the bed as he leaned back over her, his pelvis hitting her clit. He kissed her open mouth, his tongue stroked hers languidly, contrasting the relentless rhythm of his hips.
Her thighs quivered violently around him, breath fractured, vision blurred. "Harry, oh! God, please—"
"That’s it," he groaned, mouth kissing at the edges of her lips as he circled his hips into her faster, firmer. "Let go for me. Let your king have you."
Her belly tightened, and her breath caught, then everything broke open inside her.
And when her climax came, it rushed through her like wildfire… an uncontrollable tide that tore her apart. She cried out beneath him, body clenching around his member, hips jerking. He grunted, hoarse and near wild, and thrust hard as his own release followed.
He spilled into her with a shudder, mouth pressed to hers, eyes shut as if the very sensation of it might undo him. His whole frame quaked, and for a long moment, he could do nothing but breathe and hold as he emptied himself inside of her in orgasmic throbs.
She could feel his hand still holding tight to hers, feel the way his arms shook, the way his heart pounded rapidly against her chest. He moaned a relieved sound against her cheek as he caught his breath.
He rolled them gently onto their sides, her leg draped over his hip, his twitching length still cradled inside her. The moisture between their legs was overwhelming. Just as it had been the night before. She was sure they were due for a bath.
They lay there, quiet, her fingers tangled in the damp curls at his nape. He kissed her brow, then her cheek, then the top of her head.
"That wasn't too much now, was it?" he asked softly.
She blinked at him and lifted her head to look at him. "I fear I've grown greedy for you. For the way it feels when we are together."
He smiled. "What is there to fear when the greed is born of love?"
She hummed, a hand sliding up to his shoulder. "I fear I will not have enough. That I will not be able to quell my urges for it. Like a boozer enslaved to his drink."
Running his nose along her cheek, he cradled the back of her head. "That does not sound like a bad predicament to me."
"But surely ignoring moderation is perilous. Covetous."
Harry puffed out the softest laugh, tracing a fingertip over her jaw. "Covetous... It is not abhorrent when it is your husband you are greedy for, mouse. I welcome my wife's gluttonous appetite."
She sighed and leaned in toward him, pressing her cheek to his clavicle. "I have never been so fulfilled in all my life. Clothing, food, comfort, warmth… It almost feels wrong."
Running a hand up her spine, he kissed the top of her head. "And you shall be fulfilled always. You are the queen of Thornekeep. You are my queen."
She lifted her head to kiss him, slow and sweet, then lay her head back upon his chest. His arm drew tight around her waist. It would take some getting used to, being called Queen. In moments like these, they were simply man and wife, tangled together in the aftermath of pleasure and reconciliation.
. .
The cold had settled in earnest by the time a week had passed, the kind of crisp winter cold that turned the breath visible and made teeth ache. Y/n drew her fur-lined cloak tighter as she stepped into the castle yard, Phoebe at her side, both of them bundled enough that the tips of their noses froze.
Behind them, Niall and another guard followed at the regulated distance. But Niall’s eyes kept darting toward Phoebe in that unmistakable way of a man trying not to be obvious. Y/n and Phoebe both noticed it.
She didn’t dignify it with so much as a glance. "He keeps looking at me," she muttered under her breath, cheeks warming despite the cold. The soft smile on Phoebe's lips told Y/n she liked that the guard kept letting his gaze drift over her.
"Because you keep kissing him," Y/n said, nudging at her friend playfully.
Phoebe exhaled a scandalized little laugh and then whispered, "Do not say it out loud!"
"Do not worry. No one can hear us, and your secret is safe with me."
Phoebe groaned and kept her sight tilted toward the hedges as she spoke quietly. "He is quite good at it."
Y/n’s laugh burst bright into the air. No one knew what she and her lady-in-waiting were on about but as Phoebe caught Niall's gaze briefly, and she watched his cheeks pink, there was a momentary look of knowing about him.
Phoebe tugged her arm. "Come, tell me everything about your nights with the king. It seems you have been quite occupied by him since you reconciled."
The queen smiled. "He's gentle and loving."
"What else?" Phoebe pushed.
"There's nothing else to say that wouldn't have you fainting in shock," she said with a laugh.
Phoebe let out a defeated breath. "You promised. I have been waiting the entire week while you’ve been floating about the castle like a love-struck lady in a poem."
Y/n pressed her gloved fingers to her warming cheek. "I am not floating."
"You are fluttering," Phoebe corrected. "Positively fluttering."
Y/n bit her lip, trying to smother the smile, but it pressed through anyway. "He has been… very generous and kind in bed."
"Kind," Phoebe repeated. "That is the word you choose?"
Y/n fixed her with a look. "We are not discussing particulars right here."
"Too bad. Look at you." Phoebe tugged her arm again. "You are glowing."
"And you’re being absurd."
Phoebe hummed. "Absurder things have happened than a Queen glowing after forgiveness and eight days of being thoroughly—"
"Phoebe!" Y/n laughed.
Phoebe only smirked, then leaned closer, voice lowering to something more thoughtful. "Truly… you do seem well again. Happier. I am glad of it."
Y/n’s breath misted in front of her. She looked out over the small orchard at the far end of the yard, bare branches scratching at the pale sky. "I am," she admitted softly. "It is much better to be on his good side."
Phoebe nudged her shoulder affectionately. "Then all is well."
They walked a little farther, letting the cold nip at their cheeks and the wind tug at their hoods. The silence between them was companionable until Phoebe’s voice broke it, light but sly.
"Have you had your courses yet this month?"
Y/n blinked. "My courses?"
Phoebe gave her a look. "I only ask because this month you have not yet summoned for any articles to help with it."
"Well…" Y/n frowned slightly. "I… think not."
Phoebe nodded solemnly. "And your last bleed was early last month?"
"I don’t know," Y/n insisted. "I lost my courses often before the wedding. Stress does that. And now, with everything that has happened—"
"Oh, heavens," Phoebe breathed, seizing her arm. "What if you are with child?"
Y/n felt her stomach swoop. "No, that is not certain—"
Phoebe laughed. "Maybe not, but you have been in that bed near every night since your wedding, save for the few when Harry was not speaking to you. Do not tell me you’re surprised."
Y/n went stiff. "We cannot think that."
"Well, what am I to think?" Phoebe teased. "I see you at breakfast looking half-dazed, hair undone, and the King walking about the castle with the air of a man who has been… greatly restored."
Y/n covered her face with her gloved hands. "This is mortifying."
"And wonderful if true," Phoebe corrected.
Y/n lowered her hands and exhaled, breath clouding in the air. "I do not know yet. Truly. It could be nothing."
Phoebe softened, looping her arm through Y/n’s. "Then we shall wait and see. But if you are…"
Y/n’s heart gave a hard, quiet pound. If she was… She pressed a hand to her middle without thinking. Phoebe noticed and smiled.
"Whatever comes, my Queen… you will not face it alone."
Y/n swallowed, eyes drifting toward the tallest tower where Harry’s study window looked out over the courtyard.
"No," she whispered. "I will not."
.
The warmth Y/n felt after the walk did not leave her, but it changed its structure as the day went on. By the time she returned to her chambers, there was a tight, humming awareness inside her that she couldn’t quite pinpoint.
Phoebe helped her out of her cloak and set it over the chair. "You’re quiet," she murmured.
Y/n brushed it off. "Just cold. And… perhaps I'm thinking too much."
But even as she said it, her hand drifted lightly toward her stomach again. She didn't know anything just yet, but the suggestion from Pheobe had wormed into her so deeply that she felt as though she could almost make out the stirring of something inside her.
The rest of the afternoon ticked by as slowly as time ever had. She tried to read but couldn’t. Tried to write down her thoughts, but forgot halfway through the first paragraph what she wanted to say.
Finally, Phoebe, ever astute, stepped closer.
"Ma’am," she said softly, "shall I send for the physician? Not to say anything for certain, only to… inquire."
Y/n hesitated. So many consequences hinged on her body now. On a clock she could not see. On a life she could not yet feel.
"Yes," she said. "Send for him. Quietly."
.
The old castle doctor, Dr. Holder, had recently been replaced by Dr. Alderton. He was an older man, mild of manner and much kinder than Dr. Holder, who'd kept insisting Y/n be checked for virginity before she wed the king. But Dr. Alderton had the air of someone who had seen every kind of worry a woman might have.
"Majesty," he greeted with a bow when he arrived. "How may I be of service?"
Phoebe stood by the door, hands clasped, silent but watchful. Hopeful.
Y/n kept her voice soft. "It is only that I have… missed a course. And I wish to know whether it signifies anything."
The physician nodded as if this was a question posed to him a hundred times a year, which it likely was. "May I ask when your last monthly bleeding occurred?" He stepped in closer, his examination bag still in his hand.
"The early days of last month," Y/n answered. "And before that, I was irregular. Often."
"Have you felt sickness upon waking? Lightness in the head? An ache in the lower back? Changes to appetite?"
Y/n bit the inside of her cheek. "No sickness," she said. "But I have felt… very tired the last few days."
"That is as common a sign of strain as it is of childbearing," he said gently. "And your recent ordeal in the square may have taxed your constitution."
She lowered her eyes. "Then there is no way to know yet? No exam to do?"
He shook his head. "No exam for now. There are signs I may watch for," he said. "But at this early stage, one cannot say with certainty. The body keeps its secrets until it no longer can. I would advise rest. Avoid undue exertion. And…" His voice softened. "Tell His Majesty. Should you be with child, caution is warranted."
Y/n nodded, folding her hands tightly together. "Thank you, Doctor."
He bowed and withdrew, leaving Phoebe and Y/n alone again.
Phoebe came closer, her face bright with soft hope. "Then we will wait and see. We shall not act prematurely. But I have a feeling, ma'am."
"No one knows. It is too soon," Y/n countered. "I might not be with child."
"But you might," Phoebe whispered.
Y/n’s stomach fluttered. She wasn't sure if it was from excitement or fear. "Yes," she admitted. "I… I might."
.
That evening, Harry entered as he always did. Like a man with the weight of work and duty on his mind, focused, composed. He removed his gloves and set them aside, loosening his collar, hanging his coat. Even still, he noticed her. He watched closely as he moved about.
"You’re quiet," he said as he approached. "All day, you’ve carried some thought. I could tell after supper. What is it?"
She stood near the fire, warming her hands as she looked at him while he wrestled his boots off his feet.
"I do not know how to say it… and there may be nothing to say," she answered.
"Y/n." His voice gentled. "Tell me."
She turned to him slowly. "I may be with child."
Harry went very still. Not a breath nor a blink. Only the soft flicker of concern in his expression, the slight parting of his lips as though he’d forgotten how to draw air.
He stepped across to her and took her hand in his. "May," he repeated, voice low. "May be?"
She nodded. "The physician cannot say yet. But I have missed a course. And I am… more tired than usual. And we have been—" She didn't let herself finish that sentence, but they were both more than aware of what she meant.
Harry lifted a hand to her cheek. "Are you unwell? Any pain? Any dizziness?"
"No," she whispered. "Nothing of concern."
Relief flashed through his eyes, and then worry. He pressed his palm over her cheek and traced her temple with his thumb. "If it is true… You must be careful. You must not walk alone. You must not—"
"Harry," she said softly, placing a hand on his chest. "We do not yet know."
"I know enough," he said quietly. "I know what losing you would do to me."
Her heart clenched. "You will not lose me."
He cupped her face fully now, warm palms framing her cheeks. "Tell me the moment you feel anything unusual. Any sickness, any weakness, any pain."
"If I do, I will," she promised.
He kept his gaze on hers. "And promise me you will be very careful. Even if you may not be, we cannot chance it."
"Yes. Of course. I know. I will not be sneaking into a crowd to stop anymore hangings if that is your worry."
He huffed. "If there is a child…" He swallowed hard. "It would be a great blessing."
Y/n felt her eyes warm. "I am unsettled but… excited. If it is true."
He kissed her forehead. Then her cheek. Then the soft corner of her mouth.
"And I will be both as well," he whispered. "Until we know."
. .
Two weeks later, things were starting to feel different around her. It wasn’t drastic at first. Just a shift in how her mornings began. She'd become very aware of her body and every little thing that she felt, to the point that she was nearly convinced now that she was carrying the king's baby.
Y/n woke each day, for the past three, with the same subtle queasiness pooling low in her stomach, a shallow wave that rose and then ebbed. Not enough to bring her to her knees, but enough to make her press a hand to the mattress and breathe steady until the feeling passed.
Harry noticed before she'd even said a word. He sat down beside her on the bed, shirt open at the collar as he fastened his cufflinks. "Again?" he asked, voice gentle in the half-light.
"Only a little," she whispered.
He brushed his knuckles along her cheek, the gesture so tender it might've been the cure to the way her stomach turned. "Sit a moment longer. I’ll have Phoebe bring a little bread."
"You fuss," she teased softly.
"I have cause to fuss." He looked her over with the concern of a loving husband, but then his expression lifted… a quiet brightening.
This was something new in his demeanor that she had never seen in him before. Not the heavy protectiveness he’d shown in the days after the scaffold, nor the restrained warmth of their reconciliation. This was something lighter. She might even describe him as spry as of late. A new kind of spark that she was learning to understand as him being hopeful for what was to come.
He tried to hide it behind a composed air, but it slipped through anyway. She saw it in the way he lingered at the door before leaving each morning, in the quiet little smile he fought whenever she touched her stomach absentmindedly, in the way he handled her differently.
"It is the third day of sickness, mouse. I will call for Dr. Alderton again."
She laid her hand on his knee and nodded. "Okay. We will see if he can say with certainty, but I have a feeling it is still too early."
"Your courses still have not come, you wake sick in the mornings, and last night you were faint after tea. Even if it's too early, I will insist."
Harry kissed her forehead and made his leave. Not long after he'd gone, Phoebe arrived with bread and hot tea that both soothed and filled Y/n's insides warmly. But more than the tea and the bread, her friend's presence comforted her thoroughly.
Before midday, the physician arrived with his satchel and a respectful bow as Phoebe let him in the room. "Majesty. You look well," he said.
"Do I?" Y/n said as she moved across the room toward the doctor.
He gestured politely. "If you would sit, I shall ask you a few questions."
Phoebe stood nearby, trying not to beam but failing. She kept her hands clutched at her back and her mouth sealed, but Y/n could see the strain it took for her to keep her composure. It was almost as if Phoebe were more excited about the prospect of Y/n's disposition than even she was.
The examination was modest and brief. He checked her pulse. Asked about her appetite. Felt lightly along the low curve of her abdomen with no more pressure than a butterfly’s touch. Questioned her about her courses, her sleep, her morning spells.
When he finished, he stepped back with a small, warm smile. "It is early, Majesty," he said. "But all signs are consistent with childbearing."
Y/n felt her breath leave her, even though she already felt the delicate changes in her body and was certain of it by then. Still, to hear of it from the doctor felt very final. As exciting as the news was, it was equally scary.
The physician continued, gentle but firm. "You must rest often. Avoid sudden exertion, but take a bit of fresh air daily if you can manage it. Light but frequent meals are best. Steeped ginger for nausea and warm compresses if discomfort grows."
Y/n nodded, dazed. "Thank you."
When he left, Phoebe threw her arms around her with a giddy little squeak. This was something a lady-in-waiting should not do, but friendship outranked etiquette in the privacy of those chambers. Y/n welcomed her friend's cheer and love openly.
"Oh, ma’am," Phoebe breathed, "a child. You will give the king an heir."
Y/n held her, blinking against sudden hot tears. Her heart felt full and wild and terrified all at once.
"I suppose I will."
"Wait until His Majesty hears," Phoebe whispered. "He will be beside himself."
.
When the news found Harry, thanks to Phoebe, he felt faint in the head but overwhelmed with something deeper and more severe. He was excited yes, but this meant that he would have to ensure his Queen's protection even more now than ever. Not only was childbearing already a very dangerous thing to endure, if she was not given the proper care she could succumb and his chances of losing her were greater now than they ever had been.
Harry returned early that evening, which was a rare thing. He entered the room with a pace too swift to be casual and crossed to her where she sat.
"Phoebe sent word," he said. "Tell me."
Y/n rose from the settee slowly. "He believes I am with child."
For a moment, Harry stared at her like a man whose entire world had shifted at once. Her husband, the king of Thornekeep, was visibly shaken.
Then he cupped her face in both hands and kissed her mouth so softly and breathlessly that Y/n could feel every emotion he held inside.
He pulled back only enough to look into her eyes. "Are you well? Any pain now? Any dizziness?"
"No," she whispered. "Just… a little tired and sick in the mornings, as you know."
He exhaled deeply and rested his brow against hers. "I have never prayed for anything," he murmured, voice breaking quietly. "But I pray that you are kept well and healthy. I will do everything I can to ensure it."
Her heart pulled tight in her chest.
"Hush," she whispered, kissing his cheek. "Once again you fuss. Everything is okay right now."
"We will make it well," he said fiercely, quietly, as though vowing it against the entire world. "I will double the guard again. No stranger comes within ten paces of you. You do not walk alone, not even in the garden. I will have Niall stay with you as well as the—"
"Harry—"
He shook his head. "I will not risk you. Not now. Not ever."
She let him hold her, feeling his joy radiate through the tension and fear that lived side by side in him. He rested a hand over her stomach and smiled at her.
"We will endure this together," he whispered.
Then he swallowed and his shoulders loosened just slightly before he continued. "I am so very happy, my love. This news changes our course forever, but I am ready for it."
Her eyes stung as she nodded at him and then wrapped her arms around his middle, pressing her cheek to his chest. She felt the same. The news was joyous, but unsettling at once. She closed her eyes and said a quiet prayer of thanks to God.
.
The castle did not know, not officially. But rumors had a tendency to spread all on their own in Thornekeep. Maids and servants were always watching, listening, paying too much attention to things they shouldn't when their days grew long and boring.
By the week following, whispers moved through the corridors like drafts. She heard bits and pieces. Some were happy of the news, others were not.
Doctor Alderton was with her near an hour…
If she gives him a child, the realm is lost.
What joyful news!
And that afternoon, Y/n did not mean to overhear the men when she neared the upper-floor chamber with Niall at her back. Normally the doors were closed for privacy in the old solar when anyone gathered inside, but right then, the doors were open when she caught the tail end of a hushed conversation that came from the room.
"…and if she gives him an heir, the king will be undone."
Y/n paused, not turning to look back at Niall as she listened closer.
"There are those who won’t allow it."
She took a breath and then continued toward the keep to view the kingdom from the topmost floor, as had been her intention before she heard them. The men fell silent as she passed, unaware she’d heard a word. But ice slid from her spine to her ribs.
Niall noticed her falter. "Majesty, are you okay?"
She straightened at once. "It is nothing."
But it was not nothing. The words had her rattled. She'd barely fallen pregnant, and men were already plotting her unborn child's demise.
She kept walking, every step echoing with the words she could not unhear.
If she gives him a child, the realm is lost… There are those who won’t allow it.
.
It had become the new routine for the king to retire to his chambers early every night, no matter how much work he had to attend to . There was no question to his men why he insisted on making his leave like that, and to Harry it was the only thing that made sense. While he trusted the guards he'd placed at the door to protect her, he preferred to see to it himself, with his own eyes, that she was okay.
And like every evening since he'd learned of the doctor's report, he had been doting with gentle hands at the small of her back, asking her more than once how she was feeling, offering to bring her fruit, and arranging extra pillows without being asked. But now, as she sat on the edge of the bed smoothing her nightgown over her knees, he watched her with a careful look.
"You’re quiet," he said at last. His voice held only concern threaded with exhaustion. "More than before. Something sits upon you."
"It is nothing," she said, drawing the covers back.
Harry exhaled a soft breath at the idea of her suffering alone. He crossed the room, extinguished the last lamp, and climbed into bed beside her. The feather mattress dipped under his weight, and then his hand found hers beneath the blankets.
"Mouse," he said quietly. "I know when you keep something from me. Please tell me."
She shook her head. "It will only trouble you. It is not a matter of urgency."
He shifted, pressing closer. "Then you must speak it all the more. Trouble me, if that is what truth requires."
His insistence dissolved the last of her resistance. She couldn't hide things from him, especially when worry was written all over her face like that. Truly, she hadn't wanted to repeat the words she'd heard earlier in the day, mostly because she didn't want to think of it. But she couldn't get the voices out of her head no matter how hard she tried to push them away.
"I heard something today," she said. "Voices in the old solar. Men speaking about me."
Harry's brows pulled together as he shifted, eyes focused on her face as she spoke.
She continued. "They said… if I give you an heir, the realm will be lost. And that there are people who won’t allow it."
Harry was silent for a long moment as he let her words sink in. His hand tightened around hers in a bristling, controlled fury she could feel in the tremor of his breath. He worked his jaw and his breaths slowly grew more rapid.
"Who?" he asked, voice low and angry.
"I don’t know," she said quickly. "But Niall was with me and he should know who stood in that chamber."
Harry sat up, only a little, but the movement was taut. He dragged a hand through his hair, jaw hardening, grinding, the undaunted king rising in him like heat from a flame that'd been freshly stoked.
Y/n reached for him at once, pressing her palm to his chest. "Harry," she said, "do not let fear take you. I am protected. I am safe."
He looked down at her. His eyes were fierce, shadowed, and aching with something almost violent. And then, with solemn slowness, he lifted the edge of her nightgown. His hand slipped beneath the linen and rested warm and secure over her lower belly where their baby would soon grow.
Harry bowed his head, lips brushing her temple as he murmured, "You and this child—" He paused and swallowed, tracing a thumb over her skin as he spoke. "I will guard you myself if I must. I will not allow any hand, any threat, any whisper to come near either of you."
"You are acting as if these men could reach me. All these guards, Phoebe, you… It is not possible for harm to come." Even as the words left her, she didn't know that she truly believed it herself, but she needed to calm her husband so that he didn't work himself into a dither.
"No." His tone was quiet and absolute. "Listen to me. There is no one in this world… no crown, no realm, no council more important to me than you. And now this small life we may have made." His fingers stroked lightly over her skin. "If anyone wishes you harm, they will not leave these walls alive. I swear that upon my name."
She felt tears sting her eyes. "You are frightening when you speak so."
"You are everything I fear losing," he answered simply.
She pressed her hand over his, fingers threading with his own over the gentle curve of her abdomen. "We will be cautious. We will be careful. But do not become consumed by this because I need peace, husband. Promise me that much."
His breath eased and after a long moment, he nodded and settled back beside her, gathering her into his arms without releasing her stomach from beneath his palm. She curled into him, feeling the steady beat of his heart against her cheek.
They lay quietly, entwined, held safe against the dark as snow began to whisper at the windowpanes. Neither could predict the future, but Harry would see to it that his wife remained unharmed.
Harry kissed the top of her head. "Sleep, my mouse," he whispered softly. "I have you."
"And I you," she whispered back, eyes closing as she brushed her palm over his chest, adoring how warm and solid he was. She'd never felt so safe and loved as she did when she was in his arms that way.
His hand stayed over her womb as their breathing steadied into the same rhythm, their bodies pressed close, their fears and their joy folded into one shared warmth. And as the fire sank to embers, Y/n let herself rest against him, despite the realm outside their chamber doors already whispering of the heir who might change everything.
. .
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Series Summary: Harry, a handsome, but ill-mannered new king, bound by tradition, must select a queen, and against all expectations, he chooses Y/n, a street beggar. Now, Y/n finds herself caught between the gilded cage of royalty and the cold, harsh simplicity of her past, navigating a court shocked by her presence and a king who revels in the scandal of it all.
Note: Harry is mean/uncouth in this, though things do get better. He doesn't treat anyone around him with much respect at all. Expect to not like him much at first. Also, this is set in the 1800s England, and while not completely historically accurate, I did my best to keep it as accurate as possible.
Ch. 9 Word Count: 8k
Ch. 9 Warning: Angst; mentions of treason, poisoning, political unrest, and mob violence; domestic conflict.
. .
Y/n couldn't help but notice the distance that had taken root between them in the days following the spectacle she’d caused. She had known he would be angry for a moment. What husband, what king, would not be? But she had not imagined the quiet. His silence was worse than fury. It was polite, unbroken, heavy as the frost on the ground.
He was not cruel and he did not raise his voice. He did not snap nor sneer. But she could feel his resentment in the way he wouldn't look at her directly, in the way his replies came trimmed and tidy, leaving no room for warmth. When he walked into a room, she felt the air change. When he left, the silence he took with him seemed to close around her throat.
He came to bed late now, long after she had turned to her side and feigned sleep, though she would always stir when he slipped beneath the covers. He no longer reached for her. The mattress dipped, the blankets shifted, and that was all. At dawn, she would wake to the careful step of boots on the floor before hearing the latch of the door closing as he left her alone. Her husband had become a ghost that haunted the edges of her life.
Once again, that morning, she found herself alone in the breakfast room, the fire kept dutifully bright by servants. The table had been laid for two, but only one plate was disturbed. A thin curl of steam rose from the second teacup, untouched. She stirred her tea slowly, watching the small whirlpool sink into the porcelain.
When he finally entered, he looked every inch the King. He wore a black doublet, the collar starched, and the kind of composure that could cut stone. He nodded in greeting, eyes flicking past her as though she were another figure in the room.
“You’ve an early council?” she asked, voice quiet.
“A long one,” he said, taking the far seat. His tone was mild, careful.
She nodded and cut her bread, though she had no appetite. “Will you dine here this evening?”
“I do not yet know.”
For the last few days it had been I do not yet know. The phrase had become a wall.
She tried again, softer. “I thought perhaps we might speak—”
“I will be late,” he said, reaching for his gloves. “Do not wait up.”
Her knife slipped against the plate and made a small, sharp sound. “I rarely have the chance,” she whispered.
If he heard, he gave no sign as he rose, smoothed the cuff of his sleeve, and inclined his head as if she were a visiting dignitary rather than his wife. “Majesty.”
“Majesty,” she echoed, her mouth dry.
When he left, the room seemed to open up again, and she could breathe. She sat there for a long time, staring at the space he had vacated. Was what she'd done so bad that he could not even speak to her now? She bit down the dread and restlessness in her and stood from her chair to take a walk through the garden and clear her mind.
She knew the paths in the yard well by now and appreciated the cold breeze at her cheeks that served as the tiniest distraction from her inner turmoil. The sky was gray with the threat of rain, and the tidy shrubs smelled of damp earth. Her second guard followed at a respectful distance, a new addition since the square incident. The sound of his boots behind her reminded her with every step that she was never truly alone.
She paused near the fountain, watching the water shiver under the wind. How strange it felt to be a queen and still so small in her own life. She had stopped a hanging, and yet she could not summon a husband’s gaze.
A voice broke through her thoughts. “Majesty?”
It was Niall. He stood a few paces back, helm tucked under one arm with an unreadable expression. “Would you like the carriage brought round? The clouds are turning.”
“No,” she said. “I prefer the walk.”
He hesitated. “As you wish.”
Y/n drew her cloak tighter and kept walking. The roses had begun to die back for winter, their scent gone faint and sour. She thought of the people who had stood in the square, of the voices that had risen around her. Some in awe, some in anger. She wondered how many of them still cursed her name.
At the end of the garden path stood the west corridor, its tall windows fogged with condensation. She pressed her palm against the glass and watched her print form before she turned in time to see Harry crossing the courtyard, cloak snapping in the wind. Even from her distance, she could see the tension in his shoulders, the way he moved like a man walking through invisible chains.
She almost called out. But instead, she watched until he disappeared through the outer arch, swallowed by gray daylight.
When the rain had come she returned to her room and took tea alone. The servants lit the fire and then withdrew. Her book lay open on the table beside her, unread. She was too anxious to read it.
She traced the rim of her cup with a finger and thought of his hands… the hands that had trembled when he spoke of losing her, that had once reached across the dark for her. She had thought mercy would make him proud of her. Instead, it had driven him from her.
Y/n had never imagined that she would feel this way about a man she once held in such bitter contempt. At one time, she thought of him as a vile man and hoped she would not often have to be around him. She thought that their marriage would be for show and that she would only have to attend her duties when called, and that would've been fine with her. But now? She wanted more of him than that now that she'd learned who he really was under his fine dress. He wasn't just a cold and rotten man like everyone said. He had a heart, and he'd been warm toward her. He'd protected her and looked at her like she was a special gift.
Clutching a hand to her heart, she frowned. It would have been so much easier if she still thought him an awful devil. It would have been easier if he hadn't been so tender and loving with her. Her world no longer felt steadfast. She wasn't sure it ever would again.
.
The rain was still falling after noon time, a fine, needling drizzle that turned the flagstones slick as the chilled air froze the dampness. Y/n walked through the West Wing of the castle with a purpose she did not entirely possess, the hem of her gown lifted just enough to keep from tripping, her new guard and Niall both keeping pace a few steps behind.
“Captain,” she said without turning, “where is His Majesty?”
Niall did not pretend to misunderstand. “The south gallery, Majesty. With the factors from the river wharves.” He hesitated, then added, “A light sitting, ledgers and tariffs.”
“Thank you,” she said, and reached the end of the corridor with a hand already out for the latch, her mind made up. The Ledgers could bear interruption. She could no longer wait for her husband to speak to her. She needed him to cede his thoughts to her at once. The silence was no longer tolerable.
The south gallery had been built to allow for as much sunlight as possible with soaring windows and high ceilings. It was a long room paneled in pale oak, the carved heads of past kings peering down from the cornices.
When she entered, she observed that a small table had been pulled to the center, and around it stood four men in plain coats with ledgers open, their hats held respectfully against their chests. Harry was there at the head of the table, sleeves turned back just enough to keep ink from his cuffs, his hair still carrying a trace of rain as if he'd only just gotten to the meeting moments before she arrived.
He saw her almost at once, though his face did not change. The others in the room turned toward her like weathervanes, bowing in a dutiful ripple.
“Majesty,” a few murmured.
Y/n stepped into the room with her head high and her hands steady at her sides, even though she felt like falling to her knees in tears. “Forgive me,” she said. “I require a word.”
Harry set his pen aside. “Gentlemen, we will adjourn.”
The factors retreated quickly, passing her by with stiff bows before leaving Harry and Y/n alone together in the room.
He remained where he stood, as if there were a drawn line between them, with his hands clasped behind him, the picture of composure. “What is it you require?” he asked. “Be brief.”
“I require my husband,” she said, before she lost her nerve. “The one who used to speak to me.”
“I have spoken.”
“As a king to a petitioner,” she returned, and the edge beneath her composure showed as her heart raced. “I am not your petitioner. I am your wife.”
His gaze flicked to the windows and back, as if it were a heavy thing to receive her words directly. "Perhaps petitioners are safer."
Her pulse jumped. “Safe is not the same as silent. You have been avoiding me.”
“I have been occupied.”
“With what? The ledgers? Those men who just left us?” She took a breath and steadied herself. “You have not looked at me. You have not touched me. You lie yourself in our bed as if the whole length of it were a ditch between us. What sin is it you find so great that you must treat me as nothing?”
He took up the pen and set it down again. “The sin,” he said, and the word was dry as paper, “is not unknown to you.”
“I know what I did and what I meant to do,” she said. “I meant to act for mercy.”
“Then we have very different definitions of mercy.” He moved toward the window.
The rain outside thickened, pattering against the glass as if it could feel the tension rising within the room. Y/n’s fingers knotted together. “Harry, please look at me.”
He slowly lifted his gaze. And in his look was something colder than anger…disappointment, and restraint. “You put yourself before a crowd when I told you not to. You made me a spectacle. I cannot discuss that here.”
“Why not? You discuss tariffs and taxes here—”
He cut her off. “Because tariffs do not seek approval of the public in defiance of me."
The words struck her hard. She swallowed and felt her throat tighten. “Then tell me when you will speak to me, so that I may prepare myself for being scolded like a child.”
He stepped from the window to the table, collecting the dropped quill, setting it neatly beside the inkstand. Everything he touched seemed to quiet beneath his hand. Part of her wished he'd throw the inkpot and make a scene just so he would finally talk.
“Not here,” he said.
She blinked. “Pardon?”
He looked up fully this time. “Not here, Y/n. Not while the walls have ears.”
“When, then?”
He briefly closed his eyes and took a breath, like she was a boil he could not get rid of. Like it took strength for him to speak to her at all in that moment. Like the very notion of having to converse with her was a torture he didn't wish to endure. “Tonight.”
“Tonight,” she repeated, hearing the warning beneath it. “Very well.”
He inclined his head in something like a bow, polite to the point of cruelty. “Very well.”
She hesitated. The air between them thin and almost breakable. “Harry…”
He stopped halfway to the door.
“I am still the same woman,” she said softly. “The one you held that morning.”
He turned just enough for her to see the muscle move in his jaw. “That morning,” he said, “I thought you knew better. I was mistaken in how naive you really are, and that is my error.”
Then he was gone.
She stood long enough to hear the muted rhythm of rain against the windows as it softened and slowed again. She had a new understanding now of Harry's anger. He felt that she'd defied him directly, even though that had not been her purpose. Had she truly been so naive?
When she stepped out of the room, Niall was there at his post, and he straightened.
“Majesty.”
“Captain.” She kept her chin high, though her voice was thin. “I will return to my chambers now.”
He nodded. “As you wish.”
She started down the hall, her guards behind her. The opulent corridors and rooms that wound through the castle had seemed to have lost their luster as her mind repeated the encounter with the king. She wondered to herself if she had known that he would be so displeased, would she still have gone through with her actions? She thought she had done a good thing, something that would show the people of the kingdom that Harry was a King with mercy in his heart and that the Queen was no milksop.
Y/n was beginning to realize that even with good intentions, her husband saw her deeds as ignorant and haughty. Perhaps she still had much to learn.
.
Y/n tried to read but couldn't keep to a line. The same sentence slid past her three times without taking. She shut the book and sat it on her knees. The chamber was tidy and warm, but she couldn't help but feel the atmosphere around her threatening and oppressive… waiting for the evening to fall.
Phoebe folded a length of fresh linen with neat corners at the table. She watched her friend closely, seeing that she had something on her mind. "You may speak freely with me if you wish, ma'am."
The queen shifted her gaze to Phoebe as if she needed a moment to decide how to say what she needed. Because Y/n did want to speak to her friend about her troubles. She didn't have many she could do that with.
“I cannot bear this quiet,” Y/n said at last.
Phoebe set the linen aside. “Shall I open a shutter?”
“No,” she answered. “It is not the room.” She rubbed at the bridge of her nose and lowered her hands with a sigh. “It is me. It is the king.”
Phoebe paused her hands, setting her full attention on Y/n now. “What troubles you?”
“He has not spoken to me properly since the square,” Y/n said. “Not really. He is… polite to me the way one is to a stranger brought to dinner. He comes to bed late, he leaves early, and when he looks in my direction, he looks past me, as if I were air. I thought if I did the right thing, he would be proud. I thought he would see me and think, there is my wife, brave and kind.” She tried to laugh but could not. “Instead, I have turned into a nuisance and an ignoramus.”
Phoebe’s expression softened with sympathy. “I believe you frightened him,” she said gently. “You frightened me as well. I was truly worried for you. Some whispered that you'd be charged with treason.”
Y/n blinked at Phoebe. "Treason? I had not thought…" She shook her head, fighting the sting of tears. "I did not mean to frighten anyone. Forgive me, Phoebe."
"You need not ask forgiveness from me. I know your heart and I know you did what you thought you had to. You are too good for the people of this kingdom. Your mercifulness did not go unnoticed by me, but that does not mean others think highly of your actions."
Y/n stared into the fire. “I went to him to talk earlier, and he told me we would speak tonight. He said it as if he meant to put the whole matter on a table and cut it open at once.” She set the book aside and pressed her palms to her skirts to stop the restless movement of her legs. “I have never wanted a thing and dreaded it in the same breath as much as I do to finally hear what he means to say to me."
Phoebe nodded. “He may be incensed right now, but soon he will soften again. If I can see your heart in this, then I believe he can as well. You are too precious to him. His silence is temporary. I cannot fathom that he will remain so cold for much longer.”
Y/n glanced up at her and gave a rueful smile. “I do hope that he speaks to me his mind tonight. I would rather a spar than another day of his silence.”
“A spar? My Queen, so dramatic!” Phoebe said with a laugh, and for a moment, they both smiled like the girls they had been. "You know as well as I do that he would not lay a finger on you in that way. You are his little mouse. That has not changed."
The small ease broke, and Y/n’s thoughts returned to the square. The rope. The faces. The sound she had made when she said stop. “I feel as though I've made a grave error. He said I was naive, and I believe he is right. I do not know what I am doing anymore."
Phoebe nodded. “You will learn. Your queenship is in its infancy. You've barely just wed the king."
“Then we should be acting as such. I feel I've hardly had a chance to learn him and he already hates me."
“He does not hate you,” Phoebe said, “he is a man and you have threatened his pride by going against his word.” She lifted a brow. “Tonight you two will make amends and tomorrow I'll find you aglow and at ease after a little…" She glanced toward the door and then leaned in, speaking quietly, "blanket hornipipe.”
Y/n breathed out a laugh. “Blanket horn—… Phoebe!” She covered her mouth, scandalized.
The girls both laughed as Phoebe then sat beside her on the small settee and took Y/n's hand. “May I say a thing you will not like?”
“You must.”
“I was not only frightened for you,” she said. “I was frightened for myself as well. The consequences.”
Y/n turned to her at once. “I know. I am sorry.” The apology came quickly. “I made you help me, and I should not have.”
“You did not make me,” Phoebe said. “You asked, and I chose. But I chose with my heart beating out of time. And after—” She stopped, swallowed, and finished in a steadier tone. “After, I was taken to task.”
Y/n stilled. “By whom?”
“The steward and the Master of Household.” She made a small face. “The steward said I had let your friendship turn my head. The Master said I had forgotten my place. He told me to remember my mother’s wages and my father’s back. He was very grand about it.”
A hot, helpless anger pricked behind Y/n’s eyes. “He will regret saying such things to you when it was my fault,” she said, low.
“It is done. Words do not draw blood unless we let them.” She hesitated. “But there was worse.”
Y/n steadied herself. “Tell me.”
“Captain Niall was nearly dismissed.”
The words landed plain and heavy. Y/n blinked. “Dismissed,” she repeated.
“He left his post at your request,” Phoebe said. “It does not matter that I opened the service door. He should have stopped me. He should have barred you. That is what they said. He went before the Master of the Guard and was told to pack his things.” She paused, studying Y/n’s face. “The King intervened. He was firm with the Master. He said the fault was shared and the Captain would remain. The Master did not like it, but he obeyed.”
Y/n set a hand to the edge of the chair as if the room had moved. “He did that?" She could hardly believe Harry had stepped in for Niall that way. "If the king had not spoken—”
“Then Niall would be on the road by now,” Phoebe said. “With no post and no hope of one in Thornekeep again.”
The quiet that followed did not feel like the earlier quiet. It had flesh and weight, and it sat between them like a third person. Y/n found she could not trust her voice for a moment. She swallowed and tried again. “I did not see the price. I did not even look at the purse. I've been a fool.”
Phoebe folded her hands. “You looked at the rope,” she said simply. “You sought mercy, but you did not look at the steps that led to it.”
Y/n bowed her head, then lifted it. “Are you angry with me?”
Phoebe considered. “Never,” she said. “Then I was frightened for you. I am no longer frightened, but I am tired.” She offered a small, crooked smile. “And I do not like being scolded by men who think a small title and a key ring makes them kings.”
Y/n reached for her hand and squeezed it. “Nor do I.” She drew breath and let it out slowly. “Did Harry scold you?”
“Not as the others did,” Phoebe said. “He told me if I ever kept you from the guard’s side again, he would see me sent to my mother with a letter that called me a fool. He said it kindly and made it sound like a mercy. Then he told the steward to keep his voice out of my face or he would be removed from his post.”
Y/n pressed her fingers to her mouth, a sound barely escaping, like a laugh with no joy in it. “He frightens and protects in the same breath.”
“He does,” Phoebe said. “But hear me, please.” She held Y/n’s gaze. “He spared us because you are his wife and he adores you.”
Y/n did not smile or gush at that. Her expression went still. The truth did not warm her, rather, it sobered her. “Then my mercy rode on his favor,” she said. “If he did not feel so kindly toward me, others would have paid, and if treason were on the table as you said, then I with my life."
Phoebe’s hand tightened on hers. “Ma'am—”
“No,” Y/n said. “Let me say it.” She stared down at their hands, hers jeweled, Phoebe’s plain, and felt the difference like a lesson. “I would have stopped the hangings again if given another moment. I would. I still believe it was the right thing. But I would not have done it that way. Not through a side door and a lie. Not with you between me and the scolding. Not with Niall’s post set on the table like a coin.”
Phoebe nodded. “Then you have learned the castle’s sums.”
Y/n gave a small huff that was not quite a laugh. “A little late.” She lifted her head. “I am sorry, Phoebe.”
“You do not owe me that.”
“I do,” Y/n said. “Friend to friend, I do.”
Phoebe’s eyes shone with the relief of being seen. “Then I take it.”
Y/n now had awareness and new insight to bring with her that evening. She was grateful for Phoebe's honesty, but also mortified by it. It seemed she had many people to apologize to. Her own husband included.
“Will you tell him all of this?” Phoebe asked.
“Yes,” Y/n said. “I will not go to him with excuses. I will go with sense.” She looked across the room to the mantel. “He will be stern. He will be right to be.”
Phoebe rose and went to the press. “Shall I lay out a gown for dinner?”
“No,” Y/n said. “I will sit with my family tonight. It will steady me.” She smoothed her skirts again, then let her hands be still. “I will go as I am.”
Y/n stood and paced the short stretch between the hearth and the window and back again. “I thought mercy would make him proud."
“He sees your intention,” Phoebe said, “even if ill-timed and hasty.”
Y/n nodded and said, “My mercy endangered everyone.”
Phoebe did not argue with the sentence. She set a hand to Y/n’s sleeve and smoothed it. “It also saved two lives,” she said. “Both truths can stand.”
Y/n met her eyes. “Both will stand,” she said. “And I will stand between them without playing at heroics.” She tipped her head, a small, steady gratitude. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For telling me the whole of it.”
Phoebe’s mouth softened. “Always.”
Y/n crossed to the basin to wash her hands. “Leave me for a little,” she said gently. “I will gather myself and then I will go to dinner. You may take the evening as you see fit."
Phoebe curtsied as she always did, but it ended in a squeeze of Y/n’s fingers the way only a friend might dare. “First, I’ll send for your family’s room to be set and keep a place for you.”
“Thank you,” Y/n said.
Phoebe smiled. “Majesty?”
“Yes?”
“Whatever he says tonight, let him say it. And if he is sharp, do not be sharp back. Let him see you are not his enemy.”
“I am not,” Y/n said. “I never was.”
“I know. So does he.”
When the door closed, the chamber’s quiet returned, but it no longer crowded her. Y/n stood for a while watching out the window, considering what she would say and what she would not. She had made a choice in the square, and she would make a better one in their room tonight. But before that, she would take her place at her family’s table, and remember who she had been before, and the sound of people who loved her without crown or title.
.
The family’s dining room was smaller than the royal hall but far more alive. The scent of roasted fowl and herbs met Y/n at the threshold, and laughter rang from the table even before she stepped inside. The fire in the corner snapped against the andirons, light pooling across oak and polished silver, and the sound of her family’s chatter filled every corner.
Just seeing them in their new surroundings with such lush dressings, the table set with enough food to feed everyone, the heavy velvet curtains that kept the chill from the room, and the servants standing by… it made her smile. If the king would never again look at her with warmth the way he had before the square, then she would be okay with it, if this was the fate of her family. It was all worth it to have them happy and fed and laughing like they were.
Her father, seated at the head, caught sight of her first. “There she is,” he said with a grin that seemed to age him backward by years. “Our Queen at last graces us with her presence.”
Y/n smiled and bowed her head. “You make it sound as though I were late to supper, Father.”
“You are late to supper,” her grandmother said tartly from her seat near the fire. “And thinner, if my eyes don’t deceive me.”
Her mother made a small, indignant noise. “Oh, don’t say that to her, Mother. She looks lovely.” She rose halfway, hand fluttering to Y/n’s cheek in greeting. “But truly, you’ve worried us. When I heard of the square, I thought I might faint dead away.”
“I heard you did faint,” Dell said dryly, smoothing her napkin over her lap. “It has been the talk of the household ever since.”
“I did no such thing,” their mother protested, laughing, though she dabbed at her eyes for effect. “But I could have. Oh, Y/n, to think of you there amidst that dreadful crowd, and the people who tried to poison you!”
“It wasn’t dreadful,” her father interrupted, carving into the roast before him. “It was history. You’ve done what half the realm’s been too timid to do these hundred years… stood before them and shamed their cruelty.” He looked at her with undisguised pride. “You should have seen the men at the tavern afterward, Y/n. Couldn’t stop talking about how their Queen had a spine.”
“Father,” Y/n said mildly, “I doubt that was all that was said of me.”
Y/n’s mother sighed as Y/n took her seat beside her sister Agnes. “Do not encourage her to risk herself again,” her mother said. “She may have shamed cruelty, as you call it, but she frightened us all to death.”
“She frightened everyone,” Grandmother muttered, reaching for her glass of port. “And she would do well not to test the King’s temper twice. Men do not take kindly to being contradicted in public, least of all kings.”
At that, a silence lapped briefly around the table. The servants refilled glasses, careful not to meet anyone’s gaze but surely all listening closely to the chatter of gossip.
Dell broke the pause with her steady voice. “He is not angry with your heart, sister,” she said. “Only with how you risked your life.”
The words found her directly. They were true, and gentle, and they hurt. Y/n now understood her errors, and her sister was right.
“I know,” Y/n said softly. She reached for her wine and traced a thumb along the rim. “I meant no disrespect to him. I simply couldn’t stand by and watch—”
Her father made a sound of approval, but her grandmother cut across him. “There it is again. Couldn’t stand by.” She turned her sharp eyes on Y/n. “You will find that standing by is half of what keeps a kingdom from burning down around you. You must let the king do his work without causing such tumult.”
Y/n smiled softly, not arguing, though her pulse flickered quick. “I will try to remember that, Grandmother.”
Tess, the youngest, perched on the edge of her chair between Cecily and Dell, leaned forward with wide eyes. “Are you in trouble again?” she asked. “For shouting at the King?”
Y/n froze for a breath, then laughed, soft and a little unsteady. “Something like that,” she said. “But I believe we will sort it out.”
Her mother tutted. “You poor thing. To think your first weeks as Queen would bring such trials. It ought to be nothing but music and moonlight and—”
“—and babies,” Grandmother interrupted again.
Her mother gasped. “Mother, really!”
“What?” Grandmother sniffed. “That’s what they all want, isn’t it? Heirs. I was only saying what’s true.”
Dell gave a small, diplomatic cough. “Perhaps we might change the subject before Cecily dies of embarrassment.”
Cecily did indeed appear discomposed. “I am not embarrassed,” she said primly, which made Tess giggle so loudly she nearly dropped her spoon.
Y/n smiled, the sound of her sisters’ laughter. There were not many sounds more soothing. "Yes, a change of subject might be wise."
Agnes touched her arm lightly. "But babies would be so fun."
“That may be true,” Y/n said, though her smile faltered. “But we shall think of other things until that topic is pertinent.”
Her father frowned, reaching for the bread. “Don’t let them make you doubt yourself, my girl. A man who fears his wife’s conscience is not worth the crown he wears.”
“Careful, love,” her mother warned gently. “You speak of the King.”
“I speak of any man who forgets that a woman’s courage is her worth,” he said, and poured himself more wine, despite his cup already being half ful.
Y/n caught Dell’s eyes across the table; her sister’s gaze was knowing, a silent caution to let the moment pass before their parents turned it into a quarrel. She took the cue, lifted her glass, and smiled. “To the family,” she said softly. “For remembering who I am when I forget.”
Glasses lifted, some solemn, some clumsy. Her grandmother finished her glass in a hasty quaff as she often did.
The talk turned lighter after that. Tess boasted about her new embroidery, Cecily sighed over the young footman who'd set the table, and Agnes teased her gently about romantic notions. Y/n listened, smiled, and spoke where politeness required, but her thoughts kept sliding elsewhere.
She realized that despite the happiness and chatter in the room, she missed her husband at dinnertime. She missed her husband at all, and she wondered if things would return to how they'd been just days before. The noise, the warmth, the way everyone spoke over one another, filled her chest with an ache that was almost relief and almost pain.
Halfway through the meal, her mother reached across to touch her hand. “You’ll see,” she said softly, as if to reassure herself more than Y/n. “He’ll forgive you soon. No man stays angry forever with his wife.”
Y/n blinked. “I imagine that is not true. There are men who despise their wives.”
“But the king does not despise you,” her mother said, smiling. "I have seen him look at you as if you were the jewel on his crown. He will settle, and he will forgive you."
Y/n’s throat tightened. She managed only a quiet, “Thank you.”
When the meal ended, the servants cleared plates, and the family rose to move toward the sitting room. Y/n lingered, feigning a search for her napkin so she might stay behind. The laughter followed them out of the room with Dell’s clear, low voice mingling with Cecily’s giggle, and her father’s rumbling warmth. It was the sound of a home that did not wait for her to return to feel complete.
When they were gone, she stood for a moment beside her empty chair. The firelight caught the rim of her wineglass and cast a trembling reflection across the polished table. She reached out and set her fingers lightly against it, watching the shadow of her hand blur on the surface.
Lifting her glass to finish the last of the wine, she startled when her new guard suddenly stood next to her. “Majesty, shall I escort you back to your room?”
Y/n nodded. “Yes. Thank you.”
As she stepped into the corridor, she glanced back once more at the room where her family’s laughter still echoed faintly. It should have comforted her. Instead, it left her hollow with longing not for her old life, but for the warmth she’d lost in the new one.
When she reached her door, the corridor was empty save for Niall at his post, still as a carved statue. He bowed his head, and she offered a small one in return before slipping inside. The fire had been lit, the lamps turned low, the hearth’s glow warming the quiet room. She stood for a moment just inside the door, letting the hush settle around her like a cloak.
Y/n turned from the window, loosened her coat, and sat by the fire. The warmth touched her face, but did not reach the tightness behind her ribs. She could hear her own heart in the silence, slow and steady, waiting.
The fire had burned down to a low amber glow. The clock on the mantel ticked softly, its rhythm loud in the quiet. Y/n sat curled on the settee with her book unopened, the page she’d meant to start still caught beneath her thumb. The waiting was worse than any argument she could have imagined.
Every creak in the corridor made her glance toward the door. Every echo of boot leather on stone sent her heart jumping. She wondered if the king was biding his time in hopes that she'd be sleeping when he finally arrived. Sleep wouldn't have found her even if she wished it.
The hour had gone deep into night when the latch finally turned, and Harry entered without a word, without a glance toward her. She'd expected as much. Her eyes followed his every move.
He crossed to the chair near the hearth and began to unfasten himself from the day. Gloves first, folded neatly and set aside. His sword belt next, the metal buckle glinting before he laid it on the table. He unbuttoned his doublet halfway and loosened his collar. Then his boots were last. Each one tugged off with quiet care, the motions almost ritual, but too precise for that of a man who was at peace.
She could see it in the hard line of his expression, the tightness of his posture, and the mechanical way in which he undressed; he was not calm. He was just as undone as she was. Her breath stayed small in her throat as she watched him in silence, the fire’s glow catching on the angles of his face, making him seem both beautiful and terrifying at once.
The silence was unbearable. “If you mean to speak your mind, Harry, do it. I cannot live in this silence for another moment.”
He paused mid-motion, then straightened and poured himself a bit of dark brandy. He sat across from her and placed the glass down untouched on the small table between them. He saw to it that the distance was cavernous, a purposeful move to keep her in her place, she figured.
“You should be abed," he spoke quietly and looked toward the fire.
“I could not sleep. We were meant to speak this evening, or had you forgotten me?”
His jaw shifted, the muscle in it flexing. “No,” he said. “I could not forget. This moment has haunted me all day."
She shifted in her spot and kept her eyes fixed on him. "Then speak your mind. Please."
He leaned back in his chair, eyes still on the fire. “My mind,” he said softly, “is not fit for polite company.”
“I am not polite company,” she said. "I am your wife."
He looked at her then as he reached for his drink. The flicker of flame moved through the glass in his hand, carving light across his knuckles. When he spoke, his voice was level, but each word landed like a stone.
“You lied to me.”
Y/n swallowed, preparing herself for his wrath.
“You tricked Phoebe. You nearly cost Niall his command.”
She started to answer, but he raised a hand, not sharply, but enough to still her so that he could speak his piece.
“You made a spectacle of me,” he went on. “Of us. Before my court, before my people. You humiliated their king and your husband in the same breath.”
Her throat closed. He didn’t shout, and that was what made it worse. Her heart pricked with sorrow and shame.
“I never wanted to be King,” he said. “But it was my destiny from birth, and now I am King. I never foresaw that my wife would make me out to be a fool.” He drank a sip of his brandy. “Do you know what it cost me to keep the council from demanding your head?”
Her lips parted soundlessly as she shook her head, tears filling her eyes.
“They called you dangerous. Treasonous.” His mouth twisted. “The Lord Chancellor wanted you confined. The Proctor wanted your title stripped. They said mercy in a queen is a contagion. That I’d let it spread like rot.”
She pressed her palms together in her lap. “And you silenced them.”
“I did,” he said. “And I would again. But I will not pretend it was easy. You do not know the price of your defiance.”
She looked down, the firelight blurring through her lashes as a tear broke free. “I didn’t think—”
“No,” he said louder. “You didn’t.”
She looked at him. "Then why didn't you turn me away and continue with the hangings?"
He blinked slowly. "Had I not acquiesced, the whole kingdom would have seen your actions as traitorous. You do not understand the mind of the mob when dissent is in the air. The people of Thornekeep would have seen my denial of your request as a death sentence to you."
Her voice trembled. “I only wished to stop a cruelty with mercy. But I understand now that I was negligent.”
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Mercy pleases no one but the wicked,” he said. “It gives them time to sharpen their knives. The men you spared will wake every day thanking you for your gentleness, and planning how best to repay it with blood.”
She flinched at the edge in his tone, but he wasn’t finished.
“You put yourself in that crowd,” he said. “Surrounded by men who would have cheered if you’d been struck down.” His voice sounded raw. “If you’d fallen—”
He stopped. The rest did not come as the words failed him. He sat back, staring into the fire as if the sight of it might steady him.
Y/n rose. Her skirts brushed the floor as she crossed the room. She came to him slowly, unsure if he would allow her near but he did not move when she knelt beside his chair, her knee down on the rug, hand trembling slightly as she laid it over his chest.
“I didn’t see it as you did,” she said softly. “I thought I was doing right.”
He didn't speak as he looked down at her, kneeling next to him, her eyes rounded softly.
“I never meant to put anyone in danger,” she went on. “I wanted only to keep you from cruelty.”
She waited a breath for him to respond, but he remained silent, so she continued, hoping her words were received with an open heart and forgiveness.
“But I see now that I overstepped,” she said. “I was proud. I was foolish.” She swallowed, the words thick in her throat. “I’ve learned that goodness without understanding is just another form of selfishness. I did not see it before."
The brandy glass lowered to the table, and his hand fell open, empty. The firelight found his eyes, and she was surprised by the emotion revealed on his face.
“You make me want to believe in a gentler world,” he said at last. “But the world is not a gentle place, my love. You do not know yet the order of things.”
Y/n’s breath shook out of her. My love. Oh, how that had brightened her insides at once. “Then teach me, husband,” she whispered. “Show me what I do not yet know. I promise that I will listen. I will learn. I want to stand beside you, not against you.”
His composure broke then as he reached out, a large hand wrapping her wrist, and drew her up into his lap, his arms closing around her like a man gathering a thing he’d feared he’d lost forever. She pressed her forehead to his shoulder, her tears hot through his shirt.
“I have said it before, and I will say it again. I do not want to lose you,” he said against her hair. “Not to poison, not to mobs, not to your own courage.”
She lifted her head, eyes red, and met his gaze. “Then let me earn your trust again.”
“You already have it,” he said. “It is the world that cannot be trusted, and that is a thing you must learn.”
She leaned against him, and he let his chin rest on the crown of her head, the two of them sitting in the quiet as the fire sank lower. Y/n finally knew relief in his arms. His forgiveness and his warmth washed her in such light that she felt newly strengthened.
He spoke again in a whisper, “Y/n.”
“Yes?”
“I will never forgive the world if it takes you from me. So please do not do things that make that a possibility ever again.”
She closed her eyes and held him tighter. “I swear to it. I shall never risk myself again, nor will I stand in defiance of you. I am sorry for my stupidity.”
Harry let out a breath, one that seemed to unspool all the days of his restraint. He cupped her face in both hands, tipping her face up, his thumbs brushing away the tears that clung to her lashes. “My little mouse. You are braver than anyone would have ever known. In another world, Thornekeep would be crowning you as king.” He smiled then, as if humor could dry her tears.
A breath of laughter escaped her. “You are more brave than I. And more frightening than any mob.”
“God help me, I hope not,” he said, his mouth still drawn up in a smile. He pressed a kiss to her forehead. “You terrify me, Y/n. You and that heart of yours.”
She smiled weakly up at him. “My heart belongs to you, husband. Let it not terrify you. I swear I will not make such haughty decisions again.”
He huffed a small laugh. "And mine belongs to you.”
He kept his arms wound around her, her cheek resting against his chest where his heartbeat thudded steady and alive. The weight between them had shifted. Forgiveness lay in the air, quiet and binding.
When she finally lifted her head, his eyes had softened again as his thumb ran gently along her temple. “No more ghosts between us,” he said quietly.
“Never again,” she promised.
“I have missed you,” he said, his nose brushing lightly over hers.
Y/n’s breath trembled against his. “And I you, my king.”
He exhaled softly, as if the words alone unburdened him. Then his mouth found hers. The kiss was unhurried, a reconciliation sealed in warmth and forgiveness. His hand came up to cradle her jaw, a thumb stroking the curve of her cheek as though to reacquaint himself with her all over again.
For the first time in days, she let herself melt and unwind. All the tightness in her chest, the guilt, the restless fear of losing him, it all loosened beneath his touch.
Harry deepened the kiss just slightly, his lips moving with constrained hunger, as if he should rein in his urges. His other hand slid to the small of her back, holding her close until the world itself seemed to only contain the two of them. No court, no crown, no watching eyes.
When they parted, their foreheads rested together, his breath warm against her skin as his thumb traced her lower lip, still damp from the kiss. “You undo me, my little mouse,” he whispered. “Every time I think I’ve steeled myself, you find the chink in my armor.”
She smiled faintly. “Perhaps that’s my duty as your wife.”
He huffed a quiet laugh, low and hoarse. “You have a way of making even ruin feel like grace.” His gaze searched hers, something raw and unguarded flickering there, not of the King of Thornekeep, but the man underneath she longed to know more of.
“I do not deserve you,” she murmured, eyes sliding toward the edge of the divan.
He tilted her chin so she’d meet his eyes. “You are all I deserve,” he said. The words came stripped of ceremony. His gaze heated every atom of her being. “I love you. God help me, I do.”
Her heart leapt, and she reached up to kiss him again, a promise returned in silence. His arms wrapped around her hard, as if to make certain she was real. That the woman there with him still was flesh and not some taunt heaven had granted only briefly, just to take from him.
At last, there was peace and an unbreakable vow between them. They would go forward as one, steadfast against whatever sought to divide them. Not crown, nor kingdom, nor the fault of their own hearts would part them again.
. .
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Series Summary: Harry, a handsome, but ill-mannered new king, bound by tradition, must select a queen, and against all expectations, he chooses Y/n, a street beggar. Now, Y/n finds herself caught between the gilded cage of royalty and the cold, harsh simplicity of her past, navigating a court shocked by her presence and a king who revels in the scandal of it all.
Note: Harry is mean/uncouth in this, though things do get better. He doesn't treat anyone around him with much respect at all. Expect to not like him much at first. Also, this is set in the 1800s England, and while not completely historically accurate, I did my best to keep it as accurate as possible.
Ch. 8 Word Count: 8,337
Ch. 8 Warning: References to execution, political conspiracy, verbal and physical aggression, threat of poisoning
. .
In the council chamber hall, Harry waited at the head of the table and watched the door. His vision was red with fury, his hands were shaking, and his heart was pounding. He stood with both hands braced on the wood, the cloth-wrapped shard of sugared sweet set before him. The chair next to him remained empty. He couldn't even think about sitting in it.
Niall took his place at the King’s right, silent, steady, eyes on the door with him.
“Bring them,” Harry said.
They came in with guards at their elbows. Footman Evan first, then Mr. Hawkins, the pantry clerk. Last, the palace confectioner, hat clutched in his hands, already shaking his head as if to deny he’d ever seen a kitchen in his life.
Harry first looked at Evan, eyes set in wild anger.
“You carried a tray to the Queen today.”
“Yes, Majesty,” Evan whispered.
“On whose order?”
“Mr. Hawkins’, Majesty. He said he wanted to send compliments to Her Majesty, it was from…" Evan swallowed, the click in his throat loud enough for everyone to hear, “from the clerk’s hand himself.”
Harry held out his palm. “Your note.”
Evan fumbled a folded card from his pocket and Niall stepped around to take it from the boy's shaking hand. Harry didn't remove his eyes from Evan. “Did you open the covers? Touch the sweets?”
“No, Majesty. I carried and set, and left at once. Miss Phoebe was there. I swear it on…on my mother’s name.”
“Your mother is not the law.” Harry’s voice sharpened. “But this will serve for now. Stand aside.”
Evan all but stumbled to the wainscot. A guard caught his arm and steadied him.
Harry turned his head, eyes sweeping toward the pantry clerk. “Hawkins.”
The pantry clerk lowered his head in half a nod. “Majesty.”
“You gave the order.”
Hawkins swallowed. “I passed along a tray, Majesty, as I do of a morning. From the stillroom to the pantry, from the pantry to—”
Harry stepped from the table to the man. One hand closed in Hawkins’s collar and slammed him back into the paneling hard enough to rattle the candle flames. The clerk’s breath left him in a shocked grunt.
“You will not recite your little map to me,” Harry said, low enough that spittle flecked the man’s cheek. “You will tell me who told you to put death on my wife’s plate.”
“Majesty—” Hawkins’ feet tipped as his hands came up, palms empty as if to prove his innocence. “I swear—”
Harry shook him once, a short, brutal jerk. “Name.”
“Wescott!” the man yelped, eyes squeezed shut. “My lord Wescott… through his cousin—God help me—through his cousin!”
The room was silent around the words spoken, only filled in with the sound of Hawkins wheezing.
“Cousin,” Harry said. “Name.”
“Master Ellis of Bellerose. He's a confectioner. He sent a note with a parcel last week. Said the kitchens were to know his sweets were at my lord’s disposal, that they might be… be used as he advised.” Hawkins was panting now. “And yesterday I was told, quietly, to have a plate of pastilles sent to Her Majesty this morning, with a cordial from the stillroom."
"These were purposely not tested before being sent up to my wife? Aren't you the one to oversee this? What else?"
"Your Majesty… Please—"
Harry's grip tightened around his collar, the fabric squeezing Hawkin's neck tight, and he slammed the pantry clerk into the wall again. "Speak!"
"It was only a thimbleful. Only to—” Hawkins paused, his eyes wide, flicking around to everyone in the room.
Harry drove him back into the wood once again. “Only to what?”
Hawkins’ voice broke. “Only to make her… unwell. That was what was said to me. Only unwell. I swear it. Not to kill her.”
“Who told you ‘only unwell’?”
“Mrs. Mable’s woman… Jessa—no, Jo—Joan. I’ve seen her carry notes between her mistress and Lord Wescott. They said—” His throat worked. “They said the Queen must be brought low. That the city would not bear her, and a softer bride would serve the realm better.”
“A softer bride,” Harry repeated. “Pearl Mable.”
Hawkins made a broken noise that could have been assent, could have been a prayer.
The apothecary cleared his throat softly from where he stood by the table’s end, glass stoppered, spoon laid out. “Majesty,” he said, carefully, “the shard smells strongly of cherry-laurel. Laurel-water. The cordial distilled of its leaves. It carries that bitter almond. Enough on a candied sweet, and a lady at fast might have been very ill.” He bowed his head. “I will prove it with reagents in the stillroom, but I am as certain as a man may be by nose.”
Harry did not look away from Hawkins to answer. “You will prove it, and you will write it, and you will sign it under the seal,” he said. Then he stepped back, only enough to let Hawkins breathe, and released his collar.
“Guards,” Harry said.
They moved to take Hawkins, but the King was not finished. He caught the clerk’s jaw in one hand, thumb forcing the man’s face up. “You put your hand to the chain that led to my wife’s mouth.” His voice had thinned to something almost gentle. “Had you thought what that would purchase you?”
Harry struck him. A single, open-handed blow that cracked across the man’s cheek and spun him half a step. “Mercy is for men misled,” Harry said. “You were eager. You knew what this was.”
“Majesty,” Duke Hughes said from the far end, voice papery. “We have a formal procedure for this.”
“We have an attempt on the Queen's life,” Harry said without turning. “And a gallows to remedy it.”
He let go of Hawkins with a shove that sent him into the guards’ hands. “Take him below. He will be held prisoner until I decide his fate.”
Hawkins found his feet and his terror together. “Lord Wescott told me to do it!” he babbled as they hauled him toward the door. “Ask him!" He laughed like he'd gone mad.
Harry’s head lifted at that. “Bring in Wescott,” he said.
They didn't have to go far. The corridor was already full of ears and nosy spectators pretending to work. Lord Wescott entered with his chin high, coat perfect.
“Your Majesty,” he said, making a shallow bow.
Harry waited until the door had shut behind him. Then he stepped around the table slowly.
“Your cousin in Bellerose sends sugared chestnuts,” he said conversationally. “And laurel-water.”
Wescott’s smile did not reach his eyes. “If he does, you must take that up with him. My relatives are many and very free with their wares.”
Harry closed the distance in three strides and hit him so squarely in the face that the room gasped. It was not the measured slap he had given Hawkins. It was a hooked, ugly thing, the kind men learn in combat, knuckles thudding hard enough on Wescott’s cheekbone to send him staggering into the back of a chair. Though the court flinched, no one spoke.
Wescott’s hand came up white and shaking to his face. “You strike a peer, Majesty?”
Harry took him by the lapels and dragged him up so that they were nose to nose. “I strike a coward,” he said, and the word left spit on Wescott’s lip. “You sit at my table and speak of protocol while you reach into my chambers with poison. That is my wife!"
“You have no proof,” Wescott ground out, breath sour. “A clerk’s babble and a whiff of almond? You will hang half the city on the strength of a scent?”
Harry’s fingers tightened. “I will hang you on the strength of your mouth,” he said softly, “and consider it mercy. You would have put my wife in the ground to seat a milksop with pretty hair. You think I do not see you. I have seen you since the day you smiled at me over your cup with your rotted teeth.”
Wescott swallowed. “You will lose this kingdom.”
Harry smiled, then spoke coolly. “Then I will lose it fighting.” He let go and Wescott stumbled into the chair next to him. “Bind him,” Harry said. “Strip him of his seal and his place. He is for the block. Take him down and hold him. No food or water.”
A sound went through the chamber at that. Not words spoken, just the noise men make when something heavier than law drops on the table. The guards took Wescott, and he tried to square his shoulders for the door but failed.
“Send for Mrs. Mable,” Harry said, not raising his voice. “And bring the woman, Joan, who runs between her rooms and Wescott’s. I will hear their pathetic drivel.” He glanced at Evan, who was trying to be invisible against the paneling. “You, boy. If you lie to me again, even by silence, I will have you flogged from this house to the gate. But you will live only because you were stupid enough to be tricked. I see no malice. Do you understand?”
Evan nodded so hard his teeth knocked. “Yes, Majesty.”
Niall set the folded card from Evan on the table before Harry. The King flicked it open with one finger, scanned the neat, bland script, then passed it back, face unreadable.
He turned to the castle confectioner. "What is your name?"
The man bowed his head low. "Mr. Peter Dunman, Your Highness."
"You allowed this tray to pass through without checking it. As castle confectioner, you have made a grave mistake in granting access to a foreign platter of pastilles into this place."
"Forgive my ignorance, Your Highness. I did not know they were in the castle. No one passed them by me first, as is usually the order of things. I was not privy to any of these ongoings until just now." Dunman kept his head low as he twisted his cap in his palms nervously.
Harry stepped in front of him. "Then look at me and say it."
The man tilted his eyes up and looked at the king. "King Styles… Your Highness, I was not made aware of any of this until now. My only mistake is that I was ignorant of these ongoings. But I swear it that I had no hand in any of this."
"Where were you when all this took place? Tell me your schedule, Dunman. From morning until you were called here."
He swallowed. "I woke with the staff bell at half past 7 to begin my day. I walked through the kitchen after dressing at 9 and took stock of ingredients." He paused, eyes wandering toward the wall for a moment. "I looked over requests and then began to make a menu for the afternoon and evening. I had not yet begun making any sweets this day, as of yet."
"Witnesses?"
"Yes, My Lord. I delegated the task of writing my menu to a kitchen maid, Louise. And the pantler noted which ingredients I needed stocked, so he saw me as well."
"Very well." Harry waved his hand and looked at his assistant, Fred. "Go and interview the kitchen maid and the pantler to make sure I'm not being told lies. Also, send someone to fetch me this confectioner, Master Ellis of Bellerose. I understand he may not attend us this day, given the distance, but by tomorrow evening, I want him here so I can look him in the eye when I sentence him to death."
Fred nodded. "My Lord." He turned and left the chamber hall at once.
"You may stand aside, Mr. Dunman."
The confectioner exhaled and backed up toward the wall to stand and wait for the verdict, but the slope of his shoulders said he was slightly more relieved.
It wasn't much longer before the door opened once more. Mrs. Mable swept in as if she had better things to do. As if the chamber hall was too lowly for her presence, her mouth already poised for outrage. Joan followed sheepishly behind, head down at the floor.
Mrs. Mable moved toward a chair at the table. “How dare you drag—”
Harry yanked the chair away before she could touch it. “You will stand,” he said. “You set your hand against your Queen.”
“I?” She laughed, thin, incredulous. “Absurd! You cannot find a woman guilty by the gossip of servants.”
“I can find her guilty by the company she keeps,” Harry said. “By the men who carry her hopes in their pockets.” He took a step that put him inside the reach of her perfume. “You pushed your daughter forward as a bauble to buy the city’s favor. You will not do it over my wife’s grave.”
Color rose high on Mrs. Mable’s cheekbones. “I do not know who attempted to hurt your Queen, but—"
"Your Queen. Do not forget where you stand, old woman."
She blinked and straightened her back. "If my daughter had been Queen, this would not have happened. Thornekeep wants a queen fit for the crown. Pearl is. It's no wonder someone wanted Y/n out.”
“Pearl is fit to be a wife to a shopman,” Harry said, each word a contempt. “You have turned her into a pawn and called it ambition. I pity her having a mother like you.” He stepped closer without touching her. “You have been named as conspirator in this debaucle, and you are hereby stripped of your precedence. Your house is removed from court. You will be confined, and you will pray that I don't change my mind and sentence you to death.”
She opened her mouth and he lifted a hand in warning. She quickly closed it, suddenly not feeling as brave to speak her mind.
Harry looked to Joan. "And you. You have aligned yourself with evil. Speak. What is your defense?"
Joan was trembling all over. Her fingers were twisting into the fabric of her dress as she spoke. "I… I do as I'm told. N–nothing more!"
The King stood in front of the young woman. "You have been named as guilty by a witness. Speak. I want to hear your defense now, or you will find yourself confined to prison for the rest of your days. Do not hold back a word."
Joan looked toward Mrs. Mable, as if to communicate something, and Harry watched the pair exchange silent nods. "Do not look to her. She is no longer your concern. I am the one you should be concerned about. Tell me everything now, and I will consider a lighter sentence for you."
The young woman nodded quickly and blinked before looking back down at the rug under her feet. "Your Majesty. I was informed that the sweets were only mildly tampered with. I didn't want to! I was scared…"
"You should have come to me when you learned about this. Go on. Continue."
"Mrs. Mable had said that she was concerned the queen could be pregnant soon, and that would be the end of hope. She wanted to stop—"
"You will be out on the streets, girl!" Mrs. Mable shouted and struggled against the two guards who held her.
Harry turned to look at the woman. "You think you hold any authority here anymore? You are dumber than you look. Silence or I will have you gagged." He looked back at Joan. "Proceed."
"She… She said to Lord Wescott… If the queen were pregnant, the poison would stop it, and there would be a chance you'd find her unfit if she were unable to carry a child to term. There was a long-term plan in place."
"You little traitorous bitch!" Mrs. Mable spat out, red in the face.
Harry pulled the kerchief from Dunman's breast pocket and hastily shoved it into Mrs. Mable's mouth, jostling her back from the force. "Next time, I'll have your tongue cut out. Keep silent in my presence."
"A long-term plan?" He turned back to Joan.
"Yes, Your Majesty. To bring her sweets that would just make her unwell enough that she would not be healthy to carry a baby. One tray per month. Not to kill, but to make sick. Until you cast her off and search for a new queen to provide you with an heir."
"And I presume the most obvious choice would be Pearl in this case. Guards," Harry turned to them. "Take Mrs. Mable to the north tower. No visitors for her.”
He turned to the room, and everyone leaned away, worried that they were next in line for questions. “Hawkins and Wescott to the gaol for hanging,” he said. “At noon on the morrow after, once the confectioner from Bellerose is in my custody. Evan and Dunman are free to go for now. This one, Joan, cells. I will decide her sentence tomorrow.”
“Majesty,” the Duke tried again, “the town. Wescott is—”
“Popular? Beloved?” Harry asked, almost kindly, a lift to his mouth that could have fooled anyone that it was a genuine smile. “Then let them see what his fame buys.” He looked to Niall. “Post riders to every gate and market. Word will go out clean. An attempt upon the Queen’s life, proved by the apothecary, and punished by law.”
Niall inclined his head. “Aye, Majesty.”
Harry’s hand closed once more on the back of the chair as the knuckles whitened and eased. When he spoke again, his voice was iron. "This is my kingdom and my rule. Anyone who dares touch a hair on the queen's head is a traitor and shall be punished accordingly."
.
Y/n was standing when he entered, and she was already moving toward him before the latch had finished falling. Harry caught her up on the interrogation, one arm hard around her waist, the other cradling the back of her head as if he meant to keep it from the world.
“I am here,” she said into his coat. “I am whole.”
He drew back only enough to see her face. His thumb went to her lip, to her temple, to the soft place beneath her ear… an inventory done by touch. “Did the physician look you over?”
“He did. I’m well.”
Harry clenched his jaw as he nodded and he pulled her in again, until her weight settled against him. “They would have had you sick in my house. Maybe even dead.”
“They did not,” she answered, gentling him. “And they shall not.”
He pressed his mouth to her hair and let the breath go out of him. When he spoke next, the softness was gone. “Hawkins and Wescott go to the block,” he said. “The woman Joan to cells. Mrs. Mable to the north tower and stripped of all the pretty ribbons she has tied around that name.”
Her hands were on his chest and she felt the words as much as heard them. “Death?” she asked, careful.
“Yes.” His eyes were black, anger still on him. “At noon on the morrow after Ellis is brought to heel. Let the town look at the price of their sport.”
“Harry.” She said his name as if it might loosen something. “Do not hang a man for my sake. Not even Wescott.”
“For your sake?” he repeated, anger turning clean. “No, mouse. For mine. For the crown. For the next evening some lord with a silk tongue thinks to season your breakfast.”
She held his gaze. “You will make martyrs of them.”
“They made themselves so when they reached into my chamber for you.” He stepped away, only the distance of an arm, and it was enough to tell her he had decided. “Mercy invites a second try.”
“Mercy can be justice,” she said softly. “Imprison them. Take what they own. Let them live with the shame of it.”
He shook his head once. “Live? To write notes and send cousins and find new hands? I will not have you sleep under that.”
They stood close, opposed on the fates of the men who tried to hurt her, neither raising a voice. At last, she moved the smallest step back into him and he met her halfway, the quarrel left on the floor between them like a thing that would have to be stepped around again.
“I do not agree,” she said.
“I know.” His hand came to the back of her neck. “But I will have you safe. That I will not bend.”
She closed her eyes. “Then just hold me.”
“I can do that.”
. .
The following afternoon came with a rap at the door and Niall’s voice. “Majesty.”
Harry rose from the chair where he had sat himself for tea. Niall bowed his head. “Master Ellis of Bellerose presents himself. He came under escort. We’ve kept him in the lower room.”
Harry glanced back at Y/n and she was already watching him from the bed, propped on one elbow. “Go,” she said quietly. “Find the truth.”
“I will.” He crossed to her, bent, and pressed his mouth once to her brow. “Bolt the door behind me.”
They took Ellis into the small audience room, plain table, straight chairs, nothing to dignify or frighten. The man rose when Harry entered. He had the shoulders of a tradesman and the pinched face of one who had not slept. Flour dust clung to the seams of his cuffs as if he'd been stolen right in the middle of work.
“Master Ellis,” Harry said.“You are cousin to Lord Wescott.”
“Aye, Your Majesty.” The man swallowed. “By my mother’s sister.”
“You sent him a hamper of sweets with a note last week.”
Ellis nodded. “As I do each winter to households who custom with me. Comfits, sugared chestnuts. The note is courtesy, not license. I send no cordials with my parcels. I do not distill.”
“Laurel-water?” Harry asked, evenly.
At the word, Ellis blanched as if something had been struck from him. “No, Majesty,” he said, hoarse. “I keep no laurel in my shop. I warn apprentices out of apothecaries for the same. I will swear it on guild and Gospel.”
Harry let the silence hang long enough to read the man’s face. Then, very calmly, he spoke. “Poisoned sweets were sent up to the Queen. From you.”
The blood went out of Ellis so completely that Niall took a half-step, thinking he might fall. His hands found the back of the chair and held to it.
“To… Her Majesty? In my name?” His breath showed in the cold. “God save me.” He shook his head sharply, once, twice, as if to set the thought straight. “No, Majesty. I did not know. I would not—” His voice frayed. “I am a confectioner. I sweeten feast-days for children and saints. If my cousin has used my name to grease a wickedness, I will answer for the trust I gave him. But I did not send poison. I did not know it touched your house.”
Niall’s gaze went to Harry’s. They had stood in too many rooms with liars not to recognize a man who had just learned what his name had bought him.
“You will leave samples of your stock,” Harry said. “You will write out the names of every runner who has carried your parcels these three months, and you will set your hand to the note you sent Wescott, here, under my seal. You will not trade so much as a sugar thread in Thornekeep until I say you may.”
“Yes, Majesty.”
“I will write to your aldermen and your guildmaster in Bellerose,” Harry went on. “They will open your bins and your books. They will determine your censure there. I will be apprised.”
Ellis bowed his head. “I submit to it all.”
Harry took a step closer, and the man’s eyes flinched and returned. “If I learn you knew more than you have said in this room,” Harry said, soft as steel, “I will throw you in irons and bring you back to watch what becomes of men who lend their names to treason.”
“Yes, Majesty.” The man wet his lips. “May I… may I beg one word carried to Her Majesty? That I am ashamed my parcel was ever named in this. I would sooner break both hands than sweeten such a deed.”
Niall spoke for the first time. “I’ll see it written.”
Harry’s mouth did not soften, precisely, but some rigidness left the line of it. “You will be kept under escort at the south gatehouse until I am apprised and you are returned,” he said. “Eat there. Speak to no one.”
Ellis bowed again, awkwardly, grateful, and allowed the guard to take him.
When the door shut, Harry stood a moment with his palm flat on the table, looking at nothing but the panel of wood on the wall. “A confectioner,” he said at last, almost to himself. “Let Bellerose whip him if they must. My rats live nearer.”
Niall inclined his head. “And they’ve seen your teeth.”
Harry turned from the table. “Post a rider with my letters. And send word up that sentencing will be done forthwith.”
“Aye, Majesty.”
.
Phoebe was at the small writing table in Y/n’s chamber, sorting through a stack of letters, when the Queen closed the door firmly behind her.
“Phoebe,” Y/n said softly a she approached. “I need you to promise me something.”
Her lady looked up at once, wary. “Of course. What is it?”
“The king is planning the execution of Wescott and Hawkins. He's calling court this evening, where he'll announce it publicly, but he has already told me the executions will take place tomorrow. I need you to promise me that you won’t tell the king where I go in the morning.”
The quill in Phoebe’s hand stilled. Her expression tightened. “What? Majesty, no. You can’t mean—”
“I do. I cannot sit here in safety while men hang because of me. The kingdom already hates me. It'll be worse if these men die by my name.” Y/n pressed her hand against the carved chair back. “I’ll go as an ordinary woman, hidden. I must go and stop—”
“You mustn’t.” Phoebe pushed the quill aside and stood. Her voice wavered. “Niall will never allow it. The king—”
“The king needn’t know.” Y/n stepped closer, lowering her voice. “Phoebe, I am begging you. If you have ever been my friend, let this be your silence. I must stop this.”
Phoebe caught her breath, torn between duty and affection. At last, she shook her head in helpless surrender. “You will undo us all.”
“No. I cannot bear to have someone die for trespassing against me, even if they meant me harm,” Y/n whispered.
Phoebe’s hands curled in her skirts, then she gave the faintest nod. “Then at least take what I give you. A plain gown, something simple. The less you look like yourself, the more chance you have to go unharmed.”
Y/n’s lips softened into a grateful smile. “Thank you. You’ll have my eternal thanks.”
Phoebe shook her head. “Better pray you’ll still have your life. Those people are not your friends.”
.
The Great Court of Pleas had been opened, benches hauled in and set in rows beneath the hammer-beam roof for the chamber. A hush went before Harry as he assembled at the dais and faced the room. He stood with the weight of the hall upon him, Niall a half-step behind, the Duke Hughes and the proctor to either side with their books and seals.
“Bring the prisoners,” Harry said.
They came under guard. Hawkins hollow-eyed first, then Lord Wescott with his mouth set in a scornful smile. Joan white to the lips just after Lady Mable, who appeared terrified for once in her life. A clerk read the charges in a dry, carrying voice, then the apothecary’s affidavit was laid upon the table, neat and cold as a blade.
Harry’s gaze never left them.
The Proctor cleared his throat and read from a stiff parchment, spectacles low on his nose. “On the matter of an attempt upon the life of Her Majesty, Queen Y/n of Thornekeep… defendants named: Mr. Hawkins, pantry clerk; Lord Wescott of Thornekeep; Joan, maid to the Lady Mable; and the Lady Mable of High Street, commonly called Mrs. Mable.”
Murmurs went thin and quick at the names spoken. Y/n, seated two steps behind and to Harry’s left, felt each small sound as if it struck her skin. She kept her hands closed in her lap and watched the proctor’s mouth as he read the law but eyes were on her and she knew they were already plotting and placing blame.
“The apothecary swears a cordial of cherry-laurel was employed upon sugared sweetmeats sent to Her Majesty’s chamber. Witnesses: Niall Horan of the King’s guard and Footman Evan… sworn and examined. The King will speak.”
“Mr. Hawkins,” he said, voice even. “You participated in malice that reached my wife's plate. By your own testimony, you did so under instruction and willingly. You are found guilty of attempted regicide by poison. You go to the gaol this day and to the rope at noon on the morrow. You will hang."
A low sound went through the chamber, like dissent and shock. The intake of breath and whispered murmurs rose in the room. Hawkins swayed, suddenly unsteady, but the guard’s fist in his sleeve kept him upright.
“Lord Wescott,” Harry went on, whispers spread through the chamber, “you conspired to that same end. By note, by kin, by cowardice. You are found guilty of treason and conspiracy against the Crown. You will hang.”
That time, the room did gasp, and the murmurs became a ripple of shock, outrage, and disbelief. Executing a lord was beyond living memory. A few of Wescott’s friends half-rose and sat again, faces gone to paper and paste.
“Joan,” Harry said, and his tone did not soften, “you carried notes and lies and kept your counsel when danger came to the Queen. You go to cells to await a sentence. Speak again, and speak truly, and you may yet see daylight.”
He did not look at Mrs. Mable when he spoke her name. “Lady Mable, stripped of precedence. Your house is removed from court, and you will be confined in the north tower, there to remain until judgment is complete. If you speak Pearl’s name into this plot again, I will grind it out of your teeth.”
The hall was all rustle and held breath. Duke Hughes shook his head. The people were not happy. He let the silence fall before he spoke again. “This is the Crown’s will,” he finished, and the Proctor struck the table with his seal.
Harry’s gaze moved over the gathered faces, catching and pinning those who dared meet it. “Let the town hear it plain,” he said. “An attempt upon the Queen proved by the apothecary and punished by law. If any man wishes to petition me for gentleness, he may bring his petition with a rope in his hands, and I will show him how it bites.”
He turned, and the serjeants brought their pikes down as one to signal that court was dismissed.
Y/n rose and felt like the world swam and then tilted for a moment. Even though she knew the king's decision before he spoke it aloud in the chamber, it still had her swaying unsteadily. She let no one see her stagger as she left through the side door with Phoebe at her heels.
.
When Harry finally reached their chamber, he saw Y/n standing by the hearth, still dressed for court. He stood behind her and placed his hands on her shoulders. She didn't look at him, nor speak.
“You should not have been there,” he said quietly.
“I am your queen,” she answered. “Do I not belong where your laws are spoken?”
His hands ran down her arms to her wrists. "I am only trying to protect you."
She didn't respond except to move her hands toward the fire away from Harry's reach.
“Hawkins and Wescott hang.”
She turned at that and held his gaze. “Do not do this.”
“For you? For me? For the crown?” His voice frayed. “Yes. I will. I will not let them make sport of you.”
“You’ve pronounced death,” she said. "I will be blamed and called a liar."
“Death is what they have earned.”
“Harry.” She lifted her fingers, catching in the edge of his waistcoat. “You will make them martyrs,” she said. “They will not be afraid, and they will be righteous in their own eyes. Imprison them. Let them live long enough to know what they chose. But do not make a gallows of me.”
“Let them live to write notes? To find new hands? To send more cousins with baskets?” He shook his head once. “No. They made a gallows of you when they sent poison to your room.”
She took a step closer. “Justice does not always require a rope.”
“I will not gamble you against their courage.” He took her face in his hands. He was careful, as if the world itself required gentling where she stood. “They reached into my house. They reached for you.”
She held steady. “You are not gambling me. You are choosing what kind of king you will be.”
“And what kind of husband,” he answered, the words clipped. “I would rather be cursed as cruel than praised as a widower. You are mine to protect, and I will do so at any cost.”
“And I am here,” she said calmly. “I am not asking you to be weak. I am asking you not to be cruel.”
“Cruelty was theirs.” He let his hands fall, then caught one of her hands in his, rough thumb pressing the pulse in her wrist as if to reassure himself it still thrummed. “The sentence stands.”
They stood there, eyes fixed and steady, a space where neither would yield. Then she set her palm, calm and firm, against his chest. “I cannot bless this,” she said. “I cannot watch it and say nothing.”
He closed his eyes and bowed his head until his brow touched hers. “You do not have to bless it, mouse,” he said, and the gravel in his voice gentled. “Only to let me bear it.”
He lifted her hand and pressed his mouth to the heel of it before he continued. “I will keep you safe,” he said. “I will spend any coin to do it.”
“And I will spend mine,” she answered, still unbending. “Even if it is only my voice,” she whispered, almost not loud enough that he could hear. She didn't want to give away her true intent.
He drew her into him then until her cheek lay over his heart and his arm lay across her back like a bar against the world. Their quarrel would be set aside for the evening. But Y/n was steadfast in her decision to interrupt the proceedings before death could become her legacy. Her only hope was that she would succeed unharmed.
. .
Phoebe had set a small bundle of garments on the chair. A plain wool gown, a coarse cloak, a cap with a narrow brim to hide her profile. She plaited her hair low and tight, her fingers quick, lips pressed.
“You’re certain?” she whispered.
“I am.” Y/n slid the simple ring to the cord at her throat and tucked it beneath her shift. “Once begun, I must see it through.”
A knock sounded. “Majesty?” Niall's voice spoke through the door. “The hour is struck.”
Y/n pulled the cloak close and nodded to Phoebe. The girl opened the door a crack.
“Captain,” Y/n called, keeping to the inner room so he could not see her face. “Send for the chaplain. I would have prayers for the souls condemned.”
“I’ll post a runner and keep my place, Majesty.”
“Let it be you,” she responded. “Tell him I want him here, not in the square.”
The guard was silent for a moment as he looked at Phoebe and to the small crack in the door. “I am ordered to stand at this door.”
“You are ordered by your King,” she said, “and by your Queen. Go, Niall. I will be here when you return.”
Phoebe held her breath and at last Niall answered, “Aye,” and his steps went at once quickly.
The moment his tread faded down the stairs, Phoebe seized the bundle and hauled open the service door behind the clothes press. “Fast, before he thinks the better of it.”
They moved like girls escaping a schoolroom, down the tight staff stairs at the back, along a passage where the walls sweated cold. They came out by the chapel porch into the lower ward. Beyond the inner gate, they could hear the murmurs of people who'd found their anger, all gathered in wait for the spectacle. Y/n set her cap and pulled the cloak’s hood down, while Phoebe fussed at the tie, hands not quite steady.
“If you see Niall,” Y/n said, “turn him the opposite way.”
“I’ll pray he goes the wrong way of his own accord,” Phoebe said, and squeezed Y/n’s fingers hard before letting go. “God keep you.”
“And you, Pheobe.”
Y/n slipped through the gate with two other women carrying bread baskets and followed the slope of the lane toward the square. The gallows had been built off the old cart with oak uprights, a stretcher laid across, the rope already thrown and tied. Men were stamping for warmth with shoulders hunched.
“They’ll hang a lord, right enough,” someone said near her, audibly scandalised. “For that beggar-bride. Mark me, he’ll rue it.”
“Hush,” another answered. “You want your teeth?”
“She came from the street and now she’s set the yard on fire.”
“If someone made an attempt on her, this is their fate.”
“The king will protect his mistake, even if she is not worthy of it. His ego is bigger than his intelligence.”
Y/n kept her head down and moved nearer, letting her shoulder jostle as she pushed through, and the crowd grew thicker. The scaffold’s stout legs filled her vision. The rope swayed in the wind. She stood near a woman with a baby and an old man in a patched coat.
“She won't show her face,” the old man said to no one, peering toward the castle. “Too fine to see a neck crack.”
Y/n tightened her jaw and found a space where her voice could carry when she chose it. Nearby, a woman turned and studied her, eyes narrowing like she was making a sum. Y/n angled her face under the cap brim and bent to adjust the hem of her cloak as if it troubled her.
~
Back in the keep, Niall reached the chaplain’s door and swore under his breath at the empty cell. He pivoted in the corridor, realising exactly what he had done and hating himself for being human enough to obey. “Damn it.” He took the stairs two at a time back toward the Rose Room and found only Phoebe at the threshold, hands folded and face too pale.
“Where?” he asked.
“She asked me for silence.”
“Break it or we are both hanged, Phoebe! Damnit!”
Phoebe swallowed. “I don’t know.” But she didn't need to tell him where. He knew just as she did.
He stared at her long enough for her to flinch, and then he was gone, not toward the great hall but for the side stairs and the chapel porch, the route a woman would choose if she wished to be out in secret. He ran like a man who was to put out a fire before it spread to his home.
~
In the square, the bell tolled again as a line of guards pushed a lane through the press. A serjeant called for order and someone hissed a boo in the crowd and another shushed the hiss. Y/n felt the tremor in her thighs and set her heels as if they were pegs in the earth.
Few eyes noticed her yet but some did. A whisper went like a thread catching. “Is that the queen?” “No.” “God’s bones, look…” Then the murmuring turned inward again, waiting for the prisoners to be brought out.
Y/n lifted her chin under the hood so she could breathe. She hoped that she could find her voice before too many more noticed her as the cart creaked into position at the far end of the lane.
As it got closer, everyone could see Hawkins stood on it, swaying, hands bound, lips moving as if he were praying. Behind the cart was Wescott, jaw set, one eye already bruising from Harry’s fist, his coat straightened to the last button by some loyal idiot who straightened it for him, and thought neatness a kind of courage. Behind them, under guard, Joan and Mrs. Mable walked with a rope at their wrists instead of their throats. Mrs. Mable's chin high in brittle defiance.
Harry was already on the scaffold, black coat buttoned to the throat, hair blown back by the morning’s knife-cold wind. He looked at the rope, then at the men. When he lifted his hand, the bell gave a single solemn stroke.
“By judgment of the Crown,” the serjeant cried loudly, voice raw with the cold, “sentence will be carried.”
Y/n felt the words strike her chest as her heart pounded with nerves. She pushed forward, shouldering past the woman with the baby and the old man. “Pardon,” she said, and then louder, “Pardon,” until there was no room to pass, only the press of bodies and the dark legs of the scaffold.
Wescott mounted the cart’s block with a guard at either arm. Hawkins fumbled his footing. The nooses were lifted. Y/n tilted her head back as she found her voice.
“Stop!”
It wasn't a scream but it cut just the same. Heads turned. The old man beside her went white. “Christ save us,” he breathed. “It is her.”
“Stop,” Y/n said again, and threw back her hood to show her face.
A ripple of voices and gasps went out through the crowd. The nearest guard sprang from the outer border and reached for her, but above them, Harry’s voice cracked loudly.
“Hold! Touch no one!”
The square froze at the unprecedented interruption. He stepped to the edge of the scaffold and stared down, finding her as if he had known already that she would be there. For a moment, there was only the two of them and the wind between.
“Y/n,” he said, a warning and a plea.
She lifted her chin. “You cannot do this,” she called up, clear enough for the innkeepers at the back to hear it. “Not in my name. It is not right.”
A tremor of shock went through the people. They watched, greedy for the quarrel but Harry’s gaze did not leave her.
“I can,” he said. “And I will. For you, my wife.”
“Then hear me,” she answered, the words steady though her knees had begun to shake. “What I want is mercy.”
To her right, a woman made a soft sound, mumbled words to the person next to her, then a man somewhere behind her spat and said she’d soft-handed the realm. Neither mattered. The square had gone so still she could hear the rope creak.
Niall arrived like a storm at the edge of her vision, shoving past a tinker and a pair of apprentices, face set and ashen. He reached her side and stopped dead, chest heaving, hands empty to prove he would not drag his queen like a thief. He set himself between her and the press of bodies, eyes never leaving the scaffold.
Harry stepped down. He did it against a half-dozen hands lifted to stop him, against his own better sense, against every lesson he had learned since he first understood the weight of a crown. He came down the ladder into the crowd like a man descending into cold water and walked the cleared lane toward her. Guards fell in around him and then fell back again at a flick of his fingers.
They met at the foot of the scaffold. He blinked for a brief moment, still not believing that she was there
“You will undo me before these people,” he said softly, and everyone heard it. The square was hungry and ready for scandal that day.
“I will save you before them,” she returned. “And myself.”
He reached for her hand, his fingertips finding her palm. “They put death in your breakfast and you ask me for tears.”
“I ask you for rule,” she said. “Not vengeance. If the Crown’s first answer to fear is a rope, then we teach fear to answer in kind.” She looked around at the people now, finding eyes on her and surging toward bravery as she did so. "These offenders sought to bring me low, to make me unfit for childbearing. Their trespass is black, it is grave, and they shall be punished, but let it not be with death. Let them languish in prison. Let them render account to God for what they have done. That is justice enough.”
Harry lifted his eyes to the scaffold, to the cart, to the empty ropes that swung with the small, insolent wind. Then he looked down into her face, into the stubbornness he had married and the courage he had not known how to bear until it was his to carry.
“Stand with me,” she said, quieter now. “Not above me. With me.”
He could have sent her back under guard. He could have let the bell ring again and the lane close, and the cart roll. He was not a man easily swayed in decision. Yet for Y/n, he bent.
Harry looked past her to the crowd. These were the people who would have cheered should Y/n have turned ill. They would have danced if she were to lose her place. They did not care for her, and yet there she was asking for mercy they didn't not deserve. Her heart was too good for Thornekeep. Too good for him. He raised his head.
“Serjeant,” he called.
The man on the scaffold straightened to attention.
“By the Queen’s mercy,” Harry said, and the square stirred as if it had been struck by lightning, “and by the King’s hand, the hangings are stayed.”
The first sound was not joy but surprise. A rush of breath, a cry of shock, then a chorus of voices tumbling over one another into sense. Harry didn't let the square own the moment. He lifted his arm for silence and the voices halted to a low groan.
“Mark me,” he said, voice carrying like iron thrown down a well. “Guilt stands. Punishment stands. The rope does not. Mr. Hawkins and Lord Wescott are for irons and stone, their estates forfeit to the Crown and to the relief of the poor. They will live to count the years they wished to steal. The woman Joan to term in gaol. Mrs. Mable to the tower under ward. This is the sentence.”
A cheer broke from somewhere high on the east side, snatched up and drowned by a hiss from the west. A few men shouted that the King had gone soft but twice as many shouted that the Queen had made him just. Between them ran a current of something like awe. The people had thought her an ornament and found a spine instead.
Harry turned his head back to her. For a moment, the fury and the fear in him were naked, and then the lid came down and the king settled back behind his eyes.
“You have your mercy,” he said, very low.
“And you have your city,” she returned, matching him.
He lifted a hand to Niall. “Get her clear and safe back to her chambers.”
Niall inclined his head and closed in, not touching her yet, only making space as the crowd surged to see better, to speak to her, to claim they had stood near when a neck was spared. Harry returned to the scaffold again and spoke to the serjeant in the clipped language of orders. The nooses came down, the cart was backed, the prisoners taken in chains toward the gaol and away from death.
As Y/n let herself be guided toward the lane that would return her to the castle, faces turned to her with something new in them. She saw wariness, yes, and a bruised kind of pride, but respect too, and not the kind that comes from fear. A child lifted a hand to wave, but his mother pulled it down and then, thinking better, allowed it.
At the foot of the gate, Phoebe waited with both hands pressed to her mouth and tears wet on her lashes. Niall gave her a look that promised a scolding, then glanced back over his shoulder to where Harry stood.
Y/n moved past Phoebe and then turned again toward where her husband stood. He stood on the scaffold, his face set like stone as he caught her eye. He was not happy with this change, and she could see that. The crowd below was still shifting, arguing, alive with confusion and its own new reckoning. The king was utterly still, a man who had bent not to council or threat, but to the single voice of his queen.
She knew the court would whisper, the city would divide, but in that moment she had won something rare… mercy made visible, and respect, though costly, was beginning to take root. Harry, she could deal with later, for now, justice was a gaol and not a rope.
. .
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Series Summary: Harry, a handsome, but ill-mannered new king, bound by tradition, must select a queen, and against all expectations, he chooses Y/n, a street beggar. Now, Y/n finds herself caught between the gilded cage of royalty and the cold, harsh simplicity of her past, navigating a court shocked by her presence and a king who revels in the scandal of it all.
Note: Harry is mean/uncouth in this, though things do get better. He doesn't treat anyone around him with much respect at all. Expect to not like him much at first. Also, this is set in the 1800s England, and while not completely historically accurate, I did my best to keep it as accurate as possible.
Ch. 7 Word Count: 8k
Ch. 7 Warning: smut, political manipulation, classist remarks, attempted poisoning, threat of violence
. .
"Goodness. What an appetite you have, mouse," Harry drawled into Y/n's hair.
They'd only just woken from their nap, her body humming with that wild, fresh desire all over again. What a pleasure it was to enjoy the thrill of belly bumping, as Harry had dubbed it after breakfast. They still had hours before they were due to emerge from their marital bed with no obligations until the dinner hour.
"To practice," she smiled, her skin hot, thighs practically quivering already at just the thought as she guided her thigh over his hip and kissed at his collarbone.
Harry rolled to his back with a lazy groan and laced his fingers together behind his head. “Climb on, then. Practice away, my little mouse.”
Practice. It wasn't precisely that, but it was something close. She was determined to reach her peak while he was inside of her, not just from his fingers and mouth.
She pushed up to her knees and looked down at her husband, devil-grin, hair a shambles, bare chest still flushed with sleep. A dangerous man, but hers. She straddled him, settling her thighs over his hips as he looked up at her with open admiration.
“Look at you,” he said, one hand coming to rest at her knee. “Queen of Thornekeep, sat atop her throne.”
“Don’t tease,” she said, though the smile tugging at her mouth betrayed her fondness for it.
“I would never,” he said, voice thickening. His other hand rose, tracing slowly up her outer thigh, then across her hip, until it came to rest just below her belly. “Shall I guide you?”
She nodded, scooting herself in closer and pressing her palms into his chest as she lifted. He took himself in hand and clutched her hip with the other as she positioned herself over him, breath catching as she felt the broad tip of him press against her already sopping coo. Even with the wetness gathered between her thighs, the stretch took her breath. It was a lot, but she'd started to grow used to the way it felt. How he felt when he was pushing into her.
Harry’s jaw clenched, but he didn’t speak, only kept one hand steady at her hip and the other wrapped loosely around the base of his cock, easing her down inch by inch.
When she took him fully, she stilled, her breath ragged, head bowed as her body adjusted. The ache from having him inside of her earlier had hardly dulled, but it was still new and felt so nice… thick, full, so intimate it nearly frightened her.
“You’ve got me,” he whispered, smoothing his hand over her flank. “You’re doin’ so well, sweet girl.”
She nodded, eyes fluttering shut. Then, slowly, she lifted her hips and lowered again, testing the motion. The friction made her gasp softly.
“That's it,” Harry said, watching her with open hunger, but holding still beneath her. “Move just like that. Take what you need.”
She began to move with a bit more confidence, sliding up and down along him, her hands braced on his chest. Her hips found a rhythm, and she heard herself whimper, the feeling settling low in her spine, much deeper than before. Like her body was beginning to understand how to move on him, how to truly enjoy the sensation.
Her thighs trembled. She pressed forward a little more this time, leaning over him, and Harry reached for her, one hand cupping her breast, the other sliding down between them. His fingers found where their bodies met and began to stroke her in time with the rise and fall of her hips.
The sensation was dizzying. She let out a small cry and pressed harder into his hand, her pace growing erratic.
“Is it building?” he asked, voice low and reverent.
She nodded, nearly frantic. “Yes, I think, don’t stop—”
But it wasn’t immediate. The ache in her thighs began to make itself known, and her body was still learning him. Still adjusting to the steady, deep presence of him inside her. Her breaths came in uneven bursts, every rise and fall of her hips pushing little tremors up her spine, but the edge she was chasing felt maddeningly far.
Harry didn’t rush her. His eyes stayed fixed on her face, a faint smile tugging at his mouth as though he could feel every stammer of her rhythm. His thumb pressed and circled in a slow, sure pattern that seemed to remind her body where to go, coaxing each flicker of pleasure into something more certain.
“Easy,” he murmured. “Breathe, mouse. Let it come to you.”
She drew in a shaky breath, willing her muscles to loosen, hips to find that steady grind that sent the warmth pooling lower. Her head tipped back as her pace smoothed, the friction growing richer, more insistent.
“That’s better,” Harry said quietly, almost to himself. His free hand slid up her side, fingers brushing the swell of her breast, and the lightness of his touch there made her shiver.
The tension built slowly, coiling deeper with each stroke of his thumb, each long slide of him inside her. She could feel herself clenching around him more readily now, the wet sounds between them matching the heat burning in her cheeks.
He leaned forward just enough for his lips to graze the top of her breast. “There you are… you’ve got it now.”
Her hands flexed against his chest, nails faintly catching on his skin as the sensation swelled higher. Every muscle in her body seemed to hum with the effort to keep moving, to keep chasing the crest she could feel looming.
“Harry—” It was half his name, half a gasp. Her hips faltered for a moment before he pressed his hand firmer at her hip, guiding her back into motion.
“Stay with me,” he coaxed. “You’re right there. Don’t run from it.”
The pressure was unbearable now, twisting low in her belly, spreading down her thighs. She couldn’t help the way her pace quickened, the small, helpless sounds slipping past her lips.
“Look at me,” he said. She did, and the heat in his gaze, the utter focus, was enough to push her over.
Her body seized in a sudden, violent tremor, a cry torn from her throat as pleasure surged through her in gooey waves. She gasped, mouth falling open, back arching, her entire body locking as pleasure swept through her in a tremor. She cried out again, riding it down in shuddering waves until her legs gave out and she collapsed onto him, panting.
Harry groaned beneath her, gathering her in his arms, pressing kisses wherever he could reach. “That’s my girl,” he murmured, voice wrecked with awe. “That’s it, little mouse.”
Harry’s own control frayed just seconds later. A low groan rumbled from his chest as his hips drove up into her twice more before he spilled with a rough curse, pulling her down to crush her to his chest.
They both lay together, warm, hearts beating wildly, both catching their breath. She pressed her cheek to his shoulder. His hand stroked idly over her back and down to the curve of her bottom, reveling in the feel of her like that on him. His wife, satisfied and nuzzling into him gently.
She smiled into his skin. It felt so good to finally achieve her release with him inside of her, and it felt better than she imagined it would. Her body was thrumming.
“That’s my girl,” he said at last, his voice still thick and warm. “I shall never grow tired of this.”
Eventually, they both shifted, and Y/n slid off slowly. Harry held her hips and steadied her, watching the pull of their bodies part with a satisfied breath. “Let’s have a bath drawn. We’re a sight.”
It wasn't long before someone was filling their tub and pouring oil in it. They waited on the balcony with a bowl of grapes, the cool air needling pleasantly at skin still flushed. He glanced over at his queen and felt a quiet, baffling pride. He’d always preferred to rise and go, or have them go, after a romp. Softness had never been his habit with anyone. With her, it was becoming one.
The maid popped her head out, gaze lowered. "Your bath awaits."
Steam curled into the air from the copper as Y/n sank into the tub once they were alone again. Harry eased in behind her, his knees bracketing her hips, the heat of his chest a steady weight at her back. Warm water lapped at her collarbones as she sank against him.
“They’ll expect to examine the sheets,” she said, remembering the old cruelty of it.
“They can expect what they like,” he said, smoothing a wet palm over her thigh. “I’m not having anyone pawing through our bedclothes like carrion birds. I know what we did. That’s enough.”
She smiled. “Saving my dignity, or simply defying them?”
“Both,” he said, mouth brushing her temple. “Let them talk. It’s all they ever do.” He paused. “Some will do more than talk, if given the chance.”
She glanced back at him, but his expression gave little away, only that guarded edge she was beginning to recognise. But she understood his restraint now. A king disliked and second-guessed by many, a man who saved the unarmored parts for her.
They lingered in the water until the heat began to thin, the oil-slicked surface cooling against their skin. Harry’s hands roamed idly along her arms and waist, with the quiet possessiveness of a man content to keep close what was his.
When they finally stepped out, the air in the chamber felt cool and clean, smelling faintly of the rosemary oil still clinging to their skin. A fire had been refreshed in the hearth, and fresh towels were waiting.
Phoebe appeared quietly with Y/n’s gown for the evening, her hands already busy with laces and fastenings. Even though she couldn't hear or see it, she knew that just beyond the door, the castle stirred with people and workers in preparation for that night's dinner.
As Phoebe tightened the final tie at Y/n’s back, she leaned in slightly, her voice low. “Bit of commotion in the kitchens today. Steward’s got the staff whispering.”
“What about?” Y/n asked.
“About you. About him. Same as always." She rolled her eyes.
Harry emerged from behind the screen, shrugging into his evening coat as he caught the tail end of Phoebe’s words. “They’ve been whispering since the day I fetched you,” he said simply, fastening his cuff. “We’ll give them something worth whispering about. As always.” He grinned.
When at last they’d donned their finery, velvet and linen laid heavy with jewels, Harry offered his arm and they stepped out together. The glow of the sconces painted the stone in warm gold, but it did nothing to soften the sting of eyes that followed them as they passed. Some looks slipped away the moment Harry’s gaze swept over them; others held, unblinking. Y/n felt each one.
Harry kept his stride steady. The set of his shoulders made plain he noted every glance and dared any tongue to try its luck.
The torchlight flickered along the marble hall as they moved together, their steps echoing through the vaulted space. She could feel the weight of the room waiting for them before they even reached it. Tonight’s dinner would be their first appearance together since their wedding night. The long mahogany table was already thick with familiar figures: council members in their heavy robes, governors and lords from the outlying regions, ladies in silks and pearls. A few smiles met them, polite and brittle; more faces wore the tight, assessing look of people hunting fault.
The table itself was set like something from a storybook with garlands of winter greenery wound between tall silver candelabras, the flames bowing with each shift in the air. Y/n caught the scent of roasted game before she saw it, platters borne past by gloved attendants. There was braised lamb with buttered roots, steaming bowls of delicate consommé, and for later, she overheard, rosewater sorbet and sugared fruits for the sweet course. It was all beautiful, excessive, and just a little overwhelming. Every movement was choreographed, every dish placed with quiet detail.
At the head of the table, Harry and Y/n took their seats side by side. A hush slid over the hall, punctuated only by the soft placement of cutlery against plates and the low thrum of greeting. She felt the weight of every pair of eyes… some respectful, others glacial, barely hidden behind forced smiles.
The Lord Chancellor, robed in rich plum silk, cleared his throat, lifting one glass and addressing the assembled. “Your Majesty, may your union be a fortress in this realm as strong as steel, and as true as the mountain’s heart.”
Crystal goblets lifted and chimed through the vaulted ceiling. Y/n breathed in the scent of spiced wine and simmering meats, her heart fluttering between pride and dread in equal measure. She knew better than to fall for the Chancellor's kind words. Harry had reminded her before they sat that everything was a performance.
Across the table, the Privy Councillor with his neatly trimmed, stiff moustache, his gaze raked over her with mounting ire. Moments later, his voice carried, oiled for courtesy, sharpened for insult. “Surely, as queen, Lady Styles must be instructed further in courtly matters. One cannot expect a street-borne girl to know every thread of protocol.”
And there it was, the crumbling of the facade. It'd happened much faster than Y/n assumed it would. The hush tightened around them. Conversation flickered and died among the councilmen. Heat rose along Y/n’s skin as she drew in a measured breath.
Harry’s hand brushed beneath the table to rest over hers. His eyes, partially hidden in the candelight, conveyed an unspoken warning. The edge in his tone when he replied sounded soft, but carried the weight of command. “My wife, your Queen, learns quickly. But if any among us stand ignorant of new beginnings, it is the realm that shall suffer, not she.”
There was an exhale of relief from Y/n, and a ripple of stiff silence across the table, only broken when a herald called for the next course to be brought. A sweet truffle enrobed dish appeared on a silver tray with a silky aroma drifting around the room as if tensions had not been notched up so suddenly.
The council resumed with guarded laughter and polished words. Beneath it, the undertow of resentment ran cold along Y/n’s spine. Tight smiles directed toward her, toward Harry… they were subtle gaps where courtesy ended and something sharper waited, biding its time.
She let her gaze drift briefly away from the fixed smiles and stiff shoulders, searching for something less sharpened. Down the side of the hall, Phoebe stood among the servants, quietly directing the flow of dishes and wine. Niall bent to say something as their heads drew close enough that a curl of Phoebe’s hair skimmed his sleeve. When she gestured, their fingers touched for a breath, an innocent brush to anyone not paying attention, but Y/n knew the meaning behind the softened expression on Phoebe’s face.
The warmth of the sight was quickly chased away when another voice rose from further down the table. Lord Wescott, if she remembered correctly, with his ruddy cheeks and an ingrained smirk that never quite reached his eyes. “I had thought the Lord Mayor would be seated with us tonight,” he said, as if speaking to no one in particular, though the sound carried easily over the hum of conversation. “Strange not to see him at his usual post.”
A few others shifted in their chairs, the rustle of fabric and the faint scrape of knives against plates marked the pause that followed.
Harry set down his fork with deliberate slowness. “It is not strange to me,” he said, his voice even. “The Lord Mayor’s presence is no longer required at this table, or on the council.”
“Oh?” Wescott’s brows lifted in feigned surprise, his spoon poised midair as he looked around the table at the others. “I had not heard. How unfortunate. I do hope it was not for anything too… unseemly.”
A current of polite laughter and a few cleared throats stirred, too light to be genuine. Y/n curled her fingers against the fabric of her gown. She knew that no one in that room was not privy to what had passed.
Harry’s gaze didn’t waver. “Unseemly enough,” he said. “And enough said of it.”
The words settled like a stone in the center of the table. Conversation trickled back in fits and starts, but the voices were more subdued now, cautious, the careful retying of masks after a slip.
Somewhere down the table, Wescott was speaking again, his tone lighter, almost bored. “Ah well… perhaps we’ll see better cheer at the feast next month. My cousin in Bellerose, fine man, master confectioner, has promised to send a cart of his sugared chestnuts. If the kitchens will let him in, that is.”
A few polite murmurs met the remark, and the subject drifted elsewhere. Y/n would have thought nothing of it, had she not noticed the way his eyes passed briefly over her before he looked away.
Y/n let her eyes drop to the truffle on her plate, her appetite dulled. She could feel the glances, the measured way people looked at her when they thought her attention was elsewhere. But she was right there, feeling every awful eye lurking.
She pressed her fork into the soft truffle, more to have something to do with her hands than out of any real hunger. The richness of the dish sat heavy on her tongue, but every swallow felt like forcing down a stone. The hum of conversation carried on around her, but she was lost in her head, wishing she and Harry were back alone in their chambers together.
A steward stepped forward to refill her glass, his movements efficient. She caught the slightest twitch at the corner of his mouth, as if he’d swallowed words he wished to say. Sometimes it was hard to know who was for or against her.
On Harry’s other side, the Earl of Broadmere leaned in to speak across him, bypassing Y/n entirely as though she were not there. “Your Majesty, the southern border’s levy will be due for review come spring. I do hope we’ll see familiar hands overseeing it.”
Harry didn’t take his eyes off his wine as he replied, “We’ll see competent hands. Familiarity is hardly the measure.”
The Earl smiled without a measure of warmth. “Of course. Competence above all.”
Even in so few words, Y/n heard the scrape beneath the polish, the way it slid beneath the polite surface. She reached for her goblet, hoping the wine might dull the edges pressing at her ribs.
Across the table, Phoebe caught her eye briefly, just long enough for the smallest reassuring nod before turning to direct a footman. Niall had already set himself to watchfulness, gaze moving over the room with the sense of a man who knew when the air was changing. He slid his gaze, pausing briefly, on one or two faces before returning to his post.
The next course arrived, and for a few minutes, the sounds of knives and forks overtook the chatter. But even the clink of silver seemed subdued, every gesture measured as though the entire table was waiting for someone, anyone, to speak plainly.
Harry did not indulge them, for his purpose was to spare Y/n any undue burden. Were it not for her presence, he might have spoken out with far less restraint. He carried on eating with the same deliberate calm as before, speaking only when spoken to, and then with such concise civility that no one could take hold of his words to twist them. It was a skill Y/n envied. That ability to command the room not by filling the air, but by controlling its silences.
She wished she could say she was unmoved by the atmosphere, but the truth was it clung to her, seeping into her skin despite the king's aim to shield her. The day had been just lovely before the dinner. But this was her new role; her new station’s price. And she understood that all of this was just the beginning. She would grow used to the disdain, to the ease with which she was overlooked. She would have to.
When the final course was cleared and the last of the wine poured, Harry rose from his seat, offering his arm to her. The scrape of chairs and the muted shuffle of attendants filled the hall as the assembly began to disperse, the low buzz of conversation returning now that the evening’s formality was over. Still, she felt the eyes, some following them openly, others hidden behind the dip of a head or the rim of a cup.
Harry guided her out through the double doors, the heavy wood closing behind them with a muted thud. The echoing quiet of the corridor was a relief after the close press of the great hall.
“You did well,” he said at last, his tone calm.
“I didn’t do anything."
“You did everything right,” he countered. “You kept your head, you didn’t rise to their bait. That is worth more than you think.”
She pushed out a humourless laugh. “It felt more like shrinking than keeping my head.”
His hand pressed lightly at her back as they climbed the stairs. “You needn't overthink, mouse. Not a soul in that room deserves concern.”
By the time they reached their chambers, the air inside was warm and the fire was throwing soft light over the thick rugs and the freshly turned-down bed. Y/n exhaled deeply as her shoulders loosened for the first time since they'd left for dinner. Harry helped her out of her heavier outer layers, setting her crown aside.
When she sat on the edge of the bed, he knelt briefly to remove her shoes, his fingers brushing lightly against her ankle. “You’re quiet as a mouse,” he said, a small grin lifting the edges of his lips. He was trying to lift her spirits the best he could.
“I’m tired,” she admitted, but smiling back at his jest. “And I don’t want to think of them any longer tonight.”
He looked up at her, his expression soft. “Good. Nor do I.”
Drawing her back against the pillows, he stretched out beside her, the scent of rosemary oil still clinging to them both. She rested her head against his shoulder, the slow beat of his heart steady under her ear. His hand found hers beneath the blankets, fingers lacing with her own.
.
Y/n woke to the chill in their room, the fire only an ember-glow now. She felt it on her shoulder first, cool against the heat where Harry had slept. She sighed and stretched her limbs.
He made a sound low in his throat when she shifted, the kind of sleepy, unguarded noise she’d never have imagined coming from a king. His arm tightened over her waist, drawing her back into the warm space of him. She could feel the steady rise of his chest at her spine, his breath coasting over the line of her neck.
“Don’t move,” he said, voice still rough with sleep. “I’m very comfortable.”
“You’re heavy,” she said, though she didn’t mean it as a complaint.
“Hmm.” He slid his hand up, palm flattening just beneath her ribs, the weight of it loving. “Just a little longer, mouse.”
They lay like that for a while, listening to the small sounds of morning, the tick of the flue in the chimney, and the smallest crack of the embers in the hearth. Her fingers drifted lazily over the back of his wrist, tracing over his skin and the raised pale line that crossed into his flesh, the ghost of some long-ago nick. He let her look without commentary, only pressing his warm mouth to the curve where neck became shoulder.
When she finally turned to face him, his hair was a mess, stubborn pieces falling into his eyes. He didn’t bother to push them back. He just watched her with that softened version of his gaze she’d only ever seen when the doors were locked and the world was on the other side. His thumb skimmed the corner of her mouth, and she felt the tug of a smile before it formed.
“What?” she asked.
“You look like you’ve stolen something,” he said. “And you’re deciding whether to run.”
“Will you chase me?”
“Across the whole of Thornekeep. And beyond. Wherever you run to, I'll follow. You cannot escape.”
He kissed her then, tasting of warm sleep. It was indulgent, slow, as if he were embracing his newly discovered permission to take his time with her. She answered in kind, fingers slipping into his hair, and a small, greedy sound came from her throat.
He rolled to his back and drew her with him until she was straddling his hips, the blanket sliding to her waist. The air was cool on her skin, but his hands were warm where they curved around her thighs. He looked up at her like a man cataloguing a private collection.
“Morning suits you,” he said, thumbs stroking along the inside of her knees.
She leaned down to kiss him again, slower, and felt him answer under her, heat, thick with promise. When she shifted against him, he inhaled sharply and his hands skimmed to her hips without thought, guiding her along, not pushing. She felt the girth of him, the inevitable path of it, and the awareness sent a slow ache spiraling low.
“Harry,” she moaned his name into the room.
“Here,” he told her, voice diffused at the edges. He settled one palm at the small of her back and the other just above her hip, the way a commander might place a soldier before a charge. He guided her gingerly to her back. The blanket fell away from her. He kissed her once more, then another just under her jaw, charting an unhurried path: throat, the hollow at her collarbone, the soft rise of her breast. His mouth was patient, and when she arched, he murmured into her skin, “Easy,” as if that word alone could loosen the tightness in her ribs.
“May I assist?” he asked against her sternum, not quite a question, not quite a command.
She nodded, the sound she made small and helpless.
He slid lower, palms smoothing along her sides to her hips. A kiss to her belly. Another. Then lower still, his breath was warm where the morning air was cool. He eased her knees apart with his hands and leveled his head with her quim.
The first lick was exploratory, but the second one was intentional. He took his time, attentive, listening with his mouth, answering every tremor with a gentler pass of his tongue, then a little more pressure, then retreating to tease when her fingers curled in the linen. When she slid her fingers into his hair, he stilled to glance up, checking her face before chasing the sound he’d drawn out of her once again with a broad lave of tongue.
“There you are. Nice and wet.”
Heat built in languid, tidy circles, one hand anchoring her thigh, the other splayed wide over her belly to keep her from holding herself too tight. She tried to swallow the noises he coaxed from her, but they slipped out anyway, small pieces of her coming loose under his mouth. He hummed, and the vibration tipped the feeling hotter, closer.
“Harry—” Her voice cracked.
She let her head fall back, let the ceiling blur. The world narrowed to the pull of his mouth and the sure press of his fingers, and she felt the edges begin to gather, bright and warm—
A sudden knock cut cleanly through the room. They froze. Then the sound came again, three measured raps that belonged to duty and daybreak, not to them.
Harry’s hand tightened at her thigh, a mute refusal. He rested his forehead there for a heartbeat as he swore softly under his breath, and then lifted his head. He exhaled raggedly, eyes already hardening into the day’s version of himself.
“I’m going to kill whoever that is,” he said.
He reached up, pulled the blanket over her with a gentleness at odds with the muscle ticking in his jaw, and pressed one last, apologetic kiss to the inside of her knee. “Do not move,” he said, and stood to answer the door, grabbing a robe on the way.
He cracked the door, robe hanging loose at his hips. Fred stood there with his eyes somewhere near the lintel, voice pitched low. “Your Majesty… apologies. An urgent sitting of the council regarding the Lord Mayor's dismissal of duties. His Grace, the Duke Hughes, has called it. The Proctor requests your presence at once.”
Harry’s jaw went hard. “Of course he has. I will be down at once.” He shut the door with a quiet click, raked a hand through his hair, and looked back at her with unsteady breath, a sheet pulled up over her body as she watched him with wide eyes. The apology was in his face before he spoke.
“I have to go.”
“I gathered,” she said, trying for lightness and not quite finding it as she sat up.
He crossed to the clothes press in three strides, dragging on breeches, then a shirt, talking as he buttoned. “Stay here. Eat. I’ll send Phoebe in with a tray. Tea, fruit, something warm. You need to eat. Do not open the door to anyone but me or Niall.”
He knelt to pull on his boots, glanced up, and the edge in him eased. “I’ll finish what I started when I return,” he added, softer. “You have my word.”
A reluctant smile tugged at her mouth, but she did not respond. She held the front of the sheet to her breast as she watched him quietly. He stood and leaned in, stole a quick kiss, then another, less quick, as if he couldn’t help himself. When he drew back, he was already fastening his waistcoat.
He pulled the door open wide and raised his voice just enough to carry down the corridor. “Phoebe!”
She appeared only a few counts later, breathless from the stairs, hands already smoothing her apron when she saw him dressed. “Your Majesty?”
“A breakfast tray for the Queen. Hot tea. And have the fire built up. She’s not to be disturbed otherwise.”
Phoebe dipped her head. “Right away, my lord.” She flicked a quick glance past him toward Y/n, worry and something warmer in it, then vanished down the hall.
“Niall,” Harry called, and the guard stepped from his post, straight-backed. “With me. The council will need your account, and I want their ears full of it.”
“Yes, Majesty.” Niall’s gaze slid once to Y/n through the doorway before he fell in behind the king.
Harry turned back one last time. “Bolt the door,” he said, gentler now. “I’ll return as soon as I’m able.”
She nodded and did as he asked, the heavy metal dropping into place the moment she crossed to the door. Through the wood, she heard the muted cadence of his boots and Niall’s, the murmur of Fred’s voice as they moved away, then the hush of the corridor swallowing them.
Silence settled, save for the weak crackle of the embers and the rasp of her own breath. She lay back into the bed, the sheet cool where his mouth had been warm, and let her eyes close for a moment, the promise he’d left her with lingering like heat in the room.
A few minutes later, there was a knock to the door and the muffled sound of Phoebe on the other side. Y/n crossed the room, lifted the latch, and Phoebe slipped inside with a robe over her arm and a small, conspiratorial smile. “Fire first,” she whispered, already feeding kindling to the hearth. “Then tea. And I’ll tell the footmen to keep everyone else well away.”
Phoebe had the room humming again by the time Y/n had settled into the lounge with tea, logs stacked and catching, curtains parted just so to pull a ribbon of pale light across the carpet. She set a low table near where Y/n sat and began arranging a tray. A covered dish breathing steam, a plate of sliced pear glossed with honey, a small mound of sugared pastilles, and a pot of dark tea that smelled faintly of orange peel.
“Sit with me,” Y/n said, drawing her robe closed. “You’ll make me nervous if you keep dusting things that are already clean.”
Phoebe laughed under her breath and obeyed, perching at the edge of the seat like a girl who hadn’t quite learned to take her ease. “It’s only habit. The steward prowls this hall like a cat.”
“Let him prowl. Doors closed,” Y/n said, pouring. “You’ve earned a cup.”
They drank together, steam fogging the space between them.
“Will they be very long?” Phoebe asked carefully.
Y/n shrugged one shoulder. “Long enough to make mischief of something simple, I imagine. Harry said they wanted Niall to speak.”
Phoebe’s mouth softened at his name before she caught herself. Y/n noticed and smiled into her cup. She had been enjoying watching the pair secretly dance around their feelings in front of others.
“He is very steady,” Y/n said mildly. “Even at dinner last night, when everyone else was crisp with pretense, he appeared… unmoved.”
Phoebe traced a finger along the saucer’s rim. “He is not like the others,” she smiled shyly. “He looks and listens before he speaks. I… like that.”
“You like him,” Y/n said. Reminding Phoebe that there were no secrets between them.
Phoebe’s cheeks warmed. “I like that he says as little as he must,” she tried again, failing at indifference. “And that when I pass, he always—he nods.” She laughed at herself. “Listen to me. Mooning over a nod.”
“It’s not the nod,” Y/n said softly. “It’s who it comes from. Anymore kisses?”
Phoebe peeked up through her lashes, as if testing whether the air would hold such talk. “Yes… but hardly worth the telling. Far too quick. And someone’s always about, ruining the best bits.”
“That will come,” Y/n assured her, voice warm with certainty. “And when it does, you’ll not be thinking of time at all.”
“And you,” Phoebe smiled wider, changing the focus away from herself, “are… happy this morning?”
Y/n felt the heat of Harry still, a flush that had nothing to do with the fire. She let her smile arrive slowly. “He is learning me,” she said, a little breathless even in memory. “And I think I am learning him.”
Phoebe’s answering grin was wicked and tender all at once. “About time someone taught the King patience.”
Y/n tipped her head back and laughed, the sound loosening something that the previous night's dinner had tightened. They fell into an easy hush after that. Y/n breaking a piece of bread, Phoebe buttering it with a practised hand; the small, home-like act almost comical against velvet drapes and gold-stitched cushions.
When a knock came, Phoebe stood and answered, calling back to Y/n. "It's Evan with a second tray of food."
Even though Harry had told her not to let anyone but Niall or Phoebe enter the room, she felt there was no harm in allowing the footman entry. He only came with more food from the kitchen. She'd seen Evan in passing before and decided to allow it, waving him in. The new tray was set with warm rolls, a dish of eggs baked with cream and herbs, a tiny pie whose crust shone with glaze, and a neat row of jewel-bright sweetmeats dusted with fine sugar. He set it down and bowed to both of them with the stiff care of someone warned thrice to behave.
“The pantry clerk sends their compliments by way of Mr. Hawkins,” he managed. “Shall I bring aught else, madam?”
“This is perfect,” Y/n said, and his shoulders lowered by a hair before he backed out.
“Sweet afters before noon,” Phoebe murmured, amused. “They’re trying to please you.”
“Or bribe me into liking them,” Y/n returned, but there was no bite in it. She touched the corner of one sugared morsel with a fingertip and left it for later, reaching instead for the warm roll.
The room held its peace, but the peace felt merited. Beyond the walls, the castle’s ordinary life stirred quietly at the edges: cart wheels rattling in the yard, a bell sounding from the chapel, the distant tramp of boots on the far stair.
. .
Down the length of the council chamber, the Duke Hughes drummed two fingers against the arm of his chair and called for order. The long table was a field of papers and inkpots, the air heavy with wax and damp wool. Harry stood rather than sit, the better to look down the line of faces that would be his weather, rain or clear, for as long as he wore the crown.
“The charge is simple,” the Proctor read, spectacles low on his nose. “Unauthorized seizure of Her Majesty Y/n of Thornekeep from royal quarters at dawn three days past; public humiliation; removal of a jewel of the Crown.”
“Alleged,” Lord Wescott drawled.
“Witnessed,” Harry corrected, voice flat. “Proceed.”
Names were recorded, movements accounted for, the Lord Mayor’s allies making a show of doubt that failed to hide its choreography. When it came time for a witness, Niall stepped forward without flourish and placed one hand on the leather-bound book the clerk thrust at him. He did not lift his eyes to the gallery when he spoke to the Proctor as though the room were otherwise empty.
“State your name and station.”
“Niall Horan, assigned to the King’s personal guard.”
“And what did you see?”
“I stood at the door to Her Majesty's quarters,” he said, his voice even. “The Lord Mayor arrived with two men and declared that, in the King’s absence, his word was law. He ordered the Queen removed. When she resisted, the men pushed her. She fell to her knees and hands on the stair. I helped her to rise.”
“Did the Lord Mayor touch her?”
“No,” Niall said. “He ordered the handling, watched, and then he took the brooch from her before he had her dragged out to the horse cart.”
Wescott shifted. “You expect us to hang a man on a scraped knee and a trinket?”
Harry’s gaze cut to him. “I expect you not to confuse cowardice with cleverness. Assault upon the Queen’s person is an affront to the Crown.”
A breath of amusement, nervous, unwise, passed down the table and died when the Duke lifted a hand. “Enough. The Proctor has his witness. We shall vote on the draft of removal and fine, and on whether the Lord Mayor is to be confined to his house until further order.”
“Confinement,” Harry said, “and his seal taken. He will not sign a single line in this kingdom again unless I allow it.” He leaned both palms to the table, the pose calm, the message not. “Write it.”
Quills scratched. Someone coughed into a handkerchief. Niall stepped back to his place at Harry’s shoulder and resumed his watch, a plain man under plain orders, yet the hinge upon which the morning turned.
. .
By the time Y/n was fully dressed and ready for the day, her nerves had settled into something like steadiness. She and Phoebe sat cross-legged on the rug with the newly delivered tray between them like children pilfering the pantry.
“Tell me truly,” Phoebe said, lowering her voice as if the gilt cornices might eavesdrop. “Does he speak kindly when no one’s looking?”
“When no one’s looking,” Y/n said, thinking of the way he had set his mouth against her skin and murmured nonsense as if it were a holy text, “he forgets to be a king.”
“That sounds dangerous,” Phoebe teased.
“It is,” Y/n said, smiling crookedly. “I rather like it.”
The latch lifted once, and Niall filled the doorway. He didn’t enter immediately, only took in the room with that quick, whole glance soldiers have: fire, windows, the two women safe on the floor, the untouched plate of sugared afters glinting like small jewels.
“Majesty,” he said with a nod to Y/n, then to Phoebe, softer. “Miss.”
Phoebe stood so fast she nearly upset the tea. “Is it done?”
“For now,” Niall said. “They write the instrument to strip him of office. His Grace will keep him to his house until the seal is taken. The King will come soon, when he’s set his hand to it.”
Relief loosened Y/n’s lungs. “Thank you,” she said. She gestured to the trays. “There’s food, if you’ve not eaten.”
"With your permission, Majesty.” He crossed to them, bending toward the plate. The movement was ordinary but the way his expression changed was not. Something flinted through his eyes, alert and hard.
“Don’t—” he said, already reaching toward her.
Y/n's fingers were at her lips when he knocked her hand aside, the sugared morsel flying. It struck the carpet and burst into glittering shards. In the same motion, his forearm swept the plate clean; the rest scattered like thrown dice. Phoebe yelped, knocking into her teacup, a wash of tea licking over the saucer and onto the rug.
“Niall!” Phoebe gasped his name in shock.
“Forgive me, Majesty.” He stepped between Y/n and the wreckage and dragged the low table back with his boot. His voice stayed level, though his body had gone to iron. “Did any of it touch your tongue? Or yours?” He turned to look at Phoebe.
“No. No, I hadn’t had the chance—”
"Nor I."
“Rinse your mouth all the same.” He yanked the bellpull hard enough that the brass struck the wall, then crouched, wrapping a handkerchief around his fingers to pick up one of the ruined sweets. He held it to his nose and flinched, jaw tightening. “Almond-bitter,” he said, low. “Wrong.”
Phoebe was already at the pitcher, sloshing water into a cup with shaking hands. “Poison?” she whispered.
“Maybe. Do not go near the tray,” Niall answered, not lifting his gaze. “Both of you.”
The door pushed open as Harry strode in, cold air chasing him. He stopped at the sight before him with sugar grit in the carpet, tea bleeding into wool, and Niall on one knee with a cloth-wrapped sweet in his hand.
“What in God’s name happened here?” Harry’s voice landed like a blade. “What is this?”
"Someone has tampered with the afters."
Harry took one look at Y/n’s face before he looked anywhere else and continued. “Are you harmed?”
She shook her head. “No. He stopped me.”
Harry’s gaze cut to Niall. “Good man.” Then, to the corridor, voice like a crack of ice. “Fred!”
The door hadn’t even finished closing behind Harry before Fred appeared, breathless. Harry didn’t raise his tone; he did not need to. “Seal the kitchens. Postern gates, scullery stairs, stillroom, confectioner’s pantry. No one in, no one out. Send the physician and the apothecary to this room. Find the Master of Household, the under-butler who signed for this tray, the confectioner, and the maid who carried it. They go under guard to the small council chamber. Now.”
Fred fled without a single word.
Harry crouched by Niall, eyeing the cloth-wrapped shard. “Laurel-water?” he asked, low.
Niall inclined his head once. “Could be. It stinks of almond.”
Harry’s jaw flexed. He straightened, kicked the scattered sweets farther from the hearth with the side of his boot, and shifted back to Y/n. The iron left his voice for a moment. “Sit,” he said softly, moving toward her and helping her down to a chair. “Let me see you.” His thumb brushed her cheekbone before he turned to face the wreckage again.
Phoebe hovered, white-knuckled around a cup. “It came up from the stillroom,” she managed. “Footman Evan carried it. He said Mr. Hawkins gave it to him from the pantry clerk’s hand.”
“Hawkins first,” Harry said, already moving. “Niall, keep that piece covered and no one touches anything else. Open the window two fingers. Phoebe, you stay with the Queen. Door barred from within. No one enters without my word. Who let the footman in?”
Phoebe blinked and looked at Y/n, opening her mouth to respond but Y/n quickly answered. "I told Phoebe to let him in. I didn't think there was harm in it. It was me who allowed it."
Harry nodded quietly as Niall rose, crossing to the casement and drawing it a careful inch. Cold air slid in, lifting the dying ash in the grate. He set the wrapped shard on the mantel out of reach.
Boots hammered in the hall with a ripple of orders, and the slap of pikes grounded. The physician shouldered in with his bag and a bow; the apothecary behind him with stoppered glass. Harry pointed toward the alleged poisoned sweets. "It smells of bitter almond, laurel-water perhaps."
"We'll confirm," the apothecary responded. The men immediately got to work.
The Master of Household arrived next, face leached of color, bowing too low. Harry didn’t look at him. “To the small council chamber,” he said, eyes on the floor. “Wait there. If you attempt to leave, the guard will clap you in irons.”
“Yes, Majesty.”
“And send Hawkins. Now.”
When the door shut again, Harry glanced to Y/n; the set of his mouth eased a fraction at the sight of her sitting quietly, Phoebe’s palm firm at her shoulder.
It took a moment to sink in, that someone had attempted to poison her. To kill her. She felt a sharp rise of panic at the realization. She knew her post was ill-favored among many in the kingdom and even within the castle walls but she hadn't expected that someone would want her dead. Carted off in cattle cages, maybe, but death from poisoning? Who would dare do such a thing?
Harry turned, voice carrying clean through oak and stone loudly. “Captain! Double guard on the lower passage. Search every apron, every pocket, every basket. Every vial in the stillroom is to be accounted for and sealed.”
“Aye, Your Majesty.”
Harry’s hand closed once on the back of a chair. His knuckles whitening were the only sign of the temper he’d leashed. Then he released it and lifted his chin. “We are done being toyed with.”
He looked to Niall. “Bring the wrapped piece and attend me.”
He looked to Y/n last. For her alone, his tone gentled. “Lock the door behind me. I will not be far. And this time, my queen, I urge you: do not allow anyone to enter.”
He stepped into the corridor. “Bring me Hawkins, the confectioner, and the footman,” he said, the words ringing off stone. “We begin at once.”
. .
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Series Summary: Harry, a handsome, but ill-mannered new king, bound by tradition, must select a queen, and against all expectations, he chooses Y/n, a street beggar. Now, Y/n finds herself caught between the gilded cage of royalty and the cold, harsh simplicity of her past, navigating a court shocked by her presence and a king who revels in the scandal of it all.
Note: Harry is mean/uncouth in this, though things do get better. He doesn't treat anyone around him with much respect at all. Expect to not like him much at first. Also, this is set in the 1800s England, and while not completely historically accurate, I did my best to keep it as accurate as possible.
Ch. 6 Word Count: 11,631
Ch. 6 Warning: smut, y/n loses her virginity, brief uncertainty and hesitation
. .
The king’s chambers were safe and inviting, unlike the rest of the castle. Or maybe it was just the way he'd kissed her. Lips soft and tender against hers, like he knew she was nervous. He cradled the back of her head, then slowly drew away, his nose brushing the side of hers.
Gone was the cold austerity of stone corridors and hateful gazes. In its place: warmth and hush. A low fire glowed in the hearth, casting flickering light across the dark wood walls and silk-draped furniture. The scent of rose oil and sweet wine hung faintly in the air, evidence of the staff’s discreet, meticulous preparation. A silver tray waited near the bed with fresh fruit, warm bread, and honey, with a decanter of brandy just beside it. Even the bed had been dressed more carefully than usual with new linens, a scattering of flower petals, and a thick velvet coverlet turned down in invitation.
Y/n stood clinging to the king, the heat of the chamber finally thawing the cold that had settled in her bones. The silk bodice of her gown still pinched her ribs, every shallow breath reminding her this was real. Her veil was gone, entrusted to Pheobe, but the pins remained, biting at her scalp like tiny teeth. She tried to steady her hands against the dark fabric of Harry’s frock coat, but they wouldn’t stop shaking.
They stared at each other… long enough that the fire popped behind them, long enough that she felt her pulse hammer against her throat. He looked as dazed as she felt, lips parted, eyes searching hers.
“You look scared,” he said softly, his brows knitting as he studied her face.
Y/n swallowed. “I suppose I am.”
He placed a gentle hand on her cheek. His eyes were shadowed, impossible to read, but there was warmth there too.
“You don’t have to be.”
She couldn't put it into words the way she truly felt. Every emotion inside of her clashed, unwieldy. She didn't want to be scared but it wasn't a matter of choice. She'd been crowned queen consort over a kingdom of people who despised her. And tonight, she would become a wife in every sense, whether she felt ready or not.
He slid his thumb over her cheekbone, his gaze dropping to her mouth, then lower. “The doctor wanted to have you inspected.”
She tensed.
“I said no,” he added quickly. "They wanted to be certain that you are a virgin. But that never held any importance with me."
Her eyes darted up to his. It didn't?
“I won’t have you touched by anyone unless you want to be,” he said. “And no one will be checking the bedsheets. If anyone asks, I’ll say it was done and they missed it.”
A strange relief gripped her chest. He could've been ruthless, brutal even, she’d seen it in court, heard it in the rumors, but with her, he spoke gently. Protective. Possessive, too, but in a way that made her pulse stir, not cower.
He leaned closer. “You’re mine to protect,” he said, voice quiet but certain. “But I’ll never take what isn’t given. Not from you.”
"I am a virgin. I know there are some who don't believe it, but I swear I am."
He nodded. "I know you are. You told me you were, and I believe you. Even if you were not, it wouldn't have stopped me from taking you as my wife."
She blinked at him. "How can you say that? Don't men want their wives to be virgins on their wedding night?"
He smiled. "Most do. But I, myself, am not a virgin. Would you have expected it of me?"
She shook her head. "No."
“Because in the end, it’s nothing compared to trust. Compared to respect.”
Casting her gaze toward the fire, she bit her lip and began to walk to it, holding her fingers toward the warmth. "Do you have respect for me?"
She felt his hands on the tops of her shoulders, and she turned her head to look up at him, his eyes on the flames in the hearth. "Yes."
"But you did not on the first night we met. You were awful. You frightened me."
He looked down at her, his hard expression softening. "I know. I am deeply sorry for how I treated you that night and the days after that."
She turned to look up at him directly, feeling as if she could speak freely. "Why? Why were you so harsh with me?"
"It's because I had the wrong impression. I've been accustomed to the ways of the kingdom and its people. It wasn't fair of me to judge you in the way I did without making your acquaintance first. It was wrong of me."
"What was your impression of me?"
He stepped back, eyes flicking over her. "On first glance, you seemed hollow-hearted like the rest. And I thought it was possible you were one of the girls who worked at the trap house—"
"You thought I was a prostitute. Is that why Mrs. Mable accused me of being a flag-hopper? Is this what everyone thinks of me?"
He blinked and shook his head. "I don't know what the others think of you, but what they think doesn't matter anyway. What matters is that you are far more interesting and smarter than the whole lot of them. You're better."
"If you thought I was so dull and unchaste, why did you pick me out of everyone?"
“Because you were beautiful, and at the time, I thought unchaste was what I wanted. And I knew it would scandalize everyone when they learned I’d chosen you. It meant almost nothing then. But it means something now. I hope you can see that.”
She stepped away from the hearth, her gaze drifting over the room without really seeing it. Should she feel hurt? She didn’t know. “So that night, when you summoned me… you thought I’d come willing. You thought I'd engage in licentious acts with you as you imagined I was accustomed to."
"Yes. I'd hoped for that. But I was wrong."
She looked at him, her fingers trailing over the table near the tray of fruit. "You were wrong. You treated me as if I were worthless refuse. And maybe in a way I am… I'm from the slums. A beggar with a sharp, unquenchable hunger deep down. No matter how much I eat, it never seems to go away. I always will be that girl. It's where I came from."
He did not answer at once. He understood her anger. He deserved it. He had treated her cruelly, and though his feelings had shifted entirely, he knew she still thought herself only the poor girl from the rookery. He watched as she drifted across the chamber, her gown trailing behind her in soft ripples, until she reached the balcony doors and slipped outside.
He had dreaded this reckoning, though he knew it was inevitable. Soon, she would demand more answers, for her spirit grew bolder each day. What he had not wished to confess was that, at first, he had taken her for nothing more than a common harlot with a fair countenance, someone whose elevation would scandalise the realm. That was all he required then: a face to stir gossip and a womb to bear his heir.
But he had discovered soon enough that Y/n possessed a depth he had not conceived. He regretted every careless slight, every cruel word. All he could do now was show her, in deed and word, that she had altered him and that he would never again fail her trust.
From behind, he admired the shape of her gown, the soft layers shifting as the wind blew against the material. He slowly made his way to stand behind her, placing his hands lightly upon her upper arms. Together they stood, gazing across Thornekeep’s moonlit walls. Beyond the gates, a small crowd lingered, their figures black against the lantern glow.
"You will never demean me so again. I would sooner fling myself from this wall than endure such foul words. I have dignity, and I will not remain the wife of a man who holds me in contempt, be he a king or no.”
He dipped his face close to the back of her hair, his breath warm at the nape of her neck. “I swear to you, I shall never again mistreat you, my queen. I behaved most shamefully, and I shall regret it all my days.”
She savoured the weight of his hands, the low heat of his voice at her ear, the faint trace of sandalwood upon his skin. In that moment, she believed him. She had watched him change… so swiftly it seemed near impossible. Once a brute she had feared, he was now gentle, almost tender. Still a devil, perhaps—but one she could almost trust. And if his kindness endured, she might even learn to yield her heart to him.
The night air bit cold through her lace sleeves, but his nearness set a warmth stirring low in her belly. She drew breath with difficulty, each inhalation a slow, shuddering thing. He always affected her so. His presence like a weight upon her senses. And now that her questions had been laid bare, she was ready to fulfil what was expected of her.
Y/n turned to face him, her palms gliding up his shoulders, down the breadth of his arms. “I am ready. Shall I summon Phoebe to unlace my gown?”
He cocked his head studying her with a look that mingled concern and a faint amusement. “There is no cause to hurry, mouse. We have until tomorrow evening before either of us is expected to emerge. If you wish to shed some of these layers, I am more than capable of unfastening your stays.”
“Are you not eager to have me in your bed? I had not thought you capable of such restraint.”
“I am quite beside myself to have you, my dear. But I suspect you will find more comfort in my restraint than you will from my eager desires," he said, gently turning her to face the balustrade. "You have no idea how much I've been looking forward to this night with you…" His fingers moved deftly along the ties of her bodice, slowly loosening each notch as he went up. "As anxious as I am to feel myself within your quim," his voice came warm over the back of her neck, making her close her eyes as he loosened her from her gown. “As much as I long to bury myself within you,” his voice drifted warm against her nape, making her breath catch, “I would rather you discover each sensation at your own pace.”
She looked upward to the starlit sky above. His words soothed the last of her dread. She had feared the pain of consummation must come at once, that she would have no moment to steel herself. But with each loosened loop and each quiet breath at her neck, her heart drew tight within her chest. Most bewildering of all was how the sliding fabric over her breasts and hips sent a shiver of pleasure low through her belly.
She reminded herself that such pleasure was no sin. That the carnal imaginings which visited her in the quiet hours were permitted now, even expected. She had tried, in small secret experiments, to prepare herself… slipping a hesitant finger within, but it had stirred little in her. No doubt the big nob that hung from him would prove far more demanding. The thought made her cheeks burn hot.
At last, her bodice slipped free, leaving only her chemise and skirts about her hips. His warm hands slid to her waist. He leaned closer, his breath ruffling her hair. “Shall we return indoors? I cannot trust that some watchful eye is not trained upon us this very instant.”
She folded her arms over her chest and nodded, turning toward him. "Yes."
It was far simpler to slip the heavy satin skirt from her hips than it had been to unfasten the bodice. Left in her chemise, while he wore only his linen shirt and breeches, they settled together upon the divan. A bowl of grapes rested on the carpet at their feet, and the fire glowed bright in the grate. She traced her fingertips across the velvet upholstery, striving to maintain her composure, though he sat perilously near, one arm stretched along the back of the seat as he watched the flames."How has your reading been going?"
Her cheeks flamed with embarrassment. She knew precisely what he meant, the scandalous tales. Only a handful of volumes dared offer the frank, wicked detail she secretly favoured, though she would never confess it aloud. The rest of the books danced around the truth of what was being written with flowery prose and reserved detail.
"Fine, I suppose."
“Merely fine? That does not strike me as a cause for much excitement. Be truthful with me, mouse. Have your readings not stirred a certain… awakening?” He traced a finger along the nape of her neck, gaze intent upon her profile.
An awakening… Well, yes, they had. She blinked her eyes slowly and gulped to wet her dry throat as she kept her gaze fixed on the flames. "A time or two."
His thumb drew gently up the side of her throat when she felt his plush lips graze her jaw. "Only a time or two? And how did it feel?"
She felt his words scatter across her skin and melt down to her neck as he kissed a slow path toward the underside of her chin. She tilted her head, granting him better access as a breathy gasp wobbled from her mouth. How was she to answer such a question when he was kissing her like that?
"It… It was… ahhh!"
He grinned at how swiftly she yielded to his touch. He had scarcely reached the place he knew would undo her entirely."Oh? Did it please you? Did you find your release?”
Her breathing faltered, chest rising as if the stays were still fastened to her ribs. She turned her face to look at him, lips parted, eyes heavy with confusion and longing.
“I… It…” she whispered, her voice soft. “It felt best when you did it.”
Harry's eyes softened, his hand settling over hers on her lap, thumb stroking the bones of her knuckles. “I see,” he said. He had not expected such candour. In fact, he could almost swear that was an invitation from her.
He leaned in again, that time placing a kiss just beside her mouth. A silent question to her subtle invitation.
She turned her body to face him fully, her hands rising to his chest, fingers brushing the edge of his collar as though daring herself to continue. She wanted more of that kiss. Wanted to feel the ache and the need kindling between them again.
He sat still as she shifted, her pretty eyes steady on his, palm sliding upward against the linen over his chest. Her lips were parted as she angled her face toward his, silently beseeching.
And then, to his quiet astonishment, she quickly moved into him, her lips brushing his with a tentative and curious peck. He hummed low in his throat as he responded, pressing more firmly into her mouth, drawing her deeper with every pass of his lips.
When she sighed into the kiss, he took it as permission, slipping a hand to the curve of her waist, guiding her closer. Her thigh brushed his, and he felt the hitch in her breath at the contact.
“You needn’t be afraid,” he whispered, brushing his nose against hers as he broke the kiss only long enough to see her eyes. “We shall take our time.”
“I do not fear the kiss,” she whispered. “Only what must follow after.”
He smiled. “We shall come to that only when you're ready. And when the moment arrives, I promise you shall find it as gentle and as sweet as you desire.”
He kissed her again, more deeply that time. His hand slipped behind her, tracing the gentle arch of her back, coaxing her to lean into him. And she did, cautiously at first, until her chest pressed to his, and her hands clutched his arms for balance.
She could feel the heat of him through her thin chemise, the strength of him, solid and broad, yet tempered by an unexpected tenderness. His touch remained patient, adoring, but each movement was deliberate, charting the shape of her, as though he meant to memorize every inch.
She startled a little when his palm swept over her hip and down to the back of her thigh. He paused, pulling back just enough to look her over. He needed to calm himself before he wound up devouring every inch of her like he wanted, the urge to overtake his reason.. Looking at her face, he saw only a beautiful woman, clinging to him, wanting… But he had to keep gentle with her. For now.
“Is this too much?”
She shook her head quickly. “No. I'm trying to settle myself.”
“Shall we stop?”
“No,” she whispered, her cheeks blooming with heat. “Please don’t stop.”
His eyes darkened, and he leaned in again, placing a kiss beneath her ear. “As you wish.”
He had envisioned the most wanton imaginings of her earlier that day. Had taken himself in hand, stroking with slow, deliberate intent to the thought of her spread across his velvet coverlet, her hips arching in desperate supplication as he tormented her with his touch. He had spilled the moment he pictured himself buried within her. Even now, he could scarcely fathom how she might feel… soft and wet and impossibly tight around him.
With great care, he guided her onto her back along the divan, the velvet cushions yielding beneath her. He followed, half atop her, propped on one elbow so as not to press his full weight against her. His other hand drifted slowly along the line of her hip, then upward, tracing the side of her ribcage through the soft fabric of her shift.
She arched faintly beneath him, startled by her body’s yearning. It was automatic. His mouth never left her skin. He kissed the slope of her neck, the hollow of her throat, the edge of her collarbone as she moaned quietly.
Her fingers found their way into his curls, tugging gently as he grazed the peak of her breast with the back of his hand. Even that small contact had her gasping, her legs shifting restlessly beneath her.
“Already trembling,” he said, his breath jagged. “You are so sensitive, little mouse."
“I feel it,” she whispered. “It's...” she trailed off, unable to finish any thoughts she had conjured.
He chuckled low against her chest, his nose brushing the thin fabric stretched over her breast. “It is natural to feel it. You are so good… perfect," his words were mumbled against the material. "I, too, feel it. It's in my bones…" He dotted kisses softly over her chemise. "… it's in my chest. And we’ve scarcely begun.”
He brought his mouth upward to hers again, his tongue brushing her lips in a way that made her back arch and her thighs clench beneath her clothing. She slowly parted her lips, her tongue meeting his in a shy, searching stroke. A low moan trembled between them.
Between the steady flicker of firelight and the warmth of his hands, Y/n could no longer recall what fear had once lived in her. He made her forget everything but his breath, his touch, the way his voice dropped when he praised her.
She could feel the hard ridge of him against her hip, unmistakable even through layers of linen and cotton. The knowledge of it sent a hot dizziness through her.
“Allow me to unlace this,” he said, tugging gently at the top of her chemise. “You are far too beautiful to be hidden behind cloth.”
She nodded, raising her arms to aid him. He had sworn he would be patient, that he would not rush her, but she was so pliant already. The soft panting of her breaths, the little gasps, the way she threaded her fingers into his hair and kissed him with shy fervour…the way she lifted her hips to meet him. All invitations.
And when the garment came loose, baring her to the warm air and his hungry gaze, the king did not seize her as some men might have, greedy and rough. He merely looked. Admired. Swallowed hard as if astonished.
He longed to touch her. Wanted to grab her flesh and squeeze at every inch of her that was laid before him. Wanted to dig his fingers into her hips and breasts and spread her thighs open so he could look upon all of her.
“God help me,” he said softly, his voice nearly breaking. “You’re exquisite.”
He was not a man given to faith. But right then, he could kneel in surrender to any deity who had brought her to him. He wanted to nose at her opening, to pry her apart and watch her face as he plunged into her depths.
She reached for him then, bolder than she’d ever been before, and pulled him down into her embrace, and perhaps for a break in the way his eyes were wandering over her peaked breasts and the stretch of her body where his fingers had once touched. She'd never been gazed upon like that before.
His mouth met hers again, slow and indulgent. He kissed her not as a king, but as a starving man at last allowed to feast. Her arms wrapped round his neck, drawing him nearer as his hand roamed down the soft plane of her side, over the tender rise of her hip. His palm, wide and warm, settled low, gripping just above her bottom as he deepened their kiss. She whimpered into his mouth, fingers slipping into his curls again, pulling at them with a desperation she scarcely understood.
Harry shifted atop her, careful not to rest too heavily on her frame, but eager for more of her body pressed against his. Her bare breasts, rising and falling in uneven rhythm, brushed against the linen of his shirt. The sensation tore another moan from her throat.
“There now,” he said between kisses. “D’you feel it, little mouse? What you’ve done to me?”
He took her hand and guided it downward, resting her palm over the thick, straining shape beneath his breeches. She gasped softly, her eyes wide, her breath caught in her throat.
He closed his hand over hers, encouraging her to press gently.
“That is what your sighs have made of me,” he whispered. “A beast of a man, barely leashed.”
Her skin burned hot. Still, she did not pull her hand away as she looked into his eyes.
“It feels so…” she trailed off, lashes fluttering as she dared another tentative touch.
“So alive?” he offered, his voice dark with pleasure.
She nodded, lips parted. “Yes.”
He smiled, then kissed her again, hungrier, less restrained. His hands returned to her body, roaming more freely. He cupped her breast, his thumb brushing over the pebbled peak, drawing a startled sound from her mouth. Her hips lifted slightly off the divan in response, instinctive and needy.
“May I touch you lower?” he asked against her neck, his breath scorching. “Properly?”
She hesitated, not out of fear, but from sheer wonder at the question. That he would ask at all. That he would wait. That a man known to be cruel in court would kiss her so sweetly and speak to her as though she were sacred.
“Yes,” she said, her voice small but clear. “Please.”
His fingers dipped downward, over the warm skin of her abdomen. She squirmed at the sensation, but he hushed her with a kiss to her cheek, trailing his mouth to her temple, her hairline, her ear.
When his hand finally slipped between her thighs, she gasped, her knees parting slightly of their own accord. He grazed her lightly at first with just a brush of knuckles over the soft curls between her legs.
“You’re already damp for me,” he whispered, sounding almost pained. “Oh, my love…”
Her heart was nearly bursting. She arched into him at the sound of that word.
Love.
Whether he meant it or not, it echoed through her like the strike of a bell.
He began to stroke her slowly with the flat of his fingers, spreading her slickness in languid circles without yet delving deeper. Her hips writhed beneath him, her hands twisting in his shirt as he coaxed her body into revelation.
“That’s it,” he murmured, kissing her chin as his fingers circled her pearl with careful attention. “Let yourself feel it, little mouse. There’s no shame in pleasure.”
The sounds she made startled even her… soft, broken cries she’d never known herself capable of. Her legs trembled, and he caught her with his free arm, holding her tightly as he continued to play her like a cherished instrument.
She felt how wet his fingers were as he slid them slowly, teasingly against her. She needed more, needed it desperately if she were to find any relief. But it seemed he had no intention of granting it. Not yet.
He smoothed his lips over hers, and the whole of the sensation was consuming every bit of her body and soul. She was brought to the brink, and then he moved his fingers down… over and over again as he kissed her until she could hear the wet, sinful sounds of her own arousal between them.
Even Harry felt himself nearing the edge, though she had scarcely touched him. Her fingers were still wrapped tightly over him, and the confining barrier of his breeches had begun to grate on his control. He pushed a heavy breath out through his nose when he felt her palm press firmly into him, tugging in a timid experiment.
And, at first, it had been an accident when he eased one thick finger into her. It was just barely, only to the first knuckle, causing her to gasp so sharply he kissed her again to steal the sound, stilling his digit inside of her. But then she shifted down against his fingers, pushing him deeper, to the second knuckle, until he was buried to the last joint and her ragged breaths dissolved into soft, helpless mewls.
Her walls fluttered around his finger, so tight and warm that it nearly undid him. But he held fast, working slowly, watching every flicker of her expression. He drew out and then in again, coaxing her body to relax.
“It feels—oh,” she cried softly, legs tightening around his hips.
“I know,” he breathed, as he watched her pretty face. “I know, darling. I can tell you like that.”
He found her pearl again with his thumb while his finger worked within her, and her whole body tensed, then softened around him. She did like that. He could see it in the way her hips began to roll into his palm, her breaths syncing to the rhythm of his thrusting fingers. Loosening his hold, he drew back just enough to look down and savour the sight of his new wife undone beneath him.
The room could have collapsed on him and he would not have stopped. Her hips were swaying in restless pleasure, her soft breasts rising and falling with each ragged breath, her mouth dropped open wide as her eyes glistened… and her cunt, sucking his finger in and in, making his hand gleam with her slippery, greedy need. He would stay like that with her for eternity if she wanted. Even if his cock was throbbing painfully.
"Mmm…" she whimpered, her eyes blinking up into his. "It's wet. Right here…" She slid her thumb along the head of his length, where he'd dampened the linen through his breeches.
"Yes. You've aroused me, little mouse. It means you're making me feel good. Your hand on me…"
She inhaled a harsh breath as he curled his fingers into her, dragging his pads into something that made her insides swell. "It's good?"
He smiled and pushed his nose into her cheek. "Very good."
The soaked sound of his finger pushing in and dragging out met with the crackle of the fire in the hearth, and their strained breaths and moans. His gaze drank in every detail of her, undone beneath him. She was more than ripe for him… but still… he wanted to see her writhing, begging for him to sink inside before he defiled her completely.
He closed his eyes, letting himself savor it: the feel of her, the scent of her skin, the soft, unguarded sounds she made. It was a dream, having her like this, and he felt certain that the moment he buried himself inside her, he might not survive it. For all his strength, his heart was sure to give out. But he would die happy.
Opening his eyes again, he slid his finger out, and she quickly grabbed onto his shoulder, her lips drawing downward into a sulk. "Harry…"
A low moan tore from him when she spoke his name. She so rarely said it that hearing it now was dizzying. "Oh, little mouse…" he cooed at her, changing the position of his hand, two fingertips circling at her little tight muscle as he looked down at her. "Do you need more?"
She nodded in haste. "More. Please."
"How about two fingers?"
She continued nodding as she glanced down at his hand, hovering just over her thighs in wait. "Yes."
Harry smiled and slowly eased two of his fingers into her. She gasped, her eyes widening with the new fullness. He began to thrust, unhurried, and she moaned, rolling her pelvis upward into his hand. Watching her face closely, ensuring her pleasure, he drew her hand from his shoulder and brought it downward to that tender place he had been stroking. She shivered as he guided her hand to where he had been touching her, where she was slick and tender and pulsing beneath her own hand.
“Feel that,” he said, his voice ragged. “How soft you are… how ready.”
He nudged his fingers inside of her gently as he steered her fingers. Her breath stuttered as she pressed down gently, her fingers slipping over the little pearl that throbbed with every heartbeat. Her thighs tried to close, but he nudged them apart again, kissing her shoulder.
“Take it easy,” he whispered. “Does it feel nice?”
She nodded, unable to find words, her mouth open in a soundless gasp as she watched his face intently. But “nice” was not the word for it. It was so much more. More than she had ever imagined. Better.
He watched her touch herself, her eyes wide, her chest rising and falling, and he knew he would never recover from the sight. But he couldn’t resist adding his own touch, his hand sliding to cover hers, pressing just a little firmer, coaxing a broken cry from her throat as he continued working his other fingers as deeply as she could take.
He didn't rush her. Even as he looked upon her laid bare, perfect and lovely in the firelight, he held her gaze and waited. Anyone watching have thought him a man of infinite patience, given he'd restrained himself from taking her how he wanted over the last month, but truth was, it cost him nearly every ounce of strength not to lay her flat and take her wholly just then.
For the king, this was also a new experience. Her virginity would be his, and it would be the first time he'd ever taken such a thing, from anyone. It had never appealed to him to have to teach and guide a lover during such a delicate moment. To make sure she was happy and that her body was relaxed and receptive.
Yet he found himself rather enjoying this slow, tender exploration. His patience was tested to its limits, but there was no other way. Y/n needed time to open up properly, so, time he would give her, even though every aching inch of him rebelled against such restraint.
When at last she moved her hand from herself and pulled him down to kiss him, he made a soft sound of gratitude in the back of his throat. He let her lead for a time—her sweet, tentative mouth against his, her hands exploring the breadth of his back, the shape of his arms. He could feel the damp trace of her arousal upon her fingertips as they brushed his skin.
Cupping her breast again, he rasped his thumb gently over the sensitive peak, and she gasped, her hips shifting upward toward him, as if she needed more than just his two fingers dragging through her insides.
“You must tell me if anything displeases you,” he murmured against her cheek, voice husky. “I mean to learn every inch of you, but not at the cost of your peace.”
“It does not displease me,” she whispered, a tremor in her voice. “I can hardly find the words to tell you how I enjoy it.”
He smiled faintly. “That is no ill thing, little mouse. You're so good.”
Slowly, he pulled his fingers from her and trailed his hand down the length of her belly, smearing a glistening trace along the path. She bucked as his fingers grazed the softness between her thighs. He kissed her again to soothe her, then slipped lower, brushing her slit with two fingers. She was so soft and yielding. He nearly lost himself at the feel of it, at the sight.
“Shall I taste you?” he asked, voice scarcely more than a ragged breath.
Her lashes fluttered, her lips parting as she swallowed hard. “If…if you desire it…”
He laughed softly. “I do more than wish it.”
He slipped down to his knees beside the divan, urging her to shift her hips closer to the edge. She felt nearly too shy to look down at him, but when she dared, her heart tripped at the sight… her husband, the King of Thornekeep, bowing as though to worship.
He kissed the soft skin of her inner thigh, his hands firm on her hips to keep her from shying away. When he parted her folds with careful fingers and pressed his mouth to her, she cried out in shock, her hand flying to his hair.
“Oh—oh God—”
“Mmm,” he moaned against her.
His tongue traced her with slow, deliberate sweeps, tasting her as though he might starve without it. He relished every sound she made, every broken gasp, every elated cry.
When he closed his lips around her tender pearl and suckled, she jolted so violently he had to press a hand to her belly to steady her. Her thighs trembled as her spine arched off the divan. It was nothing like she'd felt before. Fingers rubbing her little nub were one thing but his lips and his tongue gliding softly, teasing at her and then sucking… For one bewildered instant, she wondered whether such bliss could be sanctioned by God, or was it a wicked, sinful act.
“Harry—oh—oh, I—” she pushed softly at his head, and he lifted upward to look at her, resting his chin on her thigh.
“What is it, mouse?” he asked softly.
"It feels too good. I'm not sure this is right—"
"It's meant to feel good."
"But is it… improper? We haven't consummated the marriage yet, and I'm worried we're in sin."
Harry tugged her fingers into his, squeezing around her knuckles as he climbed back up to the cushion with her. "You and I are husband and wife. We may enjoy one another in whatever way we like. There is no sin here, Y/n. Just me and you together."
She swallowed and nodded, though uncertainty lingered in her gaze. “It feels so…more exquisite than anything I have ever known. I cannot believe something so indulgent bears no consequence.”
"I'm sad that someone taught you that pleasure is akin to wickedness. We are meant to enjoy each other. It is our wedding night."
She moved her palm up to his shoulder. "You should have me then. So we can consummate the marriage first. Is that not what we're really meant to be doing?"
He spread his lips against her cheek tenderly. "Oh, Y/n. We will get to that when it's time. It is important we have patience, so that you find joy in it.”
He kissed her again, lingering near the corner of her mouth. “You are in no danger of judgment here. No priest, no scripture, no God who loves you would condemn the sweetness of a husband tending to his wife.”
Her eyes searched his face, uncertain. “But—”
“No.” He shook his head slowly. “Listen to me.” One of his hands came up to cradle her jaw. “You were made to be cherished. To be touched. To be pleasured. If you believe God made you, then you must believe he made all this softness, all this sweetness, too.”
Her chest rose and fell, breath catching. It felt too good to be innocent, and yet, the king's words calmed her racing thoughts.
“Let me show you,” he murmured, pressing a last kiss to her lips before sliding down again.
This time, she did not look away and she did not deny herself his gifts.
He settled between her thighs, hands gentle but insistent as he urged them further apart. She felt a shiver run the length of her spine when he kissed the delicate place above her mound, then lower, his mouth warm and wet.
He licked her slowly, unhurried, savoring her. His tongue pressed and circled and tasted her with aching devotion. A whimper rose in her throat, and she felt her hips tipping toward him, all her careful modesty dissolving.
“There,” he breathed between strokes, voice husky and warm. “That’s it… You see? No sin. Only your body caught in desire… perfect and good.”
Her fingers threaded into his hair again, but this time she did not push him away. She held him there, trembling as his mouth coaxed more of those helpless little sounds from her.
“Harry…oh…”
He hummed softly in answer, the vibration sparking heat that coiled deep inside her belly. He parted her gently with his tongue and closed his lips around that tender little bud again, suckling with steady, delicate pulls.
Her breath fractured. She clutched at his shoulders, eyes squeezing shut as she gasped. Her body gave way to him, and to herself.
He kept her pinned sweetly beneath his mouth, kept coaxing her higher, higher, until the last of her fear slipped away. Until the only thing she could feel was the pleasure cresting in a rising wave she could not have denied if she tried.
When she came apart, crying his name, he held her steady. Her breath came in ragged sobs. Her body clenched, and he nearly spilled himself just from the sounds she made.
When she sagged back at last, dazed and spent, he kissed her thigh one final time and drew himself up over her. She looked up at him, her eyes luminous and soft with wonder, her lips parted.
“I did not know…” She paused, struggling for air. “I did not know it could feel so…so…”
He kissed her softly. “It pleases me you enjoyed yourself.”
He shifted to sit beside her, his breeches tight to the point of agony. She reached out, hesitant, then laid her hand over the hard ridge straining against the laces.
“I would like…to do something for you,” she said, her voice wavering but earnest.
“Ah.” He swallowed hard. “You’ve no notion how dearly I desire that.”
She sat up on her knees, fingers trembling as she worked the fastenings. His cock sprang free, flushed and thick, the tip glistening. She drew in a startled breath as he drank in the sight of her naked and kneeling.
“It's quite large. I'd forgotten…” she said faintly. The memory of what she'd seen on the first night was distorted. She recalled only the tumult of feeling, but seeing him now, the sheer size of him was formidable.
He laughed then, a rough, quiet laugh. “Aye. But you shall have time to grow accustomed.”
He guided her hand to him, wrapping her fingers around the base. “Just here,” he said. “Slow strokes… That’s it.”
She moved carefully at first, watching his face. His eyes fell shut, a low groan rumbling in his chest.
“Spit on it,” he rasped, voice nearly gone. “Easier for you and better for me.”
Her face warmed, but she obeyed, her tongue peeking between her lips before she gathered her courage and let a small line of spit fall onto the crown. He shuddered, his hand covering hers again.
“That’s it, so sweet,” he breathed. “Ah—God, you are…you’ve no notion…”
When she grew bolder, sliding her palm up and down the rigid length, he dropped his head back against the cushion, breathing raggedly.
“You may lick it if you wish,” he managed, craning his neck to watch. He would ease her into learning how to suck on him, but for now, just to have her tongue against him would tide him over.
She leaned forward, her lips brushing just beneath the tip before she thought better of it, her courage failing. He looked down, his expression soft with amusement at the attempt. She was precious.
“No,” he said, lifting her chin. “You needn't do that tonight. Another time perhaps.”
She swallowed and gathered her courage again, her hand gliding up and down the thick length, the side of her fist grazing the hair at the root of him. Each stroke grew surer, slicker with her spit and the warmth seeping from him at the tip.
He closed his eyes, lashes shadowing his cheeks. “Yes…just like that,” he panted, voice hoarse. “Ah… You are…Christ, you are a marvel…”
She watched in fascination as his chest rose and fell, every muscle taut beneath the fine white shirt he had not bothered to remove. His hips shifted subtly, seeking more friction.
“Is it…very good?” she asked, breathless, astounded.
His eyes opened then, dark and heavy-lidded. “Very good, little mouse. You cannot fathom what it is to feel your hand on me.”
Her cheeks flamed at that, but she did not stop. She tried a firmer stroke, and he groaned deep in his throat, his abdomen tightening as though he fought to restrain himself.
“God above,” he rasped. “Sweet wife—if you keep on in such a fashion—”
He did not finish the warning. His breath turned ragged, one hand clutching her wrist as though to steady himself.
She looked down at her hand moving over him, at the flushed crown peeking from her curled fingers. A drop of pearly fluid welled there, smearing over her knuckles. Her heart thumped madly, part embarrassment, part something far stranger… an unnameable thrill that he trusted her with this, that she could undo him with only her touch.
“Do not stop,” he gasped, voice breaking. “Oh, God, do not—”
And she did not. She watched, transfixed, as his body shuddered beneath her hand. A low groan tore free of his chest, and his hips lifted once, twice… and then he spent himself, hot and thick over her fingers and the flat of his stomach.
She stilled, blinking down at the evidence of what she had done. Her palm felt slippery, and she could see the way he still pulsed softly against her grip as she slowed down the way her hand moved over him.
A curious wonder stole through her, mingled with a shy pride. She had never imagined such a sight, nor that she would be the cause of it. She'd never seen him like that before, but she quite liked it, she decided.
He reached to curl his hand around her wrist, gently drawing her away. His chest still heaved, a dazed smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
“My love,” he managed at last, voice warm and ragged, “you have undone me entirely.”
She glanced down again, unable to help herself, her lips parting in astonishment. “I had not known…that it would look so…so much...”
He laughed then, soft and unguarded, even as he caught her hand in his and pressed a kiss to her damp fingers. “Forgive me. You might have found I am quite helpless where you are concerned.”
Her throat bobbed on a swallow. “I do not mind. I…rather like that you should be.”
They both stilled. The only sound was the fire snapping in the hearth.
“I shall see to this,” he said hoarsely, reaching for a kerchief to clean them both.
Once they were made tidy, he drew her into his lap, her bare thighs straddling his. He poured them each a small brandy and pressed the glass into her hand. She sipped, feeling the warmth spread down her throat to join the heat still coiled low in her belly. He watched her over the rim of his cup, a knowing glint in his eyes.
“You look thoughtful,” he said.
She lowered her gaze to the cup in her hands. “I was only considering how strange it is that one may feel so much and still be found well in the eyes of God.”
He chuckled, low and fond. “Aye, that is the wonder of it. Pleasure does not kill us, and neither will God.”
Her lips curved shyly. “You are very certain.”
“I am a man of some experience,” he admitted, one brow lifting in a silent dare for her to tease him. But she did not. She only traced the edge of her glass with a pensive fingertip.
“It did not hurt you?” she asked quietly, curiously.
He looked surprised, then softened, setting his cup aside so he could brush his knuckles down her cheek. “No, sweet. Far from it. You could do the same every night, and I would never grow weary of you.”
Her face warmed again, but she did not look away. “And now? Do you feel well enough to… to continue?”
A smile tugged at his mouth. “Greedy little thing.”
She bit her lip, half-ashamed of the way her body still ached to be touched. The way she wanted more.
He tipped her chin up, meeting her gaze with a softness that made her chest flutter. “I am well enough. But let us take a moment to rest. There is no race to be run here.”
She nodded, exhaling softly. His hands drifted down to her hips, thumbs stroking the tender skin. “If you are patient, I promise I shall have you writhing again before the hour is out.”
Heat moved through her at the promise. She swallowed and lifted her glass for another small sip, grateful for the excuse to busy her hands. And though she was not entirely fond of the drink, the way it warmed her belly and made her limbs loosen was awfully nice.
For a time, they sat like that… her straddling his thighs, the brandy slowly emptying from their cups to the warmth of their bellies, the firelight gilding every slow blink and secret smile. She felt a peace she could not recall ever knowing, threaded through with the anticipation that soon, very soon, he would touch her again. She was entirely too impatient, but she would try not to push more.
Every little stroke of his fingers over her skin drew chill bumps in their path. She toyed with the hem of his linen shirt, pushing at the fabric so she could touch his skin the way he was touching hers. When she'd reached up above his naval, he pushed out an amused breath.
"What is it, little mouse?"
She swallowed, unable to stop herself from asking once more. “I was only… wondering whether it might feel so pleasant again.”
He chuckled, setting his glass aside. “Little glutton.”
She huffed, cheeks hot. “You are unkind.”
“Am I?” He took her face in his hands. “Or am I merely perceptive?”
She opened her mouth to protest, but he kissed her, and her thoughts scattered. When he broke away, his hands drifted down to cup her breasts, thumbs teasing her nipples until she arched. His mouth found her neck, sucking gently.
“You wish for more,” he murmured against her skin.
“I…” She swallowed. “Yes.”
He laid her back once more and began anew—fingers sliding between her thighs, stroking until she whimpered. Until he was fully recovered and his prick was thickened once again.
"Let us go to our bed." He helped her up, his fingers purposely grazing her hip as they both moved to the much more comfortable feather mattress. She climbed on first while Harry stripped his shirt away, his gaze drinking in the sight of her… her bare back, the soft curve of her hips, as she settled onto the coverlet and watched him with wide, wondering eyes.
He could have her any way he wished, and she would not deny him. He moved in next to her and pulled at her hips, settling her astride his hips, his length slipping between her slick folds as he lay down on his back.
“Stay just here,” he said, voice rough. “Let us find it together.”
He guided her hands to rest against his chest before taking hold of her hips. When she looked down, her breath caught at the sight of their bodies pressed together with her slickness glistening on the ruddy crown of him. She gasped as he began to guide her, their bare flesh sliding together, hot and unashamed.
“Oh…” she pushed out the exclamation in a breath. It was so much. So warm and strange and perfect, she could scarcely hold the sensation in her mind.
He watched her face, gaze dark and steady. “Does it please you?”
She nodded, unable to form a word. Her hands splayed over his chest, feeling the solid rise and fall of his breaths. He rocked his hips gently, the hard length of him gliding against the tender pearl of her desire.
The first time she shifted her hips on her own, she startled at the burst of pleasure that sparked through her belly. He groaned low, the sound curling around her spine.
“Again,” he coaxed. “Just like that.”
She swallowed and did as he asked, sliding forward and back with more intention. It was not the same as being filled with his fingers, but oh, it was nearly too sweet to bear. The ridge of his cock rubbed exactly where she needed, every stroke leaving her breathless.
“God…” she whispered, her eyes falling shut. “It's so warm...”
His hands flexed over her hips, guiding her when she faltered. “Yes. That’s it, little mouse… take what you need.”
The fire cracked beside them, casting golden light over their joined bodies. She could not look away from the sight, her slick folds gliding over the length of him, his skin shining with her wetness. His abdomen tightened with each motion, the muscles shifting beneath the fine hair on his belly.
A soft keening sound escaped her, and her cheeks flamed hot at the thought that it belonged to her. But he only groaned in answer, the roughness of it making her clench.
“Look at me,” he rasped.
She opened her eyes, and their gazes locked… hers wide and wondering, his dark with hunger and a tenderness she could not have imagined.
“It feels too good,” she confessed, voice breaking. “I shall die of it.”
He huffed a ragged laugh, his thumbs pressing sweet circles into her hips. “If you die, I shall perish with you.”
It was nearly too much, too raw, too intimate. She pressed her palms harder to his chest and moved faster in instinct, the slippery slide of him sending little shocks of pleasure all through her. He guided her at a slow pace, letting her grind herself over him until her thighs quivered.
“Harry…” she gasped. “I think—I think it’s coming again!”
“Let it,” he urged, his own voice unsteady. “Let it, sweet girl.”
She cried out, her head tipping back, the pleasure cresting all at once. Every muscle in her body tensed as she came, her slick pulsing hot over him.
The sight of her, glorious and undone, dragged him right to the edge. He cursed softly, his hips thrusting up once, twice before he spilled between them, hot and thick, their bellies streaked with the proof of it.
For a moment, neither of them moved. She stayed straddling him, breathing hard, her skin flushed. She could feel the throb of him still fading against her. Her mind was slow to return to itself, dazed and glowing with a satisfaction she had never dreamed of.
At last, he cupped her cheek, smiling up at her with eyes gone soft. “I think,” he murmured, “we have done very well indeed. You are far better than you know.”
Heat prickled along her throat at the praise. She looked down where their bodies were still joined by the evidence of all they’d shared, then quickly averted her gaze, shy all over again.
“Come,” he said. “Let me see you settled.”
He eased her carefully off his hips, rising to fetch a fresh cloth. She lay back against the pillows, limbs loose and boneless, watching as he cleaned them both with gentle hands. When he finished, he drew the coverlet up over her bare body before sliding in beside her.
His arm slipped beneath her neck, gathering her close. She turned to bury her face against his shoulder, breathing in the clean scent of linen and the warm salt of his skin.
“You are okay?” he asked quietly, lips near her temple.
“Yes,” she whispered. “I'm soaring.”
He exhaled a slow, relieved sigh and pressed a kiss to her brow. The fire burned low, throwing shadows across the chamber walls. Her eyelids fluttered, heavy with the soft ache of satisfaction and the weight of her own contentment.
. .
Sunlight slipped past the drapes, warm on her bare shoulder. She stirred, stretching her limbs with tentative caution. Every part of her felt tender, softened by the night they’d shared. When she blinked her eyes open, she found him awake beside her, propped on an elbow.
“Good morning, little mouse.”
She smiled drowsily. “Good morning.”
He kissed her temple. “How do you fare?”
He smiled faintly and reached to stroke the skin of her cheek. “How fares your body?”
She hesitated, then let her hand shyly drift down to rest over his length, already stirring with interest against her thigh. Everything from the night before had been nothing but a delight. She couldn't understand the ache for more, but it was there.
“I would like to do it properly,” she whispered, her skin aflame. “I wish you to have me… wholly.”
His brows lifted, and he cupped her face in both hands. “Are you certain?”
“Yes,” she said, her heart thrumming. “I want to feel you. I want… to give it to you.”
He slipped his hand to her throat, thumb brushing the place her pulse beat so fast. “And what is it you desire to give me?”
He knew what she was seeking but before he took it from her, he wanted to hear her say the words. Her breath came unsteady. She felt reckless, near undone by the safety she had found in his arms.
“I want,” she began, and paused, gathering her courage. “I want to feel you inside me. Entirely. I want to give it to you.”
His eyes darkened, the mirth fading to something deeper. “Do you know what you ask?”
“I do.” She lifted her chin. “I know you said there was no need to rush. But I do not wish to wait. Not if you will have me.”
A muscle in his jaw flexed as he searched her face for any sign of fear. When he found none, only resolve bright as morning, he exhaled and pressed his forehead to her shoulder, his own body vibrating with need.
“Then I shall have you,” he whispered. “But we shall go slowly, and you will tell me of every discomfort. Swear it.”
“I swear.”
He kissed her mouth, unhurried, as though they had endless hours to lie abed. His hand trailed down her side, then further, coaxing her thighs apart. She felt her body already answering him, readying itself as his fingers slid between her folds.
“You see?” he murmured against her cheek. “Your body knows what is to come.”
He worked her gently, drawing small circles that made her hips shift and her lips part with a quiet gasp. She clung to his shoulder, unable to think, only to feel.
When she grew wet and pliant under his touch, he pressed a finger inside, then a second, coaxing her with slow strokes. The stretch made her whimper, but she did not shy away.
“Easy,” he breathed. “Easy now.”
Even as he said the word—easy—he himself was reeling. His heart pounded, his skin was burning, his hand was shaking. He'd never needed to display such restraint in his life and he was nearly at the edge of himself to lose control.
Her body clenched and softened, her breaths coming shallow as he prepared her. When she began to tremble again, he drew his fingers back, pressing a kiss to her temple.
He guided her onto her back and settled between her thighs, bracing himself on one elbow so he could look into her eyes. With his free hand, he took himself in hand, the tip gliding through her slick heat.
Her breath caught as she felt him there, so close she thought she might faint from the wanting. The warmth of him pressing and sliding against her was not unlike the night before, but this time it was different.
“Breathe,” he said softly. “You must breathe.”
She nodded, her chest rising as she tried to steady herself, waiting for him to get on with it. Waiting for the sting, the pain… the blood.
With a low groan, he pressed forward, the thick head of him pushing into her inch by inch. She gasped at the burn, her fingers clutching at his arms. It was much, much more than she thought.
He stilled at once, voice rough. “Is it too much?”
“N-no—only—”
“Only different.” He kissed her jaw, her throat, waiting. “You are doing beautifully.”
When she exhaled and her hips tipped up, he eased deeper, the slow stretch making her cry out, though not in pain alone. He was inside her, truly inside, filling her in a way she could never have imagined.
“God,” he rasped, his breath ragged against her skin. He couldn't help but to peer down at their bodies joined. His cock throbbed at the lewd sight. “You are… you are…”
Her body tightened around him, and he groaned, fighting for composure. His instinct told him to bury in and begin sliding into her at full intensity so he could finally indulge in the slick hug of her cunt around him.
Instead, he took her hand and pulled it down her body, guiding her fingers over her pearl. "Touch. The way you do when you are alone. Like this…"
He moved her fingers there, and she blinked up at him, wide-eyed. She understood his instructions and began to rub over herself, two fingers drifting in circles, pressing until she began to feel the delight all over. It was then that he began to move again.
The king kept slow and steady, pulling back and pushing deeper as she kept her fingers gliding. He could feel her knuckles bumping at his low tummy as she clenched delicately around him. And the deeper he nudged the more she stretched to take him, until at last he was seated fully within her. He stilled, pressing his brow to hers.
“Does it ache?”
“A little,” she whispered. “But—oh—”
He shifted, just enough to make her gasp. “But it is…so full.”
"Don't stop your fingers. Keep them moving, yes?"
She nodded as he moaned against her cheek. He could wreck her without consequence. He could find his own end as he so pleased. But she was too sweet for that. And he was finding that prolonging his own pleasure was quite divine. He'd never experienced it before, always having whatever he wanted when he wanted it.
He kissed her then, his hand gentle where it cupped her face. “We shall wait,” he whispered. “Until you tell me you are ready. Keep going like you are.”
She blinked, her eyes wet. And after a long moment when the ache began to ease and the strange fullness began to feel like something better, she tilted her hips and whispered, “Harry…”
He closed his eyes. "Tell me, mouse. What is it?"
"I think it's okay. Please…"
Her fingers were wet, his length was soaked in her, her body was buzzing with need just as intended. He moved in her slowly, each stroke drawing a breathless sound from her lips. Her hands slipped up his back, holding tight as her body began to learn the rhythm, the pleasure that built with each thrust.
Her hands clung to his shoulders, her breath breaking on every slow push and pull. It was almost too much, the stretch of him, the heat, the knowledge of what they were doing. And yet it was never quite enough to tip her into that blinding release she’d felt before.
He rocked into her in a steady rhythm, his jaw tight with restraint. Every time her body gripped him, he felt himself sliding closer to the brink.
“Ah—God,” he groaned, voice ragged. “You feel…you feel as though you were made to take me.”
Heat swept over her chest. She couldn’t look away from his face, the way his brow furrowed in concentration, the way his mouth fell open when he thrust a little deeper.
“Harry…” she gasped.
“Tell me,” he rasped. “Does it please you?”
“Yes,” she breathed. “Yes—it’s…it’s so good.”
She meant it. Every slow glide was a kind of sweetness she had never known, an ache she did not wish to end. But it did not gather her up the way his mouth and his fingers had. It only made her feel stretched, possessed. Like she was coming apart without quite falling.
He felt it too, her trembling but never quite peaking. His hand slipped between them, thumb circling over the place she touched before, but still she only sighed, her hips tipping up for more without that final surrender. The angle wasn't quite right, but god did it feel good.
“It's enough,” she whispered, her voice soft and certain. “It is perfect like this.”
He made a strangled sound, the control finally slipping from him. “I cannot—”
She felt the change in him, the deeper push, the tension that turned his body hard beneath her hands. A helpless cry tore from his throat as he spilled inside her, his hips pressing flush as he shuddered against her.
She held him, her palms splayed over his back, her heart thundering. The heat of him filling her was a wonder in itself, even without the peak that eluded her.
When at last he stilled, he pressed his face to her throat, breath coming in ragged gasps. “Forgive me,” he mumbled, his lips moving against her skin. “I could not—”
She hushed him gently, sliding her hands to cradle his face. “It was beautiful.”
His eyes lifted, still dark with the last shreds of hunger. “You didn't finish…”
She shook her head, though she smiled. “Not this time.”
His gaze searched hers, then he withdrew slowly, carefully, drawing a soft gasp from her lips. Before she could shy away, he pressed a lingering kiss to her breast, her collarbone, her throat.
“Lie back,” he whispered, his voice gone low and rough again.
She blinked, uncertain. “Harry?”
“Lie back,” he repeated, easing her down into the pillows. “I would have you finish as you deserve.”
Heat rushed up her neck, but before she could protest, he kissed the inside of her knee, parting her thighs with sure hands. She felt his breath against her, the brush of his mouth.
“You are too good,” she whispered, her voice breaking, not even aware of what she was saying.
He only looked up at her, eyes fierce with devotion. “I shall never have enough of you.”
And then his mouth was on her, hot, slow, unhurried. He tasted her with the same reverence as the night before, his tongue coaxing her toward the pleasure she thought she’d lost.
He laved her tenderly, his spend mingling with her sweetness on his tongue. And he didn't know why but it only made him feel more ravenous. That she was filled up with him, and it was leaking like a posset filled with sweet cream.
This time, there was no strain or fear. Only the molten sweetness building with every stroke of him. And then his fingers met her tender opening, where he pushed them in and suckled her bud with his lips.
Her hand flew to his hair, her thighs trembling as she moaned aloud. “Oh—oh—”
He hummed low against her, fingers gently curling inside of her, and the vibration tipped her over the edge at last. Her body seized, all that wanting flooding out in a rush she could not stop.
She cried out, her voice echoing off the chamber walls. He did not stop until she went limp against the pillows, her breath coming in small, broken sobs of relief.
When he lifted his head, his mouth glistened with her. He kissed the inside of her thigh before gathering her into his arms, holding her close as her heart slowly quieted.
“I believe I adore everything about you,” he whispered into her hair.
She blinked up at him, dazed, her lips parting. “I think… I think I adore you as well.”
He smiled, brushing her cheek with the back of his hand. “Then you are mine,” he said softly.
She touched his cheek, her own face warm with wonder. “And you are mine.”
They lay in the hush, their breathing the only sound.
He stroked her arm, his hand lingering at her side. “You are so good,” he said, his voice hoarse. “My sweet one.”
She smiled at the name. “I thought it would hurt more,” she confessed, blinking up at him. “But it was… Heaven.”
He smiled faintly. “I meant to be careful so it would feel good. I should like you to recall this night with gladness, not dread.”
She let her palm drift over his chest, the steady thump of his heart beneath her fingers. “I think I shall remember it as the night you were…very gentle.”
He huffed a quiet laugh. “Oh, now, mouse… I am always gentle.”
She lifted a brow. “You are not.”
His mouth curved as he leaned down to kiss her, slow and unhurried. “No,” he admitted when he drew back. “But with you, I find I have a mind to be.”
She felt something unfurl low in her chest… something that had little to do with lust and everything to do with the peculiar tenderness he showed only to her.
“Thank you,” she murmured. “For waiting. For…asking.”
He studied her face as his hand moved idly over her hip, not in invitation but in reassurance. She traced the shape of his collarbone, the line of his jaw.
At last, she sighed. “I think I'm hungry.”
He laughed, the sound low and warm. “So soon? Have I worn you out only to leave you famished?”
“A bit,” she said, smiling. “And I would like something warm.”
“Then you shall have it.”
Reluctantly, he shifted to sit up. He reached for the bell cord near the bed and gave it a firm tug. She watched him, her heart turning over in her chest. Even in the simplest movements, reaching for the cord, smoothing the coverlet around her… he carried himself with a kind of unthinking authority. But there was nothing cold in it now, nothing cruel. Only the easy gravity of a man content to care for her.
“Will they think it odd?” she asked softly. “To be summoned so early?”
He looked back at her, a glint of amusement in his gaze. “Let them think what they like. We have nothing to prove to any of them. My little mouse is hungry; that is my only concern.”
She sank back into the pillows, her body tender and satisfied, her mind hazy with the sweetness of it all.
“Shall we take our breakfast here?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said, returning to the bed to gather her against his side. “I should like to keep you to myself a little longer.”
And when the knock came at the outer door, he kissed her hair and mumbled, “After this, we shall rest as long as we please. The kingdom can wait.”
She smiled and let herself believe him.
. .
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