Rescue mission gone wrong.
Haytham x f.reader 18+
Summary: Haytham, his pregnant wife, and his closest ally, Jim Holden, devise a plan to rescue Haytham’s sister Jennifer. Based off forsaken novel. Some nsfw content towards the end, but I can’t write smut for the life of me (so forgive me). 18+
A/ N: I’ve been hyper fixating on Haytham Kenway for the last year, so here’s another part of my mini Haytham series :-) ps. I’m the queen of not proofreading enough, so please don’t h8 me :’-)
The oppressive heat of Constantinople clung to the very air, a thick, humid blanket that promised little respite. Haytham Kenway, Grand Master of the Colonial Templars, felt it keenly, but it was the internal heat of his rage and apprehension that truly simmered beneath his composed exterior.
Their mission was clear, yet fraught with peril: rescue Haytham’s older sister, Jennifer Kenway, from the gilded cage of Topkapi Palace. News had reached them through (y/n)’s extensive, whispered network of contacts – a web of spies and informants that stretched from the cobbled streets of Boston, to the grand markets of the Middle East.
Jenny, his spirited, headstrong older sister, was being held at Topkapi Palace, not as a political prisoner, but as a servant to the Ottoman governor’s concubines – a fate Haytham found more repugnant than chains. That was not a place for a Kenway, let alone Jenny (not that Jenny had ever considered herself a Kenway).
His wife (y/n), with her knack for obtaining seemingly impossible information, had not only located his well hidden sister, but had also devised the most audacious, and to Haytham, the most infuriating, plan for infiltration. Their plan was audacious, bordering on madness. He felt like a fool just thinking about it.
“The palace is impregnable from the outside, my love,” she had explained, her voice quiet but firm, poring over a crude map of the palace’s inner sanctums, “But from within… the women’s quarters, the Harem, that’s where she’ll be most likely. And that’s where we’ll get in.”
The method of entry, however, was where Haytham’s Templar composure had fractured.
“You, my dearest Haytham, and Jim, will disguise yourselves as eunuchs. Such men have unparalleled access within the Harem….seen yet unseen.”
But the galling detail that Haytham just couldn’t let go: he and Jim would have to dress as eunuchs. The indignity of it chafed at his very soul and pride, a dignified Templar Master reduced to a faceless and castrated servant. He felt like a pouty child, sulking over not wanting to do something.
Her eyes had then wearily flickered to meet her husband’s intense gaze, with a now mischievous glint that Haytham had learned to dread, “And I… I will go as one of the Governor’s newest acquisitions. A pregnant concubine, perhaps from a distant, allied province, sent as a stolen gift.”
Haytham’s jaw was perpetually clenched. He despised it. Every single factor of it. His face did little to hide his disgust in the idea. Especially the part that involved his beloved pregnant wife, already blossoming with the life they had created together, disguising herself as one of the Ottoman concubines. It was asking for trouble, but they were out of options. But her plan was a solid plan, and the only plan they had. He hated it, but he also knew in his heart that this might be the only way to save his sister. He’d have to put his pride aside for this misson. His wife had always been a skilled planner, and a master of deception, she had always been good at getting in and out of places unseen, he had faith in her plan. But Haytham though, the prideful and stubborn man he was, was not about to go down without a good fight, he had to at least try and convince her to stay behind.
Jim, ever the pragmatist, had merely thrown his head back and laughed, “I always knew you’d end up wearing a dress someday, Kenway. Just never thought it’d be this kind!”
Haytham had responded with a sharp glare that could curdle milk. Before returning his focus back to his wife.
“A concubine? And you of all people? While Pregnant?”
The words had been choked with outrage and shock. The very thought of (y/n), his wife, the mother of his unborn child, his best friend since childhood, paraded before strange men, her beauty on display, sickened him, “Absolutely not, It’s madness (y/n). As your husband and Grand Master, I forbid it. We shall find another way.” he said, his voice a low, dangerous tone. He stopped and pinned his wife with a stare that could make lesser men confess their deepest sins, “What utter foolishness. To use my own wife, in your condition, as bait…”
Her gaze, typically soft and warm, hardened with an unyielding resolve he knew well.
“And I won’t risk my husband going in alone. You’re too recognizable, too… Templar. They’d cut you both down before you reached the inner courtyard Haytham. Also let me remind you that it was thanks to my connections that have gotten us this far, and my it will be my face that will get us inside. Besides,” she added, a hint of her usual fire returning, “who better to slip unseen into a nest of women than another woman?”
His wife was not a woman to be forbidden. Her eyes had hardened, her jaw set. They both knew that she was not losing this battle. She could be just as stubborn as he was, a trait their child would most likely carry as well.
“Haytham, my love, look at me. This is our best, perhaps only, shot. My appearance, lends us an authenticity and innocence no other disguise can. I can walk into the very heart of that palace, past guards who would never suspect a woman, let alone a pregnant one, of being a threat. And besides, I refuse to let my partner go in alone. Remember Jenny is my family too Haytham, and this child…this child needs my strength, not my cowardice. We have a window of opportunity, a narrow one, and I will not see it close because of your pride.”
Beside her, Jim Holden, a man whose loyalty was matched only by his charm, cleared his throat, “She has a point, Haytham. No one would suspect a pregnant concubine of subterfuge. And as for us…” He gestured to the two piles of folded silk garments, and two pairs of sandals on a nearby divan, “Who looks twice at a eunuch?”
Haytham’s jaw strained with tension, his brows scrunched together in scrutiny, but his grey eyes held the undeniable gleam of worry. The very idea was an affront to his families dignity, a grotesque pantomime that stripped him of his command, his identity. It put his wife and unborn child in a great amount of danger.
But the thought of his older sister, Jennifer, trapped within those gilded walls, a virtual slave to the whims of a lecherous governor and his concubines, was a far greater poison. He had failed to protect her once. He would not fail again, not while his wife was watching him, and his sister waiting for him.
Haytham knew (y/n) was right, damn her intelligence. Her presence was their ace, a key to unlock doors that would remain barred to Haytham’s grim Templar countenance and Jim’s roguish charm. But the thought of exposing his (y/n) and unborn child to such indignity, to such danger, churned in his gut, he felt like he was dishonouring his very own family, it made for a bitter cocktail of fear and protective fury. Yet, he loved and trusted her more than he loved his pride.
“Fine,” he clipped out, the word tasting like ash, “But if at any point I deem it too great a risk, we abort. No arguments. Understood (y/n)?”
(Y/n)’s lips curved into a small, triumphant smile, she gave him her best doe eyes.
“Understood, my love.”
This had now become a desperate gambit, born of necessity and fueled by the relentless determination of his extraordinary spouse.
An hour later, the
transformation was complete. Haytham and Jim, stripped of their weapons and dignities. Haytham even had to part with his trusted hidden blades, which was not easy for the man. They were his safeguard, and now he was stripped of them.
They had secured their disguises earlier in an isolated caravanserai on the dusty outskirts of the city. Jim emerged first, a nervous, and maybe a slightly amused grin on his face, clad in a silken robe of emerald green, a padded turban on his head, and a carefully draped scarf obscuring his jawline – a futile attempt to hide what his voice and bearing would definitely betray. Haytham followed not long after, his own eunuch garb feeling like a shroud of humiliation. The soft, flowing fabric, the distinct lack of a belt to gird his sword, the smooth, eunuch-like walk he’d rehearsed – it was anathema to everything he was. The worst part had to be the god awful sandals. Before he could stop himself, his hand instinctively went to his side, finding only silk where his rapier should have been. He had never felt so defenceless and vulnerable.
Then (y/n) stepped out. The men’s eyes widen at the sight of her. She was absolutely mesmerizing, both men had a hard time not looking to stunned. Haytham swallowed, a dry, rasping sound in his throat. The outfit was… breathtaking on her. The world seemed to stop. She was a vision from a fever dream, a cascade of sheer, shimmering fine silks in deep sapphire and gold, designed to cling to every curve, to highlight the gentle swell of her belly. Her hair, usually impeccably braided, was unbound and cascaded down her back, interwoven with golden coins and pearls, framing a face exquisitely painted, her eyes lined with kohl, her lips painted a vibrant crimson. She looked impossibly beautiful, otherworldly, like a goddess carved from moonlight and jewels.
As her husbands eyes, which had initially been filled with dread, swept over her, a hot wave of something primal washed over him. He was a Templar Grand Master, a man of discipline and control, yet for a fleeting, dangerous moment, his carefully constructed composure shattered. His hungry gaze slowly lingered, a predatory assessment, admiring the way the fabric draped, the hint of cleavage, the elegant line of her throat. He had done double-take, a slow, deliberate sweep from her bare shoulders to the hem of her shimmering skirt. His breath still caught. She looked utterly, breathtakingly gorgeous. Seductively. Haytham decided to treat himself to one last gaze sweeping over her, lingering on the bits of exposed breast from provocative cut of the neckline, the sensual sway of the fabric as she moved. He wanted to take her right there and then and show her who she belonged too.
A primal part of his brain, the part that belonged to the man deeply, irrevocably in love with her, took over. He was checking her out like some adolescent boy, shamelessly, seductively, a low hum of possessive desire vibrating through him. His eyes gray eyes darkened, a flash of raw hunger. It took all his willpower not to grab her and steal the breath from her with a heated kiss, and let his hands roam the plains of her beautiful body.
Haytham saw the flicker of surprise and pleasure in her eyes at his unguarded reaction, and it snapped him back to reality. The heat that had pooled in his loins turned to ice in his veins. This alluring vision was the very bait he was throwing into a den of wolves.
The cold splash of reality brought him back to the present. This was his wife, about to be paraded before strangers. The hunger warred with a fresh surge of protectiveness, hot and violent. He caught himself, shaking his head slightly, trying to clear the haze from his vision. “My dear,” he managed, his voice rougher than he intended as he approached her, his hands placed firmly on her shoulders, scared to let go.
He strode forward, his expression hardening back into a mask of concern. “Are you sure you are well enough? We can still turn back.” he asked, his voice softer now. He gently placed a hand on her side, the other on her stomach. He hoped that she would reconsider her decision.
“Our child… you swear you feel no strain?” His eyes dropped to her belly, a momentary softening in their depths. He had never wanted to put his family in the position. He felt no better than his own father.
(Y/n) placed her smaller, softer hand over his larger and calloused ones, her touch a soothing balm on his frayed nerves.
“We are fine, Haytham. Truly.” She looked from him to Jim, her gaze firm. She wanted to reassure them that she was perfectly fine. (Y/n) smiled, a small, knowing smile that both charmed and infuriated him more, “Haytham do not fret about us. Jennifer is the one we should be concerned about. There is no going back now, my love. I do not know how many more opportunities we will get, so we must take advantage of this one.” She reached up, gently tracing the rigid line of his jaw, knowing her touch always soothed him.
“You look… authentic, by the way.” Her eyes twinkled, a barely concealed tease.
The journey to the palace was an exercise in excruciating self-control for Haytham. They moved through narrow, winding streets, the sun beating down relentlessly, the air thick with the murmur of the city. They rode in an elegant enclosed carriage that they had gotten from one of (y/n)’s many contacts. The city streets were bustling, and every time they passed a crowd, a market, or even slowed for a merchant’s cart, the curtains would inevitably part slightly, or (y/n) would lean forward and pull the curtains back, her exquisite profile would become visible for others to see.
Constantinople was a riot of colour, sound, and smell, but all the grand master could focus on were the eyes staring at his wife. From merchants in their stalls to swaggering Janissaries, every man’s (and woman’s) gaze was drawn to (y/n). They stared, they drooled, they murmured crude appreciations in Turkish, thinking the ‘eunuchs’ escorting her were deaf or indifferent. With every lecherous glance, a murderous rage built in Haytham’s chest, a primal urge to draw a hidden blade he did not have, and carve the insolence from their faces.
As they continued on through the slow moving crowed streets. The Men, from grizzled porters to silk robed merchants, would stop, their gazes lingering far too long, their expressions hungry, their whispers following the carriage like a cloud of flies. Haytham felt the familiar simmering rage building within him, a dark, dangerous jealousy, the one he oftentimes struggled to contain. He tried to physically shield her, subtly shifting his position, leaning slightly in front of her, his body a silent barrier against the rapacious stares. Merchants continued to paused, their wares forgotten. Guards on patrol did more than just glance. They drooled. Their lewd gazes stripped her bare, feasting on her curves, imagining what beauty lay beneath the flimsy fabric.
Maybe it was a good thing he did not have his weapons on him, because instinct’s to draw his hidden blade, to carve out the eyes that dared dishonor her, was strong. His fists clenched, knuckles white beneath the voluminous sleeves of his disguise. He was a Templar, a man of reason, but the primal beast of jealousy clawed at his throat, it always did when she was around.
(Y/n), sensing her husband’s simmering rage, reached out, her hand gently finding his large hand under his robe. Her fingers squeezed, a silent reminder that this was part of the plan, that he had to hide his feelings. Her eyes met his over her veil, a brief, knowing spark. Patience, my love.
A snort of amusement from Jim broke the tense silence. The man, ever oblivious to the finer points of Haytham’s emotional turmoil, chuckled from his seat.
“Someone’s looking a bit green, Haytham. Didn’t realize that even Grand Masters were prone to jealousy.”
Haytham’s head snapped towards him, his eyes like chips of ice.
“Holden, another word and you’ll find yourself sharing a cell with Jenny’s former captor.” Haytham hissed, his voice lethal, “or maybe I will find a way to make this disguise permanent for you.”
(Y/n) rolled her eyes, a sigh escaping her lips. “Oh, for God’s sake, both of you. Grow up. We have more important matters at stake.” Her voice, though soft, carried an authority that instantly doused their bickering. Haytham grumbled under his breath, but held his tongue. Haytham couldn’t help but feel attracted to her, in moments like these, when she took charge.
Despite her bravado, Haytham soon noticed the heat was taking its toll on her. As they drew closer to the palace, the heat inside the carriage, coupled with the fabrics of her concubine dress and the extra strain on her body from pregnancy, began to take its toll on (y/n). Her movements became a touch slower, her vivid complexion a little paler, the sheen on her skin not entirely due to due to her natural glow. Haytham, for all his internal battles, was acutely attuned to his wife and her comfort. He also could pick up on her behaviours that had included the slightest tremor in her hands, and the way she subtly fanned herself. He knew she was overheating before even she noticed herself.
“Stop the carriage.” he commanded the driver, his voice curt.
Jim looked surprised, “Haytham, we’re almost there.”
“Stop it!” Haytham snapped, his eyes fixed on (y/n), who looked equally as confused at Jim.
The carriage jolted to a halt. Haytham quickly produced a small, leather water skin and helped her hold it to her lips, tilting her head back gently. His steel coloured eyes checking hers for any secret signs of distress. He was overreacting, but she knew it was in his nature to protect and care for her, and soon to be child. She loved him for it.
“Drink, my dear. Slow sips.”
She drank deeply, her throat working. As she finished, he saw the faint tremor in her hands subside slightly. Maybe she had needed it after all she thought as he watched her carefully, his dark brow furrowed with concern. He knelt on the carriage floor, his gaze falling to her stomach, covered by the silk but still visibly swollen. His large hand reached out, brushing lightly over the fabric, a father’s protective instinct overriding everything else. Haytham couldn’t help but imagine the tiny life within, the future they were building. He leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to her stomach. He didn’t care of Jim was looking.
“Just a little further, my darling. We are almost there. Let me know if you wish to stop again.” A profound tenderness softened his harsh features for a moment.
As she took one last sip and handed him back the water, his gaze softened, his anger at the world replaced by a singular, focused concern. His fingers brushed one last time against the taut silk over her belly, a fleeting, tender caress. It was a silent conversation—a question, a reassurance, a promise.
With a swift, almost aggressive motion, he cupped her face and lowered his head, pressing a deep, lingering kiss to her lips, tasting the cool water. It was a kiss of protection, of promise, of possession. “One last kiss, for good luck of course.” he murmured against her mouth, his British accent sounding gruffer than usual, “Then we go.”
Haytham leaned in, his lips brushing hers in a kiss that was both a farewell and a vow. It was more chaste than the first, yet held the weight of a thousand more passionate encounters.
“Stay close,” he murmured against her mouth. “We will be swift.”
She nodded, her eyes soft, then pushed herself upright. “Let’s go. Your sister needs us.”
Miraculously, they walked right into the palace. The disguise was flawless, (y/n)’s presence as a supposed new concubine, accompanied by her “eunuchs,” drawing no alarm, only the usual curious glances from other servants. The sheer audacity of it was their shield. They navigated the labyrinthine corridors, (y/n)’s quiet whispers guiding them through the servants’ quarters. The scents of exotic perfumes, stale incense, and simmering food mingled in the air. It was almost sickening.
The eunuch disguises also granted them an eerie anonymity, their presence accepted without question amongst the countless servants. (y/n), playing her role to perfection, drifted through the opulent corridors with a languid grace, occasionally pausing to admire a mosaic or a fountain (much to Haytham’s disapproval), her ‘attendants’ always a respectful distance behind. Her presence, a pregnant concubine, was nothing out of the ordinary, another jewel in the Governor’s vast collection.
Following the information from (y/n) source, they found the servants’ quarters behind the main bathhouse. And there she was. Jennifer Kenway was older, her face etched with a weariness that tore at Haytham’s heart, but it was unmistakably her.
His wife’s sources proved impeccable. But Haytham couldn’t help but notice that Jennifer’s face was thinner, now aged from time, her clothes simple cotton, but her eyes still held that familiar spark of Kenway defiance. One that reminded him of his wife.
After brief, tearful reunion, and a whispered vow to escape, they were moving again, Jenny now draped in a servant’s cloak provided by (y/n), help keep her face obscured.
Their exit, however, was not as smooth as their entry. A sharp-eyed guard, perhaps just a touch too observant of the strange eunuch leading two women out of a restricted section, raised the alarm. Bells rang, voices shouted, and the quiet opulence of the Harem dissolved into chaos.
“Go!” Jim yelled, drawing the short, decorative sword he’d managed to steal from a wall display. It wasn't a proper weapon, but it would have to do.
“I’ll buy you time!”
“Jim, no!” Haytham started to turn back, the Templar instinct to never leave a brother behind warring with his duty.
“Haytham, look at them!” Jim shouted, gesturing to the two women. “Your wife! Your sister! Your child! Your duty is to them! Go!”
The raw, desperate logic of it hit Haytham like a physical blow. He looked at Jim, a silent acknowledgment passing between them—a lifetime of friendship, respect, and sacrifice compressed into a single, agonizing moment.
He grabbed Jenny’s arm, pulling her along as he wrapped his other arm protectively around Rhaenerya’s waist, hustling them towards the pre-arranged exit point. Behind them, the clash of steel and the shouts of the guards began to fade, a sound that would haunt Haytham’s waking moments and his dreams. He felt his heart breaking all over again, he had failed someone else he cared about yet again. Haytham knew, Jim was sacrificing himself, but it still did t make the decision any easier. There was no time for argument, no moment for his noble Templar defiance. His duty was clear. He had to save his family, they were still in danger, he would not fail anyone else that day.
He kept his grip on Jennifer’s arm, pulling her along, and gave (y/n) a look that begged understanding. He gently shoved both women forward, urging them through a narrow passage.
Meanwhile, Jim, with his grim smile of defiance, turned to face the oncoming rush of Ottoman guards. The sound of steel clashing and Jim’s battle grunts faded as Haytham, heart pounding, half-dragged, half-carried Jennifer and his pregnant wife through the maze of Constantinople, dodging the mass crowds, until they were finally aboard a swift, silent vessel that had been waiting for them, cutting through the dark waters of the Bosphorus.
After having escaped the gilded prison of Topkapi Palace behind, the image of Jim, Haytham’s closest friend, sword flashing, etched into Haytham’s mind. His family was now safe, but his friend was not. He couldn’t bring himself to think of the punishments Jim would have to endure now if he had survived the attack at all.
Back in their rented, secluded safe house, that (y/n) and Haytham had secured as s a contingency, the silence was deafening. From the moment they stepped inside, all adrenaline dissipated, replaced by a crushing weight of guilt and despair.
Haytham, without a word, had shed the humiliating eunuch robes, casting them aside as if they were infested with plague. He’d barely spoken, his eyes distant, haunted. His body stiff and cold. He’d changed into his usual, navy blue Templar attire, but he carried himself with anger and coldness. Then briefly after having checked on the women, he’d locked himself away in a spare bedroom, the click of the latch echoing loudly in the stillness. Sealing himself off from the world, and from his own family. He was punishing himself. He stood by the window, staring out at the darkening city, his hands clasped behind his back stiffly. The view did little to distract him from his thoughts. He had succeeded in one duty and failed catastrophically in another. He had left a friend, a brother in all but blood, to die or be captured in his stead. The victory felt like a bitter defeat. He felt like a craven.
(Y/n) had ensured her sister-in-law was safe and resting. She had also given her husband his space that he needed. She eventually approached the locked door of the spare room after having realized that Haytham was not in their shared room. She knew him. Knew the silence, the withdrawal, the darkness and rage that simmered beneath the surface. He was hurting, blaming himself for leaving his friend behind. For the perceived failure to protect everyone.
“My heart,” she called softly, her voice muffled by the thick wood. “Please open the door.” Silence. She tried again, her tone gentler but insistent.
“Please, don’t shut me out. Let me help you.”
No answer.
“Haytham,” she called softly. “Let me in.”
Again, still no answer.
“Haytham Edward Kenway, if you don’t open this door, I swear to God, I will kick it down, pregnant or not!” Her voice, usually so composed, held a tremor of frustration and hurt.
A moment of stubborn silence, then the click of the lock. He stood in the doorway, nothing but his cream coloured breeches and a lose fitting white shirt, and his dark hair in an unusually lose ponytail before turning his back to her, and continued staring out the window at the city lights. His shoulders were rigid, his hands clenched tightly. The air around him crackled with a palpable despair.
She walked in, closing the door softly behind her. “You know I was going to come find you. You cannot shut your own wife out Haytham.”
She moved towards him, slowly, deliberately, and unclenched his hands before she wrapped her own arms around his toned waist from behind, resting her head against his muscular back.
“He’s alive, Haytham,” she said softly, “My sources have already put out feelers. The governor will want to interrogate him, not kill him. Not yet.”
Haytham didn’t turn. “I left him.” The words were flat, dead. “I ran, and I left him to his fate.”
“He’s alive, Haytham,” she whispered reassuringly as possible, knowing his current thoughts, “Holden is a resourceful man. He’ll find a way.”
He tensed before relaxing against her touch, then harshly spoke, his voice raw with self-loathing, “How can I claim to protect anyone, (y/n)? How can I be a good father, a good husband, a good grand master, if I cannot keep those around me safe? If I have to leave my friend to die for my failures? I failed, (y/n).” His voice was a gravelly whisper, “I left him. Left Jim. My friend. The closest thing to a brother I have. And I just simply abandoned him.” Haytham didn’t turn, “I left him.” The words were flat, dead, “I ran, and I left an innocent man to his fate.”
“You did not run Haytham,” she countered, her voice firm, cutting through his self-recrimination. (y/n) turned him around, forcing him to face her as she cupped his face in her hands, her gaze unwavering.
“It wasn’t a failure. It was a choice. A terrible choice for one to make, yes, but a necessary one. You saved me and our child. You saved your sister. You did your duty as a father, a husband, and a brother. Jim made his own choice, to protect us, our child, and we will honor that. We will get him back. I promise you.”
Her thumbs stroked his face soothingly, feeling the coarser than usual shaved stubble on his cheeks, her eyes searching his, “This is not your fault, my dearest. Your father would be proud of you.”
She slowly gestured towards the next room, acknowledging Jenny.
“You protected your family. That is not failure. That was not cowardice, Haytham. That was your duty. The duty of a husband, a brother, and a father. Jim knew that. He made a choice to ensure you could fulfill it.”
She saw the shimmer of unshed tears in his eyes, a rare vulnerability in the usually stoic Grand Master. It tore at her own heart, he had such a good heart deep down, despite his flaws.
“But Jim…”
“We will get him back,” she promised, her voice unwavering, “I swear it, Haytham. We will. But right now, you need to breathe. You need to remember that you carried us to safety. You saved me. You saved Jenny. You saved our child. Do not stop reminding yourself this, because it is the truth.”
He turned to look down at her, his hands coming to hold hers gently, but with a tight grip. His beautiful stormy grey eyes, haunted by the day’s events, searched hers, seeking solace. The anger, the despair, the fear for Jim, all churned within him. He needed an outlet, a distraction from the crushing weight of his responsibilities. He needed his wife. Her words seemed to break something within him. His control snapped. Without warning, he seized her against himself, his grip almost painful, and crushed his lips to hers.
It was not a tender kiss, but a desperate, aggressive, dominating demand, filled with anguish and a raw need that startled her. His mouth crashing down on hers in a kiss that was desperate, aggressive, yet laced with an undeniable tenderness. He backed her gently until she stumbled, her legs hitting the edge of the bed, sending her down onto the soft mattress. He followed her down, never breaking the intense kiss, his body tight against hers. She could feel every inch of his strong body, even the massive bulge pressed against hers thigh.
“I need a physical distraction,” he groaned deeply against her lips, his breath hot, his now lidded eyes burning with an intense hunger. His voice was elegant, raw, primal. It made her feel things, without him even touching her. His voice was a godsend.
He knelt before her, his large, strong hands steady as he began to unfasten the ties of her uncomfortable concubine outfit. He eagerly began to undress her, his movements surprisingly gentle despite the urgency, his fingers expertly undoing the fastenings of the dress, pushing the shimmering fabric slowly down her arms, over her hips, his fingers grazing her skin seductively, causing her to shiver into his touch. His eyes devoured her, lingering on the delicate curve of her hips, the harden nipples of her breast, the swell of her belly, the goosebumps along her skin.
But When the offending garments lay crumpled at the foot of the bed, he tosses the shimmering fabric away, not gently, but with a violent, aggressive motion that sent it flying across the room, where it landed in a crumpled heap like a discarded skin into the cold hearth, waiting to be burned as if it were an anathema.
“That damn outfit,” he muttered, his voice thick with possessiveness, his gaze fixated on her nakedness, large hands exploring the plains of her body, “Was driving me insane. Every damned man who looked at you… I wanted to kill them. No man nor woman, and I mean absolutely no person on this earth, should ever see my wife like that. Only my eyes are allowed to witness you in such… glory.” He leaned down, nuzzling her neck, his lips tracing a path down to her collarbone, his own clothes being removed tauntingly slow “And another thing, (y/n),” he whispered, his voice dangerously low, his tongue teasing the hollow of her throat, “You are not going on any more missions. Not for the remainder of your pregnancy at the least. Not a single one. For you’re sake and our child’s. You are carrying precious cargo. And I cannot risk either of you. This was the last time,” he murmured against her lips, “You are not going on any more missions. Not even after the child is born, and safe in your arms. You are to rest. You and our child are irreplaceable, and I will not risk either of you again. Is that understood?” He lifted his head, his eyes locking onto hers, a fierce possessiveness shining in their grey depths, “Do you understand (y/n)?”
It wasn’t a question. It was a declaration, a new Templar order, absolute and final. His wife met his intense gaze, seeing the love and fear warring within him, and nodded. Tonight, words were not what he needed. He needed an anchor, a physical tether to the present, to pull him from the abyss of his guilt. As he laid her back, his body covering hers, she gave him that anchor, losing themselves in an intimacy that was both a desperate distraction and a profound reaffirmation of the life they had fought so hard to protect.
His hands found her rounded curves, delicately tracing them with a possessive tenderness that promised protection and devotion as he awaited her answer before he continued, he needed he to say it.
She nodded, breathless, her own desire stirring in response to his intensity, she was maybe becoming a pinch as impatient as well, “I understand. I promise you Haytham, I will stay safe.”
Once he confirmed in her eyes that she was being truthful and not just impatient, he kissed her then, a deep, consuming kiss that spoke of ownership, of love, of the desperate need for connection. He sought to lose himself in her, in the feel of her skin against his, in the promise of the life growing within her, in a desperate attempt to forget the friend he left behind, the demons of his perceived failure, and the searing jealousy that had tormented him all day.
The night deepened, a tempest of shared sorrow and desperate comfort. In the quiet intimacy of their bed, Haytham found a temporary reprieve from the gnawing guilt, a distraction in the warmth of his wife’s changing body, a solace in her unwavering presence. He sought to lose himself in her, to forget the world outside, if only for a few stolen hours, finding a fierce, primal comfort in the embrace of the woman who was his anchor, his strength, his redemption. For this night, and for the remainder of his days, he would keep her safe, keep her close, and let the physical distraction heal the wounds that festered within his soul.
