Dennis, who has never had a friend to confide in about a crush and who also loves to annoy Trinity, starts correcting her anytime she addresses him by name or nickname. He goes, “Nuh uh uh. That’s Future Dr. Robinavitch to you.”
He gets an eye roll from her and some type of snarky comment about his dumb crush on their boss, which he accepts with glee.
But then it backfires one day at work, when Trinity calls out, “Huckleberry!” And he absentmindedly replies, “That’s Future Dr. Robinavitch to you!” in front of all their coworkers - including none other than Michael Robinavitch.
He’s introduced as Future Dr. Robinavitch to patients shift after shift, and he’s sure he’s going to get fired with the way Robby is avoiding him.
But just when Dennis is about to tell everyone to knock it off, Robby casually slips a silicone ring on his finger and tells him he likes the new nickname and should keep it for a while.
Trinity still refuses to call him Future Dr. Robinavitch, though, even when Dennis flashes her the ring. It’s only when Robby gets him a new ID badge, that Trinity starts referring to him as “Dr. Bitch.” But Dennis still accepts it with glee.
Hucklerabbot but it's Dennis watching as the loves of his life argue and fight over their own brands of stupid ideas. Jack is pissed at Robby because he's going around on his dumbass motorcycle and Robby is annoyed at Jack because he won't stop going out with SWAT. And they both have decided to use the fact that Dennis is the other persons one weakness and keep bring him into the argument even when he tries not to be involved. And Dennis, sweet, well-tempered, calm Dennis who was raised by his mother to be the level-headed one in any chaotic situations because it sure as hell wasn't going to be his short-tempered father or equally tempered brothers. It also helped he was everyone's favorite and their baby so they could never really be mad at him or turn their foul moods and even fouler words towards him.
This was something his mother taught him to take advantage of and use whenever he had to, whether it was because Daniel and David got into a fight over a girl they both liked, or his oldest brother Dominic and their father going at because of their different ideas on how to run the farm. "Stay quiet and keep your wits about you.", "Wait until they finished tearin' into each other 'fore you rip'em a new one."
Essentially it was to say that his mother was a very respected person in their household and trained him up to be the only other person who could tear into his brothers and father with the same sternness ands frigidness of a southern woman keeping her composure.
Which is how Dennis ended up here, in their living room, watching the Jack and Robby snark at one another after Jack got home with an injured shoulder after a bullet grazed him.
"You have a death wish!" Michael snarls as he tries to reach over and look over Jack's wound while said man backs away. "It's fuckin' fine." Jack slaps Robby's hands away while pulling the sleeves of his shirt and hisses when the sweat and blood soaked shirt sticks to the wound and pulls.
Michael scoffs, spinning around and going to the bathroom where the first aid kit is put away. "Yeah, because the sound you made was so reassuring." Jack shot him a dirty look before rounding on Dennis and giving him a slightly guilty and playful look when he saw Dennis standing on the other side of the couch, lips pressed thinly.
"I said I'm fine." Jack waves off Robby's second attempt at grabbing him to check him over before the annoyance spready across Jack's face again. "And I don't want to hear anything about death wishes considering your mid-life crisis is currently sitting in the garage, no fucking helmet in sight."
"And there it is." Dennis rolled his eyes subtly as Robby reared back and immediate frustration crossed his face and he started arguing back. "Let them fight it out." He watched as their argument escalated and they started calling each other selfish and suicidal for indulging in their interests. "What about Dennis, huh? How do you think he'd feel if you splattered yourself on the highway all because you didn't wanna wear a fucking helmet." This time it was Jack who threw his name out first and effectively brought him into the conversation, both their gazes snapping to him.
He had held back since the start of their relationship out of fear of overstepping because it was all so new and he worried he would be thrown out of the years long partnership the other two had developed. Now though, after they've continuously brought him into the argument and used the other persons love and affection for him as a dangling carrot and their constant reassurances that Dennis mattered in the relationship and that he was equally as valued, Dennis was done holding it in.
Dennis sighed, the other two had turned back to each other and it was clear that Robby was probably going to throw Dennis' reaction towards something to Jack because of his SWAT activities, but before he could even say a single word the calm and false sweet voice of their boy cut in.
"Jack?" The man in question turned to Dennis his mouth open to accept whatever agreement their boy was no doubt going to say to help him in his crusade against Robby's death machine. Only to freeze when he saw a completely false and tight smile was spread across Dennis' face. "Yeah, Angel?"
"Sit your ass down." Jack gulped as he tracked Dennis' quiet and measured steps towards he and Robby, and he dropped to the coach when Dennis reached them and snatched the first aid box out of Robby's hands. "Good boy. Michael?"
Robby jumped his eyes wide and cautious as he took in this complete shift in dynamic, usually he and Jack were in control with Dennis being a very willing submissive force in the room, now he couldn't help but shake a bit when he watched this new side of pretty boy. "Yeah, baby?"
Dennis slipped on some of the gloves, latex snapping loudly in the quiet room. "Sit down next to Jack an' keep yur mouth shut." The slightest slip of Dennis' accent was both the hottest thing Robby has ever heard and the most terrifying which made it very easy to comply as he threw himself beside Jack and watch Dennis take out the supplies he would need for disinfecting and stitching up the wound on Jack's shoulder.
Dennis was quiet for a moment as he unpackaged the tools he was going to use before cleaning the wound do he could examine it better, turning Jack to face Robby so that he had full visualization of said wound. "Y'all are both suicidal idiots." He disinfected the wound and surrounding area non-to-gently which earned him a hiss of pain from Jack and a wince of sympathy from Robby. And he shot both men a stern and cold glare when they opened their mouths to argue. "It's not a question. The two of you snap and snark at each other as if either one of you has the upper hand, which you don't because you're both doin' dumbass things tryn' to get killed."
His movements were precise and quick as he started suturing the skin together and he kept his gaze steadily on the wound he was patching up. "And while I can say that it kills me everytime you," his gaze flickers to Robby, "get on your damned bike with no helmet on. Or when you," he gaze snaps to Jacks face, "shoot up and start getting dressed the moment you hear your phone ring and hope it's SWAT. I won't, even if it does, because if it hasn't been enough to change your mind when you point this out to each other then I doubt me mentioning it will change that fact. Instead I will just say.."
The snapping of a glove makes both men jump as Dennis pulls them off and throws them aside. "Leave me out of your fuckin' argument 'cause it's clear that I don't matter enough to either of you to wanna stick around and live out the rest of your natural lives with me.' His voice goes quiet as he packs up the supplies and avoids their eyes. "I love you both but I fuckin refuse to be used in the argument against each other like a constellation prize if you stop doing dumb shit. Y'all wanna die or do you actually love me enough to wanna live and stay with me?" Dennis moves to the bathroom and put the medical supplies away before heading to his own room without a single glance back at a still frozen Jack and Robby. "Figure your shit out or don't fuckin talk to me again." The door slamming shocked both men out of their stupor.
"Are you hard as fuck right now too?" Robby asks with wide eyes and a gapping mouth, which makes Jack swat him on the back of the head. "Obviously. Not the point though. Pretty boy has a point, we've been doing this shit to each other longer than he's been alive and look at what that turned us into. We can't do that to him."
Robby nods, chastised and resolute. "We have to make it up to him." They nod in agreement. Jack's lips twitch and his expression turns a little dirty. "We're gonna get him mad with less dumb shit and then we're gonna fuck rough and dirty." Robby snorts and rolls his eyes. "Obviously.
The next day Dennis wakes up to an apology breakfast, Robby's bike being sold off, and Jack having called the SWAT captain and telling him he's not taking missions anymore. This, of course, leads to Dennis showing his appreciation to his two perfect men by dominating the absolute fuck out of them for the rest of the day. The End....
dennis and trinity enter a marriage of convenience for the legal benefits bc being each other’s emergency contact isn’t enough sometimes and also for the tax benefits
they keep their last names and don’t tell anybody about it and at some point they forget that they’re even married
they realize the downside of this plan bc both of them are falling for their much older attendings (robby and baran) and don’t feel like they can pursue them in good conscience while legally married
dennis and trinity have spent long nights lamenting about robby and baran respectively and know that they’re too down bad for it to just be a crush
one day trinity walks up to dennis with a large folder and, in a not so subtle manner, abruptly says “hey huck, i think we should get divorced. I already found a lawyer and here’s some paperwork. we can fill it out in the break room”
everyone stops what they’re doing immediately.
no one had any idea that santos and whitaker were married, let alone that their marriage was apparently falling apart to the point where she would publicly declare divorce.
they all stop and watch whitaker to see how he’ll react, expecting him to act shocked or hurt.
instead he just looks up from his computer and says, “yeah one sec. let me finish up this chart and i’ll meet you in there”
santos nods and ruffles his hair before heading toward the break room. she doesn’t notice the way everyone is staring at them.
There’s a voucher for unlimited free coffee for an entire month that the staff is competing for. They decided that arm wrestling is the best way to eliminate everyone
Dennis makes it all the way to the end, and so does Jack, who just defeated Robby and everyone before him
Everyone has their money for obvious reasons, except Trinity, because that's her bestie, and she swears he's stronger than he actually looks, so don't count him out
Dennis is so excited to get the voucher for him and Trinity that he slams Jack’s hand into the table the moment Dana says go, and bounces around happily with the card, unaware of the looks of absolute shock being directed at him
Farm boy’s got some muscles, he’s just so clumsy and insecure sometimes that it negates the effect
Jack and Robby are now very horny in front of their colleagues
Summary: You're the person who has to deal with the consequences of Brendon Park's actions, which means you're the only one willing to bite his head off. You want to strangle him; he wants to kiss your feet.
A/N: nobody needs a woman to yell at him like park the shark
Word Count: 6.2k
There is exactly one sound on earth known to make Emergency Department attending physicians with decades of experience under their belt run for the hills and cower under cover – and that’s high heels.
Your high heels, specifically.
It’s not a common sound in the emergency room or the hospital as a whole; most healthcare employees are in sneakers, clogs, or boots the entire time they’re clocked in. But not you. Always dressed pristinely – today it’s high-waisted tailored slacks and a mock-neck sleeveless blouse, effortless and simple with legs that go on for miles and miles – you stalk through the hospital with a mission.
Robby spots you first, strolling in from the offices with eyeliner sharp enough to slice. As his eyes widen, he flips around, briefly touches Abbot and Park on their backs, and hisses, “Find cover, gentlemen. It’s the Viper.”
Abbot breaks into a near run toward the closest open patient room he can find. While Robby scans the area for his hiding place, Park asks, “What the hell’s going on?”
Robby hustles in the opposite direction with a shrug. “Every man for himself, Shark.”
Then a bright, clear, loud woman’s voice bowls down the ED like an oncoming storm. “Dr. Park, just the man I’ve been looking for.”
Even Al-Hashimi claps him on the back and runs off with a whispered, “Good luck.”
You join him in the next second. In your heels, which aren’t even that tall, you’re looking him square in the eyes. Smiling through lips coated in a deep maroon, you ask him, “How’s the transfer to the ED treating you, doctor?”
Arms crossed over his chest, Brendon eyes you suspiciously. “Ah, good, so far. I prefer trauma to ortho. The stakes are higher. Feels good at the end of the day. Accomplished.”
“Glad to hear it. I just need a couple minutes; I know you’re busy. Can we talk here or would you like to go to my office?”
Not noticing the way every single doctor and nurse is nervously glancing in your direction, Brendon mutters, “Here’s fine if it’s quick.”
“Great!” You unlock your briefcase on the nurse’s station and remove a binder as thick as a textbook. Voice still sweet and teasing, you tut at him, “You’ve made yourself very difficult for me to find, Brendon Park.”
“I’m usually in surgery,” he replies, confused and suspicious. He vaguely recognizes you from somewhere, but he can’t quite place it. Probably just flitting around the ED when he’s been here for consults, but it’s entirely possible you’re the hot woman on PTMC’s billboard over I-376. “What’s this about?”
You introduce yourself, shaking his massive hand with yours (blood red stiletto manicure and all), and explain, “I’m the Emergency Department’s Patient Advocate Supervisor.”
“Ah,” Park sighs, eyes raking up and down your accentuated curves, “you’re my new Kevin. He was a huge pain in my ass; I hope our relationship will be better.”
“No, Kevin is a patient advocate and a damn good one, considering he had to deal with your mountain of issues; ortho’s equivalent of me is an idiot who lets the monkeys run the circus,” you correct with harsh eyes. All pretense of pleasantness gone. Brendon looks at you like you’re speaking Klingon, so you slow down your words like he’s a child and explain, “The patient advocates give their evaluations to me. I analyze them and write reports on each and every doctor in the department.”
His brows furrow. “I thought that was Gloria’s-”
“I don’t work for the hospital,” you say, offended by the very idea. “Hospital employees are beholden to the board and the bottom line. I’m a medical malpractice lawyer that the hospital contracts from a private firm to whip their doctors into shape. I don’t care about anything but how patients get treated while they’re here in the ED. I’m more than happy to testify against you in court, recommend probations and suspensions, advocate for salary cuts, or whatever else you might need to be a little more motivated to do your fucking job.”
He lets out a defensive half-chuckle sound, not quite believing the way you’re speaking to him when he’s used to nothing but deference from his coworkers. “I do my job just fine.”
You tap the thick binder and say, “This is your disciplinary folder, Dr. Park. You cut up patients just fine – and that’s an apt description, considering your outcomes aren’t any better than the other surgeons you treat like imbeciles despite doing identical work to yours.” He scoffs and goes to argue, but you barrel ahead, “Don’t ever interrupt me and don’t ever try to correct me; I don’t say things unless I’m completely certain they’re backed up by the data.”
With wide eyes, Brendon confirms, “That’s my file?”
“Yes. You have more patient complaints than any other surgeon in the hospital. I had to switch it from a folder because it has so many entries your previous PAS didn’t go through, so now I have to deal with a two-year backlog. She didn’t do her job of keeping you in line and I won’t be repeating her mistake. Your luck has run out; I expect you in my office at five this Friday for a comprehensive review of your existing file and every Friday after that until your performance improves.”
With his mind reeling, all Brendon can get out is, “Ah, I usually head out early on Fridays. Do a long surgery in the morning and get home by three or four.”
“I know that; I have your schedule history.” With a pat to his shoulder, you smile and tell him, “I want you to spend every weekend from now on thinking about how fucking annoying it is that some bitch from legal won’t let you leave the hospital until seven – and remember that it’s your own fault for being an asshole to patients and it’ll end as soon as you try to be nice and smile for once.”
Slack-jawed, Brendon just watches as you turn on your red-soled heels and head toward your next victim. After a couple of steps, though, you turn back toward him and add, “Oh, and welcome to the Emergency Department. I’m sure you’ll fit right in.”
And all that’s left of you is a waft of warm, citrusy perfume. Park leans against the nurse’s station and breathes out slowly as the other attendings gradually reappear. Baffled, he just shakes his head and runs a hand through his hair. “What the fuck?”
Robby slaps him on the back. “A good public reaming by the Viper is a rite of passage in the Pitt; you were bound to get your first one sometime. You’re one of us now.”
Feeling dizzy and breathless, Brendon says softly but confidently, “I’m gonna marry that woman.”
Robby shakes his head and snorts out a laugh, “That’s a fucked up thing to say.”
“No, no, I can see it,” Jack cuts in, chuckling too. “You’d have the tallest, smartest, meanest children around.”
“I’m serious,” Park insists. A smile threatens his lips. “Give me six months, boys, and I’ll have a ring on that finger.”
“Not a chance in hell,” Robby replies simply. “I heard she dumped her last boyfriend because he polished her shoes with the wrong rag. She doesn’t want a man; she wants a whipping boy.”
Brendon looks between them both and sighs almost wistfully. “A girl like that? I’d let her whip me any time she wanted to, especially if I ruined her $1,000 heels.”
It’s Jack’s turn to laugh. Shaking his head as he grabs a new chart, he mutters, “Something is deeply wrong with you, man.”
That evening, Park waits around your office for you to leave, hustling behind you when you stroll past in your stylish knee-length coat, ready to brave the autumn air. You see him in the corner of your eye and hold up a hand. “Whatever it is, it can wait until morning.”
“No, no, I don’t need anything,” he assures, quickening his pace to match step with your relentless one. “I think we got off on the wrong foot back there, Ms. Viper.”
You cut him a smirk. “Based on your file, I have a sneaking suspicion that’s how things usually go for you.”
“Well, I’d like to apologize for making your life so difficult over dinner and expensive wine.”
You stop in your tracks and turn around; he nearly barrels into you as he stops short. “Are you seriously asking me out on a date right now?”
“Yeah, I absolutely am. Are you saying yes?”
“Wow, you really do have all the social grace of a baboon.” With your hand on his chest, you give him the cruelest and most effortlessly dismissive laugh he’s ever heard, like he’s a snail by your foot and not an attractive, successful doctor. It makes him shiver. “You’re punching above your weight class, Dr. Park.”
But he just gives you a hunky grin, undeterred. “I can bench almost twice what I weigh; how much bigger do I need to get to take you out?”
You chuckle and reply, “Lift a thousand pounds with one hand.”
“No problem; give me two days.”
Trying to push down how charming he is, you turn at the entrance to the parking garage and tell him simply, “I’ll see you on Friday for your review.”
“Perfect.” He nods and, like it’s an assignment, confirms, “I’ll be done by then for sure.”
Friday afternoon, right on time, Brendon knocks on your office door. He pushes it open when you call for him to and slips inside with the air of a child who knows he’s in trouble.
“Sit,” you order, nodding to the chairs on the opposite side of your desk. He does so right away, clearly waiting to hear what you have to say instead of jumping into something himself. You set the contents of his disciplinary file on the desk and gesture to the piles. “Well, your reputation certainly precedes you, Dr. Park.”
He tries out a smirk to keep some semblance of confidence. “Not the first time I’ve heard that.”
You tilt your head and narrow your eyes. “Been a bully your whole life, then?”
“I meant more that-”
“Yeah, I’m not stupid.” You show him each of the three piles of paperwork and explain, “Since you started in the ED, I’ve been sorting through the complaints against you. This tallest stack is complaints I can handle myself without your help or where your help would only make things worse.”
“What does that mean?”
You level him with a gaze so stern it makes him squirm. “Ones where the problem was your personality, basically.”
“Brutal.”
“Like you.” When he hears himself in your words, Brendon doesn’t like it. For maybe the first time in his life, he questions his own behavior. So it sounds like an opportunity when you go on, “This one is complaints that I’ll have to pass on to the review board if you refuse to help me resolve the problems.”
After pinching the bridge of his nose, he taps the smallest stack of two thick documents held together by binder clips. “And this one?”
You sigh and tell him, “These two are going to the review board no matter what.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah, turns out that-” you show him the cover page of each complaint “-pressuring parents into high-risk surgeries for their child isn’t very nice.”
“Well,” he bites back, still pushing up against his over-groomed ego, “being a good doctor isn’t about being nice.”
“You’re right.” You match his intensity. “It’s about effective patient care, which is impossible if your patients don’t trust you.”
Gesturing like he’s trying to find the right words to grab, he argues, “The kid would’ve died without the surgery.”
You let out a harsh laugh. “And when you gave a blood transfusion to a Jehovah’s Witness?”
“They came in unconscious and had no identification of their religious status.” He throws his hands up defensively. “Could not possibly be construed as misconduct.”
“Clearly the complainant disagrees.” You sigh and lean back in your chair, fuse burning short at his constant belligerence. “Look, Brendon. Your surgical work is fine – good, even – but your bedside manner is nothing short of atrocious. You don’t spend enough time getting informed consent, you don’t listen to concerns, and you regularly exhibit disrespect to patients and other doctors. Now, I understand that surgeons receive more complaints than other specialties – less face time with patients, uncertainty about post-op results, all that. But you, doctor, are a true outlier among outliers. And if you want to keep your job at this hospital, then you need to cooperate with me in resolving these complaints.”
Your words hang heavy in the air for a minute. Brendon hates that you know exactly how to deliver a monologue that makes him feel like he’s in the time-out corner and absolutely deserves it. There’s never been a coworker – or a woman, frankly – who’s put him in his place like this. Finally sounding on the border of humble, he asks, “What the hell am I supposed to do?”
“Whatever I say.”
“In practical terms, please.”
You can’t help but let out a laugh at his pouty tone. “You’re going to take mornings off surgery for the next two weeks to meet with aggrieved former patients. You will listen, you will sincerely apologize, and you will agree with every single thing I say to convince them not to escalate.”
His eyes widen and he balks, “You seriously expect me to not do surgery?”
“My proposal has already been cleared by hospital administration and the meetings are scheduled. I’ll add them to your calendar.”
Reaching for anything to get out of what he imagines would be the worst thing on earth – trapped with a gorgeous, cruel woman who hates him and a jilted patient – Brendon mutters pathetically, “I thought we weren’t supposed to apologize to patients for fuckups.”
“That’s a myth and one that makes my life way more annoying on a regular basis.” You rifle through some papers on the cabinet behind your desk and hand him a pamphlet on malpractice, explaining, “Physician apologies cannot be used to demonstrate guilt in a court of law and they’re actually the number one reason patients agree to mediation and ultimately drop complaints.”
Brendon absently flips through the pamphlet, trying to resign himself to his fate. “What do I do, then?”
“Come to my office first thing in the morning,” you start, giving him a ‘don’t you dare’ look when he opens his mouth to crack a joke about that. “Wear a light-colored button-down and your white coat. Mousse your hair instead of gelling it so it’s soft. Practice looking like a human being in the mirror.”
Once again, his expression turns to a mix of offense and dread, scoffing, “What, like I’m a murderer trying to convince a jury I’m not a psycho? The damn Menendez brothers in their pastel fucking sweaters?”
You can’t help laughing at the irony. “Brendon, listen to yourself.”
He sighs heavily and runs his fingers through his end-of-day-loose hair. “Christ, I really am an asshole, aren’t I?”
“Acceptance is the first step in recovery,” you lilt. Then you pick up a few of the files and say, “Now, let’s go over the meetings I have lined up for Monday morning. The more prepared you are for what they’re going to say, the better we can handle it.” Watching him tentatively take the first file and read over it with furrowed brows, you go on, much softer, “I know everyone at the hospital thinks I’m a bitch – and, to be fair, I am – but it’s only because I want your patients to have a good experience with you. When your patients view you as competent and trustworthy, they’ll return to you for care, they’ll follow instructions better, and ultimately your outcomes will improve. So just work with me here and we’ll get this figured out.”
He nods slowly, guilt trickling into his veins as he actually reads over the details of the complaints for the first time. Patients who felt dismissed, who didn’t understand his decisions, who ended up with post-op complications they didn’t feel comfortable bringing up. After what feels like forever, his voice lowers and you see a flicker of humility in his eyes. “Yeah, okay. I trust you. I don’t-” He swallows hard, averts his eyes, and manages to admit, “I don’t want to be the kind of doctor people avoid. I want to be better.”
You reach across the desk and give his forearm and small, affirming squeeze. When you smile at him earnestly for the first time, it makes his heart flutter a little too embarrassingly for him to acknowledge. “That’s all I need to hear for us to work together.”
The two of you make it through reviewing the first week’s-worth of low-level complaints by seven, going back and forth to understand his perspective, the patient’s, and the advocate’s. You hate to admit it, but when Brendon actually accepts that there’s a problem and gets determined to fix it, he’s…good. He cares. He has the work ethic of an ox and you can tell he’s the kind of man who needs to right his wrongs.
It doesn’t hurt that most of the complaints against him have to do with him being hard-headed, not incompetent or malicious, usually bulldozing patients because he’s right and wants to do the best he can. Not like some of the ED doctors who have fewer complaints that are much more serious. You know he just needs to find the balance of that skill and confidence with communication and understanding. He’ll be the best of the hospital if he can do that.
Your watch beeps at seven, interrupting the flow of your conversation. You stand up first to make it clear that Brendon’s officially free, saying, “Thank you for coming in and for your understanding. You can do this.”
As you collect your things and he does the same, he ensures, “So we’re done for now?”
“Yeah, we are. You can head out.”
“Great.” He opens up your office door to let you walk through and says seriously, “Let’s circle back on that conversation we had earlier this week now that we’re off the clock. Would you like to go on a date with me?”
You laugh and shake your head. “Your biceps aren’t looking any stronger since we last went over this; sure you’re ready to lift that thousand pounds for me?”
All cocky again, he whistles and muses, “So you have noticed how big my arms are.”
You nudge him in the arm with your elbow as he falls into step next to you. “I’ve noticed your scrub tops are a size too small, yes.”
“God, you are far and away the most brutal, beautiful woman I’ve ever seen and I can tell you’d sucker punch a bear if it didn’t mind its manners,” he absolutely swoons. While you try not to smile, he goes on, looking for all the world like he’s about to break into song, “I’m smitten over here. I’ll take you somewhere nice, dress up like a gentleman, the whole damn thing. What do you say?”
“I only date doctors with a patient satisfaction score in the double digits, Brendon.”
“God, my name sounds so good in your mouth it’s like this is the first time I’m hearing it. You can make the meanest insult sound like a song. What a gift.” While you laugh and push out of the hospital’s front door toward the parking garages, he follows behind you like a puppy and goes on, “Plus, I know for a fact my patient satisfaction score is 51 because Robby was thrilled to have a doctor who scored lower than his 65. I’m proud of that.”
With an eye roll, you remind him, “You really shouldn’t be.”
“And you really should go on a date with me. I’d treat you so well; you have no idea,” he insists as you walk through the parking garage toward your reserved spot halfway down the first row. “I’d lick this garage floor right now if you’d let me open your car door for you.”
You stop next to a sexy little silver Miata and snicker, “I’ll let you do that today, but only because I have my hands full.” Brendon immediately drops to his knees and bends toward the ground with his tongue out, making you shriek out a laugh and smack him with your purse. You cover your smile with your hand and chastise, “You’re horrifying.”
“And you’re just a few more interactions from falling in love with me.” He stands up with a satisfied, goofy grin that’s far too boyishly charming for his features and opens your car door, stepping back and gesturing with a flourish. “Get home safe, beautiful.”
You slide into the front seat, settle your belongings, and tell him, “If you smile like that at your patients, you might actually have a chance with me, big guy.”
He salutes and promises, “I’ll spend the whole weekend practicing for you.”
The whole ride home, you have to keep forcibly wiping the school-girl smile from your face. You’re totally aware that Brendon Park can 1000% wear you down. Definitely not your usual type with his wolfish smile and domineering attitude, but gorgeous, broad, and just cocky enough to turn you on without intimidating you.
The problem is that his very existence is an annoyance to you. If you were going to date a doctor in the ED, it would be Abbot, who seems to actually give a shit about making your job easier and treating his patients like people and not puzzles. Shen is by far too happy and Al Hashimi is too sweet. Robby repulses you on a visceral level for more reasons than you can name.
But Brendon Park? He’s a big question mark for you. All you know about him is from his file, which doesn’t paint a particularly flattering picture. When he talks and smiles, though, you can sense a sweetness in him that he doesn’t show often. Maybe that means he can open up and be better – but you doubt it.
That flicker of hope in your gut? You aren’t sure whether to stoke it or blow it out.
You fully expect Brendon to drop his crusade to go out with you after a couple of rejections. He could have any girl he wanted with a snap of his fingers, you’re sure, so there’s no way he’d keep going for someone as off-putting and crass as you. Especially after two full weeks of morning meetings that essentially consist of you bending him over and letting patients spank him red, you’d guessed that his interest would fizzle out into something more akin to begrudging tolerance.
But no.
Brendon Park is not a man easily dissuaded.
Every time you spend two hours on Friday afternoon verbally beating the shit out of him so he’ll become a better doctor, he inevitably goes through the same routine.
“Go out with me, gorgeous, I’m begging you,” he tries again. His latest addition to the song and dance is insisting on carrying your file box and briefcase out to your car because, quote, ‘your manicure is too sexy to risk chipping.’ Sticking right by your side, he swears, “I’ll get on my knees right now if you just say yes.”
You meet his too-pretty blue eyes and insist, knowing it’s only about 40% true now, “Not in a million years.”
“No problem,” he beams, “I’ll wait a million and one just to sweep the floor in front of you so you don’t get any scuffs on those designer shoes.”
“Cute, but how about you start working on that list of calls for me instead? Give me an update the next time you see me.”
“Oh, I’m already on it,” he assures like a dog showing off a new trick and hoping for a cookie, “but if it gets me another single solitary second breathing in that perfume of yours, I’ll go double time.”
You roll your eyes and ignore it – but you’re smiling, and that’s enough for Brendon.
By the time you and Brendon are on the last week of his patient apology tour, your resolve is about as strong as a toothpick. He’s bringing you coffee and pastries every single morning, just setting them on your desk without a word while the two of you prep. He always compliments not only what you’re wearing but the little details alongside it – your perfume’s top notes, the shade of your lipstick, the way your earrings catch the light. With every ounce of his earnest affection, he can tell your resolve is wearing very, very thin, but it’s definitely still there. He can smell the blood in the water even if he isn’t quite sure when or how to make the final strike.
Brendon figures out his plan of attack because of the wisdom of one Dana Evans.
You’re working on the floor of the ED today because a nasty bug has taken out two of your patient advocates. In picking up their workload, you end up floating through Brendon’s peripheral vision all day. For everyone else, you’re the viper who might bite their neck at any turn. But, for Brendon, it’s like, well, the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen is just there for him to gaze at in between surgeries.
While going over plans with him and a few nurses, Garcia turns to him and offers, “One of my friends wants me to set her up with a doctor and I said I’d try. Park, you’re single, right? She’s funny, pretty, successful. Maybe a little nice for you, but you never know.”
Brendon smirks, glancing in your direction, and answers, “I’m single, but I’m not available.”
Princess rolls her eyes and cuts in for the sake of the gossip: “What the hell does that mean, Shark?”
“I’ve got a girl in mind,” he replies easily, voice smooth and cool as a saxophone. “Got a feeling she’s finally gonna give me a shot soon.”
Garcia faux-gasps. “You’re groveling for a girl? You know you’re, like, eight feet tall, buff, and rich, right?”
“And that means there’s nothing sexier than a woman who needs to be courted.”
“Ew.”
Absently listening to the exchange, Dana glances up at him over the rims of her glasses. “You’re cock-blocking yourself with her, Park, you know that, right?”
Princess looks between Park and Dana, beyond nose, and presses, “With who, exactly? This girl works at the hospital?”
“The Viper,” Dana explains like that’s not some top-shelf, high-value chisme. “He’s been trying to get her to go out with him for weeks now. It’s obvious.”
Garcia’s mouth falls open in horror. “You like her?!”
“Shut up,” Brendon hisses, nervous about the potential of you overhearing just a few feet over. He narrows in on Dana and demands, “What do you mean? I’ve never put more effort into trying to convince a girl to date me.”
“Kid, she likes you already. She laughs at your bad jokes and she squeezes your arm like it’s a prize tenderloin she’s thinking about buying. She wants to go out with you.” Staring him down from over her glasses, Dana explains, “But you know what’s not attractive? Being the reason she had to work overtime almost every day this month. You wanna go on a date with someone after you spend four hours defending them to angry patients and lawyers?
This isn’t some playground back in the ‘90s when we tried to convince girls it was cute for a boy to pull her pigtails or tease her. A lady like that expects better for herself. You’re clearing all these complaints for her, but, in the meantime, you’re collecting plenty of new ones. Bring her all the coffees and donuts you want, but until you’re a guy she can actually rely on to make her life better instead of worse, it’s a lost cause.”
“Damn, Evans.” Brendon lets out a long, slow breath, watching you talk with a patient using those soft eyes you don’t give to anyone else. God, you’re so beautiful it aches. The harshness of you and the softness, too. With a sharp nod, plan solidifying in his mind, Brendon claps Dana on the shoulder and says, “Heard.”
After the very last patient from the backlog of Brendon’s complaint file leaves your office, you stretch your arms above your head, down the last of your coffee, and tell him, “Congratulations, Dr. Park. You’re officially rid of me until you get a brand new complaint – so, I’m guessing I’ll see you this afternoon?”
With a shit-eating grin, he muses, “Oh, you haven’t heard?”
You raise an eyebrow. “Heard what?”
Shrugging like it’s easy and obvious, he explains, “I’m not gonna get a single complaint this month.”
You bark out a sharp laugh and start preparing for your next meeting. “For the first time in your career? Is that so?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he vows, almost somber in his conviction. “I’ve got a brand new wave of motivation.”
You lean forward and balance your chin in your hands like you’re tuning in for a gossip session. “Do tell.”
“Turns out my bad behavior has a direct negative effect on the girl I like, so I’ve gotta shape up if I want to make her mine.”
Your heart flutters and you unintentionally bite your lower lip before catching yourself and admonishing your brain for responding to something so…so…charming. As he leans in your doorway, lingering instead of leaving, you ask, “And what do you think the odds are on that?”
“Oh, they’re astronomical.” Sounding positively wistful, he gazes at you affectionately and continues, “She never gives me the time of day and she scares the shit out of me; it’s the most amazing thing that she still absolutely knocks my socks off. I’ve got no idea what the hell’s wrong with me when it comes to her.”
“Yeah, me neither,” you giggle. Fuck, you didn’t mean for it to come out as a giggle. Shaking your head and averting your eyes to your computer because the embarrassment of being caught feeling all flirty and cute is too much, you say, “Get back to the ED, Brendon; I’ve got my next meathead doctor in a few minutes.”
“No problem, gorgeous, but I’ve gotta tell you one more thing, though.”
You look back at him, careful to keep your face together and not too wooed. “What’s that?”
He steps forward and leans over your desk, hands planted on the tabletop. His eyes bore into yours. “My odds may not be good, but they’re not zero. And that minuscule chance? That keeps me going. You’ve just gotta give me a single second and you’ll fall in love for the rest of your life, I promise you that.”
A little breathless, you meet his baby blues. “Do you?”
“I’m gonna treat you so well and make your life so much easier; it’ll be impossible not to fall for me.” Then, so confident it steals whatever’s left of your breath, he cups your cheek and says, “I’m gonna fix this whole department’s patient satisfaction scores starting with my own and then I’m gonna learn how to shine your shoes just how you like. I’d do nothing but sit in your closet with a dehumidifier to make sure the humidity for your leather heels is just right if that’s what you wanted.”
You swallow hard as his touch stays on your face long after he withdraws his hand. “Sounds a little scary.”
Brendon shrugs, smiles, and backs toward the door once more, always reluctant to leave you. “Then you’ll just have to give me something else to do to make you happy. Let me change your oil; you don’t even have to be there while I do it. Or I can mow your lawn, bring over my own push mower and everything to make sure I get the stripes just right how you want them. I’ll hand wash your floors with my toothbrush. Anything.”
You shake your head and sigh tenderly, “What am I gonna do with you, Brendon?”
“Whatever you want, whenever you want. Have I not made that clear enough?” Brendon’s eyes rake over you once more like he’s memorizing the sight of you to savor for the rest of the day. “Man, even when you’re rejecting me, you’re just about the loveliest thing I’ve ever set my eyes on. The things I would do for you if you’d even brush a hair off my shoulder.”
“That would be the most action a man’s gotten from me in a very long time.”
“Yeah? How long?”
“I’ll see you later, Dr. Park.”
“See you soon, Viper.”
Brendon makes absolutely zero attempts to ask you out for the next 30 days straight. You’re honestly starting to believe he may have lost interest until he waltzes into your office at 5PM on a Friday, the last day of the month. He knocks dramatically on the door frame even though it’s propped open.
In the middle of collecting your things, you shrug on your jacket and sigh, “Can I help you with something, Dr. Park.”
Standing with his hands suspiciously bashfully behind his back, Brendon steps into the office and informs you seriously, “You should sit down for this, gorgeous.”
You lean against your desk and nudge, “Why’s that?”
“Because,” he announces, voice grand like he’s about to call an auction, “you, the Viper of the Emergency Department, are about to agree to go out with me, your humble subject, and, after your many rejections, I have to imagine that’ll be so shocking for you that you might pass out.”
With your stomach full of butterflies you can’t deny, you hop up on your desk dramatically and gesture broadly like a queen for her jester. “Alright, Sharkie, go ahead.”
Brendon’s smile only grows at your teasing. He takes a deep breath and explains, “Dana told me this morning that I had to check my mailbox because it had gotten too full. The whole time I worked in ortho, I think I checked my box maybe once. When you get served, they put the notice right in your hand, so why bother? But I go to the mailroom and she’s right; my cubby’s got a million fucking envelopes in it.” From behind his back, he hands you a stack of cards. “They’re from patients. My patients.”
He lets it hang as you inspect the papers he’s handed over. Like he said, they’re all cards and they’re all from patients. There are hand-drawn ones from kids with pictures of sharks, sentimental ones from old ladies, ones with shitty jokes from the convenience store. There have to be twenty of them here, each one telling a story of a doctor who truly made them feel seen and cared for.
The last of your resolve crumbles into dust.
Brendon steps forward, studying your expression carefully, and says softly, “Turns out that while I’ve just been trying to impress you, I actually became a better doctor for my patients. And a better man, I hope. So, first and foremost, I wanted to thank you for that.”
When he doesn’t launch into another attempt to ask you out immediately, you let the silence linger for a moment. Thumbing through the cards, you make your mind up once and for all. You meet his baby blue eyes, let a small smile part your lips, and reply, “Okay.”
His eyebrows go up. “Okay?”
You nod and sigh out, “I’ll go on a date with you.”
He fist pumps the air in a way so dorky and adorable you almost back out and lets out a dramatic whoop, “Fuck, yes! Jesus, I really didn’t think that would work.”
You roll your eyes at him even though it’s become physically impossible to suppress your delighted smile that matches his. “Alright, slugger, calm down. I’m just a woman.”
Brendon shakes his head and scoffs, “Au contraire. You aren’t ‘just’ anything.”
“Well, regardless, you win.” You take a Post-It from your desk, scribble your phone numbers on it, and hand it over to him. “Text me your address. Make me dinner tomorrow night.”
“Make you dinner? You know I could get us a table at any restaurant you wanted.”
You cross your arms over your chest and challenge, “And I want you to cook for me. It’s the perfect test for a man.”
Staring down at your phone number in your swoopy handwriting like it’s made of diamonds, Brendon absently asks, “Yeah? Why’s that?”
“It means one of the three things.” You explain seriously, “He can already cook, which is a green flag. He can follow a recipe, which means he’s teachable, or he utterly fails and that means he can handle being humbled, which is sexy.”
“It’s sexy when a man gets humbled?”
“What exactly do you think has been going on between us?”
“Honestly, I haven’t heard a single word since you agreed to date me.”
In lieu of my ko-fi, please consider donating to my mother's long-term dementia care fund.
Dennis in his fifties, blonde hair littered w grey. He still works in the ed but he also does classes from time to time, specifically about the differences present in rural medicine.
And jack and robby are college roommates and occasional fuck buddies who are foaming at the mouth every time Dr Whitaker guest lectures, getting excited every time they have a rotation at PTMC because that means they’re more likely to be able to sneak a glance at him at some point.
One day, they’re dicking around a bit leaving the lecture building, ready to get home, when robby stops dead in his tracks - jack is half on his back, arms around Robby’s neck. When he looks up, he sees what made him stop. Dr Whitaker is leaning against the wall of the building, cigarette hanging between his delicate fingers as he stares at them, smirking. They stay there staring for a bit, before Whitaker takes a final drag of his cigarette before stomping it out, leaving to his car with a wink and a lazy salute in the med students direction.
Jack and robby spend a week arguing about who that wink was for.
This idea is John wick has a daughter and he taught her everything he knows. He loves her and wants her protected, so shes trained like a ballerina, but is a huge daddies girl.
She meets andrew while on a "job trip" to oceanside and decides to stay for a while.
She finds herself liking both his gentle side as well as his dark tendencies but realizes hes only being used by his family.
reader is a baddie who doesn't let anyone talk down on her and when she meets smurf and she tries to intimidate her she learns never to look down on baba yagas daughter.
Love the idea of girl dad John wick and puppy obsessive andrew
ugh I love the concept of girl dad john wick 😭 this is so cute !!! smurf puts a hit out on her to stop her from pursuing pope and she just beats the shit out of the hitmen LMAO !!! and then wins popes heart ♡♡♡♡♡
you know ive been stewing on this and I really do think shawn hatosy would make a great john wick villain (tho they aren't making any more movies right?)...but also i feel like titus would be a great addition to that universe too !!! with the devil worshipping cult and everything hehe im in crossover hell
the day you walked into the pitt wearing a sparkling diamond on that finger, a betting pool started courtesy of ahmad to guess who your lucky fiancé is.
you’ve always kept your personal life private — a lot of the med students didn’t even know you were in a relationship. some guess that it’s someone else who works in the hospital, others guess that it’s a complete stranger. a very specific answer even makes its way onto the board, whitaker guessing that you’re engaged to some rich chef who owns a five star restaurant.
you notice that the betting board has more answers written on it during a particularly quiet moment of your shift, and you roll your eyes at some of them. for some of the smartest people in the world, your colleagues really are dim.
if they looked a little closer, they would notice that your phone lock screen is literally a photo of you and shen kissing.
“they still haven’t figured it out, huh?” you turn to your right to find your golden retriever of a fiancé smiling at you, his backpack slung over his shoulder.
“if they haven’t by now, i don’t think they ever will.” you smile back at him.
“also, our coffee machine is doing something weird. would you mind taking a look at it when you get home?” he asks.
“john, i’ve just come off a twelve hour shift.”
“and there’s dinner in the fridge,” he smiles sheepishly. “for your troubles.”
“you don’t even use the damn machine anyway. don’t think i don’t see you with those dunkin cups.”
In all the years Titus had been alive, no woman had ever captured his attention like you did. Titus could not explain it, he just knew, from the second he first met you, he needed you like air.
And he'd move heaven and hell if necessary to get you.
Not his father, not yours, not the Lawyer, Mr Le Bail or his demons he had watching over you could ever stop him.
Chapter 1 - The Convington Girl
Masterlist | previous chapter| next chapter
Words: 7,2k
Content: Older Man/Younger Woman (Titus is 50, Reader in her early twenties but it's only mentioned in passing), Blood and Gore, Brutal Murder, Torture, Possessive Behaviour, Stalking, Slightly Dubious Consent, Eventual Smut (chapter 3 👀), Obsessive Titus Danforth, Sexually Inexperienced Titus Danforth, Virgin!Reader, Agoraphic Reader, Size Difference, Size Kink, Blood Kink
No use of y/n!
Reader has a last name though. You can pry socially awkward, inexperienced, whiny Titus out of my cold dead hands! That man got pussy maybe once in his life and he's frustrated :D
I've got 5 chapters fully written already. I'm guessing this whole thing will have 10 in total, we'll see!
Read on Ao3 or below the cut:
It was a special occasion, a very special occasion. An event that had not happened in Titus’ lifetime, and only once in his father’s when he was still a young man barely into adulthood. To say this shit was rare would be an understatement.
A high council family had been wiped off the face of the earth.
An entire family, gone within the blink of an eye because one of them broke one of Mr Le Bail’s rules - like a fucking idiot.
The bylaws stated there had to be six families in the High Council at any given moment, and so they had all gathered to see which of the lower families under Mr Le Bail’s contract would win tonight’s hunt and enter the inner circle.
The heads of the lower families were already frothing at their mouths at the prospect of all that power. Titus let his gaze travel over the people gathered in the reception room of the Danforth lodge. Since his father held the High Seat, it fell to him to host, and Chester would never pass up an opportunity to flaunt his wealth and power in front of the other families.
Titus watched the families and their entourage like a shark would its next meal.
High Council families were not permitted to kill each other, but such rules did not apply to the lower families. Tonight, one member from each of the sixteen families eligible for a seat on the High Council would be chosen by the head of the family to represent them in a deadly game of Hide and Seek, since that was the ancestral initiation rite of the Le Domas family. One last game of Hide and Seek before that family fell into collective forgottenness.
The last one standing would bring the ultimate honour to their family.
Titus wondered who’d be chosen.
The High Council families were already placing their bets, a way to pass the time and soothe the disappointment that their hands would see no blood tonight.
It irked Titus that he would not get to participate. He did not enjoy sitting idle while others got to have all the fun, and he never passed up a chance for some fun.
“The Covingtons have arrived, Sir.” The butler announced in his haughty tone of voice that never failed to make Titus’ eye twitch.
“They are late.” Chester sniffed, visibly affronted by the tardiness of a guest who, according to him - no doubt - should have fallen to their knees and licked his boots in gratitude for the honour of being permitted to exist near him.
“There was a problem with the youngest child, I heard. The daughter is… troubled, they say.”
“Troubled?” Ursula raised a brow. Her perfectly manicured fingers wrapped around the thin stem of a wine glass, she looked past the butler to catch a glimpse of the group entering the reception room. A man, broad-shouldered, grey-haired with a steely expression that gave away not a single glimpse into his inner workings, led a group of men of varying ages, six total, each one with the same eyes as him - his sons, no doubt.
The head of the Covington family was a stern, cut-throat business man, a tech mogul renowned for supplying the military institutions of the world with state of the art cyber security systems. Titus was pretty sure they guarded the Danforth’s online activity as well. Not that his father trusted him enough to ever involve him in the finer details of business. No, that was a place always and forever reserved for Ursula.
Titus’ grip tightened around his cigar, and he had to use a considerable amount of willpower to force his fingers to relax again before it crumbled in his hand and drew the attention of his father.
Richard Covington did not fidget like the other heads of the lower families. He did not exude an ounce of nervous energy, not because he was any better at hiding it than the others - Titus would have noticed, nobody hid from Titus - apparently, Richard simply did not fear tonight. He acted like a man who was already sure of his victory, and the only reason he was not yet drinking to it was that he had been raised with manners.
He glanced over his shoulder, as though responding to something one of his sons said, and in doing so, he revealed a glimpse of a girl.
A woman no older than mid-twenties, encompassed in the throng of strong young men.
You were the smallest of the bunch, a good head shorter than the smallest of your brothers. Next to them, you looked like a wisp. A joke made by the universe to taunt a proud, tall man after gifting him one strong heir after another. Deep, dark shadows clung to the bottom of your eyes, giving you a sickly, haunted appearance that was oddly alluring, a cacophony of darkness and grace, angelic beauty defaced by hell’s enticing touch.
Your hair was braided into two pigtails, the ends resting gently against your collarbones. You wore a simple, short black dress, the skirt falling down your thighs in soft folds that shifted with every step you took. The top was made out of a rose-embroidered mesh fabric that melted into long sleeves curling tightly around your arms, hanging down stiff and unmoving at your sides. Titus almost mourned the sight of the layer of black fabric preserving your modesty - if only just barely. See-through black tights covered your legs that ended in tightly laced, perfectly polished combat boots.
You stood out among your brothers, each the picture-perfect rich, posh heir of a multimillion-dollar company.
You, you were a black sheep, an anomaly, a chip in grandma’s perfect china.
But instead of casting you out, like Titus’ father had thought about many times and didn’t do only because he feared the hit his reputation might take if he did, your family seemed to coalesce around you. The protectiveness your brothers felt towards you was evident in every tensed muscle in their backs, in every sneering glare directed at any and all men who dared as much as glance towards you.
Your father offered you his arm, and after a brief moment of hesitation, you stepped out of the protective cocoon of brothers and into the crystal-filtered light the chandeliers cast down upon them. Your hair gleamed like molten, precious metal beneath the shine, and Titus could not help but wonder how it would look in his fist, torn from your scalp in fleshy chunks, covered in your blood.
You leaned into your father, tipping your head back when he lowered his to whisper something to you.
Titus thought, sucking on his cigar while his eyes followed your every step, that you looked deliciously like a doe faced with the hunter’s rifle. Young, obviously terrified, clinging to your father’s arm so hard your knuckles went white against the expensive, navy fabric of his suit.
“Don’t even think about it.” Ursula hissed in his direction, souring his fun before Titus had a chance to think about what even that fun was.
He scowled at her. “Think about what, dear sister?”
“Her.”
“I am observing potential new allies.”
“Covington has been father’s business partner for years. The only reason he is not on the High Council yet is that new families don’t usually join! He and Father have been asking Mr Le Bail for this opportunity! The entire family adores that girl. And she’s sick, apparently, so you will stay away from her! Try not to fuck this up for Father, Titus.”
Titus’ lips rolled back in a barely concealed snarl. “Stop treating me like a fucking child! I haven’t done anything."
“Yet.” His sister muttered into her wine glass. Titus’ jaw tensed.
Yet.
That was the thing. The tiny little detail his family never let him forget. They all believed Titus Danforth was, at any given moment, only seconds away from fucking something up. Always. And no matter how often he didn’t fuck up, how often he won hunts or struck advantageous business deals, he knew he was doomed to mess up sooner or later. They knew, and they never let him forget it.
No matter how long he managed to not fuck up, they only ever saw him when he did.
“Chester.” Richard shook the Danforth patriarch's hand, you still clinging to his arm, practically glued to his side. Your eyes flicked nervously between the three Danforths. “Do forgive our tardiness. It was more difficult than I had anticipated to get this one to leave the car.” He spoke with the easy charm of old British aristocracy. You frowned at his words and attacked your bottom lip with your teeth. A displeased whine slipped from your tongue, but Richard either didn’t hear it or didn’t care to.
“Your youngest?” Chester looked at you as he looked at everything he had not yet appraised the worth of. You did not weather his attention well. You crumpled like a dried leaf under his shoes, pressing your slight body into your father’s side.
“Indeed.” Richard smirked. He lifted his free hand to pet the top of your head, a gesture that exuded both tenderness and condescension at once, all the while never once taking his eyes off Chester. “Why don’t you go with Caspian to find a drink, darling?”
“Daddy, I mustn’t drink.”
Richard’s nostrils flared ever so slightly, but his arrogant smirk remained plastered onto his lips. “I think we can make an exception on such a momentous occasion, no?”
“But, daddy, my doctor said, with my meds, if I drink I could-”
His head snapped towards you, all fatherly affection evaporated, there one second and gone the next. His brows pulled together in a glare that Titus expected to have you cowering at your father’s side - but you didn’t. Your fear was still there, palpable, permeating the air around you with a sweetness Titus would like to lap off your skin, but your father was not the source of it.
Interesting.
“I don’t care if you get wine or fucking apple juice, yeah? The important part of that sentence was go with your brother.”
You pouted. “Just say that then. You know I can’t have-” You were cut off by your father’s hand against your back, shoving you gently towards one of your brothers.
“She takes everything far too literally sometimes.” Richard huffed in a painfully transparent attempt to smooth over the rough edges of losing his composure in front of someone he clearly deemed an important ally. You were still pouting, eyes treacherously wet, when your brother - Caspian, the oldest of the bunch, thirty-two if Titus remembered correctly - closed his hand around your upper arm to steer you away.
Richard sighed. “And now she’ll pout for the rest of the evening because I raised my voice at her. I swear, all the sensitivity my boys lack got concentrated into her. One slightly too harsh criticism and she is a weepy mess. I can only presume that is the cross one has to carry when raising a daughter. Ah, but then again, perhaps it simply does not do someone of her disposition well to grow up in a house with seven men and no mother.”
“Ursula never cried, not even as a baby. Titus, on the other hand… well.”
Titus gritted his teeth. His nails dug into the velvet-padded armrest of his chair.
“It goes to show how different children are, and how weakness sneaks in despite our best efforts as parents. I don’t believe I have met your daughter before.” Chester continued.
“She does not get out of the house much.” Richard shrugged. “Company does not suit her and, to be quite frank, these things tend to overwhelm her. Not that I mind how easy she makes it for me to keep her away from the wrong kind of male attention." His eyes lingered on Titus for a moment, who merely smirked around his cigar, before resuming to look in your direction again, all but staring.
You were standing next to your brother, stiff, eyes flitting across the whole room as though looking for a threat, flicking up to the ceilings where a heavy chandelier hung every once in a while. Caspian was deep in conversation with a group of heirs. Some of the men tried to catch your attention now and then, seemingly oblivious to the iron grip with which you clung to your glass - indeed apple juice, judging by the colour and earlier comment your father made.
You did not engage with them.
When they talked to you directly, your attention shifted to them for a brief second before flitting back to your brother, who would answer in your stead.
Titus could not quite decide whether you were just incredibly sheltered and shy - or that deep under your family’s thumb, you did not even dare answer some small talk without their approval.
“You never said what exactly is… wrong… with her, I think.” Chester made a vague gesture towards you. Richard’s expression hardened. Titus could have sworn the temperature around them dropped several degrees.
“Nothing is wrong with her.” Your father said calmly, the type of calm that was wrought from murderous hunger and shameless bloodlust. “She is simply wired a little… differently.”
“I must say, I find it curious you brought her along. Tonight’s festivities won’t hurt her disposition?”
“Oh, I doubt that will be a problem.” Richard clasped his hands behind his back. His winning smile returned. “Well, it was delightful as ever to see you again, Chester. I have a few more greetings to get through before this evening commences. I am greatly looking forward to it.” His smile shifted into a crooked grin that revealed a single, too-sharp canine.
“I am looking forward to finding out which of your sons you’re sending into the hunt, dear friend.” Chester’s arrogant smile only lasted as long as it took your father to disappear into the excited crowd, trailed by three of his sons. Two split off the group to join the oldest and you, flocking to you like a horde of overprotective geese.
“Wired differently.” Chester scoffed into his whiskey. “She’s a fucking nutjob if you believe the help.”
Titus was sure the help called him a fucking nutjob too, and they could not be further from the truth. What did the help know anyway, aside from envy and resentment?
You were a pretty thing, Titus could not deny it, not that he cared to try. You had that air of innocence wrapped around you like a shawl that would drive any hungry man up the walls. Your big doe eyes would make a more composed, more controlled man salivate, and the way you so desperately clung to the men in your life, as though you placed your entire life into their hands, all your trust that they’d provide for you and keep you safe had his slacks feeling just a little too tight.
He pictured those big, teary eyes seeking assurance and protection, peering up at him while you knelt between his feet. He pictured how soft your hair must feel, how warm those pouty lips would be… how pliable your body…
Not that Titus ever got much further than those pictures, he thought bitterly and took another drag from his cigar, trying not to scowl. Ursula would notice, and he did not need his twin sister in his head while fantasising about a far too young, pretty little thing like you.
Your dress was just long enough to not be indecent, but with the way you wore it and carried yourself, Titus doubted you could look indecent even if you tore all your clothes off your body right then and there and showed the world every inch of your bare skin.
What a little angel you were…
Titus grew up on a short leash, to the point he now barely felt it. His father had made sure to teach Titus young what happened when he did something old Chester Danforth would disapprove of. Fooling around in boarding school was out of the question - there had been no boarding school for Titus. Just endless, gruesome hours locked in the library with personal tutors and barely a break to catch his breath while Ursula got to go abroad. She could be trusted with freedom for some reason, and Titus was not even permitted to prove he could be too.
He wasn’t as intelligent as her, nor as cunning as his father, and for some reason that had been enough for both of them to decide Titus was good for nothing but his hunger for brutality and bloodshed.
They were the brains, and he the fists - and attack dogs who did not listen were put down.
Titus learnt this lesson young.
It was beaten into him with the same ferocity his tutors tried to make him smarter, just with the difference that Chester had been more successful.
On his sixteenth birthday, Chester introduced Titus to the most gorgeous woman Titus had ever seen up until that moment. She had long, dark hair, full lashes and a smile as sweet as it was wicked. It was embarrassing how long it took Titus to figure out she had been paid by his father to be there. None of the secret whispers and sly touches had been real. She crawled into his bed, not because she found him charming or handsome, as she claimed; no, she did it for the money Chester had promised her.
Money in exchange for making Titus a man.
The few times Titus managed to get out from under his father’s and sister’s thumb long enough to meet a pretty woman, he either fumbled it all up by embarrassing himself or accidentally offending her - or he heard their voices, telling him how worthless and inadequate he was and who could get hard with their sister whispering in his ear?
To claim Titus was frustrated would be an understatement.
A leashed, castrated dog never allowed to be his own man, to be more than Ursula's untrustworthy twin, Chester's fuck up of a son, the family disappointment…
Titus thought about life without them more and more these days, a life in which nobody told him what to do, where nobody spoke down to him, struck him, or made him feel like he was even less than dog shit under their shoe.
There was no rule against killing a family member.
He checked the bylaws.
He’d checked them many times, caressing the empty space where such a clause should be written, but wasn’t. Mr Le Bail would not punish or stop Titus from tearing free of his leash, but the simple truth was… Titus was too much of a coward to do it.
Ursula and his father were all Titus had.
The only people who would ever see an ounce of goodness in him, or at least usefulness. Yeah, he wasn’t the smartest or most composed, he wasn’t all that good with the business, but he never lost a hunt. That, and the Danforth blood running in his veins, alone gave him worth. And he clung to it as desperately as a little boy to the bloodied, disfigured body of the mother that dared love him too much, that dared make the great Chester Danforth's heir weak.
The gathered guests fell silent at the first chime of the bell.
The High Council families gathered at the head of the room, by the lectern where the Lawyer placed the ancient tomb holding all their contracts and bylaws since… honestly, Titus had no idea. The old, faded pictures preserving the history of the High Council showed glimpses of the Lawyer throughout the centuries. He always looked the same, exactly as he did today, opening his ancient tomb and addressing the room.
You waved at him from where you stood, hiding behind your father. For the first time all evening, you smiled. Something hot and volatile and gastly flared in Titus' chest at the sight of it. He could not make sense of it.
The Lawyer smiled back at you, eyes crinkling at the corners, and he winked.
How did you, the most guarded secret of your father's legacy, know a being like the Lawyer?
“We have gathered here today to fill the empty spot on the High Council. Sixteen of the lower bloodlines have been chosen by Mr Le Bail to be given the chance to prove themselves worthy of a seat on the High Council. The Heads of your families will now announce the proxy they have chosen to represent their blood on today’s hunt. Choose well, ladies and gentlemen, for only one will survive the night.”
Konstantin Von Arco was first in line. He appointed his third-born son, a brawny, twenty-nine-year-old who looked as if he had more muscle than brains. It continued down the line of prospective families, each chosen proxy was the strongest, biggest fighter the family had to offer, and likely trained for this very day for as long as they had lived.
Titus could not help the urge to find you, pick you out of the crowd of heirs. You were surrounded by your brothers once again. The glass you held for most of the evening but never actually drank from had disappeared from your stiff clutch, leaving you no choice but to fidget with your fingers, digging your long nails into the sensitive flesh around your nails and tearing at the skin until you bled.
You were staring at the ground to your feet, as though desperately trying to forget where you were, forget the people surrounding you.
Titus wanted you to look at him.
You didn't, and his hands curled into fists from the inexplicable rage your silent refusal poured into his body.
One of your brothers - Tobias, Titus believed to remember his name was, the second-born - placed his hand over yours, effectively stopping your attempts at self-mutilation. You looked up, an air of surprise cutting across your face, just to make room for a gentle smile.
Your father stepped forward.
“I - Richard Covington - appoint as my proxy to represent me and my bloodline-” The gathered guests held their breaths. On which of his sons his choice would fall had been the topic of the evening. High Council family members exchanged glances, some already grinning, believing their wagers to come true any moment now- “-my beloved daughter.”
The uproar was immediate and violent.
A barrage of confusion and disbelief so loud Titus felt it punch against his eardrum.
It drowned out your name on your father’s tongue. You flinched at the sudden clamour, which only seemed to add fuel to the fire.
“What foul game are you playing, Covington?!” The head of another lower family shouted across the room. Richard’s smug expression did not waver once. “If you believe our heirs would hesitate to kill a little girl, you are sorely mistaken!”
“I have chosen a proxy, Declan, as is demanded by the rules.” Richard turned towards the lawyer ever so slightly. “I am permitted to choose anyone who shares my blood, am I not?”
“That is correct.” The Lawyer smirked as though he'd known all along the choice would fall on you and found the room's reaction amusing. Wasn't that curious?
“Then I choose my daughter.”
You were still standing in the circle of your brothers, unmoving aside from the tiniest tremble shaking the tips of your fingers. Richard’s hand clamped down on your shoulder, a little rougher than necessary, and dragged you forward, forcing you to stand in front of your families just as the other chosen proxies were already doing.
You looked even smaller, so exposed, served up to the hungry leering of starving predators on a silver platter. A few fine hairs had fallen from your braids and now framed your terrified, pretty face.
Titus mourned his exclusion from the hunt even more now. It would be nothing short of delectable to chase you through the woods, hearing your whimpers and tasting your tears before feeling his war pick shatter your skull.
“If you didn’t want the seat, you could have just said so.” Another patriarch jeered after announcing his choice - his oldest son, another brute about twice your size who was already sizing you up.
Titus’ jaw tensed at the way the man’s eyes raked over you, as if you were someone he had any right to look at that way.
“A shame.” He tutted. “To waste such a nice piece of ass on a game rigged against her…”
Your eyes flicked towards him, gaze sharpening, posture shifting out of the meek cower terror held you trapped in, tensing, morphing into something deadly - there and gone again so fast Titus wondered if he had truly seen it, or just imagined it.
He must have.
Nothing about the way you behaved tonight screamed, even whispered, ‘killer’. He was loath to agree with an oaf like Svetlitskiy’s son, but you did have a very nice ass, and it was a shame to waste you on a game you could not possibly win. What was your father doing?
“There are easier ways to get rid of a disappointing child.” Von Arco chuckled. Richard’s posture tensed, but before he could say or do something, your voice rose over the excited clamour, quiet and soft, but clear, bright like nothing in this room, this life of theirs, could ever be.
You turned, just your upper body, feet remaining firmly planted against the ground, and tipped your head to the side. “You want me to kill these people, daddy?”
Something about your casual tone choked off the guests’ laughter. The question was phrased too lightly, too unbothered to come from lips like yours, your voice far too sweet for the meaning of your words.
“I want you-” Your father stepped forward. He put his arm around your shoulders to catch your chin. He pushed your head back towards the Lawyer, making you look at him before speaking again, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “-to listen to the Lawyer, and follow his rules. You will follow his rules like you follow your doctor’s rules, hm? As if they were daddy’s rules, is that clear?”
“Yes, sir.” Something changed in your eyes and smile then. The corner of your mouth curled. Your gaze sharpened, leaving innocent curiosity behind for something far more sinister. Titus watched these minuscule changes with parted lips, hunger and greed swirling aimlessly through his insides until it required all of his fragile composure not to break rank to grab you and lay claim over you right then and there.
Ursula shot him a warning look from the side that he missed entirely.
You listened with rapt attention, clinging to the Lawyer's lips and every word as he explained the rules, nodding every once in a while. Your body practically vibrated with excitement the room mistook for anxiety, but Titus saw the difference.
He watched your anxiety all day; this was different.
The Lawyer closed the book, and a chime sounded in the distance. Half the proxies rushed out, abandoning the room and the weapon’s stand in the middle of the circle, choosing to win ground and distance over joining the no doubt bloody fight about to erupt for the array of weapons to choose from - well, to choose from for those who reached it alive.
Von Arco’s son and Collett’s daughter decided to go for the weapons at the same time and were soon locked in a bloody fist fight.
Two more proxies chose to run instead of fight.
You remained right where you were. Svetlitskiy’s son was still watching you, hunger ablaze in his eyes, licking his lips. There were no rules dictating that he could not hurt you before killing you. No rules to keep him from sating his hunger before letting your blood soak into his hands, and Titus didn't know what he'd do if Svetlitskiy’s son attempted any of it.
“May I kill them now, daddy?” You spoke without taking your eyes off the fight, waiting patiently for permission even when your fingers twitched at your side. The other High Council members laughed, chuckling at the naive, silly little girl. Even Ursula grinned.
Titus didn’t.
Instead, a cold shudder ran down his back.
He remained perfectly still, hazel eyes trained on you, unmoving.
He saw something none of them saw, he realised then. He saw your darkness where your pretty, young face and peculiar behaviour still fooled the rest.
You were a monster, tamed, obedient only to your father's word, yet still wild, longing, yearning to sink your teeth into warm flesh and taste blood.
“Yes, darling.”
You moved the second your father was done speaking. In a single, fluid motion, you shifted from standing to lunging. You took down Svetlitskiy’s son with three precise, hard hits - the heel of your hand slamming upwards into his nose, your knee sinking hard into his stomach when he toppled over, blood spouting from his nose, and at last, tackling him to the ground with all the force of a rabid bear.
It did not matter that Svetlitskiy was twice your size. It did not matter that he was older, that he was nothing but sheer muscle, with hands as big as your head.
You took him down with bared teeth and bare hands as though you’d been born for this.
“What did you say about my ass, hm? Why don’t you fucking say that again?!” You cupped Svetlitskiy's cheeks and slammed the back of his head into the parquet. The crunch of shattering bone was sickening, echoing through the suddenly quiet reception hall. Deafening. Again and again.
Titus found himself enthralled, utterly enthralled, by the sight of you.
“I can’t fucking hear you, you pathetic piece of shit!” Your fist came down on his face, shattering what remained intact of his nose, driving bone fragments into his brain, pulverising his cheekbones, every last part of his facial structure, until the parquet was covered in a crimson puddle and your knuckles split. Blood splattered through the air, drizzling your face in a red mist that ran down your neck in a narrow trickle and left your teeth covered in a pink sheen.
You wore blood well, Titus thought, and a picture of you wearing nothing but the blood of your enemies popped into his head, unbidden and so very persistent.
You put your thumbs over his eyes and pressed, squeezing soft tissue until it popped under your manicured nails. A deranged grin cut across your face, distorting your pretty face into something not quite human, a mutilated appropriation of human delight. Titus found himself unable to look away. The room around him faded away. He wasn’t even watching the blood pouring forth from the eye sockets to drown your thumbs and pale yellow nail polish.
He watched your face.
The way the corners of your mouth twitched. The intense focus tensing your facial features, that feverish, edging on deranged expression gleaming in your eyes.
Titus almost forgot himself, almost forgot the people surrounding him - and you - almost forgot his sister and father and their scathing disapproval for everything he did and all the potential he lacked.
You looked up at that moment, hungry eyes finding Titus among the crowd of stunned High Council families. The tip of your tongue darted out between your plush lips, swiping away some of the blood clinging to them.
Titus’ heart stuttered in his chest, a feeling so very foreign to him, it startled him.
You tipped your head to the side, like a puppy trying to understand the world it had been tossed into without any instructions. Your thumbs still pressed down on your prey, the pale, innocent yellow of your nails now entirely swallowed up by the gory eyesockets.
If Titus were more of a man, if Titus were the man his father had tried to raise him to be, he’d abandon his position at his family's side and go to you. He was a Danforth, and Danforths did not ask permission to own what they desired, and Titus could not remember a time in his life when he had ever wanted something as much as his wicked soul craved you in that exact moment.
He pictured it, stepping through the bloody puddle your hunger tore into your victim, now staining the vintage wood, grabbing you, hoisting you up and into his arms… he pictured taking you right there and then, the blood of your kill still warm beneath your bodies as he claimed you as his-
“Fourteen more to go, sweetie. Don't get distracted.” Your father’s voice cut through Titus’ quickly escalating fantasy, and as much as it soured the sweet pictures Titus’ mind conjured - it soured the satisfaction you’d found in carnage even more.
Your head whipped around, eyes locking in on your father, the snarl meant for Svetlitskiy still stretching across your lips. Your father tutted. Your snarl fell away. A chided dog remembering who its master was. You got to your feet after another second of hesitation, clearly unwilling to leave behind your prey.
How cruel to make you.
How utterly cruel.
Titus would never force you to abandon your meal, especially when you looked so beautiful while devouring it…
You sucked your thumb into your mouth, licking off blood soaking your skin as you sauntered over to the weapon's stand. Collett stared at you from where she was cowering next to her kill, wide-eyed. She scampered backwards over the ground, her blood-stained hands slipping helplessly over the ground in her desperate attempt to get away from you.
Blood shone wetly on your dress and tights, covered your hands and ran down your arms. Your braids rested innocently against your collarbone, the ends dipped in blood.
You hummed as you observed the weapons.
Titus had no words to describe you, no words to make sense of what he was seeing - angelic was far too tame, and demonic did not give your sweet beauty the praise it was owed. Was this how Lucifer had looked? In the hour of his banishment? God’s brightest and most beautiful now cloaked in the deepest, darkest shadows of creation?
“I can take whatever I want?” You tipped your head to the side again, looking up at the Lawyer for answers. He inclined his head in a nod, a smile curling around his lips.
Titus half expected you to choose a firearm.
It was easy. Clean. Anyone could learn to be a good shot, and most women he’d encountered during these kinds of hunts preferred the long-range weapons. Less personal.
You didn't.
You picked up a battle axe that looked too heavy as that you should be able to wield it with such smooth ease as you did when you wandered over to Collett and brought the sharp edge down on her fear-drenched face. Blood hit the ground with sickening, loud smacks. Collett’s father stifled a shocked scream.
Your grin widened, edging onto mania.
You cocked your head at the split skull beneath you and the brain matter smeared across the axe blade. You set your boot against Collett’s unmoving shoulder to pull your axe free. The blade slid free with a wet smacking sound, followed by the dull thud of the unmoving body hitting the ground.
As soon as you left the reception room behind, the gathered guests flocked towards the TV screens showcasing the different angles of the extensive CCTV system. The other contenders had been forgotten, wiped from the collective conscience of the invited guest by your gruesome display of startling competency and ruthless bloodlust.
Your father wore a smug, pleased expression at the excited chatter rising all around him. Caspian scowled and turned away, taking two of his brothers with him to move towards the refreshments. Titus followed. He stayed at a distance, enough to conceal his intention but not so much that the audience's excitement at the hunt picking up would drown out their conversation. Always the hunter.
“This is a fucking mistake.” Caspian hissed at one of the hors d'oeuvres as though the smoked salmon had just insulted his mother.
“I don’t know.” Sebastian hummed as he popped a grape into his mouth. “This seems right up her alley. No restrictions, no rules? That’s much more to her taste than the morsels father feeds her to keep her compulsions fed and her compliant.”
“She’s happiest when people don’t interfere with her kills, brother.” Tobias added.
“Exactly.” Caspian crossed his arms in front of his chest. “She isn’t used to her prey killing each other, or to them fighting back! This is reckless and short-sighted. What if she gets hurt? We have no idea how she’s going to react to that.”
“Do I detect a flicker of jealousy in your voice, Caspian?” Sebastian grinned. “Because father chose her, and not you?”
“Please.” Caspian sniffed and adjusted the cuff of his dress shirt. “This kind of… event is much more to your taste than it is mine. Besides, Father is simply seizing the opportunity that, for once, his deranged daughter is useful for something. He is making her pay for the years he’s been protecting her, for ‘allowing’ her to sate her hunger.”
“What has you scowling then? Our sister gets to live out her dark side, and Father gets his seat on the High Council. Seems like everyone wins to me.” Tobias observed his brother. “Isn’t it a good thing she gets to let loose for once? Father’s rules can be suffocating, you’ve said so yourself.”
Caspian glanced over his shoulder towards their father. One of the cameras was following your movement down the east wing. You were dragging the axe behind you, leaving a trail of blood in your wake.
“And I stand by that. But what do you think happens when she realises she does not get the fifteen kills she was promised? One proxy has already been killed by someone who wasn’t her. And how do you think she’ll react when Father tries to force her back into her cage after letting her act out her bloodlust to her heart’s content? Do you think she’ll accept everything going back to the way it was before? She isn’t twelve anymore!”
Titus slipped away towards the bar before his presence could be noticed by the brothers. A fresh drink in hand, he made his way across the room once more, pulled towards his family by the force of loyalty instilled in him and the lack of other options.
Who did he have in this life besides them?
On the screen, Titus watched you sneak up on another proxy, a woman about twice your age cowering behind the bar in the small ballroom - whether to stalk another proxy or in an ill-advised attempt to hide, Titus couldn’t tell. Not that it mattered. Not with you there. You grabbed her hair, yanked her head back in a violent tug and cut her throat with a dagger, wide and deep, so deep you hit bone, leaving the woman’s throat a gaping, blood-spouting mess.
“She’s just mowing through them all, isn’t she?” Ursula hummed, eyes glued to the screen, clearly trying to decide how much of a threat you were.
“Unexpected.” Chester Danforth was not a man who appreciated unexpected things, but he did not show his displeasure outwardly, especially not when Richard joined him, whistling a playful tune to himself.
“Quite something, isn’t she?” Your father folded his hands behind his back. His lips curled into a sardonic grin as he watched you smash Von Arco’s face into the bar top, reducing it to a bloody pulp. “Though, of course, I’ve heard your children are quite - ah - skilled as well. One must defend their assets, no? Your father certainly knew that.” He glanced at the ring on Chester’s finger. The ultimate sigil of power.
Chester ignored the obvious dig at his position as keeper of the High Seat, a position he inherited from his father, rather than earned himself, something that had always been a sore subject for Chester. Only the slight jump of the muscle in his jaw gave his emotions away.
“I certainly see now why you’ve chosen her.”
“I didn’t want another child.” Richard mused, swirling the glass he'd picked off a server's tablet in his hand, watching the dark red wine slosh around. “Much less a daughter. What use do I have for a daughter? But my late wife… ah, she wanted one so badly. I confess that is the only reason we have so many sons. She was not willing to give up. She grew so desperate that she asked Mr Le Bail to bless her with a daughter. Well… one should be careful what they ask Mr Le Bail for, no?” He grinned. “She got her daughter, but she was never quite… right.” Richard’s grin widened. “She was eight when she killed her mother. Said the man in the chair at the head of the table told her to do it.” At that, your father laughed, actually laughed. “Every time she talks to him, I wonder whether she actually sees him or is simply crazy. Oh well… I got everything I could ever want from my wife, no great loss there, and my daughter… I'll freely admit that I enjoy being a girl dad, as the young folk today say, more than I ever thought I would.”
Titus could not quite decipher the way your father looked at you. It was a mixture of a businessman watching one of his long-term investments finally paying off and that of a doting old man looking at the single most precious thing of his whole life.
Titus looked back at the screen, at you.
Every little detail Titus learnt about you only made him crave you more.
He had to have you. In what way, he could not quite tell yet.
It was almost a shame you would soon be part of a Council family - after all, which of the other proxies would possess the power to best you? Especially if Mr Le Bail’s favour was with you, as your father seemed to insinuate - for killing you would surely be one of the most delectable indulgences Titus in his lavish, privileged life had ever partaken in.
But another, increasingly growing in strength, part of him revolted against the mere notion of any harm coming unto you, ever.
Hunger prickled under his skin, squirming like maggots devouring his flesh. It was almost unbearable to know he had to wait. Wait for you to finish your hunt. Wait for the watchful eyes of your brothers to be clouded by fatigue and alcohol. Wait for your father to be busy celebrating his victory. Wait for him and his own father to be distracted by instructing Richard on the privileges and obligations of his new position.
Wait.
Wait until he could find you - what he’d do when he had you alone… Titus wasn’t sure. He just knew that he had to get closer to you.
Next Chapter
A/N I hope you enjoyed it! I'd love to hear what you think and feel free to let me know if you want to be tagged in the next chapter! <3
Guys any recommendations of fics in any platform right now about The Pitt x Reader where is Reader is Badass??
LIKE PLEASE i DON'T WANT TO BE THE GIRL/GUYS THAT CRIES EVERTIME??!!!! i want to be the one the badass/cool doctor dude!
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