The Lottery of Death
18+ account - minors do not interact
titus danforth x f!reader Word Count: 11k Rating: E
Summary: You’re falling for Titus, and it makes no sense. He’s tied to everything you’re against. Warnings: SMUT (MDNI 18+) professor reader, mentions of an original character, (Ursula’s ex), smidge body insecurity, alcohol, being tipsy/drunk, hungover reader, sexual tension (so much of it), flirting, feelings, mutual pinging, jealousy/possessiveness (titus is soooo down bad for you), pet names, semi-public smut, (golf course... specifically the golf cart!!!), dirty talk, praise, thigh riding, dry humping, oral sex (f – receiving), emotional argument, angst, flashback of a hunt (mentions of blood, but no violent graphic descriptions), kips wife is also an original character, i think that’s it A/N: I’m on my period, plus all this Quinn promo definitely made me feral. Sorry…not sorry. Your girl was horny when she wrote that smut scene. I wrote this in a way where anything 'revealed' in this story is in the trailer / general lore implied from the trailer, and / or discussed in the first movie. However, I’ll label this as smidge spoilers just in case. Also, the picture in the mood board is not representative of reader, once you read the story, you’ll understand it's another person. GIF by @wesandresons.
Masterlist | PART 1 | You're reading PART 2 | PART 3 | FINAL PART
The sun had been sitting heavy for hours, turning the grass gold and the stone patio warm beneath your calves. You and Ursula had taken a few lazy dips in the pool throughout the afternoon, letting the water cool your skin before drifting back to your loungers near the edge of the garden.
Half‑empty glasses sweated beside you, the rosé bottle(s) migrating between you without either of you acknowledging it, Now everything felt pleasantly loose around the edges, the world softened by sun, chlorine, and just enough wine. You’d decided to extend your trip after the original two weeks passed. What were another two? Chester was barely around. He’d flown in for a few days, just long enough to check on a few things, and then he was off again...this time to Hong Kong to close a deal with some company.
Ursula lay stretched out beside you, sunglasses tipped low on her nose, one arm draped lazily over her stomach. She looked relaxed in a way you rarely saw. You weren’t sure how long it had been. Two hours, maybe more? Long enough that your skin hummed with heat and your thoughts drifted without permission.
And if you were honest…you were both probably a little drunk. Ursula let out a small laugh at something you’d said a minute earlier, the sound warm and unguarded. You traced the rim of your glass again, the sunlight catching on the pale pink wine. The question pressed at the back of your teeth, and maybe it was the rosé or the heat or your curiosity…but you let it out.
"Why didn’t you marry Conrad?"
Ursula’s sunglasses didn’t hide the way her eyes widened. She lifted her head, then pushed herself upright with a slow, deliberate motion. Her designer red swimsuit caught the light as she adjusted the wide‑brimmed hat on her head, buying herself a second.
"Well," she said, lifting her sunglasses with one finger, "that’s not what I was expecting."
"I mean… my mom told me you were engaged for, like, 2 seconds," you shrugged, though your pulse ticked faster. "And then you guys broke it off."
Ursula studied you for a moment before the breeze suddenly lifted the edge of her hat, and she pressed it back down with two fingers. Your mind drifted back to two years ago, when your mother had first told you about Ursula’s engagement. You remembered the way she’d said it that Ursula had called her personally to announce she was marrying Conrad Fairfax Harrington III. Your mother had been delighted. She’d met Conrad while working on the estate, and she’d spoken about him with the kind of fondness she rarely extended to the family’s inner circle. They’d dated for years, apparently—long enough that your mother had even questioned what was taking so long.
Which was why the second call had stunned your mother.
Barely a month later, Ursula had phoned again, but this time to say the wedding was off. No explanation, just a breezy, "We’re not proceeding. It wasn’t right."
"Conrad," she repeated, almost to herself. "God. That feels like a lifetime ago."
She took a slow sip of her drink, eyes drifting toward the far end of the garden, where the estate stretched out in sun‑bleached stone and manicured hedges. Then she gave you a boilerplate shrug, the kind people use when they’re trying to make something sound smaller than it was. "We weren’t right for each other. Happens."
You frowned. "Didn’t you guys date a long time? Like… 5 years or something?"
"7," she corrected, "Which is 6 and a half years longer than I should’ve tolerated his taste in furniture."
"Did something change during the engagement? Or had things shifted before then? Or—I don’t know— was there some big moment where everything snapped?"
"You’re just full of questions today." Ursula turned her head toward you slowly, like she was deciding whether to be amused or throw you into the hedges.
You hesitated, then blurted the thing you probably shouldn’t have.
"Oh my god… did he meet someone else?"
"Him cheat on me?" she barked out a laugh…absolutely delighted by your audacity. "Please. He worshipped the ground I walked on. Which, frankly, should’ve been my first red flag. No one is that devoted." But the humor didn’t fully disguise the truth humming beneath it…that she’d cared for him more than she wanted to admit, and that losing him had cost her something she still didn’t have the language for.
She tipped her head back against the lounger, letting the sun hit her face.
"Anyway," she said breezily, "he dodged a bullet. Marrying into this family would’ve been a tragedy for him."
You squinted at her. "Why?"
"Why?" she echoed, as if the question itself was silly, and gave you a look that said, You already know the answer.
You suspected, but did you really know? Was it as ugly as you thought? God, you hoped not.
"Did you love him?" you whispered.
Ursula snorted in an inelegant, unfiltered sound that told you the rosé had definitely settled in. "Love?" she scoffed. "Love is for fools and poets. A marketing strategy. Something books and movies cooked up to convince people they’re incomplete unless they’ve got someone hanging off their arm." She waved her glass vaguely, as if dismissing the entire concept. But then her voice shifted…almost like she hadn’t meant to let it slip. "And besides…" She stared into her wine for a moment. "In this family, we learned a long time ago that love isn’t in the cards for us."
She blinked hard, as if realizing she’d said too much, and sat up abruptly.
"I need more wine."
You watched her stand (a little too quickly), brushing imaginary dust from her red swimsuit. She didn’t call for anyone, didn’t press a button, or summon a staff member like she normally would. Ursula went inside the house, a silent confirmation that she wasn’t fetching wine but excusing herself from the conversation. You exhaled, reached for the bottle of sunscreen, and squeezed a line of it onto your palm.
Your mind was scrambling to make sense of what she’d just said. You smoothed the sunscreen over your shoulders, your collarbone, the tops of your thighs. The lotion went on cool, but your skin felt hot anyway. You were halfway through rubbing some onto your arms when the door slid open again.
Without looking up, you called out, "I hope you brought water—"
But the rest of the sentence died in your throat, because it wasn’t Ursula.
It was Titus, dressed in khakis and a blue crew-neck T‑shirt, which was surprisingly casual for him. He was usually always wearing something crisp, tailored, and intimidating. Instead, he looked almost… normal.
Titus's eyes raked over you slowly, deliberately, like he was cataloging every curve and shadow the sunlight painted on your skin. That smug little smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, the one that always made you wonder if he knew something you didn't or if he just enjoyed watching you squirm.
Ever since he apologized, something in the air between you had shifted. It was subtle…more like a series of small, almost accidental moments that had begun to add up. When you crossed paths in the hallway, you no longer looked away. Instead, you exchanged words. At first, brief, then gradually more extended. Dinner had stopped being something you avoided when he was in the room; somehow, you’d ended up sitting near each other more often than not. And there was that one night in the home theater when both of you were watching a movie in comfortable silence, the kind that felt natural and unforced. It was confusing how quickly you had become so at ease with him, especially given how uncertain and guarded you had felt before.
And then there was the carriage house.
He’d offered to show it to you one afternoon, almost casually, like it wasn’t a big deal. But it was. This place held pieces of your formative years and, most importantly, the echo of your mother’s laughter. As well as her lessons. You drank alcohol inside here for the first time with a friend. You’d been sixteen, curious, and hiding from the world for an afternoon. Your mom had found you an hour later, throwing up, and instead of yelling, she’d sat beside you and told you that you were terrible at being sneaky. You were also so fucking grounded. A whole month. You hadn’t meant to share all that with Titus. It just… slipped out. The memories were warm and a little ridiculous, and he’d listened without interrupting or teasing. And when you’d fallen quiet, realizing how much you’d said, he’d looked at you with this strange, gentle understanding. You knew he could tell you were sad about the renovations. Because in a way, changing this space felt like erasing her. It was a goodbye you hadn’t prepared for.
You swallowed hard, your hand hovering awkwardly over your arm, the sunscreen glistening on your fingers like some kind of evidence of your vulnerability. He’s probably used to women with flawless bodies sculpted by personal trainers, not someone like me in a basic one-piece that hugs a little too snugly around the hips, you thought, the insecurity twisting in your gut like a knife. The alcohol from earlier buzzed in your veins, blurring the edges of your thoughts and making his gaze feel heavier, more intentional than it probably was. Or was it?
"Getting some Vitamin D?" Titus drawled, his voice low and smooth, laced with that flirtatious edge that could be teasing or something more if you let yourself read into it. He sauntered closer, and you forced a laugh, but it came out breathy, unsteady, as you finally lowered your hand and capped the sunscreen bottle with a soft click.
"Yeah, trying too," Your words tumbled out a bit too quickly, the wine making your cheeks feel hotter under his scrutiny. Was he really looking at you like that, or was the booze turning every glance into something charged? You shifted on the lounger, the fabric of your swimsuit pulling taut against your thighs, suddenly hyperaware of how it clung to the soft swell of your breasts.
He chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound that sent a shiver down your spine despite the sun's warmth. "Trying, huh?"
His eyes flicked to the bottle in your hand, then back to you. Without asking, he dropped onto the edge of your lounger, the cushion dipping under his weight and forcing your legs to part just slightly to make room. The proximity hit you like a wave with his thigh brushing yours, the faint scent of his cologne mixing with the sunscreen's coconutty tang.
"You've barely covered your back." He wasn’t wrong. You were wearing one of those one‑piece swimsuits with a completely open back. The kind that looked modest from the front but dipped low and clean down your spine. Thin straps crossed at your shoulders and disappeared, leaving everything else exposed to the sun.
Your heart stuttered, a mix of protest and something warmer, more insistent, pooling low in your belly. "I can handle it," you shot back, but your voice lacked conviction, coming out softer than intended, almost playful. You twisted slightly, trying to play it cool, but the movement only made the straps of your one-piece dig into your shoulders, reminding you of every imperfection you suddenly couldn't ignore. Titus leaned in closer, his smirk widening as he plucked the bottle from your fingers. His touch was brief but electric, his warm hand grazing yours, leaving your skin tingling.
"Turn around."
You hesitated, the insecurity flaring again, but the alcohol nudged you forward, whispering that it was harmless. With a dramatic sigh that hid your nerves, you twisted on the lounger, facing away from him, your back exposed to the sun and his gaze. The position felt intimate…your legs pressing together as you braced your hands on your knees.
The cap snapped open with a sharp pop, and then the cool squirt of lotion hit your skin, making you gasp softly. It was cold against the heat of your body, but Titus's hands followed immediately, large and sure, spreading the sunscreen in firm, circular motions across your upper back. His palms glided smoothly, the slick sound of lotion being worked in filling the air as he kneaded it into your shoulders, thumbs pressing into the knots there with just enough pressure to draw a low, unintended moan from your lips. It slipped out, breathy and surprised, your body betraying you as the tension in your muscles melted under his touch. He paused for a beat, and you could feel the heat of him behind you, his breath ghosting over your neck.
"Professor, it seems you need a massage. You’re so tense," he murmured, voice husky now, the flirtation unmistakable even through the haze of your buzz. His hands slid lower, tracing the line of your spine, fingers splaying wide to cover the curve of your waist. You bit your lip to stifle another sound, but a soft whimper escaped anyway when his thumbs dipped just under the strap, teasing the boundary without crossing it. Your breath hitched, every stroke of his hands igniting nerves you hadn't realized were so alive. The lounger creaked faintly under your shifting weight, your thighs clenching as warmth built between them. You glanced over your shoulder, catching his hazel eyes as his fingers worked lower still, massaging the lotion into the small of your back with deliberate, unhurried pressure.
His hands lingered for just a second too long on the small of your back, the slick warmth of the sunscreen and his touch still seeping into your skin as you both froze at the sound of the door sliding open again. Ursula stepped back onto the patio, and you and Titus both straightened instinctively, the moment between you snapping closed. Your heart was still racing from the intimacy of his fingers on your skin. Ursula peeled off her sunglasses, hooking them on the neckline of the tank top she had put on, her sharp green eyes flicking between you and Titus.
She crossed her arms, one hip cocked out. "Just got off the phone with the girls," she announced. "We're hitting this new bar tonight. And you," she pointed a finger right at you, "you're coming. No excuses."
You blinked, the haze of the sunscreen application and the lingering buzz from the drinks making your protest sluggish. "Wait, no, I can't—"
She cut you off with a wave of her hand, rolling her eyes dramatically. "Oh, please. You've been holed up teaching that online class, grading shit, or doing research this entire time. It's summer, for fuck's sake. All you're doing is working your ass off on that laptop like some hermit. You need to go out, have fun. Maybe get laid?" Her lips curled into a wicked grin. "When's the last time you felt the weight of a man on top of you, huh? Don't tell me it's been so long that you've forgotten."
Heat flooded your face, burning hotter than the sun. You ducked your head, mortified, the words hitting too close to home because it had been a while. Longer than you'd admit to anyone, let alone in front of Titus. Your thighs pressed together instinctively, the earlier tension with him now twisted into something awkward and exposed.
"Ursula," Titus interjected, his voice a low growl. He shifted on the lounger, his broad shoulders tensing, jaw clenching as he shot her a sidelong glare, one hand flexing against his thigh like he was holding back from saying more. She ignored him and grabbed your arm before you could sink further into the cushions.
"I don't even have any going-out clothes," you stammered.
"Oh, relax, you own a credit card. You’ll buy something. Come on, let's go. I need to fix your face, and that’s going to be a whole… process with you." She tugged you up with surprising strength, her fingers wrapping around your wrist, pulling you to your feet.
The lounger springs groaned in protest as Titus stood too, his lips pressed into a thin line, arms crossing over his chest in that brooding way that screamed jealousy without a word. His eyes followed, a muscle ticking in his jaw as Ursula hauled you toward the door.
As she dragged you inside, the cool air of the house hit your skin. Ursula was already rifling through her phone, muttering under her breath.
"Shit," she said suddenly, stopping in the middle of the foyer. "I need to call the pilot so he can get here with the PJ."
"What?" you screamed, stumbling after her, the patio door sliding shut behind you with a definitive thud.
"Yeah, we're going to Nantucket tonight."
Titus didn’t expect to still be awake at 1 in the morning, but there he was, lying in the dark with his phone lighting up the room. He wasn’t even doing anything productive…just scrolling, trying to tire out his brain. Then his screen lit up with a message from Ursula.
He opened it, and she’d sent him a few photos taken at some party from a discreet angle. The first photo showed a woman in a gold dress seated between two men, her hand resting boldly on one of their knees. The next photo was of her in the center of the frame with a man they did business with, a very married man, sitting on a velvet couch draped across his lap. They were kissing, her hand curled around the back of his neck, his wedding ring catching the light.
Classic Ursula. She probably snapped it for future leverage. But Titus barely seemed to notice any of that. Because you were in the picture too, standing off to the side, holding a cocktail in one hand. The Capri crystal‑embellished beaded tulle mini dress you wore caught the light, scattering it in tiny reflections across the frame. The dress looked delicate and intricate, and unmistakably out of your price range.
Titus knew his sister well enough to recognize her handiwork immediately. Ursula had definitely used her credit card to buy you that dress. Probably without asking you first. Then he noticed the jewelry…the earrings and the necklace. Both distinctive pieces he’d seen before in Ursula’s collection. Titus stared at the screen longer than he intended, his thumb hovering over the phone but not moving. The glow of the screen was sharp against the dark room, holding him in place as he absorbed the image.
You were fucking gorgeous. He locked his phone and lay back in the dark, staring at the ceiling. Titus's mind raced, the darkness of the room closing in like a vice.
What if someone tried to fuck you tonight?
The thought hit him like a punch to the gut, twisting his insides with a rage that made him want to smash the phone. He sat up abruptly, the sheets tangling around his legs, his breath coming in sharp bursts. You deserved better than these sleazy bastards. He unlocked his phone again, zooming in on the photo of you standing there in that dress Ursula had shoved on you, the beads shimmering like they were mocking him. You were probably surrounded by drooling men and their wandering hands. Were you getting groped by some hedge fund asshole?
Titus's fists balled up, knuckles whitening. He could picture it too vividly…the way these men were probably stripping you bare in their minds. You were his (whether you knew it or not), he seethed internally, the obsession coiling tighter in his chest. It made his blood boil because these men didn't deserve to even breathe the same air as you. He wanted to shield you from it all, wrap you in his arms, and lock the world out. No more parties, no more dresses that hugged your curves like an invitation. Just him… keeping you safe, and only his hands would be the ones allowed to trace your skin, to feel the heat of you against him.
The jealousy surged, a dark wave crashing over him. What if some fucker approached you? What if he pulled you onto his lap, his fingers digging into your thigh, and whispered bullshit promises into your ear to get you into bed? Titus growled low in his throat, the sound echoing in the empty room. He'd kill for you. Snap any man’s neck without a second thought, and watch the life drain from their eyes for even just thinking about touching you.
Titus spent the entire next morning trying to bury himself in work. He had a meeting scheduled with the family accountant, a sizable stack of documents waiting for his signature, and a long list of financial decisions that demanded his full attention. Normally, he could easily compartmentalize and push everything else aside, but today was different. Today, his mind refused to stay focused.
Every time he attempted to concentrate, his thoughts drifted back to you. And finally, to the unsettling fact that neither you nor Ursula had come home last night. He kept telling himself it didn’t matter (complete lie), that he didn’t care (even bigger lie), and that he had more important things to think about (another lie). But none of those reassurances helped.
By the time he finally returned home in the afternoon, he felt drained and stepped inside, loosening his tie, and shut the door behind him.
The sound echoed through the foyer.
"Too loud," you groaned from the staircase.
He looked up sharply, and there you were, on the staircase wearing a faded concert tee and sweatpants. You were moving slowly, one hand gripping the railing tightly, the other pressed to your forehead. You looked up, squinting as if the light was personally attacking you. "I’m hungover."
He raised an eyebrow. "I gathered."
"No, like—hungover hungover," you said, dragging yourself up another step. "I honestly can’t remember the last time I drank this much."
"You look like you can’t remember the last time you slept either," he smirked, trying not to smile.
"I didn’t. Ursula dragged me everywhere. I think we went to 3 places? Maybe 4?"
"That would explain the state you’re in," Titus replied, leaning casually against the banister.
You groaned again and buried your face in your hands. "I’m never drinking again."
"You say that now."
"I mean it. I’m too old for this shit," you insisted. With a defeated huff, you turned and resumed your slow climb up the stairs. "I’m going to bed. If Ursula asks, I died. She dropped me off; she had to handle some business in town."
"I’ll pass along the message," Titus said, watching you go, one hand gripping the railing like it was the only thing keeping you upright. You missed a step, caught yourself, muttered something under your breath.
He pushed off the banister with a quiet sigh. "Alright. Come on."
"What?" You blinked down at him.
"You’re going to fall on your face at this rate," he said, already moving up the steps. "I’m making sure you get to the east wing without breaking something."
You opened your mouth to argue, but the argument died somewhere between your headache and your dry throat. "Fine," you muttered.
He walked beside you, matching your sluggish pace as you dragged yourself down the long hallway. Despite your state (hair a tangled mess, makeup smudged, and your eyes dull), you still looked remarkably beautiful, even in your disheveled, exhausted condition. Titus couldn’t help but notice how your features, though marred by fatigue, still held a kind of effortless grace, the kind that seemed to glow even through the haze of suffering. The contrast struck him…that you looked perfect, even while you looked utterly miserable.
When you finally reached your room, you made a beeline for the bed, already half-collapsing onto the mattress with a heavy sigh, your body sagging with exhaustion.
"No," Titus said firmly from the doorway.
You groaned into the comforter. "Why?"
"The best hangover remedy isn’t just passing out in yesterday’s makeup."
You lifted your head an inch, squinting at him through bleary eyes. "Then what is it, oh wise one?"
"A bath," Titus said simply, gesturing toward the bathroom with a subtle nod.
"A what?"
He repeated, more deliberately this time, "A bath. It’ll help relax your muscles and clear your head. Then you take a nice long nap. Trust me."
"I don’t have the energy for a bath."
"That’s why I’ll run the water. You just need to get in it afterwards."
You pushed yourself upright with a dramatic groan, feeling the weight of your body protesting every movement. "I hate everything," you muttered, voice muffled against the pillow.
From the bathroom, the familiar noises of the faucet turning on and the soothing flow of water filling the tub reached your ears. This wasn’t an ordinary bathroom…it felt more like a personal spa. Heated floors warmed your feet, soft recessed lights cast a calming glow, and a rainfall shower spanned almost an entire room. At the heart of it all stood the tub: a deep, sculptural soaking pool carved from a single slab of smooth, creamy stone, which was large enough to swim laps in if you dared.
Titus took his time, adjusted the lighting first, dimming the overheads and switching on the warm sconces along the wall until the room felt calm, almost serene. He played around with the temperature meticulously, testing the water with his hand to find that perfect, comforting warmth. He was thorough, ensuring every detail was just right. When he was satisfied, he reached for a glass jar of Epsom salts on the shelf and sprinkled a generous handful into the water. The crystals dissolved instantly, releasing a clean, soothing scent. He added a few drops of premium lavender essential oil, allowing its soothing aroma to drift effortlessly through the air. Next, he retrieved a plush, hotel-grade towel from the warming rack and draped it neatly over the edge of the tub. Finally, he carefully folded a soft washcloth placing it gently nearby.
Finally, he stepped back, satisfied. "Alright. It’s ready," he called out. You shuffled toward the doorway, pausing briefly beside him.
"You didn’t have to do that," you mumbled, voice rough and your eyeliner smudged. "I can’t believe you even know how to make a bath, honestly."
He gave you a flat look. "I’m capable of basic human tasks."
"Are you… being nice to me?" you teased.
"Don’t get used to it."
You giggled, immediately regretting the effort, and pressed a hand to your forehead. "Ugh. My brain hurts."
"Then go sit in the bath," he said, stepping aside so you could pass. "And drink water. A lot of it. I’ll have Paula bring you some."
You nodded, slow and pitiful, and Titus lingered just long enough to make sure you didn’t trip over the bathmat before he turned to leave.
"Um—" you started, and he paused, his hand still on the doorframe. You were standing there, shoulders pulled up tight, fingers twisting nervously in the hem of your shirt.
"Do you… want to eat dinner together tonight?"
Titus kept his voice even, trying not to let any of his curiosity show. "Sure. What do you want me to ask the chef to make?"
You shook your head immediately, almost as if you couldn’t help it. "No, let’s go out tonight. You took a deep breath and then added, "I’m craving this burger I used to get in Providence."
"Alright," he smirked. "We can do that."
"Okay. Cool. Great." you said, sounding a bit more at ease.
Titus exited the doorway, gently closing it behind him with a quiet click. He began walking down the corridor, making his way directly to his office. As he reached the end of the hallway, he suddenly became aware that he was smiling. Or at least his version of smiling.
Later, after your nap, you found him downstairs with the driver, keys in hand, ready to drive off. You led him to the burger place, which was a tiny, questionable spot squeezed between a laundromat and a pawn shop. It was the kind of place he’d never set foot in on his own. As soon as he stepped inside, Titus knew exactly what he was in for with the grease-stained menus, flickering neon lights, and a fryer that sounded like it was struggling to stay alive.
You ordered with enthusiasm, and he ordered simply because you were ordering. When the food arrived, you took a bite and sighed like it was the best thing you’d ever tasted.
He took a bite too, and his face scrunched up in displeasure. It was… fucking awful. You burst out laughing at his reaction, and it was the kind of unrestrained laughter he had never heard from you. Titus forced himself to take another bite. Not because he liked it, and not because he wanted to.
But because… he honestly would’ve eaten horse shit if it meant hearing you laugh like that again.
The next week, you found yourself at the Newport Country Club, a place that felt both familiar and suddenly new. Chester used to bring you here when you were in college. He’d parade you around the club, introduce you to people with firm handshakes, all while you stood there pretending you understood the rules of a world that wasn’t built for you.
You were in the women’s locker room, washing your hands slowly as your eyes lingered on your reflection in the mirror. The golf outfit you had bought…something you had sworn you wouldn’t splurge on, actually looked pretty good on you. Yet, despite that, you couldn’t help but tug at the hem of your shirt and adjust your skirt nervously, your frown deepening as you studied your own face.
When Titus found out that you’d never really learned how to play golf, he had offered to teach you on the estate. Before you knew it, you’d said yes, impulsively, without really thinking it through. Since then, you’d had a few lessons, and truthfully, you were terrible at it. Titus never outright said it, but you could see it in his expressions, in the way he subtly guided you through each swing.
You vividly recalled that first time clutching the club awkwardly in your hands at the Danforth estate. Your stance was all wrong, with your feet too close together, hips slightly twisted, throwing off your balance. When you swung, the ball barely moved, trickling forward to a pitiful stop just a few feet away. You bit your lip, warmth flooding your cheeks with embarrassment, fingers tightening around the grip as if that could somehow make up for the miss. Titus stood a few paces behind you, adding a dense, almost suffocating weight to the air.
"Easy there," he drawled, stepping closer with a teasing smile, his voice smooth as he circled around you slowly. You couldn’t help but notice how broad his shoulders looked under that fitted polo, the fabric stretched tight across his muscles. Without a word, he moved behind you, aligning his body with yours in a way that sent a shiver down your spine despite the warm day. His large hand covered yours on the grip, firm and guiding. He adjusted your hold, pressing his fingers into the backs of your knuckles, then shifted one hand to your elbow, nudging it straighter, while his other palm settled against your hip, giving it a gentle, guiding push. The touch felt instructional on the surface, but beneath it was an undercurrent of some sort. His skin's heat seeping through your thin shirt, his breath brushing your ear as he murmured corrections.
"Loosen up a bit, yeah? You're gripping it too tight, like it's going to bite back."
You nodded silently, acutely aware of how his chest nearly grazed your back. You swung again, this time with more power, and the ball sailed farther. It wasn’t perfect, but it was better.
After the shot, he lingered, his hand lightly trailing down your arm in approval before stepping back. "Not bad. Good girl."
The words slipped out casually, like they meant nothing, but they sparked a flutter deep in your belly. You clenched involuntarily, a secret throb stirring between your thighs, making your breath hitch. Deep down, you realized how much you liked it. How the praise was wrapped in his calm authority, how it made you feel seen and craving more. Your eyes widened slightly, lips parting in a soft exhale, and you hoped he wouldn’t notice. But your body’s warm, tingling response betrayed you.
As the lessons continued, you began to notice it more… how you’d hesitate just slightly on some swings, deliberately letting your form slip so his hands would return, correcting you with that same touch you’d started to crave. One afternoon, you 'missed' a straight shot on purpose, the ball veering off wildly. You turned your head, feigning apology with a sheepish smile, brows furrowed in mock frustration, but inside, anticipation coiled tight. Titus sighed, and you couldn’t tell if it was at your obvious sabotage. He sauntered over, smirking with that confident curl of his lips. His tall frame loomed as he gripped your waist from behind, fingers wide across your sides to realign you.
"That was sloppy. I know you can do better than that." His touch was firm, guiding your hips with a gentle roll that pressed him against you, and you felt every inch of his strength. His strong thigh muscles bracketed yours as his arms wrapped around you to demonstrate the swing, pulling you through the motion as if you were an extension of himself.
It was intoxicating, the way he handled you. When the ball finally connected properly, arcing cleanly across the green, he released you slowly, his hand brushing your lower back in a lingering pat.
"There you go. Good girl."
Today, he had a meeting scheduled with a business colleague at the club. You’d asked if you could come along, to practice more, but… that was a lie. It was really because you wanted to spend more time with him. As you continued to stare at your reflection in the mirror, you tried to make sense of it all. How had this man become the person you wanted to be around? The person you had become strangely aware of, suddenly conscious of every glance, every word, every faint smile he threw your way?
Titus embodied everything you’d spent years dismissing with his old-money elegance and the kind of generational wealth that was fucking disgusting. He represented privilege without self-awareness and was part of a system built to protect those already protected.
You thought about the online class you’d taught yesterday, and you delivered a lecture on economic power and moral responsibility, which was the kind of topic you loved because it let you challenge your students to think critically about the systems they lived in. You’d talked about how wealth shapes behavior, how privilege can warp a person’s sense of what’s normal, how easy it is for comfort to masquerade as ethics. At one point, you’d even said:
"The more money someone has, the easier it becomes to mistake convenience for virtue."
And the whole time, you were sitting in a house that probably cost 30 million dollars, drinking coffee you didn’t make, and wearing clothes the maid had steamed and laid out for you that morning.
The irony wasn’t lost on you. You felt like a fucking fraud.
You’d closed your laptop afterward and just sat there, staring at the carved molding on the ceiling, wondering when exactly your life had drifted so far from the version you recognized. You remembered how you and your mother used to argue over this—she never understood why you were so disillusioned with this life.
"I took this job to give you opportunities I could only have dreamed of!" she always said. After Kip's wedding, you begged her to quit, but she refused. As a result, you two didn't speak for nearly a year. During that time, you moved to the UK, and when she finally visited you at Cambridge, you both chose not to bring up the Danforth’s.
You stepped out of the bathroom, breath steadying as you made your way back toward the terrace. The club was buzzing with the low hum of weekend brunch: clinking cutlery, soft laughter, the occasional burst of applause from a table celebrating something.
Titus spotted you before you reached the table, and he shifted in his seat, making space for you beside him. Titus and his colleague were mid‑conversation, something about an acquisition, but he paused long enough to stand up and pull out your chair. You sat, smoothing your skirt, and thanked him.
You swallowed when his gaze lingered on you, a smirk flickering on the end of his lips. You just sat there, hands folded in your lap, trying to look composed while the waitress returned with water. His colleague who was probably a man in his late fifties with a sun‑leathered face and a navy blazer, reached into his jacket and pulled out a cigar.
He held it up slightly. "Mind if I smoke?"
"I don’t mind," you shook your head.
He had been perfectly pleasant to you so far…overly polite, even. But you weren’t naïve. You knew exactly why. His son was 'considering business school,' as he had put it, and while that wasn’t your department, he perked up the moment he realized you were on a first‑name basis with the dean at Harvard Business School. You had taught a seminar there last year. Just a guest course on organizational ethics. Suddenly, you were "Doctor" and "Professor," suddenly your insights were "fascinating," though you could practically see the strategic calculations behind his eyes.
He wasn’t being nice to you. He was being nice to the access he thought you represented.
"I mind," Titus said.
You turned toward him, confused. That didn’t track. You knew Titus enjoyed them because you’d seen him multiple times at the house, leaning back with a cigar in hand, smoke curling into the night like it was part of his bloodstream. So hearing him object now made no sense.
"She’s just being polite," he added. "She hates the smell." You stared at him, caught off guard because you did hate the smell, but you didn’t realize he cared. "And besides," Titus went on, "we need to go. I promised her we’d actually golf today, and I’ve spent this entire meal listening to you outline a truly terrible plan for how we acquire this company."
His colleague froze, the cigar halfway to his mouth. Titus stood, smoothing his jacket with a practiced flick of his wrist. "I expect to hear something better by tomorrow morning. I want something in my inbox by 6 am."
"Of course, Mr. Danforth," the man said quickly, his voice tight with nerves. He turned to you with a strained smile. "It was a pleasure to meet you, Professor."
"You as well," you replied, keeping your tone polite as Titus stepped behind you and placed a hand at the small of your back as he guided you away from the table and toward the waiting golf caddy.
"I know you have to work," you said once you were far enough from the table, your voice low so only he could hear. "You can keep talking to him if you need to."
"I’m probably going to fire him. He’s incompetent. I don’t know why Father has held on to him for so long."
Before you could respond, the golf caddy rolled up beside you, cheerful and oblivious. "Mr. Danforth, I can take you both out to the course now."
"We won’t be needing that."
The caddy hesitated. "Sir?"
"I’ll drive," Titus said, already steering you toward the row of private carts, his hand still at the small of your back.
The caddy blinked, thrown off. "Are you sure, sir?"
"I’m sure," Titus replied, the words sliced clean and precise. You felt a pang of sympathy for the caddy. He couldn’t have been more than 20, probably home from college for the summer, just trying to make some extra money.
Titus nodded toward the back of the cart. "Put our clubs in."
The caddy scrambled to do it, fumbling only once before securing them properly. He stepped back quickly, as if afraid to take up too much space. Once the clubs were in place, Titus climbed into one of the private carts and waited for you to join him. You climbed in beside him, still trying to catch up to the shift in his mood. He started the cart with one hand, the other resting casually on the wheel as he pulled away from the terrace. Before he turned onto the path, he reached into his pocket, pulled out a folded bill, and handed it to the caddy with a brief nod.
The kid’s eyes widened slightly, relief washing over his face as he murmured, "Thank you, sir."
Instead of heading toward the main course, he took a narrow path that dipped behind a line of old oaks, which was a route you hadn’t noticed before, one that clearly wasn’t meant for guests. The further he drove, the quieter it became.
You glanced at him. "Where are we going?"
He didn’t look at you, but the corner of his mouth lifted, just slightly.
"Somewhere we won’t be interrupted."
And he kept driving, deeper into the most private part of the grounds. The golf cart hummed softly as Titus navigated the narrow path, the old oaks towering overhead like silent guardians, their branches weaving a canopy that filtered the sunlight into dappled patterns on the ground. The air grew thicker with the scent of freshly cut grass and earth, the distant sounds of the main course fading until it was just the two of you, isolated in this hidden corner of the grounds. Finally, he eased the cart to a stop behind a thick cluster of trees, the engine cutting off with a quiet whine, leaving only the rustle of leaves in the breeze.
Titus turned to you then, his hazel eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made your breath catch. The way the light hit them turned the green flecks into something almost predatory, but there was a vulnerability there too, something raw beneath the surface.
"You know… I'm not only firing him because he's incompetent," he said, his voice low and edged with something darker than anger.
"What do you mean?" you murmured, tilting your head, confusion knitting your brows.
He leaned closer, those eyes narrowing slightly, his gaze dropping for a split second before snapping back to your face. "He stared at your ass when you got up to go to the bathroom."
The words hung in the air, heavy and possessive. Your stomach flipped, and a rush of heat flooded through you as you processed what he said.
"I didn't fucking like it," he growled.
"You didn't?" you whispered, your voice barely audible.
"I didn't," he echoed, and you knew then, in that charged silence, that the weeks of buildup had led you here. There was no more dancing around it. His hand reached for your face, fingers gentle as they cupped your cheek, thumb tracing the line of your jaw.
"Titus," you breathed, his name a soft plea, and your lips parting as you leaned into his touch.
The kiss started slowly, and it was surprisingly tender. His mouth met yours with a careful pressure, lips soft and exploring, like he was savoring the taste of you for the first time. You melted into it, your eyes fluttering shut, a quiet sigh escaping as his tongue brushed yours lightly, coaxing rather than demanding. His free hand settled on your waist, pulling you closer across the seat, his breath mingling with yours in the confined space of the cart. But he didn't stop there; his lips trailed from your mouth, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses along your jaw, down to the sensitive skin of your neck. His tongue flicked out, licking a slow, deliberate path up the column of your throat, tasting the faint sheen of sweat that had gathered from the day. You shivered, a soft moan bubbling up as he sucked gently at the spot just below your ear, his teeth grazing enough to send sparks straight to your core.
"Titus," you gasped again, but it dissolved into a whimper when he captured your mouth once more. You fisted in his shirt, pulling him impossibly closer, and he growled low in his throat, the tenderness fracturing into feral hunger. He could feel your pulse racing against his tongue, and it was driving him insane. No one was ever going to look at you like that again, not while he was breathing. You were his to protect, his to ruin.
Suddenly, his kiss deepened further, teeth nipping at your lower lip as he angled his head to claim more. Your hands fisted tighter in his shirt, and he responded by hauling you over the console and into his lap in one fluid motion. You straddled him, knees bracketing his hips on the narrow seat, the golf cart rocking slightly under your weight. The seclusion of the oaks made it feel illicit, exposed even in privacy, but that only fueled the fire. His hand slid under your shirt, calloused palm skimming up your side until he cupped one breast, thumb circling your nipple through the lace of your bra. You arched into his touch, a sharp gasp breaking the kiss as he pinched lightly, rolling the hardened peak between his fingers.
"Fuck, you're so beautiful like this," he murmured against your mouth, his voice husky with praise, hazel eyes dark and dilated as he pulled back just enough to watch you. His hands gripped your hips, guiding you down onto his thigh, the hard muscle pressing up against your core through your panties underneath your skirt. You gasped, the friction immediate and electric as you rocked forward instinctively, grinding against him.
"That's it, baby." He squeezed your breast harder, kneading the soft flesh as his mouth found your neck again, tongue lapping at the sweat trickling down, sucking marks into your skin. A whimper slipped from your lips, your face feeling hot, brows furrowing in pleasure as you moved again, the seam of his pants rubbing right where you needed it. His expression was intense—lips parted, jaw clenched, those eyes of his fixed on your face like he was memorizing every twitch.
"Look at you, so eager for me. My perfect girl." He thrust up slightly, meeting your rhythm, and you moaned louder, the sound echoing softly in the quiet grove. Your hands braced on his shoulders, nails digging in as you picked up the pace, fucking his thigh with desperate rolls of your hips, the pressure building fast and filthy.
"God, Titus," you panted, your eyes squeezing shut, mouth open in a silent cry as waves of heat coiled tight in your belly. He praised you through it, words spilling out in a gravelly stream.
"You're doing so well, sweetheart. Making such pretty sounds for me. Come on, let me feel you come." His grip tightened on your hip, the other still mauling your breast, pinching the nipple until it ached deliciously. You rode him harder, thigh muscles flexing under you, the cart creaking with each grind, your mouths crashing together again in a sloppy, tongue-heavy kiss that left strings of saliva between you when you broke apart. Sweat dripped down your back, and suddenly your orgasm hit—sharp and shattering. You cried out his name. Your body shuddered, face contorting in bliss, lips pressed together in a gasp as you clenched around nothing. He felt you tremble in his hold, your wetness soaking through to his pants.
"Good girl," He praised, but he didn't let you come down fully. Before the aftershocks faded, he was shifting you, strong hands shoving your skirt up around your waist.
"Need to taste you," he growled, eyes wild now, feral edge sharpening his features
"Oh, fuck," you moaned, completed turned on. He yanked your panties off, and saw your cunt…bare, glistening, and swollen from the friction.
"Jesus, look at this pretty pussy." You were drenched, begging for his mouth. He could smell you, musky and sweet, and it took everything not to rip his pants open. But first, he needed to bury his face in your cunt, and make you scream his name until you forgot every word in the English language.
"Please. Please please please," you babbled, watching his eyes locked on your cunt.
"You've been aching for this, haven't you?" His words hit like a spark, making you clench visibly, and more of your arousal leaked out.
"Yes, fuck, I need it," you begged. He maneuvered you out of the cart with urgent hands, lifting you effortlessly and setting you on the back chair, the metal warm from the sun. The grass crunched under his knees as he dropped down, pulling your legs up to drape over his broad shoulders, spreading you wide.
"So fucking wet for me already, dripping down your thighs. Have you ever been this wet before?"
"No…" You whined. “I only—only g-get this wet for y-you," you choked out. And it was the truth, because you had never been this wet after an orgasm. It was probably because you had this powerful man on his knees for you. Powerful Titus, reduced to this, pleading for you to fuck his face publicly in broad daylight amid the course's open sprawl.
"It’s for you, Titus."
"Fuck." The word left his lips as a gravelly exhale, more a prayer than a curse. The sight of your slick arousal and the scent of it had been one thing, but now your trembling admission? It ignited something primal and absolute in him.
Everything felt raw and desperate. The oaks loomed close, leaves whispering like they could see you, and you felt so exposed. His mouth descended on your pussy like a man starved, tongue flat and broad as he licked up your slick folds in one long, filthy stroke. You yelped, hands flying to his salt and pepper hair, the sensation overwhelming—wet, hot, and unrelenting. He devoured you, sucking your clit between his lips with a hungry groan, nose bumping against you as he buried his face deeper. His chin was glistening with your arousal, and his stubble was scraping your inner thighs raw.
"Taste so good," he rasped between laps, the words vibrating against your skin. It was desperate, the way he ate you out. His tongue thrusting inside, then circling your entrance, lips smacking obscenely as he lapped at your arousal like it was his lifeline. He added two fingers, thick and rough, pumping in and out while his mouth focused on your clit, sucking and flicking until your thighs quivered around his head.
"Fu-uck," you whined, face twisting in ecstasy and embarrassment, moans turning into breathy sobs.
"Feel good?" he growled against your folds, voice muffled and ragged, breath panting hot across your skin.
"Yes," you panted. Oh God, yes, Titus, p-please don’t stop." You glanced down, chest heaving, and caught him...his free hand palming his cock through his pants, squeezing the thick bulge with a frustrated grunt. His gorgeous eyes flicked up to meet yours with raw desperation mid-lick, and his fingers crooked ruthlessly against that spot inside of you.
The thought that he was the one unraveling you, the one capable of drawing these shattered, beautiful sounds from your throat, filled him with a savage possessive pride.
"That's it," he grunted, the vibration a direct assault on your senses. His mind was a single, focused point of heat and need. The taste of you, the desperate sounds you were making, he could feel your climax building. "Come for me. Let me have it."
The sight of him, so hard and straining, touching himself while he feasted on you… it was too much. Your thighs clamped tight around his head, your pussy pulsing wildly as your orgasm broke. You arched off the seat, a keening whine tearing from your throat, as your eyes rolled back in your head. He didn't stop, tongue and fingers working you through it, drawing out every pulse until you were limp and gasping, utterly spent in the hidden heart of the grounds.
Titus rose from between your thighs after your recovery, his own breathing ragged and uneven. The raw hunger in his eyes hadn't dimmed; in fact, it had only intensified. He remained silent, leaning in instead to capture your lips in a deep, claiming kiss that tasted of both you and his own desperate need. Your hands moved to his waist, fingers fumbling with the buckle of his belt, the metallic clink echoing sharply in the quiet. Suddenly, your phone blared from the golf cart; the sound was like a tiny, digital guillotine, slicing through the moment. The spell shattered, and you froze, his fiery gaze flickering with desperate heat while yours was replaced by a dazed confusion.
You felt the panic building inside of you, a knot tightening in your chest. The gravity of what you had done was beginning to sink in. Thinking about it was one thing, but actually getting involved with a man that you were half convinced was the heir of some satanic cult was another thing.
Fuck.
You practically sprinted back to your room the moment the driver dropped you off. The second the bedroom door shut behind you, you went straight for your suitcase, yanking it open and shoving clothes inside without even folding them. Your hands were shaking. You knew this was a mistake…coming back here, letting yourself get pulled into this world again. You should never have given that letter to Chester. Everything had spiraled from that single decision, and now all you wanted was to get out before it got any worse.
"This is your mood after two orgasms?" Titus growled as he burst into your room, the door slamming against the wall hard enough to rattle the frame.
You stopped where you were, hands still on the half‑packed suitcase. The open luggage on the bed suddenly felt incriminating. Titus’s gaze moved from the suitcase to you, slow and deliberate, and the look on his face made your stomach drop.
"Where are you going?"
You swallowed hard. "What happened earlier was a mistake."
"A mistake," he repeated, like he was tasting the word and finding it ridiculous. He took another step, closing the distance. "Let me get this straight. You, spread out and screaming my name where anyone could have seen... that was a mistake?"
"Stop it," you whispered, your cheeks burning. You folded a blouse with trembling hands, shoving it into the suitcase.
He didn't stop. He took another step, crowding you against the bed. "The way you begged? The little sounds you made right before you fell apart on my thigh? That was a mistake?"
"Titus—"
"What? I shouldn't have tasted you?" he pressed, his gaze boring into the side of your face. "Shouldn't have learned exactly how sweet you get when you come on my tongue?"
"Just stop," you said, firmer now, a plea wrapped in anger. You grabbed a pair of jeans, not even folding them, just balling them up to create a barrier of motion between you. He was right in front of you now, his presence overwhelming. He reached out, not to touch you, but to snap the lid of your suitcase shut with a final, definitive thud.
"You don't get to call the only real thing I've felt in years a fucking 'mistake' and run."
"You can fuck anybody you want, Titus," you snapped, your voice trembling with a fury that was half horror, half a desperate need to push him away. "The entire world is at your feet. Go find another woman to amuse yourself with."
He didn't move back. He loomed, his body a wall of intent. The casual, predatory grace was gone, replaced by a rawness you'd never seen in him before. His eyes, usually so guarded and mocking, were stark, stripped bare.
"I don't want to fuck just anybody," he said, his voice terrifyingly sincere. The words weren't a smooth line; they were torn out of him. "I only want you."
"Well, I don’t want you."
"You’re seriously going to stand here, and look me in the eye, and tell me you don’t want me?"
Before you could form a denial, his hand came up, not harshly, but with a firm, undeniable certainty. His palm was warm against your cheek, his thumb brushing just below your eye. The contact was electric, a direct circuit to the memory of his touch everywhere else. Your eyes, against your will, filled with traitorous tears, blurring his intense, searching gaze.
He saw them. His own expression flickered—something like pain, so he leaned in, his intention clear, his focus dropping to your mouth. But the movement broke the spell.
With a choked sound that was half sob, half cry of protest, you shoved your hands hard against his chest. "Don’t!"
The push wasn’t strong enough to move him far, but it was enough. He stumbled back a single step, more from the shock of the rejection than the force. You stood there, breathing raggedly, the ghost of his touch still burning on your cheek. The tears you’d held back spilled over.
"You know why I can't just... do this with you," you said, your voice barely a thread of sound, breaking under the weight of it.
He didn’t move. His expression didn’t change. He just held your gaze, the storm in his eyes banked to a dangerous, waiting stillness.
"Then fucking say it," he commanded. He needed to hear you speak the reason into existence, to give a name to the thing that was stealing this from him.
"Kip's wedding," you whispered. "For 12 years, I’ve been pretending that maybe I was wrong about what happened. But I wasn’t. It did happen."
The raw confession hung between you… it was like a ghost was given flesh and voice. You saw the exact moment your words landed, and the way his entire body went rigid.
"His wife didn’t just run off with her ex," you went on, voice shaking. "You and I both know that’s not what happened." Your throat burned as the memories pressed in, sharper than you wanted them to be. "My mother told me I imagined it. That I was confused." You shook your head, tears gathering despite your best effort to hold them back.
"But I didn’t imagine it. I know what I saw."
The wedding had been a blur of champagne and forced smiles. Dinner was over, the band packing up. You were pleasantly fuzzy, your mother’s uncharacteristic permissiveness with the wine a surprising delight. You watched from the terrace as the Danforth’s gently guided Kip’s radiant new wife, Celia, away from the straggling guests and toward the looming main house. Their smiles were bright, their hands on her arms firm.
"Time for a family nightcap," you heard Chester boom, ushering everyone else toward their cars. Staff materialized, beginning the swift, silent cleanup. Your mother found you, her own smile tight.
"You've had enough fun, honey. Time for bed." She steered you toward the carriage house, her grip a little too sharp.
You drifted into a fitful, wine-heavy sleep in bed. Then you heard the noises. They jerked you awake. Not the distant thump of music or laughter, but something else. A stifled scream that was cut off too quickly. Your heart slammed against your ribs, the pleasant buzz of alcohol evaporating into pure, cold adrenaline. You slipped from the bed, your feet silent on the cold floor. Peering out the window of the carriage house showed nothing but still, dark gardens. With a trembling hand, you turned the knob and stepped out into the night. The air was cool, smelling of damp earth and night-blooming jasmine—a scent that would forever be tainted. You moved like a ghost, staying close to the shadows of the hedgerow, following the direction from which the terrible sounds had come.
That’s when you saw her. A crumpled splash of white against the dark boxwoods near the old reflecting pool. Celia. Her beautiful lace wedding gown was now torn and saturated with a shocking, wet red darkness that glistened under the sliver of moon. She was trying to crawl, one hand leaving a slick, dragging trail on the dewy grass.
Her head lifted as you approached, her face a mask of blood and dirt. Her eyes, wide with a primal, animal fear, locked onto yours. Her mouth opened, but only a wet, gurgling sound came out at first. She tried again, her voice a shattered, stuttering whisper you had to strain to hear.
"Please... help me."
You dropped to your knees beside her, the damp grass soaking through your nightclothes. The coppery scent of blood filled your nose, thick and nauseating.
"Celia," you whispered, your own voice trembling. "What happened? Who did this to you?" She trembled violently, a bloody hand flailing before it finally clutched at the fabric of your sleeve, her grip surprisingly strong.
"The... the card," she rasped, each word a painful, wet exhalation. "I pulled... the Hide and Seek card." Her eyes were wild, pleading for you to understand something fundamental, something terrible. You stared, uncomprehending… A card?
"I don't understand," you breathed, your gaze darting over her ruined dress, the dark, spreading stains.
A raw, desperate sound escaped her, a mix of a sob and a choke. Her fingers dug into your arm. "They're going to kill me," she managed, her voice rising to a broken scream that was barely more than a harsh, tearing whisper. "This fucking insane family is going to kill me! They're hunting me!"
Before you could react, before you could even process her words, a new sound cut through the night. It was the deliberate crunch of boots on gravel, approaching fast from the direction of the main house. Celia's eyes widened further in pure terror. You hooked your hands under her arms, the slick, warm blood immediately coating your skin.
"Come on, Celia. Up. We have to go." You strained, your muscles burning, managing to haul her partially upright. She was a dead weight, her legs buckling. The bootsteps were almost upon you. You took a staggering step back toward the faint light of the carriage house door, dragging her, your own bare feet slipping on the wet grass. You had just turned, your back to the approaching threat, your entire world narrowed to the twenty feet of safety, when it happened.
There was no warning sound. Just a blinding, white-hot explosion of pain at the base of your skull. It wasn’t like being hit. It was like the night itself had solidified and shattered against you. Your vision flashed pure white, then spiraled into violent, swirling darkness. The last thing you felt was Celia slipping from your grasp. The last thing you heard, fading as if down a long, dark tunnel, was Celia's voice. Not a whisper anymore, but a full-throated, ragged scream of pure agony that was abruptly cut short. Then there was nothing. No sound. No sight. Just a deep, swallowing blackness that pulled you under.
You woke up in your bed in the carriage house. Morning light streamed in, harsh and wrong. Your head was a throbbing universe of pain. Your mother was sitting in a chair beside the bed, calmly dabbing a cool cloth to your forehead.
"You had a nasty fall last night, honey," she said, her voice smooth as glass. "Far too much champagne. You hit your head on the fountain ledge."
"I fell?" you whispered, your voice cracking. "No… I was with Celia. By the pool. She was hurt… Oh my god, where’s Celia?"
You pushed yourself up further, the world tilting.
"What are you talking about?"
"I heard her screaming," you rasped, your throat dry and raw. "Mom. I saw her. I found her. Outside. On the ground."
Your mother’s hand stilled on your forehead. She sighed, a sound of profound disappointment.
"Oh, honey," she murmured. "What you likely heard was their horrible fight. It was terribly embarrassing. It seems the new bride was... not so great. Kip discovered she was still sleeping with her ex."
"What?"
She leaned closer, the scent of her perfume (usually so comforting) was now cloying and suffocating. "You couldn’t have seen her because she left last night. Celia ran off in the middle of the night."
"But—I saw her. She was... her dress was torn. There was so much blood—"
"You must of imagined things when you hit your head. The mind plays tricks, especially when it's confused and full of champagne."
"Mom—"
Her gaze was unwavering, a steel trap snapping shut. "You. Are. Confused."
You wrapped up the story with Titus, your voice barely steady.
"Somebody knocked me out," you said quietly. "And whoever did… also killed Celia. So…if you respect me at all… you’ll confirm that what I remember is real." Titus didn’t answer right away. His jaw flexed once, a small, controlled movement that told you he was choosing his words carefully.
"I know our family is different," he finally said.
"Different," you replied sarcastically.
"We have our own ways of handling problems. Some would call it barbaric. Others," he gave a slight, chilling shrug, "would call it interesting."
"Stop talking in riddles, Titus. Please," you begged, stepping toward him. "Just say what you mean."
"If I say it plainly, you won’t like the answer."
"I already don’t like any of this," you said, your voice cracking. "I just need the truth."
He exhaled slowly, the kind of breath that sounded like it had been trapped in his chest for years. "You’re not wrong…about that night. About what you heard. About what you saw."
Your heart lurched.
"But," he added, "you’re asking me to confirm something that will change everything for you. And once I do… you don’t get to go back to pretending."
You stared at him, pulse pounding.
"Titus," you whispered, "I stopped pretending a long time ago."
"In the interest of fairness," he said, his voice conversational, as if discussing the weather, "Celia really was fucking her ex. Kip was livid. But yes. My aunt Eleanor killed Celia. Put a crossbow bolt right through her chest. Clean shot."
He said it. He just said it. Like you hadn’t spent years in therapy over that night, thinking that you were fucking crazy. He looked at you, his head tilting slightly, an expression of almost academic curiosity on his face. "But it wasn’t my aunt who knocked you out that night," Titus continued, his voice dropping to a low tone that was somehow more terrifying than his previous casualness. "Aunt Eleanor was busy… retrieving her bolt. Making sure the job was done." He leaned forward, his eyes locking onto yours with an unnerving intensity.
"The person who came up behind you, who swung that heavy stone garden ornament with just enough force to put you down but not kill you… that was your mother."
Masterlist | PART 1 | You're reading PART 2 | PART 3 | FINAL PART
And just like that… I lied, and this is going to be more than 2 parts… Guess I need to create a masterlist for this. And yes, before anyone panics…even if Titus Danforth is a murder daddy, this story will have them end up together. Again, I’m a softie, even when it is for a fucking unhinged man… so they will have their twisted HEA 🖤
Readers going out outfit: CLIO PEPPIATT Capri crystal-embellished beaded tulle mini dress | NET-A-PORTER
