#titus danforth x reader

[atleastimprettyugly]

Shawn Hatosy x Quinn

[buckys-lover]

P!LINKS | SHAWN HATOSY CHARACTERS <333

JACK ABBOT

med student!jack de-stressing after a rough shift

it’s 3am and jack is working, but you’re ovulating and can’t let this opportunity pass by

he may be old, but he can still put in the work

there are advantages to jack working nights, it means you can have mornings like this

he loves the way you squeeze and cum around his fingers

bonus!: you can be such a pain in their ass, so robby and abbot decide to do something about it

POPE CODY

he’s just a little sensitive…

pope loves it when you play with him

his favorite place to be is in between your thighs

tattoo artist!pope who just can’t resist your weeping pussy

after baz said pope would never have a child, you’re on a mission to prove him wrong

what can he say, he’s curious

SAMMY BRYANT

sammy is tired of all the guys teasing, he’s gonna get his precious housewife pregnant no matter what

DA won’t prosecute, perp got away, and sammy needs to take out his frustration on you

sammy shows you what can happen when you don’t lock your windows OR (see titus)

you’re giving attitude about living in castaic, sammy puts you in your place

he’s your husband, he shouldn’t be wearing a condom anyways

while on solo patrol, sammy finds you looking so lonely, he can fix that

BRETT RICHARDS

It’s tough being chief, all he wants to do is come home and sink into you

he loves the way you look so helpless under him, he can’t help but cum inside

he works hard and works up quite the appetite

CHARLIE REID

this is what you get for running, now he has to teach you a lesson

you wanna be brat? know your place

he knows you’re not on birth control, he cums inside anyways

why should he pull out?

TITUS DANFORTH

you’re too precious to kill, no, titus needs to breed you instead, he needs an heir after all

for all the fight you put up, you sure are greedy for him cum

a sweet girl like you living all by yourself? well he just had to stop by and make sure you’re well cared for OR (see sammy)

sometimes, he just wants to be your good boy

I genuinely cannot stop thinking about this old man

and mini self promo of my abbot smuts: ache & drool

nsfw masterlist

[rr-after-dark]

Mrs. Danforth - Titus Danforth x Reader

Chapter One: A Well-Trained Companion

 As Titus Danforth's sugar baby, you don't know much of his secretive, wealthy lifestyle. But when he accidentally gets you pregnant with a potential Danforth heir, it's decided that you'll be joining the family. There's no manual as you're plunged into their world of extravagance and violence.

Chapter Summary: After finding out you're pregnant with his child, Titus must secure his family's approval in order to make you a unique proposal: Become the new Mrs. Danforth.

Tags/Notes: marriage before romance, established sugar relationship, also ft. ursula and daddy danforth, meeting the family, possessiveness & protectiveness, obscene wealth, predator/prey dynamic, brat!reader, piv, mating press, creampie, oral (f receiving), messy sex, edging, denial, spitting, mouth covering, titus lowkey whipped already

Content: pregnant reader, canon-typical content, a brief instance of body shaming

A/N: since I already posted most of what was initially chapter one as a teaser during my 3k celebration, i decided to be silly and give you a mega chapter one instead!

Word Count: 14.1k

Ursula Danforth slaps one perfectly manicured hand across her twin brother’s cheek. He doesn’t even flinch; he’d been expecting worse. “You’re so selfish. Stupid and useless like a child. Knocking up a sugar baby, of all things.”

Father paces across the large sitting room with a clenched jaw. Eventually, he stops in front of his son. “How dare you do this to us? Right before the most important hunt of this family’s life, too. I can’t believe you’d be so irresponsible.”

Ursula sneers, “I believe it. This is what happens when a spoiled brat grows up. Poor baby Titus always has to have everything exactly how he wants. Probably never bothered with condoms because ‘it just doesn’t feel as good, sweetheart.’”

“Don’t be so crass, Ursula,” Father spits in her direction before returning to his son. “I assume you’ve communicated that abortion isn’t an option.”

“Of course,” Titus replies, keeping it curt to avoid a verbal lashing. Or a physical one, given the tension thick in the opulent room full of blades and guns. Father demanded the conversation be moved to the innermost room of the estate when Titus told them in front of a few members of staff. This sort of thing is best discussed in private, even with the most discreet staff money can buy.

The abortion discussion had gone better than expected, considering you told him you’d be keeping it before he could even get to the ‘my family would sedate you through delivery and then discard you before they let you abort a Danforth’ thing. He’d given you a line about supporting you however you needed in order to stall you while he discussed what to do with his family. Ultimately, your fate wasn’t his decision but a collective decision for the betterment of the Danforth name.

But Titus does, admittedly, dislike the idea of abandoning you. Despite your lack of status, money, or power, he feels an…affection for you. Similar to the affection one might have for an injured bird. He’d been raised to put creatures like that out of their misery, but your only brokenness was being part of the masses. That could be improved upon. So, to advocate for you, Titus swallows hard and offers, “This may not be a bad thing. Our family needs an heir, after all.”

“Not under circumstances like this,” Ursula scoffs. “You should marry advantageously. Within the seven families, at least. How could you even think-”

Father raises his right hand.

Silence falls.

“You may be right, Titus. We’re long overdue for a new generation of Danforths and neither of you seem particularly close to finding anything akin to a real relationship. Your mother would be horrified.” Father drapes himself in his authentic Jacobean austere velvet armchair in the corner, beneath a grand window he’s spent hours and hours ruminating out of through the years, especially since his wife died. Without looking at his son, he asks, “This…girl of yours: Is she good stock?”

Titus considers that. He imagines how very lovely you look obediently presenting yourself for him on the hotel beds where he’s taken you multiple times a week for the last six months, gazing up at him with reverent eyes and an innocent sort of expression that doesn’t necessarily match your occupation of choice. “I’d say so. She’s young. Pretty.”

Ursula rolls her eyes. “Of course.”

Father gives her a lethal gaze. “Don’t interrupt. This is important.” His eyes turn back to his son and he asks, “Her personality?”

“Sweet,” he answers right away. That’s the first word that comes to his mind. It’s the thing he likes most about you; you’re so, so far from everyone he knows. Kind and tentative and eager to find reasons to smile. The kind of girl who brakes for pigeons. After a moment of thinking, he relents, “A bit stupid, at times, but charming. Docile. I’ve never seen her disagree with someone.”

That seems to please Father. He doesn’t like women who fight back, even his own daughter at times. He probes further, “Does she have any family?”

“She’s estranged from her parents. No siblings.”

“Good. How about education?”

“She’s getting a master’s degree.”

“In what?”

“I don’t know,” he replies with a chuckle. “Something with books, maybe. I’m not usually with her for the stimulating conversation, Father.”

“Don’t be vulgar. Does she have a criminal history? Any connections in our world?”

“No. I vetted her thoroughly before selecting her as a…companion.”

“Boring. But that could be useful in its own way.” Father thinks it over as he watches the gardeners outside tending to the hedge maze across the pond. Winter is beginning to melt off the extensive grounds and they’re preparing for the glory of spring blooms. For vibrant fresh blood, too, in the coming months with the vernal equinox and other traditional celebrations fast approaching. He asks the final question, the only one that matters: “Could she be a Danforth? Or will we have to be rid of her once the baby is born?”

Titus thinks of your laugh, your ease, your total lack of darkness. It’ll be difficult to balance the reality of his world with you, but he’s intrigued by the challenge. With a steady voice, he admits perhaps the deepest secret of this whole situation: “I’d like to keep her.”

The tension eases at that. Keeping up appearances will be best. And if there’s one thing the Danforth family does well it’s keeping up appearances.

With the first smile of the day, Father stands, embraces Titus, and announces, “We can make this work, son. We will.”

Titus stiffens at the rare show of affection, trying not to reveal that he’s pleased with the decision. That would only show a chink in his armor. He would’ve handled the other option, keeping you in the dungeon as a toy of sorts until the birth, but it’ll be better for everyone if he has a wife and his child a mother instead of a nanny. “Thank you, Father.”

“She’s going to have to move in,” Ursula tsks as she, too, gives her brother a short but earnest embrace. “We can’t take risks with the baby.”

Father adds, “And there will have to be a wedding, of course. With all the families invited.”

“A wedding?” Titus gripes, “Isn’t it enough to just-”

“No,” Father interrupts. His fingernails dig into his own palms. “Just because you started this improperly doesn’t mean you’ll continue it that way. In two months’ time, before she starts showing, we’ll have a wedding.”

“Everyone will know it’s a shotgun wedding,” Ursula points out. “Even the most asinine of our associates can manage basic addition and subtraction.”

“That’s irrelevant,” Father insists. “It’s the 21st century. The baby will be born with its mother sharing the Danforth name. Nothing else matters.” He levels his gaze at Titus. “Go and tell her. I expect to see her moving in here before the weekend’s up.”

“Yes, Father,” Titus agrees, already taking his phone from his pocket to dial you. Before leaving the room, he takes a deep breath and says once more, “Thank you. I won’t disappoint you.”

Father gives him a wink. The thought of the first baby born to the Danforth family in four decades lifts everyone’s spirits. It’ll be a good change. “Careful, or you’ll make us think you like the girl.”

He expects you to make a fuss about it. Fully prepares himself to have to drug you, tie you up, kidnap you, and make it clear you don’t actually have a choice in the matter, as distasteful as that would be to him. At the very least, he anticipates resistance. For it to take more than one brunch. Modern women want careers, don’t they? It’s part of why he’s always sworn off girlfriends and dating in the standard sense. Ever since it became relatively acceptable for the elite, he’s strongly preferred paying for the company of simple, complication-free women procured by the family lawyers. He doesn’t want a girlfriend. He wants…a pet. A well-trained companion. Something reliable and reliant. A pretty, obedient creature to recline on the couch who makes no demands and listens with rapt attention to his every order.

So he’s pleased beyond belief at your reaction to his offer, outlined to you at your favorite chichi breakfast place in one of the nicer hotels downtown.

You gaze up at him over your streaming mug and ask bluntly, “What’s the catch?”

“There isn’t one,” he lies. Smooth as butter. “I want to take care of you and the baby and I have the means to do so.”

“You’d already be doing that just by paying me at the rate you already do. With my job and your payments, I can afford a comfortable life,” you point out. “But you want me to marry you. Move in with you. So I have to assume there are rules. Catches.” You take a sip of the caffeine-free tea he’d ordered for you, savoring the spicy and citrusy notes. The ginger helps soothe your stomach. “Look, you’re obviously very wealthy. And I know you’re not rich because of something…normal, if you don’t mind the word.”

Titus snickers, “Not at all. Go on.”

“Before you made us exclusive, I’d been with a lot of secretive, rich men,” you explain slowly, “but you don’t seem like most of them.”

The waitress approaches your table. Titus rattles off quickly, clearly annoyed at the intrusion, “We’ll both do the three-course menu. I’ll have the foie gras torchon with prosciutto and figs, the filet mignon as rare as you’ll serve it, and the caviar trio in lieu of dessert.”

The order doesn’t surprise you after countless meals spent together. His food is always expensive and tastes of life cut short.

The waitress gives you a warm smile. “And for you, darling?”

“Don’t call her that,” Titus says, curt and emotionless. “She’ll have the yogurt parfait with the pistachio granola, lobster eggs Benedict, and the baked apple strudel.” Then he gives you a glance that borders on affectionate. “And I’m guessing she’d also like the gelato flight after.”

“You spoil me,” you lilt with batting eyelashes. Then you tell the waitress, “And a ginger ale, if you don’t mind. Thank you.”

As she disappears, Titus’ typically flat expression transforms into one of concern, which you haven’t seen on him often. He observes, “Ginger ale. Ginger tea. Morning sickness?”

You sigh and confirm, “That’s been the theme of week seven.”

“Seven weeks,” he muses, sounding almost wistful. “Does that mean you’ll have your first ultrasound soon?”

“Monday morning,” you tell him with a tentative smile. “You can come, if you want.”

“I will. Definitely.” Titus sits up straighter and adjusts the sleeves of his charcoal-gray button-down, a nervous habit since his custom-tailored clothes always fit perfectly on his chiseled body. “You were asking about rules. Saying I don’t seem like most men.”

“Right, yes.” You touch his hand across the table and he lets you. Titus never asks for affection, but you know he craves it. Deeply. Otherwise he would never have sought you out in the first place. Sex is cheap; companionship is priceless. While rubbing the back of his hand with your thumb, you muse aloud, “You don’t brag about your money, which means you’ve always had it. It’s just a part of you; you’ve never been without it. Your schedule has too much freedom to be a doctor, you don’t dress like a lawyer, you’re too private to be a CEO or anything you’d want to peacock about, and you’re not annoying.”

He smirks at your analysis. “What does that rule out?”

“Tech bro. Anyone who works in blockchain or AI.”

“Smart girl,” he praises with a short chuckle. “What’s your theory, then?”

“Something dark and secretive,” you tease, clearly joking with the low, spooky voice like a Halloween recording you put on. He doesn’t react like it’s a joke, though. So, more seriously, you say, “Maybe private security? Something with weapons; I know you try to be subtle, but I’ve always seen your carrying a gun.” That pleases him; you’ve already noticed his danger and didn’t flinch away. “I doubt it’s really illegal, like drugs, because you’re so clean about everything. I mean, my main point of contact the first three months was your lawyer,” you remind him with a laugh. Then you lean forward and continue, “Regardless, I can tell you have the kind of life where you’re not just going to marry and whisk away the first girl you knock up without some rules.”

Sounding amused, he sips his expensive cocktail and teases, “I can’t just want to be an honest man for the mother of my child?”

“You can, sure. But that’s not you.”

“You’re right about that,” he concedes after a moment. With a deep breath, he sits back in his chair and tells you, “I wouldn’t call them ‘rules’ so much as, perhaps, guidelines. Expectations. I won’t force anything on you. And I won’t abandon you if you go against them.”

That’s a patent lie, but he doesn’t think you’ll defy him, so he keeps it to himself.

You cross your arms over your chest. “Let’s get down to it, then, because I can imagine worse fates for this baby and me than having a rich, handsome daddy to take care of us. But I want to know what I’m getting into.”

“Very sensible. I can appreciate that.” The first round of food arrives and he gestures for you to dig in while he begins, “Your first priority would be growing a healthy pregnancy, of course. Go to all of your doctor’s appointments, follow their recommendations to the letter. You’d quit your job. Continue your classes if you’d like, but you’ll need to cut out any unnecessary stress. You’d move into the family estate; you can decorate and rearrange our building however you’d like as the lady of the house. I don’t care about things like that.”

“What do you mean by ‘the family estate’?” You give him a teasing raised eyebrow; you’re the only person he allows to look at him like that. “You live with mommy and daddy?”

“My father lives in the primary mansion on the grounds, yes. Mother is dead. There are a lot of different outbuildings along the property; it goes on forever. I don’t even know how many acres anymore; the lawyers buy up adjacent properties whenever they go for sale. We’d be in my private house, which is further back on the estate.”

“Like a guest house?”

“An eight-bedroom guest house, but yes.” Without giving you much time to process that, Titus goes on, “You’d have some social responsibilities as my wife. My mother’s passed now, so you’d be the official host when our family holds events, which we do often. You’d just have to look pretty, though, which you’re phenomenal at already.” As your cheeks warm, he assures you, “We have a whole team to handle the planning side if you aren’t interested in those sorts of things.”

You give a timid smile. “I like planning and hosting parties. It’d be nice to have some occasions to show off all the fancy dresses you’ve bought me.”

That makes him smile. Really smile. Like he can see you slotting into his life. “Good. Great. Well, you can have as much or as little involvement in our social circles as you’d like as long as you’re willing to put on one of those dresses and sit next to me adoringly when needed.”

“So far, that fits my resume to a tee.”

“And, in that vein, there are certain standards of dress and, let’s say, etiquette, for lack of a better word, that my sister can help you with getting used to.”

“You have a sister?”

“Yes. Ursula.” He toys with his fork, hovering it over the decadent spread. “I suppose we still have a lot to learn about each other.”

“I’m an open book,” you retort with a cheeky smile. “You’re the one with the secrets. I don’t even know your last name.”

“Danforth,” he says quietly. Like it’s a secret. Maybe it is. “Titus Victor Danforth.”

“Very stately name.” You wrinkle your nose a bit. “Does our baby have to have a name like that? It’s hard to imagine calling a newborn Titus Victor.”

“We’ll agree on a name like any other couple,” he chuckles. “But, for the record, I have family with much worse names than Titus.”

“Like Ursula,” you joke, earning a conspiratorial snort. You nod and drink some more of your tea as you consider everything thus far. “So I have to learn to sit pretty and do tricks. Got it. What else?”

His voice darkens and so do his hazel eyes. “The most important thing is that you’ll allow me to keep you safe and protect you. Against anyone and anything. By any means necessary.”

Your own voice drops to a whisper. “You say that like I’ll be in danger.”

“Sometimes you will be.”

Not taking it all too seriously, you check. “But you’ll always protect me? And our baby?”

He puffs up his chest and insists seriously, “With my life.”

No matter who or what tries to get in my way.

You narrow your eyes at him. “And you’ll take care of everything financially?”

“Yes.” Zero hesitation. “Always.”

You don’t doubt he can keep that promise, at least. When you take on sugar clients, you make sure to have proof of funds before agreeing to any arrangements. Titus passed that test with flying colors; you’re sure there’s incalculable wealth behind the many, many zeroes you’ve already seen. He’s always driving around in tinted luxury cars, wearing suits by $10,000-a-piece designers, handing over heavy black cards for quadruple digit dinner dates with no dobut on whether they’ll clear.

With a tiny smile, you press, “And you’ll marry me?”

“As soon as possible.”

“Can I have a real wedding?”

“Here I was thinking I’d have to convince you of that,” he laughs. Something unfamiliar is knocking around pleasantly in his ribs. “Our wedding would be very, ah, socially significant. You’ll be impressed by the guest list, I’m sure.”

“Give me a teaser.”

“Let’s just say if a bomb were dropped on it, the world’s economy would collapse.”

“Yeah, alright,” you giggle. He’s looking forward to the day you realize he’s telling the truth on that matter. “So I’d be a wife. Hm, okay.” You jokingly tap your chin and squint like you’re really thinking hard about it. “Does that mean I’ll have to cook for you?”

“Not if you don’t want to.”

“How about cleaning? Laundry? I hate doing laundry.”

“That’ll all be handled.”

“So we’ll have…servants?”

Titus can’t help but notice the way you’re already saying ‘we.’ He doesn’t mind the sound of it; you’re right where he wants you. Needs you. “We prefer to call them staff, but yes, we do.”

Curiosity piqued, you press, “How many?”

He starts running through the mental rolodex; the estate’s goings-ons don’t interest him much, so they’re at the periphery of his mind. “Full-time, on-site staff? We have three chefs – one in each house’s kitchen, of course – and an estate manager who oversees a handful of groundskeepers, gardeners, and housekeepers. There’s an incredibly effective security team. Part-time? Lawyers on retainer, naturally. And we have connections for anything you’d want. Ursula has her tennis coach and her pet pool boy. Father has his favorite mixologist and, ah, massage therapist. I’ve got my golf caddy as well. Each of us has our own driver, but you’d probably share mine a while. That’s a high-trust position; I’d want to personally hire yours for the safety of the baby. You’d also have your own personal assistant to help with whatever you need day-to-day. And you’ll be in charge of hiring out any childcare support you want, when the time comes. Nannies, tutors, those sorts of things.”

“Wow.” Your fork is stuck mid-air. “So you and your family are…rich rich.”

His lips curl up slightly. It’s nice to be around someone who isn’t used to snapping their fingers and having whatever they want in moments. Charming. “That would be a fair assessment, yes.”

Titus notices a selfish, almost cute little shimmer lighting up your eyes as you ask, “So I can have whatever I want?”

He cocks his head to the side and considers that. What it might mean to someone who didn’t grow up in the world he did. “Within reason.”

Your eyes narrow. “How about a car? Like a really ridiculous one – a neon yellow Lamborghini?”

Almost offended at the idea, he scoffs, “A car? Of course you can have a car. I thought you were going to say something ridiculous like an elephant.”

You pout and cross your arms playfully over your chest. “So you’re saying I couldn’t have an elephant if I really, really wanted one?”

Feeling indulgent beneath your delight, he sighs dramatically, “I suppose I could reopen and repurpose the stables for the mother of my child.”

“The stables?”

“My mother loved horses. We were raised on dressage but never really took to it. When she died, my sister and I-” let those wretched horses free and hunted them with arrows “-decided not to keep up the responsibility.”

“Could I have a horse?”

He almost winces at the memory of countless on-site animals becoming casualties in the family games, intentional or otherwise. Still, because it’s important, he relents, “If you want, sure. I don’t see the appeal, but you’ll have whatever hobbies make you happy and keep you occupied.” 

“Don’t worry; I hate horses. Just curious.” You can tell he’s amused by your version of an interrogation, so you go on, “Will you still take me on dates?”

That puzzles him. Do you like these dates with him? He’s always assumed you just see him as a paycheck, which he doesn’t mind, but the idea of a real relationship does tantalize him to a certain extent. So he says, “If you’d like that. I do enjoy your company, after all.”

“And sex whenever I want?”

A laugh punches out of him. They’re rare from Titus, so it makes you grin, too, for a second. He rolls his eyes and nods. “Of course; that’s one of my favorite parts of your company.”

“Good. I wouldn’t want to give that up with you, considering the, ah, quality.”

Blush tinges the apples of his cheeks and you know better than to point it out. Titus has never been shy about his sexual prowess, but he also grew up in a family where it’s not acceptable to talk about those things over brunch. Titus clears his throat and checks, “What else do you want to know to decide?”

“To recap, I’ll be fed and housed and safe and spoiled beyond my wildest dreams?”

He nods, pleased. “Exactly.”

You bite your lower lip and ask, “But what if something happens to you? I’d be giving up all my independence and relying on you. I don’t want the baby’s security depending on whether or not you’re around for us.”

He doesn’t assure you that nothing will happen to him the way you’d anticipated. Instead, he admires your practicality. You can tell his life is dangerous, but you aren’t flinching. “You’ll be written quite handsomely into the family estate. Above my sister, actually, since you’ll be the mother of an heir. That’s permanent, even in the event of death or divorce.”

“An heir?” You almost choke on your food. “You’re not royalty, are you?”

He laughs, “Not in the sense you’re thinking of, certainly.”

Softer and more seriously as you consider the implications of everything said so far, you touch your lower abdomen and ask him, “Will our baby be safe?”

“Safer than you’ve ever been in your life here in the ‘real world,’” he says with actual sarcastic finger quotes. Then he squeezes your hand, meets your eyes with a new kind of warmth in his, and affirms, “I swear that nothing will ever harm our children.”

You smirk and tease, “Didn’t realize we had more than one on the way.”

He shrugs modestly. “I always liked having a sister.”

“And I always wished I had siblings.”

“Sounds like you agree.”

You let out a sharp laugh, the ridiculousness of the conversation hitting you at once. This is the kind of arrangement people agree to in the dark romances you read when you’re ovulating and here you are actually considering it for the rest of your life. After a minute of eating and thinking, you tell him, “I just have one more question.”

“Anything.”

“Will you love me, Titus?”

He takes his time thinking about the answer, which you appreciate. He isn’t just going to tell you what he thinks you want to hear. Honesty is more attractive to you than his silvering curls or glass jawline, though those definitely do it for you. Always have.

You’ve wasted a lot of time on men who lied to you, who strung you along, who took advantage of your lack of security. As strange as it may be, the thought of someone being very clear about their expectations and giving you everything in return has an appeal after all of that. You’d never have to worry about the things that currently absorb 90% of your time again.

You’ve finished your dish by the time Titus collects his response. Slowly and carefully, he lifts your hand to his lips and kisses each finger; you can’t stop the fluttering of your heart in response. Titus murmurs, “You may have to teach me how, bunny.” Gradually, he meets your eyes and offers, “If it matters, in the time we’ve known each other, I’ve already grown quite-” he struggles to find the word; you wonder if he’s ever been given ones for this variety of feelings “-fond of you. Which is unusual for me.”

A smile blooms over your lips. Relief punches Titus in the gut and he’s not so sure why. You take your hand from his and press it gingerly to his silver-scruffed cheek. “Fondness will do.”

“Are you sure about this?” Your best friend, Natalie, asks for the fiftieth time as you finish packing your suitcase. Titus had arranged for professional packers, movers, and cleaners for your entire apartment over the weekend, so all you had to do was pack for a long weekend. “It just seems a little fast to me.”

You shrug and try to brush it off, “I’ve known him for six months already.”

She balks, “As a client.”

“Well, unplanned babies tend to rush relationships,” you cut back. “It’s not like he’s a murderer or something; he’s just a rich guy who needs company. Plus, look at these pictures he sent me.”

You unlock your phone and toss it to her where she’s rifling through your closet, taking her turn to pick over it since you’re going to be switching to maternity clothes soon enough and, it seems, designer after that. Natalie scrolls through the grand Danforth estate and her mouth slowly falls open the same way yours did when Titus showed you. Water features both natural and man-made, meticulously maintained flower gardens, a hedge maze, marble sculptures around the grounds. Not to mention the interior. He’d only sent pictures of his residence on the property, which was styled minimalistically compared to the opulence elsewhere, but you could already imagine outfitting it exactly how you want.

Natalie scoffs, “Are you serious? I didn’t even know places like this still exist. Are you sure this isn’t all, like, a catfishing scheme and he’s just going to lure you into the woods and keep you chained up in a cabin or something?”

You roll your eyes and tell her, “After he made the offer, he showed me everything on his iPad. Titles, holdings, all the legal stuff. I guess his great-great-times-a-million grandparents built half the trade infrastructure in America and then used the money for real estate and investments and now they just have mega money. He told me that there are a lot of families like his that have old money managed by lawyers that’s just accruing more and more money by being in banks.”

She raises a curious eyebrow. “So he doesn’t have to work?” 

“Sort of.” You try to explain to the best of your understanding, paraphrasing from the spiel Titus gave that you admittedly kind of zoned out during, “Since his dad retired, he’s got a seat on the board of basically every company in the country, so he has a lot of meetings and travels a lot.”

Natalie changes into one of your dresses and inspects herself approvingly in the mirror. “Does that mean your baby is gonna have to be a boring businessman?”

“Or boring businesswoman,” you laugh. “This one’ll be the oldest, so they’ll have responsibilities, yeah.”

“The oldest?” Her eyebrows go up again. “You and gramps are having more than one?”

“He’s not that old,” you start, a bit more exasperated now, “and he’s going to be my husband. If I want more kids, who else would I have them with?”

“Jesus, you’re really serious about this, aren’t you?”

“You’re here pilfering my closet, aren’t you?” The intercom buzzes by the door and you tell her, “Finish up; that’s my ride.”

“Is that him? Mr. Moneybags?”

You peek out the window and see the dark-tinted black Rolls-Royce idling in front of the door. The white-gloved, black-capped chauffeur who’s driven you around a handful of times before stands by the passenger side with his hands linked in front of himself. You mutter, “No, it’s his driver.”

“His driver? Damn.” Natalie takes the things she wants off their hangers and starts to walk you out. “When do I get to meet this guy, anyway?”

The two of you take the stairs together and you suggest, “At the wedding, I guess. Two months or so.”

Natalie scoffs and shakes her head. “Two months to plan a bachelorette party for a pregnant bride.” She squeezes you into a tight, warm hug. “It’s a challenge, but I’m up to it.”

“I know you are,” you giggle. “I can have the driver drop you off somewhere, if you want. I’m sure Titus wouldn’t mind.”

“No, thanks; I’ve got a job interview right up the street.”

Natalie insists on bringing your suitcase down the stairs, setting it on the stoop and scampering away before she has to ‘pretend to be fancy in front of one of your servants.’ As she disappears around the nearest corner, you wave and smile at the driver, hopping off the raised entry to meet him by the road. “Hi, Chip, thanks for coming to get me.”

“Good morning,” he says warmly. He hefts your luggage easily into the trunk and assures, “It’s no trouble at all, Mrs. Danforth.” At your curious look, he explains before you can question, “Master Danforth instructed all the household staff to refer to you with your new title so you get used to hearing it.”

You raise your eyebrows. “Master Danforth?”

Chip cracks a rare conspiratorial smile. “The usual title for the eldest son while his father is still alive. His father is Sir Danforth, but I’m sure you’ll call him Father like Titus and Ursula do.” He opens up the back door for you and assures, “It’s a lot to get used to, but you can ask any of the staff for help with anything.”

You slide onto the smooth leather, lowering the partition between the driver and the back, which Titus never does. As the car leaves the city and starts the winding path into the countryside, you glance at Chip and pose, “I’ve wanted to ask before, but now that I’m gonna be family I think I’m allowed to know: How much do the Danforths pay you?”

Surprised by your frankness, he just laughs, “More than enough.”

“C’mon, you can tell me,” you lilt like you’re doing a heist together. “I can dig it up anyway; Titus says I get free rein of the whole property.”

“Really?” Chip  chuckles under his breath. “You must be awfully special to him.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Not even Miss Danforth has full access to the entire estate. Their father mainly stays in the front house these days, too,” he explains, “so Titus must think highly of you to allow you unsupervised access.”

You joke, “Or he’s lying to make me feel safe and thinks I won’t meddle.”

Chip glances at you in the rear view mirror, no joking in his expression. “That’s also a possibility.”

You chew on that for a second and then press, “That doesn’t mean you get out of answering me, by the way. If I’m marrying into a family where the staff are underpaid, then-”

Chip almost wheezes out a laugh, caught off guard by the assumption. “I suppose I shouldn’t let you think that about your future husband.” He takes a long breath and explains, “Discretion is expensive. Security is expensive. And loyalty is priceless. I’ve worked for this family since Titus started high school and needed his own driver. Most of the staff have been with the Danforths for a decade or more. I’m sure the hiring process for your personal employees will be rigorous – background checks, security clearances. My starting salary was $80,000. By year ten, that had doubled. I’ve never had to ask for a raise; my salary just gets silently adjusted at the start of the year. Especially since Titus took over the family’s management, their generosity has been staggering. If you include all the above and beyond benefits – he pays for my daughter’s private school tuition outright, covered every penny when my wife went through chemo a few years back – and the bonuses, it has to be about a quarter million by now.”

You let out a low whistle. “Jesus.”

“Security all makes twice that,” he goes on as he pulls the car off the main road through a massive automated iron gate. Your skin prickles at the knowledge of getting closer. The view is shrouded by thick trees, making the whole estate feel hidden. “Trust me: You’re surrounded by the most loyal, discreet staff in the world.”

You huff out half a laugh. “Should that make me less nervous?”

“Nothing to be nervous about,” he lies lightly.

As the car finally breaks through the trees, the magnificent grounds come into view and the air leaves your lungs. You press your forehead to the glass to get a better view of the property. At the base of the grand front house with its storied old stone and hand-carved Grecian details being devoured by brilliant green ivy, you see the unmistakable shape of Titus in one of his usual charcoal gray suits, strong and broad in a soldier’s stance. He’s waiting at the bottom of a staircase which opens onto a large half-circle drive that reminds you of something out of The Princess Diaries. A man you recognize as a member of his security detail flanks him; you’ve only spotted him at the periphery before, lingering at the entrances of the restaurants Titus takes you to or waiting in the lobby of hotels. He makes a point of being unnoticeable, but you make a point of rarely letting your guard down.

You hear the gate shutting behind you, a thud instead of a click. Deep. Final.

Stopping the car a few feet from Titus, Chip slides out, opens your door, and smiles earnestly. “Welcome home, Mrs. Danforth.”

The moment you’re out of the car, Titus is lifting his arm for you to slip into, which you do.

“Hello, darling.” Titus loops his hand around your lower back and pulls you close enough to smell his brisk, masculine aftershave. He plants a chaste, claiming kiss to your forehead and then holds your chin between his thumb and forefinger. “How are you feeling?”

“Good. Nervous,” you tell him sheepishly. Before he can jump on that, though, you add, “Nausea hasn’t been too bad today.”

He nods slowly, examining your expression carefully. “I’m glad. Let me know if that changes; you can have whatever you want whenever you want now that you’re here.”

“I’m still waiting on my elephant,” you reply lightly, leaning up onto your toes to kiss him.

He hadn’t been planning to let you kiss him in front of any staff, but he’s pathologically unable to resist you when you look so soft and so ready to submit to his plans for you. Your wide eyes are longing for reassurance, for steadiness, for him to produce the scaffolding of your new life together. When you step back down, he cradles your face and teases, “All in due time, princess.”

Then Titus gestures for his bodyguard to step forward. Up close, you can see pockmark scars over all the skin visible around his dark sunglasses and black-on-black suit. There’s also a feathery brown bruise on his jaw and you can’t help but wonder if he got it in the line of fire, so to speak. Titus introduces, “Smith, my personal security detail, will be yours while I hire a new one.”

You cut him a sideways look. “You don’t need your own security detail in the meantime?”

He gives you a cocky, handsome smirk in return. God, he’s devastatingly beautiful when he’s like that. The ruler of his domain. “I can handle myself, bunny.”

You needle, “Then why have one in the first place?”

“I like to be underestimated,” he replies easily. Not wanting to let you dwell on the implications of that, Titus continues, “Smith will check any and every room before you go into it and then remain stationed by the nearest door. He’ll also do some personal training with you on the family security protocols to make sure you’re prepared.”

You swallow hard and nod, extending your hand toward the bodyguard. “Good to meet you.”

Smith glances at Titus, who nods briefly. Only then does the security guard shake your hand – once, firm, quick. More scars over his knuckles. “It’s an honor, ma’am.”

You gesture between them with a suspiciously pointed finger. “What was that?”

A smirk flickers on Titus’ mouth. You’re too observant for your own good and he hates how much he likes it. So he explains honestly, “Nobody is allowed to touch you without my permission.”

You narrow your eyes. “And if I give them my own permission?”

You can’t.

My word is law.

A chill goes down your spine at the possessive darkness in his eyes. You might have your own security guard now, but there’s a level of safety above that, one that only comes from being under the protective wing of Titus’ unyielding power.

Titus chews on his response a moment and then amends, “Male staff are not allowed to touch you unless it’s an emergency.”

You tsk and tease, “Jealous, jealous.”

“You really shouldn’t talk to me like that,” he admonishes, but you know it’s more of a contradictory plea. Titus craves being challenged as much as he hates it. He can’t tolerate it in business or from family in case it’s perceived as weakness, so he yearns for it from you, the one person who has no desire to actually challenge him. With a shake of his head, Titus dismisses Chip and then says, “I’ll give you a tour of the central grounds and our home. Then I have to go out on business for the afternoon before dinner with my sister and Father in the main house. In the meantime you can get settled and play.”

You laugh, “Play?”

“Whatever it is you want to do to entertain yourself,” he replies with a hand wave and a shrug. “Explore the grounds, interrogate the staff, snoop around all the places you shouldn’t.”

You offer a small conspiratorial smile. “Sounds good to me.”

Then Titus does something new and unexpected: He threads his fingers through yours. You get the sense that he’s practicing behaving like a normal, convincing couple. But you still notice that his palm is slightly clammy. Nervous. Titus Danforth gets nervous about holding a pretty girl’s hand for the first time. Cute.

For half an hour, he guides you around the few acres of land that sit between the three main houses, which are in a U formation. There’s a hedge maze that he warns you not to go into unless you have a few hours to kill, a drone to map it out from above, or a helicopter on standby. Then a tennis court (“you can page our trainer from the gate”) and a pool that’s half inside and half outside (“heated, of course, with a hot tub attached”). At the center of it all sits a series of fountains with emotive sculptures captured in such vibrance you’d believe they come alive at night.

“The tableau of Artemis and Actaeon,” Titus explains as he points out the features – a beautiful nude woman in a righteous stance with a bow raised, a muscular stag fleeing, a hoard of gnashing dogs tight on its heels. “Actaeon wandered away from his companions and found the virgin goddess Artemis bathing when she didn’t want to be seen. To punish him for breaking the boundary between the mortal and the divine, she turned him into a deer and sent his own dogs after him.”

You study the series of sculptures, water running down features like blood, and ask softly, “And your family liked that story enough for this whole water tribute thing?”

Titus chuckles and explains, “Artemis is sort of the Danforth version of a patron saint.” His hand drags slowly, pointedly down the center of your back until you shiver. “Goddess of the hunt. She’s a good omen for the family.”

“Goddess of the hunt,” you repeat curiously. “Interesting.”

He raises an eyebrow and starts to lead you toward the second largest house on the left side of the property. “Is it?”

You snicker and match step with him. “Most families go for, y’know, saints of unity, love, that sort of stuff.”

“She’s also the patron and protector of women and children,” Titus adds on the walk through the rose garden that leads to your new home. “And she chooses when to bring wellness or illness. She’s a good woman to have in your corner.”

You give him a coy sideways glance and muse, “I’ll try not to piss off her statue, as then. I want to stay on the good side of anyone who’s going to protect me and TJ.”

“TJ?”

“Oh, yeah, the baby,” you giggle far too adorably to be allowed on the deathly quiet Danforth Estate. “I’ve been calling him Titus Jr. in my head to try to get used to all of this.”

Something you haven’t seen before glitters in his eyes at the comment. “You think it’ll be a boy?”

“It’s too early for me to even think it’s real,” you reply with a soft laugh. “I can’t believe we’re going to actually hear the heartbeat on Monday.”

“I can’t wait.” He gives your hip a little squeeze that feels much more relationship-y than he usually gets. Then he gestures proudly at a large swath of empty land. “Welcome to the final stop of our tour before the house.”

“It’s, um, lovely,” you offer as you gaze at the undeveloped ground, parts of it divided up with unintelligible spray paint marks. “I’ve always wanted a half acre of empty space. My dream.”

“It’s going to be a space for the children,” he explains with something close to softness in his voice. Like he’s scared you’ll reject the sweet idea from a man you know mostly to be harsh, biting. “I thought…Well, I thought it might be nice for them to have a playground, a splash pad, those sorts of things. The property isn’t very child-friendly; there hasn’t been a baby here in more than forty years now. Time to change that.”

Your heart grows about three sizes at the thought. Titus isn’t just inviting you into his life; he’s carving out space for your shared future. “If you didn’t have anything to play with here at home, what did you and Ursula do for fun as kids?”

“We didn’t have fun,” he almost scoffs. You can tell the memories behind the sound are painful but far away, like reaching through a broken chain link fence. If he pulls back, the pain will become real. “My parents were-” Titus searches for the right word a while before deciding on one that’s close enough“-severe. Dour, often. They thought children should be trained and disciplined, not raised. Father thinks the idea of cherishing a child is the same as spoiling them.”

You shrug and give his hand an affirming squeeze. “I guess they got what they wanted; you’re successful, clearly. Driven, strong, powerful.”

“But not fulfilled,” he murmurs, only loud enough for you to hear. He wouldn’t want the staff knowing his feelings. He takes his hand and rubs your back almost absently, like a nervous habit. With a sideways glance, he labors out, “I think being a parent should be about giving your children more than you got. But I got everything. Always. So what can I give to my children, who will have more than they’ll ever need?”

“A space to play,” you finish for him. You lean up on your toes and plant a kiss on his scruff, unable to conceal the smile that comes at Titus talking about fatherhood so softly. “You’re going to be a great dad.”

He blinks hard a few times. His organs feel like they’re in the wrong order, but it’s not unpleasant. Winding his fingers with yours once more, he almost smiles. “You really think so?”

“Wouldn’t have agreed to all of this-” you gesture to the ridiculous property all around “-if I didn’t. I’d kind of figured being the softie would be my job, but I’m happy to share the load.”

Titus downright pouts. “I am not a softie.”

You nod toward the grass and lilt, “The evidence to the contrary is pretty compelling, sweet pea.”

“That’s too far,” he sighs, suppressing a laugh, “even for you, my little terror.”

As you approach Titus’ house – your house – Smith steps out in front and opens up the ornate wooden door. There’s a golden, roaring lion’s head knocker that clicks slightly as the door swings open to reveal the marble foyer. No amount of pictures Titus texted you could do the place justice. Every detail is strikingly opulent from the golden chandeliers and Italian marble checkerboard floors to the sheer embroidered curtains and high ceilings.

The only thing you don’t love is, well, Titus’s taste. You wrinkle your nose as he shows you through the sitting room and dining room. “You really like black and gray, don’t you?”

He watches you inspect his living space. It’s been a very, very long time since he’s had a woman here. At home. “They match everything. It’s easy.”

“I guess,” you mutter, running your hand over a black leather couch that’s smooth and cool beneath your fingers. You point out, “It’s a little cold for a family. I can’t really imagine a baby toddling around, can you?”

“No,” he replies honestly, “but that’s why I have you. I’d like you to change it all so it’s…warmer. Hire a designer or pick out everything for yourself, whatever makes you happiest.”

As your eyes rove along the under-decorated hallway toward the living wing, already imagining how you might redesign the space, you ask him, “And how would I do that? Will you give me a check or something?”

Titus rolls his eyes and laughs. “A check would imply a budget and supervision; I don’t want any part in it unless you truly think my input would be valuable.”

“That’s hot,” you laugh. “More men should act like that.”

He hums, amused, and then reaches into his jacket, removes a sleek wallet, and hands you a heavy black card. The Black Card, you realize as you stare down at the centurion engraved on dark steel. “That card is yours for whatever you like. You’re already an authorized user on the account; I had the legal team take care of that. It auto-pays every month and I won’t even look at it, so I better not catch you overthinking your spending habits.”

“Ooh la la,” you say, taking the card from him and turning it over in your hand. You’re more than familiar with money, even his money, but it’s never been yours to spend however and whenever you want. No budget, no restrictions, no instructions. It feels almost like getting your first car; that shitbox meant freedom. Your eyes go to his and you ask, “What’s the limit?”

Opening up one of several bedroom doors, he tells you like it isn’t even interesting, “It’s NPSL.” You swallow hard. No Preset Spending Limit. Before leading you inside, he turns around and gives you a mischievous smile. “In fact, there’s a minimum. To maintain our status with the company, you’ll need to spend $350,000 a year on that card.” He smirks at your open-mouthed shock and muses, all cocky and coy, and touches the tip of your nose affectionately. “Can you do that for me, princess?”

“Are you joking?”

“I don’t joke often.”

You balk, “What would I even spend that kind of money on?”

He laughs out loud. “Ursula could spend that much in an hour; I’m sure you’ll find something. For example, where have you always wanted to buy jewelry from?”

You bite your lower lip and reply, “Tiffany.”

“Right, of course. I got you those earrings for Christmas,” he remembers fondly, especially fond of the mind-numbing orgasm you’d ridden out of him wearing nothing but said diamond earrings. “Any time you want, you can take your cute little ass downtown to the shop and get everything else from that collection. Better yet,” he goes on, taking his phone from his pocket and sending a few texts, “I’ll get an appointment for you at their flagship in New York and you can use your fun new card on some first-class tickets for you and a friend and buy out the damn store just to show off.” Before you can roll your eyes and scoff out a response, he presses his index finger to your lips, kisses your forehead, and coos, “You’re filthy rotten rich now, kitten, you’ll have to discover ways to act like it. Now, may I continue my tour?”

You give him a giggly mock salute. “Yes, sir.”

He debates jumping on it but bites his tongue, trying to keep a modicum of self-control with his regular staff lingering nearby. So he takes a breath and leads you through the open door into a vast, relatively blank bedroom, leaving Smith stationed outside. He tells you, “Until we’re married, you’ll stay here in one of the guest rooms. Anything else would be inappropriate.”

You nudge him with your hip, a little too confident. “Inappropriate like all the kinky premarital sex we’ve already had?”

In response, Titus grabs you hard by the waist, flipping you around and pushing you against the nearest wall, hand behind your head. There’s a caution to his touch, though, and it steals your breath away. He’s certain not to be too rough with you. He cups your face in one large hand and studies your features intently. Your eyes widen as you look up into his stoic hazels, finding something dark and unreadable in them.

And then he kisses you. Deep, serious, claiming. Your knees go weak as he presses the curve of your spine, pulling you as close as possible to his body. It feels like a warning more than an act of affection. When he pulls back, he gently touches the tip of your nose with his pointer finger, drawing out a smile, and tuts, “You’re going to have to learn not to talk like that in front of others. It’s bad form.”

“No sex jokes in front of the posh folk,” you tease with a serious nod. “Got it.”

“Good girl.”

“You shouldn’t call me that if you want me to behave.” With embarrassingly warm butterflies taking flight in your stomach, you push out your lower lip and give him your best puppy dog eyes. “I really have to sleep alone?” You wrap your arms around the back of his neck, leaning your weight on him. “In an unfamiliar place?” You drag your lips up his rough neck and suck his sensitive skin, smiling to yourself when he draws in a sharp and wanting hiss. “With my big strong fiancé all the way across the house?”

Titus gives a low chuckle, looking at you like a puzzle. He traces his finger up your neck and along your jaw until he reaches your chin, tilting it upward. He turns your face from side to side, examining you, and you shiver from the intensity. His lip twitches at the corner. “Would you really prefer to sleep in bed with me? Why?”

You take his hand in yours and guide it down to your hip. His other hand instinctively follows and they roam around to your ass, which you arch out to be more enticing. He follows by squeezing your flesh and grunting softly under his breath. You ruck your hands up beneath his shirt and rake your fingernails over his abs until you feel him tremble ever so slightly. On your toes, you whisper against his ear, “I get cold at night.”

Titus sucks in a sharp breath when you take his earlobe between your teeth and nibble ever so slightly. He leans his head back and groans, “Mmm. You’re too powerful for your own good.”

“Just powerful enough.” Then you nibble your lower lip, avert your eyes, and add bashfully, “And I might need you.”

His brows furrow in genuine confusion. “Need me? For what?”

You shrug and try not to sound too vulnerable. “I mean, I’m pregnant. What if I wake up and something’s wrong?”

Titus sets his jaw, considering that. He brushes his thumb over your cheek and studies one of the many emotions he doesn’t have much experience with: Worry. Lowering his voice, he assures you, “Nothing’s going to go wrong. Not if I can help it.”

With a sad little smile, you reply, “Money can buy a lot of things, but it can’t stop me from being scared of complications. Or worse. I don’t want to have to wonder where you are if I wake up afraid.”

At that, he nods solemnly, takes your hand, and starts leading you to the opposite wing of the house. He may not experience anxieties like that, but he understands that his job is to quell yours. “Come on, then; I’ll show you our bedroom. Don’t tell Father; he wouldn’t understand.”

Your eyes narrow. “Will you get in trouble if he finds out?”

“Yes,” he says with a dark humor in his tone and a glint in his eyes. “He’d put me in time out and take away all my favorite toys.” He’d have one hour to hunt me while I remain unarmed. Titus presses a kiss to the center of your forehead. “Don’t worry, bunny; I can handle myself. Handling you is what I’m worried about.”

As he pushes open a set of opulent double doors, you poke his firm shoulder and protest, “I’m a perfect angel.”

“Precisely my concern.” As you step into the suite, he raises a silent hand to stop Smith from following. Closing the doors, Titus strides to where you’re admiring the space, wide eyes greedy over the California king, the floor-to-ceiling windows with grand velvet curtains, the massive his and hers closets. “I know it’s plain right now; I don’t have much of an eye for taste – except in women, of course.”

You smack him lightly on the arm. “Flatterer.”

His deeply ingrained instincts urge him to flip your arm around, pin it behind your back, twist you into submission. But then you smile at him and it’s so warm and open and trusting and earnest that he almost smiles back. “Only for you.”

“I’m sure that’s not true.” You traipse into the adjoining bathroom suite and gawk at the oversized soaking tub, practically its own pool with jets and a head rest, and add, “I get the impression you have to flatter a lot of people in your world.”

“They have to flatter me,” he corrects. You feel his hand on your back and catch sight of him watching you in the large mirror above the double vanity sinks. His first finger trails up your spine and he smiles when you shiver. “And soon they’ll have to flatter you, too.”

“If they have to suck up to you, and you have to suck up to me,” you muse, turning around into his arms, “does that make me the boss of the whole world?”

Titus cradles your face in one hand. His expression is completely and totally confident as he tells you, “I spent the first thirty years of my life watching my mother snap her fingers-” he punctuates it with a click of his own “-and get whatever she wanted from whoever she was speaking to. She commanded attention, power, money. Everyone listened when she spoke. She was the only woman – person – my father ever acquiesced to or listened to. Nobody on earth has more power than Mrs. Danforth,” he finishes, pressing a kiss to your forehead, “and very soon that will be you.”

For a second, you’re breathless, taking in the intensity simmering in his eyes. Then you avert your gaze a second, swallow hard, and look back at him with your usual mischief. “Mommy issues much?”

Rolling his eyes dramatically, Titus swats your ass and laughs, “Father is going to hate you.”

With a raised eyebrow, you needle him, “You say that like it might actually be a good thing.”

Titus confirms, “Being hated by my father is always a badge of honor. He can’t stand me.” Then he takes your hand, leads you back to the bedroom, and sits you down on the ottoman at the foot of the bed. “Now, I have to leave for some business before I introduce you to the family tonight, but I do have one thing I need to give you in the meantime.”

“A welcome home gift?”

“Something like that,” he replies, walking over to his bedside table and removing a black velvet box. He kneels in front of you, your legs on either side of his shoulders, and your heart starts to pound. As he opens it to reveal the ridiculous ring inside, he begins, “Now, bunny, if you want a proper proposal with a string quartet or a sunset on the beach, I’ll do that, but for-”

“Titus, shut up,” you whisper. “Is this…for me?”

Your eyes are glued to the ring. You’ve never seen anything like it. Clearly it’s an antique piece; the metalwork and stones have been meticulously maintained and show a high level of craftsmanship. The large center diamond is black – an almost surreal color, both drawing light in and flinging it out, seeming at once opaque and transparent from different angles – and surrounded by a halo of small pearls and diamonds set in fine platinum. It’s not eye-catching so much as jaw-dropping.

Your heartbeat thuds and whooshes in your ears as Titus removes the ring from the box and takes your left hand in his. You splay your fingers to give him better access.

“My great grandfather had it made for his wife and my mother held onto it for me to give to mine, not that she believed I’d ever find one. It won’t be the most expensive piece in your collection, but it’s the most precious and rare to our family name.” Titus slides it onto your finger and then kisses the skin just above it, his lips softer than you’ve ever felt. He holds your hand in his and urges.  “I never want to see you without it.”

“I should take it off to shower and sleep,” you point out absently, still staring at the ring. You flick your eyes up to his. “And I assume you’d still like to see me those times.”

“I’m going to have to start punishing you for all this flirting, you know.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Is that a promise?”

He shakes his head and lets out a sharp, amused breath. “Oh, you’re in for it now.”

In the next breath, Titus smirks and lifts you easily, tossing you up onto the bed. As you shriek out a laugh, the plush fabric and thick mattress catch you like a cartoon cloud. Titus pounces on you like a panther while you’re still getting your bearings, hiking your skirt up around your waist and yanking your panties down hard enough to rip the elastic. You don’t complain; for every pair of your underwear he’s ruined, Titus has always gifted you five more from nicer shops.

His fingers circle your clit hard and fast, working you up frantically, and you know exactly what his game is. It’s one he plays often and well. You’ve got no choice but to enjoy the expert way he touches you, months of knowing how to get you off and bring you down painstakingly memorized.

Then, as you expect, the very moment your walls start to clamp down, Titus stops all touch and slaps your clit hard. The sting rockets up your spine and you gasp. Your thighs shake and he laughs at your mewling.

Before you can even start to think , he pulls his shirt off, casts it aside, and crawls onto the bed next to you. Then his middle two fingers are on your clit again and his lips lock onto yours and you’re moaning and whining and hoping, hoping, hoping he won’t-

He slaps your clit once more and you nearly knee him with the force of your body’s reaction. He stills your leg with a smirk and coos, “Careful, princess, you’ll pull a muscle. Can’t have that.”

You challenge him with narrow eyes. “Then how about you pin me down and fuck me so I don’t squirm?”

“So goddamn greedy,” he huffs. “You’re lucky I’m in a good mood today.”

“I wonder whose fault that is.”

You watch, mouth watering, as he takes off his belt and slacks. You even notice the brief hesitation as the leather belt runs over his fingers; you’ve been known to beg for a whipping with it on more than one occasion. But he’s being gentle with you – for Titus, at least. He returns to you on the bed with a wolfish gaze, spreading your legs apart and admiring you for long enough to make your breath hitch. When you feel the tip of his swollen cock nudging at your entrance, it’s with a toe-curling gentility that makes your body sensitive.

Titus always thrusts into you agonizingly slow, no matter how worked up either of you are. He savors the little flutters and twitches that come with filling your pretty cunt millimeter by breathless millimeter. Once he’s seated inside of you, feeling the way your hips instinctively roll back into his and how your cunt is clamping onto him like it needs reassurance, Titus presses his thumb to your lower lip and orders, “Beg.”

And even though you’re having to actively hold back from squirming and moaning, you know he loves the chase, so you grip his curls tight and reply, “Why should I?”

“God, you fucking brat.” He spits on your face and you lick it off your lips, never dropping his eyes that trace your movements. “If you won’t beg for what you want, then I expect you to stay there and take whatever I give you.”

Your eyes widen in a mix of lust and fear, right on the primal line that Titus so loves to play with. One of his hands goes down to cover your mouth. There’s a millisecond where his eyes flick up to yours, asking permission, and it’s gone as soon as you give an imperceptible nod. When you and Titus fuck, your minds run parallel to one another; the same temptations and ideas call both your attention.

Once his salty, heavy palm is clamping your mouth shut, Titus fucks you like he needs. Your pleasure becomes entirely secondary to him; he only touches your clit because it amuses him to watch you squirm and kick and writhe, unable to speak or moan or do much of anything besides take it.

When he hikes your legs higher, working you into a full mating press that lets him fuck you hard and deep, your eyes roll back and your moans turn into squeaks. His thumb continues its strumming on your clit as you start to shake from pleasure. He purrs, “There we go.”

And then he cums.

Unannounced, unplanned, unrepentant. He pulls out and gives your thigh an affectionate pat.

You grab his hand and wail, “No, no, no no no nonono! Titus!”

He lifts your fingers to his lips and kisses each one softly, “Didn’t I say this was a punishment? You have to learn to behave yourself.”

You lean back, raise your arms above your head so that your tits are on beautiful display, and look up at him like an innocent, needy puppy. After a beat of charged silence where his eyes ravish your body, you say the one word you’re always careful to withhold from him until the right moment: “Please.”

Above the bed like a god, Titus gazes down at you, panting and disheveled and leaking his cum. He tsks and sighs, “How am I supposed to punish you when you take me so well?” Then he drops to his knees, hooks his arms beneath your legs, and tugs you to the end of the bed as if you weigh nothing. “When you’ve done everything I’ve asked without complaint?” He slides two fingers into your sopping cunt, curling them toward himself and grinning when you arch your back and whine out in pleasure. He nips your inner thighs with his teeth and rests his free hand on your lower abdomen, over your womb. Leaning toward your wrecked pussy, he murmurs at last, “When you’re carrying my child? I couldn’t possibly deny you.”

And he descends on your swollen, aching clit. The taste of his own cum mixed with your juices drives him wild. The taste of his ownership. After all the edging, you’re mere moments from tumbling over the precipice.

He doesn’t make you wait any longer.

He growls into your cunt as you spasm around his fingers, the orgasm burning up your spine and boiling beneath your cheeks. Your back arches and he refuses to let you stop cumming, keeping his tongue just as firm and fast as you punch into overstimulation. It’s so good it borders on painful and that’s what he loves the most. The moment when you cry out his name and try to push his shoulders back because it’s just too much and only he can finally release you.

Your chest heaves as you collapse back onto the bed. Titus slowly withdraws his fingers from your pussy and licks them clean, drunk on the taste of the two of you becoming one. You can’t talk or think as you rest the back of your hand on your forehead to cool it down. After a few moments of breathing, you smirk up at him and tease, “I knew you’d cave, you big softie.”

He kneels over you again. “I assure you it was completely selfish; making you cum strokes my ego.”

“Mhmm. Whatever you say.”

Titus tuts out a chuckle and checks his watch before swearing under his breath. After a searing kiss that gives you the sense he wants nothing more than to start a second round, Titus sighs, “Three hours as my live-in trophy wife and you’re already making me late.”

You nip his collarbone. “Bite me.”

“Don’t tempt me.” He holds your chin and orders gently, “Ask Chip to take you downtown. Designer district. Buy an outfit that makes you feel perfect and be home in time for dinner at six.”

At 5:58, Titus knocks on the door of his own home with a bouquet of white roses. He can already imagine you rolling your eyes at his display before Smith opens up the door on your behalf. Titus is pleased to see that you let him open it without argument, already beginning to accept having others watch out for you.

You step into the moonlight and Titus hands off the flowers to Smith, who falls back behind you. For a moment, Titus is at a loss for words. You’ve always made a point of dressing up and looking beautiful for him; that’s a part of your arrangement, a part of the business of being a professional sugar baby. He’s even paid for you to get plenty of lovely pieces to add to your wardrobe.

But this?

You’ve spent the handful of hours since he left (and attended several excruciating meetings) pampering yourself into a state more akin to divinity than humanity. He may not have the eye for fashion that his sister does, but he can easily identify the trappings of a woman feeling confident about herself: Freshly French-tipped nails, sleek high heels with a thin strap around your ankle, makeup subtle and feminine. The burgundy halter dress hugs your curves, the silk crepe just structured enough to be formal but swinging enough to be sweet and flirty.

He wants to devour you.

And when he kisses you hello, he makes it obvious, dipping you far backwards and gripping your hip like it owes him money. He can feel the designer quality of the dress, soft as butter, under his fingertips. Then he rakes his hands up your thighs and growls against your ears, “I’m not going to be able to keep my hands off you in the one situation where I absolutely have to.”

You give him a modest twirl and ask, “You really like it?”

 With his hand on your lower back, Titus guides you toward the main house and purrs, sounding both proud and possessive, “You look perfectly at home in luxury, kitten.”

You try to quell your nerves as you walk up the marble steps to the back entrance of the home, where Smith opens the large glass doors to usher you both inside. Unlike Titus’ – and your, you have to keep reminding yourself – house, the main house is opulently designed, drenched in old-school grandeur. Everything is antique, hundreds of years old, in dark woods and rich silks. It’s more like walking through a museum than a home.

When Titus brings you into the grand dining room, you can see just how well his father and sister match the decor. Thin, severe, expensive. His sister is drop-dead gorgeous in a very ‘90s leading lady way while his father has the sort of face and demeanor usually reserved for stereotypical evil wizards or vampire counts. Titus has to push you into their eyeline when you find yourself shrinking beneath their stares.

Mr. Danforth and Ursula both stand to greet you but don’t move otherwise. Titus takes a deep breath and announces, “Father, Ursula, I’d like to introduce the future Mrs. Danforth.”

Father offers you his hand first, but you’re clearly not supposed to shake it, so you just present your own. He lifts your hand to his lips and kisses your skin softly. “How lovely to finally make your acquaintance. My son has sung your praises extensively.”

“That’s very sweet.” You bite your tongue despite how easy it would be to tease Titus because you know for a fact he never would’ve mentioned you to them at all if it weren’t for the baby. You stick with a polite albeit slightly stiff, “Mr. Danforth, it’s an honor to meet you.”

Titus’ gentle, affirmative pat to your arm almost makes you laugh – the situation is too weird for words – but you still hold back. It’s a truly herculean effort not to point out how otherworldly this whole thing is. You haven’t exactly met people who just reek of power and status, their presence so effortlessly commanding that you want to laugh so you don’t cry or hide.

Then it’s Ursula’s turn with you. She doesn’t shake hands, doesn’t hug, doesn’t even speak for a solid thirty seconds. You can feel Ursula’s eyes on every inch of you, dissecting and analyizing. It’s like she’s trying to see through your skin or maybe telepathically peel it off your bones. You’re holding your breath until she finally says, “You’re very pretty.”

“Thank you.” Swallowing hard, you force a wobbly smile and tell her, “You look stunning, exactly like I expected from how your brother talks about your fashion sense.”

She waves her hand dismissively. “Please; Titus wouldn’t know fashion sense if I smacked him over the head with it. And I’ve tried.” Before you can try to come up with any possible response, she gestures to your dress and asks, “Where is this little number from? It looks appropriately expensive for the occasion. A gift from our Titus, I assume?”

“Um, yes, he sent me shopping today.”

She gives you a pitying sort of smile and squeezes your forearm in a way that feels truly predatory. “He’s always so generous with his playthings.”

Titus clears his throat. “Ursula.”

“I’m just teasing,” she laughs without any humor. Then her narrowed eyes return to you. “Really, though, where did you find a dress like this in our dingy little city?”

You smooth out the fabric and tell her, “It’s, um, it’s Yves Saint Laurent.”

“Looks like something I would wear.”

You try on a soft, self-deprecating laugh. “I told Chip to take me somewhere you would shop.”

“Maybe I’ll go and pick one up in my size,” she muses, still scanning your body for every flaw, which you’re suddenly painfully aware of, coming up with brand new insecurities every second her focus moves. “I’d ask to borrow it, but yours would drown me.”

Titus cuts her off sharply, “That’s enough.”

She pouts at her brother. “Don’t be so sensitive, ducky; I’m sure she can-”

“No.” You’ve never heard Titus’ voice as stone cold and commanding as when he tells her, an order and a punishment, “Never speak down to her. Never.”

Ursula rolls her eyes and plops herself dramatically in one of the oversized dining chairs. She pouts and says, “Fatherhood is already making you so boring. Now I’m going to have to weaponize her against you so I have someone to complain with about how boring you are. Sigh.”

And dinner goes just about like that.

Mr. Danforth unabashedly interrogates you about your life, your family, your history. Ursula critiques your answers. Titus snaps at them both when they push too far. You just try to hold onto your fork and sneak bites of decadent food in between the family bickering. You can tell there’s a kind of affection entirely foreign to you in the way they jab and dodge each other’s barbs. The way rich people talk to each other – all subtext and speed – is surreal to listen to. Eyes rolled about memories in St. Barts and arguments over clients in Aspen; it’s like they’re speaking a different language from the one you learned growing up.

By the time you’ve finished pretending to like flan because you’re terrified of being rude, they seem to have hashed out all their regular arguments, everyone beyond ready to leave the rest alone. Titus can tell you’re getting overwhelmed by their equally intense presences fighting for dominance, so he slides his hand protectively onto your knee and announces, “I think we’ve kept my fiancée awake late enough, haven’t we?”

Ursula pouts, leaning across the table and snatching your left hand into hers for examination. “You already gave her mother’s ring and I missed the grand proposal? How tragically unromantic.”

Father sighs, “They’re doing things a touch out of order, darling.”

“I wouldn’t want an extravagant proposal anyway,” you manage to squeak out. “A nice private moment between the two of us was perfect.”

“Ah, so she’s the one making you boring,” Ursula laughs. Then she lowers her gaze and adds, “If you don’t like extravagance, you may be marrying into the wrong family. Your wedding guest list is already 250 people long.”

“I’m definitely looking forward to all of it,” you assure as you desperately try not to sound either meek or ungrateful, “but Titus is being kind enough to ease me into the waters. Trust me: The beautiful estate and stunning, personal ring made as much of a statement as any proposal.”

Father smirks at you with a pleased satisfaction that seems to surprise Titus and his sister. “What a diplomatic response. My daughter will be lucky to learn from your decorum.”

As Titus stifles a laugh, Ursula stands up dramatically from the table and reminds him, “I’m literally a diplomat, Father. Try telling the people of Monaco that I’m anything but diplomatic when I personally broke ground on the country’s latest arts center.”

“That was for optics,” Titus cuts back, adding under this breath, “unlike my work in Geneva.”

Ursula brandishes her knife like she might really use it on him, making you gasp gently under your breath, and that’s when Father officially clears his throat and stands with a curt, “I think that’s enough family time for one night.”

“I completely agree,” Titus replies, rolling his shoulders before he stands up. After pulling your chair out and guiding you to your feet, he says, “We’ll see you both at the Governor’s Ball on Saturday.” 

Titus shakes his father’s hand at the end of dinner and, once again, you have to remind yourself not to tease him. Thankfully, it’s a surgical extraction from there and Titus has you walking back toward your house in no time.

After Titus dismisses Smith for the night and arms the extensive home security system, he meets you in the primary bathroom, where you’re unclasping your jewelry and examining yourself in the mirror. Titus must’ve had someone on staff put away your things because your bedtime skincare routine is laid out on the countertop. Before reaching for any of it, you bite your lip and ask Titus, “Be honest: Did I do okay?”

He comes up behind you, slipping his strong arms around your waist. “You did great. I’m only sorry Ursula was so very-” he struggles to find the right word “-Ursula.”

“I expected worse,” you tell him with half a smile. “I didn’t expect you to stand up for me, though. To your sister.”

“Ursula is the family the universe gave me. She’s my best friend and my closest confidant – and she’s a nightmare. A hellion.” Titus kisses your forehead and gently touches your stomach. “You’re the family I’m choosing. That means you come first, button. I’m not going to have my children watch their father sit idly by while their mother is insulted. I’m practicing setting a good example.”

You stand up on your toes and kiss him on the cheek. “Thank you.”

Titus runs his hands up your spine and fiddles with the halter tie at the back of your neck. “Now let’s get you out of this very lovely dress so you can sleep. Do you need a back rub? Some ginger tea?”

You raise an eyebrow as you slowly take out your cleanser and reusable cotton rounds. “Are those real offers or are you teasing me?”

“Real offers. From either a masseuse I can have here in fifteen minutes and our chef or from me personally.” He tugs the dress down your body, guides you to step out of it, and discards it in the bathroom hamper like you didn’t pay $3,200 for it a few hours ago. “No funny business, just relaxation and rest, especially well earned after spending a few hours with my family.”

“I could probably tolerate a foot rub before bed,” you giggle as he kisses across the tops of your shoulders.

“Go on, then.” He strips off his own shirt and makes quick work of his belt and slacks, too. Looking deliciously sturdy in just his black boxer briefs, he leans against the bathroom doorframe and says. “Finish getting un-ready and come lie down with me, princess. I’ll make sure to get you nice and relaxed before bed.”

“You want me to do my whole bedtime routine topless?”

“I’ll grab you something from your closet,” he offers, frowning a little because he admittedly does like the idea of watching you traipsing around with your tits out. When he returns with a tank top and silky shorts, he notices you still haven’t started taking off your full face of makeup. Too knowingly, he strolls into the bathroom with the pajamas and asks, all low and teasing, “Are you nervous to take off your makeup in front of me?”

You toy with the damp cloth, studying him in the mirror, and admit, “A little. And not just the makeup.”

He crosses his arms over his chest and laughs, “I’ve seen you naked, kitty.”

You scoff, “Naked and made up with at minimum highlighter and mascara. Or in very manicured outfits.”

He offers, “I’ve also seen you in pajamas before.”

“Lingerie,” you correct. “You don’t really think I sleep in slutty little negligees and teddies, do you?”

“A man can dream.”

“Well, if you hadn’t noticed, typically you rip those off me, fuck me unconscious, and then leave before my actual bedtime routine,” you reply, poking him in his hard chest. As you tug on the tank top and shorts, you go on, “I usually wake up around midnight, get room service on your tab, and sleep in my ugly sweats since you never spend the night.”

Clearly amused by the whole thing, he presses, “Are you worried I’ll rescind my proposal to the mother of my child because you aren’t a model in your sleep?”

“I don’t know!” You huff and glare at him, knowing full well you’re being hormonally dramatic now. “This is all very new to me, Titus. I have to wear a four-figure dress to dinner and go to the fucking Governor’s Ball, I guess, but I still have to be me at bedtime? All while figuring out how to be your fiancée and not just your sugar baby? It’s weird.”

Titus closes the space between you, each step stern and confident. He takes the makeup removal pad and cleanser from you, gently lathers the cloth, and starts to work it over your face without saying a word. Titus says the most when he's silent. Right away, you melt beneath his touch. His totally sturdy gaze. Quietly, he relents, “It’s a lot. I know that. You don’t have to come to the big social events right away; we can start smaller than the fucking Governor’s Ball.” He smiles when you crack one of your own. “If you aren’t ready to jump right into being my wife, there are plenty of other bedrooms you can stay in and have your own space.”

“I don’t want my own space,” you whisper back. “I’m just scared of taking up too much of yours, I guess. Or not fitting into your life the way you expect. Of being Mrs. Danforth correctly. Not looking expensive enough or beautiful enough or-”

“Quiet now,” he interrupts, words harsh and clear but tone nothing but warm. “Do you know what I want from Mrs. Danforth?” Titus finishes wiping your face of its mask and then examines your products and selects your moisturizer. He massages it into your face and neck with fingers so tender you could cry. When he’s finished, he holds your face in one large hand and murmurs, “I want you to sit by my side and sleep in my arms. You. We have the rest of our lives to work out the details.”

For the first time, you feel the real you slip out in front of Titus. No flirting, no pushing, no hiding. All you can manage to whisper is, “Thank you.”

He gives you a soft kiss and then goes on, quiet but urgent. “As for worrying about your appearance, you have never been lovelier to me than you are right now,” leading you to the bed and sitting you down with your feet in his lap, he finishes, “because you’re mine. And that’s the most perfect thing you can be.”

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[fangirl-dot-com]

Doppel-banger: a double of a living person who you wouldn't hesitate to tap

summary: five times you think you stumbled upon jack abbot vs. the one time it's actually him

tags: shawn hatosy universe, brett richards, sammy bryant, andrew "pope" cody, terry mccandless, titus dandforth, jack abbot, terry is lowkey creepy, titus mentions sacrificing somone, brett sammy and pope are all nice, canon pope staring, second hand embarrassment, younger fem!reader but age is not specified

notes: okay, so I had this idea of making a full oneshot about a reader mistaking pope for a concussed jack for an entire day, but the I thought it'd be really funny to make a collection of all the major shawn characters. i haven't seen any of the tv shows, but i read so much fan fiction, I am sorry if some of them are ooc, if you'd like to join my permanent taglist please comment on this post ! enjoy!

word count: 9.6k

By the time you finally escaped into the ambulance bay, the Pitt had descended into the fog that made everyone vaguely mean and snappy to each other. 

A car had decided to plow through the front of a convenience store three blocks away just before noon, which somehow evolved into a gas leak, a grease fire from the kitchen next door, multiple smoke inhalations, and one man who’d managed to impale his own hand on a display rack while trying to “help.” The Pitt had been drowning ever since with no floaties in sight. Stretchers lined the hallways, Robby was barking orders over the chaos, and a med student was getting publicly destroyed for contaminating a sterile field. 

Your entire body ached with exhaustion, and it wasn’t even 2:30 yet. Your scrub top clung uncomfortably to your back, your ponytail was halfway falling out, and the iced coffee you’d brought six hours ago had long since melted into a watery disappointment sitting untouched at the nurses’ station under Dana’s watchful eye. 

You only stepped outside because you needed thirty seconds where nobody was actively bleeding near you. 

The bay smelled faintly like smoke and gasoline, engines rumbling low beneath the distant screams of sirens out in the city. Paramedics moved around in practiced patterns, unloading equipment while firefighters lingered near one of the firetrucks parked crookedly next to an ambulance. You barely paid attention at first, too busy rubbing at the ache gathering behind your eyes. 

You had started to walk back toward the Pitt but stopped entirely when you saw him; well—the back of him anyway with his broad shoulders and dark, soaked curls resting against his nape. Even if you couldn’t see his face, he somehow was able to stand out in a crowd even surrounded by firefighters in full turnout gear. One hand braced against the side of the engine while he spoke to someone beside him, his jacket stretched over his shoulders. 

No matter what, you’d always be able to spot Jack Abbot in a crowd. 

Your eyes dragged slowly over his newfound bright yellow firefighting gear, the reflective stripes glinting. The heavy boots and radio clipped to his chest had you pausing and staring for a solid three seconds, mind trying to process how exactly the man had apparently gone from night shift attending and SWAT medic to volunteer firefighter without mentioning it to anyone. 

But more importantly, mentioning it to you. 

Actually, when you thought about it, knowing Jack, the change tracked perfectly. The man already had a self-sacrificial streak a mile wide. Of course he’d look at one incredibly dangerous side quest and think You know what would make my life even better? Fire. 

A deeply offended laugh escaped your lips, and without thinking too hard about it, you started moving toward him. 

“Seriously, Abbot?” you called out over the noise of the bay. “You take one shift off and suddenly you’re fighting convivence store fires now?” 

The man beside him glanced over first, obviously confused, but Jack turned more slowly, still halfway shrugging out of his jacket as you continued your approach. 

“No, because SWAT clearly wasn’t stressful enough for you,” you continued, tired enough that the words just kept coming. “You looked at armed standoffs and thought, wow, my life is missing a little spontaneous combustion.” 

By the time you reached them, the stranger standing beside him was openly staring at you in amusement. Meanwhile, Jack had gone very still. 

That should have been your first warning. 

But against all self-preservation, you planted your hands on your hips and kept going. “Do you know how insane it is that this is how I’m finding out? I had to see you standing next to a fire engine like some kind of hot, emotionally unstable calendar shoot—” 

Jack finally turned fully toward you, and your brain stopped functioning completely.

Because the man in front of you was not Jack Abbot. 

In your defense, he was close enough to knock the air from your lungs for a second. He had the same dark, hazel eyes, the same rough kind of handsomeness that looked better the more exhausted and grimed up they got. They even had the same intimidating build that made people move out of their way without a second glance. 

But somehow, this man looked older that Jack, more self-assured in a way that only grew as he looked deeply entertained by your humiliation already unfolding in real time. The silence stretched until the firefighter next to him snorted loudly into his fist. 

Your stomach dropped straight through the floor. 

“I’m flattered you think I’m hot.” The not-Jack’s mouth twitched slightly. “But is it a bad time to mention my name’s not Jack?” 

Heat flooded your face so fast it physically hurt. “No,” you breathed, horrified out of your mind. “No, no, no.” 

Now the firefighter beside him was fully laughing, turning away entirely as though witnessing your embarrassment firsthand had become too much for him to handle. 

You covered your face with both hands. “I need someone to hit me with an ambulance immediately.” 

“That feels awfully dramatic,” the man said. 

Your eyes found him through the slats of your fingers. “You have my attending’s face.” 

“I’m starting to gather that.” 

“You even stand like him,” you accused, voice muffled by your palms. “Which is apparently enough for me to lose all critical thinking skills.” 

He laughed softly, low and rough enough to make the situation somehow worse. “Well,” he said, “in fairness, you seemed pretty confident.” 

You lowered your hands just enough to glare at him. “Because I really thought my friend had secretly joined the fire department.” 

The stranger folded his arms across his chest, turnout jacket hanging loosely from one hand while he studied you with open amusement. “So this Jack guy—he always gets yelled at like this by you?” 

“Only when he does something stupid.” 

“I’m starting to think I should meet him.” 

You shook your head, hands finally dropping back to your sides. “You abso-fucking-lutely should not. I think seeing both of you in the same room might kill me instantly.” 

He grinned wildly, quick but devastatingly effective enough it sent tingles up your spine.

Great. Fantastic. Love that for you. One Jack Abbot was hard enough to not stare at as is; having them both in the same room would actually cause a spontaneous combustion of your body. 

You sighed heavily, dragging a hand down your face. “Okay. Wonderful. I’m gonna go crawl into oncoming traffic now if you don’t mind.” 

Before you could make your great escape, he stuck out his hand toward you. “Captain Brett Richards.” 

You looked at it suspiciously for a second before taking it. His grip was warm, firm, and rough with callouses in all the right places. You gave over your name reluctantly, still unable to fully look him in the face without feeling embarrassed all over again. 

Unfortunately for you, he spoke again, timber all deep and ragged. “For the record, I was gonna let you keep going.” 

Your eyes snapped to his hazel ones. “What?” 

“I wanted to see how long it took you before you noticed.” 

“You are a bad person, Brett Richards.” 

“I’m a curious person. There’s a difference.” 

“You stood there and listened to me accuse you of having a hero complex.” 

“Seemed important to you.” 

“I’ve been publicly humiliated!” 

“Just humiliated between me and my friend. I don’t think that counts as the public.” 

You pointed at him accusingly. “You’re creepy.” 

“What?” 

“The tone you’re doing right now.” 

Brett blinked. “What tone?” 

“The exact same tone he uses when he thinks I’m being ridiculous.” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

“You sound exactly like him too.” 

Now he looked offended. “I do not.” 

“You absolutely do. You’re even doing the whole arms cross and puffing out your chest while simultaneously stretching your neck to look taller.” 

The other firefighter chimed in. “Honestly, Brett? She’s kinda right.” 

Brett looked over, absolute betrayal on his face. “Whose side are you on?” 

“Definitely not yours.” 

You laughed loudly, fatigue finally cracking enough to let something lighter through. At the same moment, your phone buzzed in your scrub pocket. You pulled it out, eyes widening at the incoming message. 

Jack:  Running late. Scene turned into a disaster. Save me a trauma room before some other resident does something stupid. 

“I bet you two text the same,” you grumbled, shoving your phone back into your pocket before looking back up at him. 

He laughed outright at that, shoulders shaking slightly. “Sounds like you know this man intimately. Do you possibly have a type? Or do you grumble at every silver fox in your area.” 

You glared at him as best you could. “I don’t have a type. Do not make this my problem.” 

“Feels like your problem already.” 

“Oh, we absolutely aren’t doing this today.” Still, a smile grew on your face before you started backing toward the ambulance bay doors again. “I’m leaving before this gets more psychologically damaging.” 

Brett called after you easily, “Tell Jack Abbot I’m apparently his hotter firefighter version!” 

You stepped dead in your tracks and slowly turned around. “. . .You know what?” you said thoughtfully. “I actually think saying that out loud near him might start a physical fight.” 

Brett’s grin widened. “Now I definitely want to meet him.” 

_______________________

The worst shifts always seem to end quietly and not anywhere close to peaceful. The Pitt, you liked to think, was incapable of achieving peace. Even now, close to midnight (almost five hours after your shift “officially ended”), you left behind blaring monitors, patients in needed of doctors, and exhausted coworkers who had just started to trade sarcastic insults at the station just to stay awake. But compared to the disaster the evening had started, the hospital had tasted almost manageable to where you believed they had everything handled. 

Your feet dragged as you stepped out through the ambulance bay doors, the night air cool against the lingering heat trapped beneath your scrub jacket. The city smelled faintly damp from rain earlier in the evening, asphalt still dark under the lights. 

You leaned against the brick wall beside the entrance for a second, closing your eyes briefly. 

Today had been brutal in the particular way only emergency medicine could manage. There had been too many patients, too many families crying in the halls, too many moments where things almost went wrong before somebody caught it at the last second. You’d spent more than twelve hours keeping yourself stitched together with caffeine and momentum, and now that things finally slowed down enough, your brain had apparently decided to stop all regular functions, effective immediately. 

Which was probably why, when you spotted a familiar figure standing near one of the patrol cars parked on the other side of the street, the pieces fell into place, your brain beaming Oh, Jack just left too? 

Jack stood with his back partially toward you, shoulders slumped slightly beneath a dark jacket while one hand rested against the roof of the cruiser. His head tilted down toward the coffee in his hand, dark curls shadowed in the lack of street lights. 

You didn’t even think before walking toward the warm, familiar build that held the same tired posture Jack adopted after a nasty shift, almost preparing his body to show up the next day anyway. 

“Please tell me,” you called out tiredly, “that your shift was somehow worse than mine so I can feel better about my life choices.” 

Jack glanced over at the sound of your voice, but you kept talking before fully seeing his face. 

“Because if I have to hear one more over pompous med student stay the words ‘technically speaking,’ I’m actually going to commit a felony.” 

A low huff of amusement answered you. “Long night?” 

“Long life is more like it,” you corrected, finally stepping slow enough to see him properly. 

You froze when he fully turned, because the universe apparently had a personal vendetta against you for probably your past life’s sins. Because once again, the man standing in front of you was not Jack Abbot. Yes, he was close enough to make your stomach drop for a second. His eyes glinted with the same sadness Jack’s did. He even had the same rough exhaustion written lines around his mouth. However, this man looked like someone who absorbed the weight of things instead of fighting against them. 

Also, now that he was turned to you, his officer badge and uniform stuck out like a sore thumb. 

And unlike Brett earlier in the week, this stranger didn’t look quite as amused by your mistake. He just looked tired. 

You stopped short of the cruiser, horror crawling slowly up your spine. “Oh.” 

He blinked once before taking a slow sip of coffee. “Bad start to the conversation?” 

“Fuck me; I did it again,” you muttered to yourself. 

“Again?” 

You covered your face briefly with one hand, humiliation already blatant on your face. “There’s apparently two other guys walking around Pittsburgh with your exact face.” 

“Well, that sound concerning.” 

“I’m very concerned for my mental status.” 

The corner of his mouth twitched, subtle enough you almost missed it. 

You let out a defeated sigh, face turned toward the sky, before gesturing vaguely toward him. “You are not Jack Abbot.” 

“Nope.” 

“Perfect.”

“You wanna try my name instead?” There wasn’t even a hint of annoyance in his voice. If anything, he sounded mildly curious about the situation unfolding in front of him. 

You laughed weakly, hands lightly tapping your thighs. “Honestly, I think I should just stop talking to strangers forever.” 

“You always this extreme when mistaking people for another?” 

“Only when I keep finding multiple emotionally exhausted men who all look exactly like my attending.” 

That earned you a slightly more noticeable smile as he pushed away from the patrol car, holding out one hand toward you. “Sammy Bryant.” 

You shook it, still staring at him in disbelief. “I’m sorry, Officer Bryant, but this is all still genuinely ridiculous to me.” 

Sammy glanced down at your hospital badge as you gave him your name. “You work inside?” 

“Unfortunately.”

“Late shift?” 

You shook your head. “You could say that. I started at seven this morning.” 

His eyebrows lifted. “And you’re still standing?” 

“Barely.” You looked down at your body. “I think my soul high tailed it out of there around hour nine and never came back.” 

A soft laugh escaped him, quieter than Brett’s hand been, but still holding the same warmth that made you feel comfortable. 

You mentally made a decision before leaning back against his patrol car beside him, rubbing at your eyes with one hand. For a moment, neither of you spoke and just listened to the faint noises of the night. 

Sammy took another sip of coffee before nodding toward the hospital. “Was it busy today?” 

A long, shuddering breath whistled through your lips. “One trauma after another. Half the city apparently decided today was a great day to make terrible healthcare decisions.” 

“Sounds about right.” 

“And one student almost gave a patient the wrong dosage because he was trying to impress our boss.” 

Sammy grimaced, lips curling up. “How reassuring.” 

“We caught it before it happened, but still.” Your hair moved slowly across your forehead as you shook your head tiredly. “At some point though you just start wondering if everyone should stop touching things altogether or find some patience before they kill someone.” 

He hummed softly in agreement, hazel eyes drifting toward the street. “You probably already know, but that feeling really doesn’t ever go away.” 

You glanced over at him, taking in his face properly. Like your Jack, Sammy seemed to carry the same heaviness about him, like emergency services hadn’t been kind to either of them. 

“How long have you been on the force?” you asked quietly, taking his uniform details in as your eyes roamed. 

“Twelve years.” 

“Explains your expression.” 

At least he didn’t sound offended when he asked, “What expression?” 

“The one that says humanity was a big mistake.” 

He chuckled lowly. “Yeah,” he admitted. “You nailed that one perfectly.” 

A faint smile hooked onto your lips before your head tipped back against the cruiser window behind you. “Jack has that look too.” 

Sammy looked over. “The guy I apparently share a face with?” 

“Yep.” You looked down at your hands, fingers picking at the skin around your nails. “Him and this firefighter named Richards.” 

“What does Jack do?” 

“He’s the night shift attending, and he volunteers as a SWAT medic during his free days.”

Sammy nodded along, understanding settling across his face as he listened. “That tracks.” 

“You say that like you know him.” 

“Don’t need to.” He shrugged. “You can tell what kind of person someone is by the jobs they stay in too long.” 

For a second, you watched him quietly beneath the moonlight, struck again by how strange this whole thing felt. It wasn’t because he looked like Jack—though that continued to be deeply unsettling—but because talking to him felt easy in the same dangerous way talking to Jack always did; honesty dripping from their mouths the more tired they got. 

Similarly, Sammy studied you for a moment before speaking again. “Are you okay?” 

His question caught you off guard. Again, that genuine earnestness they both seemed to have bled through even if Sammy had only met you moments ago. 

Your eyes traveled back down to your hands for a second before a half laugh bubbled softly under your breath. “You ever have one of those days where you think maybe everyone should stop needing things from you for like . . . twenty-four hours?” 

“Yeah,” Sammy answered. “More than once. My ex-wife used to call me all the time, and I just begged for break.” 

It was now your turn to wince. “Logically, I know it’s a terrible mindset to have as someone working in healthcare, but after the fifth screaming family member and the third guy trying to leave with an IV still in his arm, I’m starting to reconsider my commitment to helping people.” 

“You’re tired,” he said simply. 

“I think cranky is a better term for what I’m feeling right now.” 

“You’re human.” 

You glanced back up at him. “You know, you’re both annoyingly and suspiciously good at this whole peptalk thing.” 

“Me and Jack?” 

“Yeah. You have this calm voice thing. It’s irritating.” 

Sammy smirked into his coffee cup. “Maybe you just trust guys who look too tired for life.” 

“Maybe I need therapy.” 

“That too.” 

You laughed a bit harder at that than the joke deserved, but exhaustion always made you a bit slaphappy. Once the sound subsided, the two of you fell back into a comfortable silence. Sammy stayed leaned beside the cruiser, quiet in a way that didn’t feel awkward, and you realized that the comfortableness was probably the strangest part of the whole ordeal. 

As a senior resident, most people demanded every ounce of energy from you. Conversation. Reassurance. Attention. They picked it all apart until a hollow shell of yourself went home to recharge for another day. But standing here with him felt easy in the same way standing beside Jack did after a nightmare shift. There wasn’t pressure to perform, zero expectation to be cheerful, just silent understanding between two people trying to survive difficult jobs. 

Sammy finally glanced toward you again. “Whoever this Jack guy is,” he said casually, “he must be worth confusing strangers over.” 

“That’s still up for debate.” 

“But you still like him.” 

You opened your mouth to argue before realizing you had no real defense against that, and Sammy absolutely noticed. A knowing sort of amusement flashed briefly across his face before he looked back out toward the street and the Pitt again, giving you an out without pressing further. 

You sighed dramatically. “Unfortunately I do. He’s annoyingly competent.” 

“Dangerous trait to have.” 

And he does this thing where he acts like indifferent while actively solving all the problems.” 

“Real terrible guy.” 

You rolled your eyes fondly. “He’s just the worst.” 

Sammy laughed quietly, and you smiled before finally pushing away from the cruiser. 

“I should probably head to my car before somebody sees I’m still here and decides they need me to pull a double.” 

His eyebrows rose. “Probably.” 

“It was nice to meet you, Sammy.” 

“Likewise.”

As you started in the direction of the parking lot, Sammy lifted his coffee slightly in farewell. 

“And hey,” he called out after a few steps. 

You paused and turned back toward him with a raised eyebrow. 

“If you run into another one of us,” he said dryly, “maybe lead with the name first!” 

Your laugh echoed across the bay as you flipped him the bird to which his boisterous laughter also joined in with yours all the way to the parking lot. 

_______________________

By the fifth twelve-hour shift in a row, the Pitt stopped feeling real. 

Time blurred through patient rooms. Daylight disappeared without warning. Meals became whatever you could hork down before another trauma alarm went off. Entire conversations slipped from your memory the second someone started coding. By three in the afternoon, the Pitt finally settled into a lapping wave instead of a tsunami, something easier to wade through instead of drown in. 

You’d be done in four hours. 

That’s all you could think as you found yourself wandering the full surprisingly empty area near radiology with a vending machine coffee clenched in one hand and your pager clipped crookedly to your scrub pants after catching another consult. 

The coffee tasted burnt enough to qualify as chemical warfare. 

You drank it down anyway. 

Your shoulders ached as you rounded the corner toward the quieter hallway leading to imagine, gravity pulled extra heavily at your limbs. Most of the overhead lights had dimmed this far from the trauma bays, leaving the corridor washed in soft blue-gray shadows only broken by the occasional flicker of a light lucky enough to have had its bulbs changed recently. 

That was when you spotted Jack sitting alone against the wall near the windows. 

Your steps slowed automatically. 

Even half-curled into one of the uncomfortable chairs that had been brought in from check-in, you found the familiar dark curls along his forehead and broad shoulders hunched beneath a black sweatshirt. His long legs stretched out in front of him while his hands rested loosely clasped together between his knees.

Your mind should have caught up by now that there was a 95 percent chance that the Jack in front of you was not actually Jack. The past two times, the odds had been against you. Even as you approached, you honestly weren’t sure if he actually was Jack. 

But his Jack-Abbot shape and Jack-Abbot demeanor mixed with your weighted exhaustion overrode every caution light fast enough you continued to walk steadily towards him. 

“You know handoff’s not for another four hours, right?” you asked tiredly. “Or are you here early again to save the day?” 

Jack’s neck twisted as he looked up at you, and for one brief second, your brain short-circuited again. 

Three and oh. 

You found yourself truly wondering if you had the most absurd luck in finding the men who shared unsettling similarities (hazel eyes, rugged kind of handsomeness, a stillness that carried respect that could command a room) or if you were just unfortunately a Jack-Abbot-doppelganger magnet. 

In this instance, you wished for neither because this one looked sad. 

Where Jack’s exhaustion usually kept him sharp and tightly wound, this stranger looked just as weighed down as you felt. His expression stayed completely unreadable as he stared at you, hazel eyes fixed so intently on your face that you had stopped walking altogether. 

You paused in front of him. “Oh no,” you whispered. “I did it again.” 

The man continued staring at you silently, and you stared back. After a beat, he slowly tilted his head just slightly to one side in a movement so subtle it almost felt animal-like. Your stomach dropped. 

“I’m going to take a wild guess and say you’re name isn’t Jack.” 

Still, he said nothing; such a stark difference from Brett’s flirty amusement and Sammy’s conversational abilities. He just watched you. 

You laughed weakly into the silence. “Okay, statistically this is getting insane.” 

He blinked once before his gaze dropped briefly to the coffee in your hand before lifting back to your face. “Is that good?” 

His voice was the thing to catch you off guard. Where Jack could bark orders quicker than he could blink, this man spoke slowly, careful with his words like he though each one over before letting it leave his mouth. 

A startled exhale flew from your mouth. “No. But, I think I’m legally dead at this point, so what I put in my body really doesn’t matter.” 

Another long pause settled in the space between you, and he didn’t seem bothered at all by it. If anything, he seemed pretty comfortable inside it unlike everyone else you knew (including yourself). 

You shifted your weight awkwardly. “Sorry. Again. I thought you were someone else.”

He methodically nodded once, already having figured that part out. “The same someone else?” 

“Damn, there’s enough resemblance now that people are starting to notice patterns.” You glanced toward an empty chair beside him before looking into his eyes with uncertainty. “Can I sit, or will I disturb the quiet zen you have going on back here?” 

Another pause. 

“You can sit.” 

You lowered yourself carefully into the chair beside him, fatigue instantly sinking deeper into your bones the second you stopped moving. The burnt-gas-tasting coffee warmed your palms while the quiet hallway stretched around you, distant hospital noises muffled enough to sound almost unreal this far away from the Pitt. 

Beside you, the stranger sat perfectly still like he was scared to breach an invisible wall of containment. After a few moments, you began to noticed the differences between him and Jack. He avoided looking directly at the lights. His fingers slowly rubbed against each other every few seconds like he needed the repetitive motion to stay grounded. He kept a careful distance between himself and you. 

“Are you waiting on somebody?” you asked gently. 

His eyes shifted toward you, intense enough that it almost felt like physical pressure. 

“My brother,” he answered after a second. “He got hurt.” 

 Concern softened through your exhaustion. “Is he okay?” 

He gave another small shrug. “He’s alive.” 

His words may have been flat, but you could sense the ache badly enough that you heard it anyway. 

You nodded. “That’s usually a good start around here. Can’t do much on a dead guy.”

A small almost-smile curled his lip. 

You took a small sip of your coffee and grimaced before the liquid even reached your throat. “Holy fuck that’s terrible.” 

His eyes looked down at the cup. 

“How can anyone call this coffee when it tastes like somebody filtered dirty water through cigarette ash,” you informed him. 

He stared at you for a half second longer than most people would have before asking unexpectedly, “Why are you still drinking it?” 

You giggled softly. “Because I still have a few patients to get through before handoffs.” 

“Oh.” 

“Yeah. I feel the same way.” 

A silence settled again, soft and comfortable where you found yourself glancing sideways at him occasionally while you sat there. Up close, the resemblance to Jack somehow became even more unfair. However, you guessed this is how Jack looked around 10 years ago with brownish-red hair and fewer wrinkles. But yet, the same feeling that both men carried too much responsibility around like extra weight strapped to their shoulders pulled at your heartstrings. 

Also, where Jack’s emotions tended to sit close to the surface—irritation, protectiveness, frustration—this man kept everything buried so deeply you almost wondered if he realized that his expressions gave him away at all. Because despite how blank his face stayed while he either stared at the floor or stared at you, his eyes were devastatingly easy to read. 

Lonely, your brain supplied. 

You tore your eyes away. “So,” you said quietly after a while, “do you have a name, or should I keep mentally referring to you as Not Jack the Third?” 

He pursed his lips. “Andrew.” 

No nickname. 

Not even a last name. 

Just Andrew. 

You smiled faintly. “Well, Andrew, for what it’s worth, you’re significantly less judgmental about mistaken identity than the last two.” 

“The last two?” 

“Long story.” 

He nodded once like that answer satisfied him completely. Another few minutes passed quietly before your pager suddenly buzzed against your hip hard enough to make you jump. Andrew’s eyes tracked the movement carefully. 

“Do you need to go help people?” 

“Yep. Part of the job’s charm.” 

“You’re tired.” 

“There’s no rest for the wicked.” Your head tilted. “Or me for that matter.” 

He looked at you again with that same strange, steady focus. “You should sleep more.” 

“You sound like Jack.” 

Andrew tilted his head slightly. “Is that good?” 

“Yeah,” you answered softly. “It’s very good.” 

His gaze lingered on your face for another long moment before he finally looked away first. You stood slowly from the chair, adjusting your pager against your waistband. 

“I should go save the hospital from itself,” you muttered sarcastically. 

Andrew nodded once. Then, just before you turned away completely, his voice stopped you again. “You looked happier when you talked about him . . . your Jack.” 

You blinked before slowly looking back at him. Andrew sat exactly where you’d left him, hands loosely clasped together, sad eyes fixed on you under the dim hallway lights. He wasn’t flirting or trying to charm you; he was just stating something he’d noticed. His honesty hit harder than it probably should have. 

You smiled warmly back at him. “Have a good rest of your day, Andrew.” 

His gaze followed you all the way down the hallway until you disappeared around the corner and back into the Pitt. 

_______________________

By now, you should have known better. 

Key words: should have. 

Three separate incidents should have been enough to teach your brain not to immediately trust broad shoulders and tired hazel eyes in low lighting, and yet apparently your never-ending exhaustion had burned away whatever survival instincts you normally possessed. At this point, the universe seemed committed to producing endless variations of the same emotionally damaged man just to see how many times you’d embarrassed yourself before learning. 

Unfortunately, tonight really wasn’t helping your judgment. 

Rain hammered steadily against your windshield as you pulled into the near-empty parking garage attached to the hospital, the concrete levels echoing faintly with the sound of tires and distant thunder. Your night shift was supposed to start soon, give or take an hour, but a last-minute emergency surgery had called you in early just in case Jack was held up or if the rain got too much for you to drive safely in. 

All you wanted was to get inside, get your Dunkin from Shen, and live through this shift so that your following two days off were nothing but pure paradise. 

Instead, you killed the engine and sat there for a second staring blankly through the rain-streaked windshield while tiredness settled heavy behind your eyes. 

The parking garage was mostly empty this late at night. Lights buzzed overhead, washing the concrete levels in pale gray while rainwater dripped steadily from the ceiling near the ramps. Somewhere farther down the row, a radio played faintly form another parked car. 

You grabbed your bag from the passenger seat with a tired sigh before climbing out into the cold damp air. The moment you were at full height, you spotted Jack leaning against one of the concrete support pillars a few rows over. You froze, hand still gripping your car door. 

At this point, his face shouldn’t have been as shocking as it was, your stomach dropping every single time you got to lay eyes on him and his salt-and-pepper curls and sexy build partially hidden under a dark jacket while one hand rested causally in his pocket. 

The faintest hint of This is probably another horrifyingly convincing copy of him. And honestly, who even knew anymore. 

Jack glanced up at you as you started to walk; your footsteps echoed slightly. His face was partially shadowed by the buzzing lights. And before your brain could fully catch up, your own mouth betrayed you first. 

Et tu, Brute?

“If you turn out to be another stranger, I’m actually gonna lose my mind.” 

Jack’s eyebrows lifted slightly before the corner of his mouth curled into something that looked far too pleased. 

“Well now,” he drawled, voice salted with a southern accent that instantly threw you off balance, “that ain’t usually how good-looking women start conversations with me.” 

You stopped short, because absolutely nothing about that voice sounded like Jack or confident Brett or sweet Sammy or quiet Andrew. This one was different with something slick underneath his drawl like he found the entire interaction entertaining before it had even properly started. 

“Oh no,” you muttered under your breath, arms wrapping around your middle to somehow protect you from his eyes. 

The now stranger pushed off the pillar slowly, watching you with open amusement as he stepped fully into the lights. And unfortunately, the resemblance to Jack got worse the closer he got. Same face shape? Check. Same hazel eyes? Check (but his sent the wrong kind of chill up your spine). 

However, unlike the others, this man looked at you like he already knew exactly how attractive he was, and that automatically made him the worst one to be around. 

You narrowed your eyes suspiciously. “Gotta take a wild guess and say your name isn’t Jack Abbot.” 

A wild grin slowly spread across his face. “No, ma’am but sounds like I oughta thank him for the introduction.” 

You actually groaned aloud. “I cannot keep doing this.”  

“Doin’ what?” 

“Finding men who all have the same face.” 

“That so?”

“Yes, and frankly it’s getting psychologically damaging.” 

The stranger laughed softly, low and self-satisfied enough to make your skin prickle slightly. The same quiet internal warning that told you when patients were about to become aggressive before security even notices was sending a tingle up your arms. 

You shifted your bag higher on your shoulder. “Okay. Great. Nice meeting you, mysterious parking garage man, but I’m gonna go before this gets more embarrassing for me.” 

“Funny,” he said casually, “seems like you started this conversation pretty confident.” 

You paused. “That was before you spoke.” 

His grin widened somehow. “Little disappointed?” 

“Concerned, actually. Very concerned.” 

He laughed again, stepping away from the pillar entirely. “Damn, darlin’. You always this mean to strangers?”  

The nickname landed wrong in your chest. Just the way he said it felt off. It wasn’t flirty, it was possessive, almost like he’d skipped straight past normal conversation and decided familiarity for himself. It all felt wrong; he felt wrong. Caution slowly sharpened under your exhaustion. 

Still, you forced a polite smile. “Only the ones lurking dramatically in a hospital parking garage.” 

He pouted, bottom lip jutted out dramatically. “You hurt my feelings a little.” 

“You’ll survive.” 

“Oh, I think I will.” His hazel eyes trailed up and down your body while he spoke. 

Your stomach tightened faintly. This man felt dangerous in a way that had nothing to do with physical violence and everything to do with manipulation. Every work out of his mouth seemed like he’d already calculated it before he said it. The others had felt human and even awkward at times, but they had been grounded below it all. 

This one, you understood a bit too late, was that he’d realized you were uncomfortable almost immediately and was enjoying watching you squirm under eyes that normally made you feel safe. 

He tilted his head slightly, eyes moving over your face with unsettling ease. “So this Jack guy,” he said conversationally, “boyfriend?” 

You sneered. “That’s none of your business.” 

“Mhm.” 

“Do you ask invasive questions to every woman you meet in parking garages?”

“Only the pretty little ones.” 

You physically recoiled a little. “Ew.” 

Somehow that only amused him more. “Do you always look this suspicious, or am I special?” 

“You’re definitely something.” 

Another slow grin spread across his face, but his eyes stayed sharp and watchful. You took a small step backward instinctively, and his gaze dropped to the movement. The awful feeling that he noticed everything tightened your chest. 

“You got a name?” he asked. 

Normally, under any other circumstance, you would’ve answered immediately. But something stopped you this time. The hesitation must have shown on your face because sick amusement flashed across his face and morphed into a look of interest. 

“Smart girl,” he murmured. 

Your spine stiffened. 

The man straightened slightly before offering you a lazy, sleazy half-smile. “Terry. Terry McCandless.” 

You nodded once carefully. “Okay . . . Terry. I’m gonna leave now.” 

“Before tellin’ me yours?” 

“Yes.” 

His eyebrows lifted slightly at your blunt answer before he laughed under his breath, shaking his head like you’d surprised him. “Well,” he drawled, “now I’m definitely curious.” 

You started backing slowly toward the Pitt, grip tightening around your bag’s strap. Terry noticed that too. For one long second, neither of you spoke. Rain echoed heavily through the garage, the entire level suddenly feeling far too empty. Terry tilted his head slightly again, studying you with blatant interest. 

“You know,” he said casually, “most women would’ve already left.” 

You forced a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Most women probably have better instincts than I do.” 

“Mm.” His gaze lingered on you another second too long, so unlike how Andrew had watched you with a quiet curiosity. Here, Terry looked at you like he was hungry. “I don’t think that’s true.” 

Suddenly, you understood with startling clarity exactly how dangerous his personality could become with the wrong person. 

You took another step backward. “Goodnight, Terry.” 

He smiled again, easy and handsome and entirely untrustworthy. “Night, darlin’.” 

You didn’t breathe properly again until you got through the doors leading to the Pitt. And even then, as you walked down the hall and took a glance back toward the concrete pillar where he’d been standing, Terry was watching you the whole time.

_______________________

You hated when Robby voluntold you to attend hospital fundraising events. 

The Pitt survived on donations almost as much as caffeine and trauma surgeons with superiority complexes. New equipment, expanded programs, research grants: all of it depended on wealthy people occasionally deciding to feel generous for tax purposes. However, that didn’t mean you wanted to spend your Friday night pretending to enjoy lukewarm champagne while hospital executives paraded donors around like show dogs ranked somewhere below “paperwork” and slightly above “food poisoning” on your list of favorite activities. 

The ballroom glittered obnoxiously around you, gold light reflecting off crystal chandeliers while a string quartet played softly near the stage. Doctors mingled through clusters of wealthy sponsors in expensive dresses and tailored tuxedos, all perfectly polished smiles and practiced networking. 

Meanwhile, you stood near the bar in horrifically high heel that you knew were actively trying to murder your feet and wondered if you could fake your own death before dessert was served. 

“You look positively thrilled to be here,” a familiar, deep voice sounded behind you, causing you to sigh in desperate relief. 

Without even turning around, you lifted your champagne flute toward him. “Jack, I swear if you’re actually not you and just another man with your face, I’m walking directly off the roof of this hotel.”  

“Well now I’m interested.” 

Your stomached dropped as you turned around slowly. 

At this point, it honestly felt biblical like a divine comedy staring you as the leading role. 

The resemblance hit just as hard as the others had: same hazel eyes, same shoulder width, same cutting-edge jawline, same good looks that apparently existed in endless horrifying variations across Pittsburgh. But where Brett had been charming and Sammy had been grounding and Andrew had carried that quiet sadness around him like a shadow and Terry had been intensely creepy, this man looked completely insane. 

Sure, he exuded a I’m probably the wealthiest mother fucker in this room attitude. His black tuxedo was tailored perfectly across his shoulders, curls styled to perfection away from his face, large ring-adorned hands holding a crystal whiskey glass. He was rich, polished, and handsome enough that half the women in the ballroom had probably already given him bedroom eyes twice. 

But there was something deeply unwell behind the hazel glint. 

He smiled slowly. “How many of us are there?” 

You stared at him in exhausted belief. “Enough that I’m considering neurological testing.”

“How funny it is that you’ve met them all.” 

“I wouldn’t say funny. One of your little clones in a parking garage looked like he might actually kill me to swing a jury.” 

Instead of reacting like a normal human being—wincing or flashing sympathy—the man had the audacity to laugh a rich, warm, delighted sound that absolutely did not match the deeply unsettling energy radiating off of him. 

“Oh, I already like you,” he announced. 

You took a cautious sip of champagne. “Somehow that made me less comfortable instead of more.” 

“I get that a lot.” 

You hummed. “Yes, I’m sure you do.” 

He stepped closer easily, like your personal space was more of a suggestion than a rule. “And what exactly did this Jackdo to earn so such a reaction?” 

“His face apparently exists just to humiliate me in public.” 

“Do you seek his face out often?” 

“Seems like it’s seeking me out more.” 

“Ah. One of those situations.” 

Your eyes narrowed questionably. “You say that like you know what I mean.” 

“I know what obsession looks like, little dove.” Before you could respond, he extended his whiskey glass slightly toward you in a mock toast. “Titus Danforth.” 

Oh. 

Oh no. 

For the first time, you actually recognized the same; not personally, obviously, but the Danforth family practically owned half the city at this point. Generational wealth that seems sketchy with endless political influence and charities where people pretended billionaires cared about humanity because they funded pediatric wings occasionally. 

You straightened your shoulders and mused over his name in your mouth. “You’re that Danforth.” 

His grin widened. “Now, don’t sound too accusatory, or I might think you have a deep resentment towards me already.” 

“Who’s to say I haven’t always had a deep resentment.” 

“Good.” He took another sip from his glass without breaking eye contact. “Most people here are too scared to insult me directly.” 

“And that doesn’t concern you?” 

“It mostly entertains me.” 

You glanced toward the ballroom crowd again, briefly trying to find Robby and considering escape routes. However, Titus seemed to carry Terry’s unnaturally uncanny ability to notice things like that. 

“Relax,” he drawled lazily. “You look like I’m planning to sacrifice you to Satan or something.” 

A chill ran up your spine. “Are you?” 

He looked down at you over his nose. “I’m still deciding on that.” 

You blinked at hi, slowly. “I’m sorry. What?” 

Titus looked downright delighted by being one the receiving end of your scrunched up face. “Oh, come on. You’re at a billionaire fundraiser. You have to know at least half these people are one blood ritual away from immortality.” 

A look of horror washed over your face as your blood ran cold. He stared back, visibly trying not to laugh. 

“You’re joking,” you finally decided on with a small, uncomfortable laugh. 

“That’s the fun part.” He tilted his head slightly. “You really can never tell.” 

Oh, absolutely not. 

Every single alarm bell in your body started ringing simultaneously in a way that hadn’t happened yet. See, Terry hadn’t felt as dangerous as he was calculated and manipulative. Titus felt like mad chaos draped in designer fabric, like someone had handed a deeply unstable man unlimited money and simply hoped for the best. 

“You have the exact same face as someone I trust,” you informed him cautiously, “and you’re doing irreparable damage the longer this conversation continues.” 

“How will you ever recover?” 

“Hopefully the moment we go our separate ways.” 

Titus laughed softly again before gesturing out toward the ballroom. “So, what’s your role here? Underpaid attending? Morally exhausted nurse? One of those residents constantly on the verge of collapse?” 

“You guessed all of those so confidently it’s a bit concerning.” 

“I donate to hospitals constantly, and I’ve watched enough caffeine addictions develop in real time to identify the species.” 

Despite yourself, a small giggle escaped, to which Titus noticed instantly. And the look on his face afterward morphed into something even more dangerous. 

“So you are capable of laughing,” he murmured. “You look less miserable when you do that.” 

The words hit unexpectedly hard because Andrew had said almost the exact same thing days earlier. However, when Andrew said it, it sounded like he did out of a deep concern, but when Titus said it, it sounded like you were a small bug under a microscope. Apparently, this entire cursed lineup shared one collective personality trait, and it was psychoanalyzing you against your will. 

You pointed at him. “No. You don’t get to do that.” 

His eyebrows lifted innocently. “Do what?” 

“You are not allowed to suddenly become emotionally observant when you were just talking about devil sacrifice thirty seconds ago.” 

“Is it a sin to be attentive?” 

“It’s a sin to act like you care when obviously I’m merely just a game to you.” 

Titus grinned into his glass. “Oh, I definitely like you.” 

Before you could spit back another insult, another man suddenly appeared beside you with the kind of smooth interruption that felt almost rehearsed. You silently thanked everything that could hear you when the familiar height towered over you. 

“There’s my favorite resident,” Robby announced as he took your right side. 

You glanced over at him and tried not to melt at the sight of his navy suit that looked slightly less expensive than Titus’s but worn with significantly more exhaustion in the way Robby existed in. His expression softened as he looked down at you. You could have hugged him on sight. 

Robby’s brown eyes, normally filled with kindness, bore fiery into Titus’s. “You don’t mind if I borrow her for a moment, do you? I think one of our department heads was looking into speaking to us on behalf of our emergency department.” 

His lie was painfully obvious but deeply appreciated on your side. You started stepping away before Titus could start another conversation about ritual sacrifice, however, the sound of his voice made you pause and look back just as Titus was pulling out a sleek black checkbook from inside his tuxedo jacket. 

Double oh no. 

He scribbled something quickly before tearing the check free and holding it out toward you between two fingers. “For your hospital.” 

You stared down at the number and tried not to faint on the spot. 

“Titus—” 

“What?” He looked genuinely amused now. “You people keep fixing rich idiots after yacht accidents. Consider it gratitude.” 

“That is way too much money.” 

“Probably.”

“You cannot casually hand people checks equivalent to a small lakeside house in Italy.” 

“Sure I can.” His lips twitched into a smirk. “Watch me.” 

You hesitated before slowly taking in. 

Robby clanged at the amount over your shoulder and physically winced. “Holy fuck. Gloria’s going to be floored.” 

Titus lifted his glass again with a lazy smile. “See? Devil worship pays well.” 

You backed away after that. “Okay. I’m going to leave before you buy me a cursed mansion that makes me blow up or something.”

“How did you know that was next on my list?” 

“It seemed very on brand.” 

Thankfully, Robby took the break in conversation to steer you safely toward the other side of the ballroom, champagne still in one hand and a horrifyingly large Danforth charity check in the other. 

Once the gap was large enough, Robby leaned down enough to whisper, “Tell me I’m not seeing things, and that he didn’t look exactly like Jack.” 

You let out a large, exasperated sigh. “Robby, you have no idea.” 

_______________________

At this point, you genuinely believed the universe was mocking you. There was no other sane explanation for the past few weeks. 

One doppelgänger had been weird coincidence territory. Two had been unsettling. Three had crossed into psychological combat. Four had nearly gotten you murdered in a parking lot. And the fifth had tried to recruit you into what might’ve been a satanic cult before handing you a charity donation large enough to make a hospital board cry (Gloria did indeed faint as well). 

You were simply done. 

Officially. Completely. Done. 

Which was exactly why, when you stepped out of the hospital just after sunrise (the result of a last-minute night-shift swap) and spotted a familiar figure leaning against the hood of a dark truck across the street, your immediate reaction wasn’t relief but unequivocal annoyance. 

The city still looked half-asleep around you, pale morning light stretching across damp pavement while your exhausted coworkers shuffled toward their cars clutching coffee cups like lifelines. Your overnight shift had run disastrously long, leaving you tired enough that your thoughts felt wrapped in cotton. The added lack of a Jack Abbot didn’t do well to settle any wants of seeing the man again with your own two eyes. 

And standing there beneath the weak gold light of sunrise was yet another salt and pepper-curly-haired man with nice shoulders and light hazel eyes. 

Unbelievable.

You didn’t even break stride this time. 

“Nope,” you called out while crossing the sidewalk. “Absolutely not. I’m not doing this again. You can’t pay me enough.” 

The Jack-a-like straightened at the sound of your voice. 

You pointed at him warningly before he could speak. “I don’t care if you’re emotionally repressed, weirdly observant, secretly corrupt, or involved in a ritual sacrifice. I’m done talking to Jack Abbot doppelgangers.” 

A long silence followed before he said one word. 

“What?” 

You frowned at his voice and the way it felt familiar in your ears. None of the others had ever quite managed to get Jack’s timber down correctly. Your steps slowed, and the man pushed away from the truck fully now, confusion pulling at his features while dark circles sat heavily beneath his eyes like he hadn’t slept in days. 

Your chest tightened achingly so, because that—that was Jack Abbot, actually Jack Abbot. 

Your Jack. 

For one horrible second, your brain refused to process it properly. After weeks of running into twisted reflections of him everywhere, seeing the real thing suddenly felt almost unreal itself. It made you suspicious. 

You scoffed at him. “Okay. Which one are you?” 

Jack stared at you with somehow even more confusion, your name coming out oddly through his lips. “Excuse me?” 

“The firefighter was flirty. The cop was emotionally stable. The quiet one stared at me like a sad shelter dog in one of those ASPCA commercials. The southern one was definitely corrupt. And the rich one threatened me with devil worship.” You pointed accusingly at him. “So what’s your thing, and please make it quick because I obviously need more than six hours of sleep.” 

Jack stared at you in complete silence. 

“. . . You met a rich version of me?” 

“You have no idea how bad this has gotten.” 

“Sweetheart, what are you talking about?” 

The utter bewilderment in his face finally settled something inside you, because none of the others had ever looked at you like that. 

Brett had looked entertained. 

Sammy had looked understanding. 

Adnrew had looked curious and quietly lonely. 

Terry had looked scheming. 

Titus had looked delighted with a new play thing. 

But Jack? 

Jack looked at you like he’d been waiting long enough out here for you to start getting worried, like seeing you finally emerge from the Pitt had made him relax just enough. Suddenly, it all clicked at once. 

“Oh.” 

Jack’s brow furrowed deeper. “What?” 

“You’re actually him.” 

“Yeah?” He sounded almost offended. “Who else would I be?” 

A helpless laugh escaped you before you could stop it as you visibly deflated, exhaustion and pure relief tangling together so suddenly it made your eyes sting. 

Jack took a step closer, your name falling from his chest. “Hey. You okay?” 

His immediate instinct to take care of you was what did it. It wasn’t his face or his voice or his tired eyes or broad shoulders or any of the things that the other had shared. His concern for your wellbeing that had seemingly been stitched directly into his bloodstream no matter how tired he got. Your throat tightened unexpectedly. 

Jack’s expression softened as he moved closer. “What happened?” 

“You happened,” you informed him weakly. 

“That really didn’t explain anything.” 

“It does in my head.” 

“Which is terrifying.” 

You laughed again softly, rubbing tiredly at your face before looking back up at him. Now that the real Jack stood in front of you, the differences felt almost embarrassingly obvious. Brett had been warm but too easygoing; Sammy had been grounding in a way that felt comforting but oddly distant; Andrew had carried gentleness around him so openly it hurt to look at; Terry had weaponized familiarity until it felt dangerous; and Titus had turned charm into performance art. 

But above all, Jack felt safe. 

Even as he was standing there exhausted and grumpy in front of you sleep-deprived with yesterday’s hoodie thrown over a wrinkled scrub top, something about him always made your world quiet enough to where it felt manageable, like you could get anything done without worrying about the next moment. 

You stared at him for a long moment before realizing he was still waiting for an explanation. So, unfortunately, your exhausted brain chose honest-to-God honesty. 

“You know what the worst part was?” you asked softly. 

Jack crossed his arms in front of his chest. “I’m scared to answer that.” 

“They all looked like you.” You voice quieted slightly. “But none of them were you.” You glanced away, trying to organize thoughts that had apparently been building for weeks now. “Brett was nice. Sammy was . . . easy to talk to. Andrew was sweet in this sad kind of way. Even the crazy rich one was weirdly funny.” You huffed out a tired laugh. “And every single time I kept thinking maybe that was why my brain kept confusing them for you.” 

He stayed quiet. 

“But each time, they failed horribly at being Jack Abbot for longer than a two-sentence introduction.” You looked back up at him with glassy eyes. “Because all they had was just your face. They didn’t have the way you make everything feel less awful when you walk into a room. They didn’t have the way you pay attention to people even when you pretend that you’re annoyed. They didn’t have the way I never have to wonder if I’m safe with you.” 

Jack looked caught off guard. 

“I kept meeting all these parallel versions of you,” you continued softly, exhaustion making everything spill easier than normal, “and every time something still felt missing.” Your mouth twitched faintly. “Turns out it was just . . . you.” 

He kept quiet for a long moment as the morning traffic hummed somewhere down the street while patients and employees alike trickled from the Pitt’s doors. You bit your bottom lip, waiting with anticipation for him to say something.  

Finally, very quietly, he spit out, “You compared me to a satanic billionaire before saying all that.” 

A tired giggled burst out so suddenly it nearly doubled you over. “You can’t believe how thankful I am that it’s actually you this time.” 

Jack shook his head slowly, but you caught the way his mouth softened slightly. “C’mere.” 

The words barely left his mouth before he was reaching for you, hand gripping your forearm lightly before pulling you forward against his chest with the kind of familiarity that made your entire body finally relax for the first time in days. 

That was another difference too. 

None of the others had ever felt like home. 

You buried your face against his chest with a tired groan. “If another man with your face talks to me this week, I’m filing a police report.” 

Jack’s chest shook slightly beneath your cheek. “Again me?” 

“Wouldn’t be entirely you,” you mumbled. “Just your face.” 

A quiet laugh rumbled through him before his hand settled against the back of your head. 

“C’mon,” he murmured. “I’m taking you home before you start hallucinating more versions of me.” 

You tilted your head back just enough to look up at him. “You promise you’re the real one?”

Jack stared down at you for one long second. 

“Did any of them kiss you?” 

A blooming warmth covered your face. “What?” 

“The firefighter,” he said evenly. “The cop. Satan guy.” His jaw tightened. “Did any of them kiss you?” 

“No,” you admitted quietly. “Wouldn’t let them either because they weren’t you.” 

His hand slid gently against your jaw before he kissed you like he’d been thinking about it the entire conversation. His lips felt warm; the kiss careful and tired in the same way you both were but all the same steady. 

When he finally pulled back slightly, your forehead resting against his, nose brushing along the skin right under his eye, you smiled weakly. 

“Okay,” you said softly out of breath. “Yeah. Definitely the real one.” 

Jack laughed quietly against your mouth. “Are you 100 percent sure?” 

You pretended to think for a second before shaking your head. “Nope. Gotta kiss you again just to be sure.” 

He smirked before pulling you back into another soft kiss. 

Oh, yeah. This was the real one. 

🏷️ permanent tags: @dumb-fawkin-bitch @nofinnn2 @books-thingys-andstuff @nyxmoretti @glitterquadricorn @itzpixiebabe @xoxoloverb @macbaetwo @cerberus101 @thorfemmes @goddess-of-spring @staygoldsquatchling02 @obi-wansgirl @phantom-101 @fly-me-away @xblackcatx @sofianotvergara @keepingitundercover @aoi-warrior

[opulentpeony]

His Lovely Obsession

Pairing: Titus Danforth x Reader 

Summary: Your life took a complete turn the moment you made one single decision: to help a billionaire with something so trivial that only a psychopath like him would mistake it for love. 

Titus has found a lovely new obsession to focus all his energy on now and you're unsure how you're going to make it out of this unscathed… 

Word Count: 20.3k

A/N: I had this itch to write a slow burn, grumpy x sunshine fic with a splash of angst, yearning and fucked up manipulative behavior so this is what I cooked up.

I will note, you call him "sir" and he really likes it! Because I like it! Whoops!

For a full list of warnings, you can check out the fic on my AO3. Though this one is quite mild compared to my other fics so you can go in blind if you want to! 

Oh, and of course, there will be porn! Hope it's a fun read ♡ 

You let out a little yawn in the elevator after you drop off your thirtieth delivery for the day. Usually you don't do this many, but the fine dining restaurant you normally work at cut your hours so you've been needing to work on the apps to make ends meet. 

You've been up since the crack of dawn and now the sun has set. You're ready to go back to bed.

Your eyes shift to the man in the elevator with you. He definitely is dressed like he is meant to be here. It is a luxury high rise that has both a hotel and residences. You just dropped off food for some rich asshole who barely tipped. You wonder if he is one of those rich assholes. 

You glance downwards and notice that there's a tiny tear in his dress pants. He looks like he's dressed to go to some fancy event. He probably shouldn't have a noticeable tear like that. People in his world would spot it. 

So, you tap him on the shoulder, saying, “excuse me, sir.” 

Titus Danforth turns to glare at you. Here we go again, he thinks to himself. You must know him from somewhere. Though, he doesn't know many people who wear cheap, wholesale clothing that is likely made of plastics. 

You must want his money, then. 

But you point to the hem of his dress pants and ask, “do you want me to fix that for you? There's a snag. You must've caught it on something.”

You pull out a small sewing kit from your bag, which you have since sometimes you have to mend your work clothes on the fly. It helps your coworkers too, since fine dining requires a certain level of pristine. 

He blinks at you, surprised. It's such a tiny tear that he wouldn't have noticed it if you hadn't said anything. 

But his father would've definitely scolded him if he saw it. 

There's no time to go back to his apartment and change. He needs to get to this fundraising gala right away. He spent a little too long fucking the help. 

Titus looks up at the floor count. He knows there's a private floor that only certain members in the building have access to. He goes to scan his keycard and hits the thirteenth floor. 

“We'll get out here and you can do it.” He shouldn't be accepting some stranger's help so he definitely can't be seen taking it.

For all he knows, you snagged his pants and this is some kind of ploy to get a pay out from him.

But he doesn't think that's it. 

You must just be a good samaritan because the moment he sits down at one of the plush benches by the elevator, you are on your knees in front of him, sifting through the threads you have to find the one that matches his pants the best before you start sewing it back up. 

Titus likes the look of you on your knees. You're very pretty. Much prettier than the maid he has been fucking. 

You're so focused on mending his pants that you don't notice the way he's staring at you, like he could swallow you up with just his gaze. 

You make a little small talk, completely oblivious to the desire in his eyes, “are you heading somewhere fun?” 

“I wouldn't call being stuck in a room full of boring rich people fun.” He tells you and his heart pounds a little faster when you giggle. 

That's a real laugh. Titus is used to hearing the dry, fake ones people give him, in a meager attempt to show him interest. You're genuinely amused. 

“I totally get you.” You say back, still chuckling under your breath. “That's how I feel every time I go to work.”

“Do you usually deliver food to this building?” Titus doesn't know why he's asking. He shouldn't care. You're just a delivery girl. 

But then you shake your head, your words intriguing him, “I usually serve at Opulence but they cut my hours recently. They hired this TikTok influencer and she's been driving in business so they've been giving her most of my shifts. I just deliver when I need to get by.” 

“Opulence? The place that makes the cabrito asado?” Titus has eaten there a few times. His father loves that dish, since it's an herb-crusted, slow-roasted young goat on a bed of microgreens. 

“Yeah, that's it! Though, I've never had it.” The restaurant owner doesn't provide free meals and the chefs are super stingy with their ingredients, since they're so expensive. Even the nice ones won't let any of you have a taste, besides that one influencer girl. She got to try everything to post about on her social media. 

You're trying not to be envious but…you definitely wish you could do something like that. You can't afford the equipment, however. She has the latest phone model. Two of them actually, one for work and one for personal use. You're still using the phone you got on a deal a few years ago. 

“You haven't eaten anything at the restaurant you serve at?” 

You shake your head. “I can't afford anything on that menu. I can barely afford my rent as is—ah, shit, sorry, I keep complaining. Ignore me. You don't want to listen to some stranger yap.” 

You do the final tie to secure the thread and cut the remaining with your compact scissors. You brush your hand over the fabric one last time then show him.

“Does it look good to you?” 

Titus is impressed. It doesn't even look like there was a tear to begin with. “Have you done this a lot?”

“Oh, all the time! The owner is very particular about how they want us to look at all times. Even the littlest of snags will get you sent home and most of us can't afford—shit, sorry, I need to stop doing that! Bad habit…” You catch yourself before you complain about money again. You're sure a man like him doesn't even think about money. 

Titus definitely doesn't. The idea of not being able to afford anything is a bit ridiculous to him. He could buy the world if he wanted to.

He could buy you the world if you wanted him to. 

What a strange thought. 

Why did that pop into his head? 

Maybe because you get up and ask for nothing in return for helping him.

“All good?” You gesture to the elevator buttons. “Ready to go?” 

“I should pay you for the help.” What the fuck is he saying? He has never offered to give anyone money before. At least not like this. He has offered money to people to get the fuck out of his way. Or to get something he wants. 

Is that what this is? Is he doing this because he wants you?

You wave him off. “This cost nothing. Just a smile.” 

You flash him a happy grin and he…can't help but smile back. Especially when you beam at him so brightly, like pure sunshine. 

“I love ending my day by making someone smile.” You nudge him playfully as the elevator doors open then step inside. 

Titus doesn't know what to make of that. Being touched so casually normally repulses him. But with you, he wishes you'd stay close to him. 

“When do you work next? Maybe I can tip you then.” Again, he doesn't understand why he's saying any of this. The words just spill out. 

“Hmmm.” You don't have your schedule yet. You should be getting it tomorrow, since it'll be the start of the week. “I won't know yet. If you want, you can call in and ask when I'm working. I just need to tell them your name so they know I'm okay with you knowing my schedule.” 

Technically, it's not a good idea to let a customer know exactly when a server will be on shift. But since it is a fine dining restaurant, if a wealthy customer does want a specific server, the server just has to make note of the customers they don't mind sharing their schedule with. 

“You don't know my name?” That's shocking to Titus. He is one of the wealthiest men on the planet. 

“Oh shit, are you like super famous or something?” You scratch your head, trying to parse out who he could be. “My bad…I work so much that I barely have time to keep up with anything.”

“Titus.” He tells you. “Titus Danforth. And you are?” 

You tell him your name and then give him another beautiful smile. “I will definitely look you up later so that if you do come into the restaurant, I will for sure know who you are, I promise!” 

The elevator doors open so you head out first then turn around and wave goodbye to him. 

“See you later, Titus!” You say his name so sweetly that…

He'll think about his name leaving your lips any time someone says his name from then on. Like when he's fucking that maid of his the next day and she's screaming his name and he's wondering what his name would sound like on your lips if you were bent over in front of him. 

That might be the only reason he's able to finish today. He's been struggling this whole time to stay hard. His mind is so consumed by thoughts of you that he can't seem to cum unless he imagines it's you. 

This can't be healthy. Though, he has never been mentally healthy before. 

“I need you to get the fuck out.” He tells his maid the moment he pulls the condom off. “I don't want to see you again.” 

“Titus—” She gasps when he wraps his hand around her throat, stopping her from speaking another word.

“I don't want to hear my name come out of your mouth ever again. Now, get the fuck out.” He tosses her towards the door. “You're fired.” 

She scoffs and then heads out. He knows she'll likely sue him but he has the footage to prove it was all consensual. His lawyers will guarantee that he wins the case. 

Titus grabs his phone, searching up the number for your restaurant. He debates calling. 

Should he see you? 

Why does he want to see you? 

You're just some pretty girl who helped him out with a little thing. You definitely have looked him up. Your entire opinion of him has likely morphed once you realize how rich and powerful he is. You wouldn't want him for him. You probably want him for his money now that you know. And he definitely shouldn't want you. 

But he calls anyway. 

“This is Opulence, how can I help you?” The voice is so familiar. That's because it's your voice. You ended up being called in to fill for the hostess today. 

“I'm looking to inquire about a server's schedule. How do I go about doing that?” Titus doesn't realize it's you until he tells you your name. 

And you giggle that beautiful giggle that he is growing too fond of. “Oh my goodness, is this Titus? How are you! I didn't think you'd call in so soon. I haven't even looked you up yet. I was so tired after working that I—shit, sorry, I'm doing it again…babbling on and on.” 

“It's alright. I don't mind.” What the fuck? Of course he minds. He hates it when people blab on and on. 

Why is he acting like you're special? 

Maybe because you are, when you tell him all cutely, “aw, you're so sweet. I knew I'd like you. I'll have to sneak you something good when you come in. I'm serving this Saturday if you want to stop by!”

“You aren't working all week?” Today is Sunday. Is your next shift really Saturday?

“Ah, yeah. It's okay. I'll be alright. Saturdays are typically good days so I should make a decent amount!” You are wildly optimistic, despite the struggle to make ends meet. “Should I book you a reservation or do you want to just pop in? I'll try to leave a table standing for you if you want!” 

“You would do that?” 

“Of course! How about I do that and if you show up, you show up! If not, the restaurant will live with one less table to serve. They make plenty of money as is.” 

Titus doesn't get you at all. You don't know who he is but you're giving him the five star treatment regardless. 

Would you do this for anyone?

He doesn't like thinking that you would. That he isn't special in any way. That you're only doing this because you're just a nice person in general. 

He wants you to only be nice to him. He wants to monopolize your attention. 

“When do you get off work?” He asks. 

“I close on Saturday, so last reservation is at 9:30PM.” It goes completely over your head that he's asking when you're done with work. Other people would take that as a flirtation. You're too innocent to think of it as anything but a simple question. 

“Then book me a table at 9:30PM.” He decides that's when he'll see you, so he has the chance to see you after work too.

Even though Titus is unsure if that's a good idea. 

“Alright! Just you or are you bringing someone special?” You're only asking because you need to know how many people to put down on the reservation.

But Titus thinks you're asking because you want to know if he's single. “Just me. I don't have anyone special.” 

“Well then, we definitely should fix that.” You say to him, chuckling. “You're way too handsome to not have someone to spoil. I can ask around to see if any of my regulars are single. They're all around your age, super rich too! I can play matchmaker for you.” 

He doesn't want anyone special. He just wants you. But you aren't even putting yourself on the menu. You don't even consider yourself someone he would be interested in. Probably because you're so much younger than him and in a completely different tax bracket… 

“Do you have anyone special?” The question leaves his lips and he regrets asking. It's too forward.

But again, you're totally oblivious to it, since you're so used to customers asking you all sorts of personal questions. You don't see it as anything out of the ordinary. “Oh no. I've never even dated anyone before. Too busy working, you know!” 

Titus should not be happy to hear that but he is. He is very happy to know that you've never dated anyone before. Because that means there's a chance you've never been with anyone ever before. 

And now he's invested in you. 

His lovely new obsession. 

“Maybe we can change that. I'll see you on Saturday.” He says, smirking into the phone. 

You don't notice anything strange in his wording and just say back, “see you then, Titus!”

You hang up the work phone and go back to prepping the restaurant to be open. The hostess always comes in early in case people call in to make same day reservations, so you're glad you came in and caught Titus's call. You really need to look him up. 

You make plans to do so when you get home but then you get a notice from your landlord saying that you have a week to move out since their kid flunked out of college and needs the room back.

There goes your cheap rent… 

You then spend the rest of the week stuffing everything you can into your car and throwing out everything else. Thankfully the room was furnished so you didn't have any furniture to pack but…now everything you own is in your car. 

You've been calling different listings for places to live but no place at the same price point as your old place stays available for long enough. By the time Saturday rolls around, you're still unhoused and living out of your car. 

You have to buy a gym membership so you can shower and get ready for work. There's no way you can show up looking like you've been sleeping upright for the last few days. 

You feel like shit but you still put on your best smile when you get to work. You could use the tips for your deposit. 

But tonight, no one seems to want to tip you, specifically. 

You didn't realize they booked you with that influencer girl, so most tables are requesting her. Which is totally fine, it makes sense that people would want to come to see someone they follow online. 

You have a handful of regulars who tip you alright so you know you'll make it through this shift with some money in your pocket. Less than you'd hope, but enough to be okay. 

That's about to change real quick. 

Because the owner of the restaurant comes and grabs you, yanking you off the floor to ask you, “what the hell is Titus Danforth doing here?” 

“Oh, he's here already?” You look at your watch. It's fifteen minutes before his reservation. You didn't realize he was an early bird or you would've had his table ready sooner. 

“What do you mean “oh, he's here already"? You knew he was coming in?” 

“Yeah. I booked his reservation.” 

“You booked…” The owner looks like they're about to throw a fit. “Why didn't you tell me you booked a reservation for Titus Danforth? The books only had his initials!”

“That's…what we always do?” You're not supposed to put full names down, in case someone hacks in and sees an A-list celebrity has a reservation and then tries to come in at the same time. 

“Do you not know who he is?” 

You shake your head. You have been so busy all week that you haven't gotten to looking him up just yet. He must be a big deal if the owner is going nuts over him being here. 

“He is one of the wealthiest men on the fucking planet and you reserved him a standard table.” The owner pinches their brow. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Excuse me?” You didn't realize part of your job description was to research every wealthy person on the planet in case they show up here. Nor did you realize that being verbally abused over and over was suddenly an okay practice to do. “Look, I'm sorry, but—”

“Get the fuck out of my restaurant.” They point to the staff room, which has the private entrance/exit so customers don't see you leaving or entering the building. “Get your shit and go. Thankfully we have an actually competent server to help Titus Danforth tonight. We don't need you anymore.”

You can't believe this. You're seriously getting fired because you didn't know who Titus is. This is actually ridiculous.

“You know I just got evicted, right?” You had told them when it happened, in hopes you'd get more hours. 

“I don't give a fuck about your sob story. Just get out of my fucking restaurant now.” The owner shoves past you to go to the front of the house, presumably to talk to Titus. 

You let out a sigh. You did want to see him. You brought him something you figured might make him smile.

So when you spot your now-ex coworker, the influencer, in the staff room on her break, you open your locker and grab it, giving it to her.

“Hey, you're going to serve a Titus Danforth in a bit. Could you give this to him for me? I wanted to give it to him myself but I just got fired so I got to go.” 

“Oh shit. Is it because of Titus? Did he cuss you out or something?” Her words strike you as strange. 

“No…? Does he do that?” She would know, since she's all over that online drama stuff. 

“Oh yeah, all the fucking time. He gets people fired wherever he goes, like even over the tiniest little thing. I heard he's a fucking prick.” She takes your gift for Titus, looking at it. “Are you sure you want to give him something? Are you a fan of his? I know some billionaires have fans but I wouldn't pick him as my choice…”

“Just give it to him, please. Tell him it's from me and that I'm sorry I couldn't be here.”

“Alright.” She tucks it into her apron. “Good luck. Sorry you got fired.”

You shrug and wave goodbye as she heads out onto the floor. It does suck that you got fired but life happens. 

What can you do about it but move on? 

Titus can't seem to move on, though. 

He hasn't spotted you at all since he got to the restaurant. He came early in hopes of just watching you work for a little prior to you serving him. He expected to see you.

But the person serving him isn't you.

The owner personally apologizes to him for not booking him a private booth but managed to get one situated for him, despite it being a busy Saturday night. Titus couldn't care less where he sat. He's here to see you and that's it. 

But you aren't the one serving him for some reason. 

So he asks the server where you are and she tells him, “I'm so sorry, Mr. Danforth. She was let go because she didn't know who you were and booked you at a standard table. The owner never wants their VIPs to ever be booked at a standard table. She should've known better.” 

Titus scoffs. “What the fuck? I wouldn't even be here if it wasn't for her. I have come here maybe twice with my father. He's the VIP. I'm just a regular customer. She booked me correctly.”

“You're a Danforth, sir.” Titus does not like the sound of the word sir coming out of anyone's mouth but yours. 

“Where is she?” Titus looks around. “Did she leave already?”

“Yes, I think so. She probably finished packing up her stuff and left. She did tell me to give you this, though. And to tell you that she's sorry she couldn't be here.” The server hands him a little box. 

He opens it. It's…a small sewing kit. The same one like you had in your bag. 

With a cute note attached saying: For any future repairs ♡

You had planned to tell Titus that you'd show him a few different ways to sew up a snag, to go with the gift, but you can't now obviously. You probably will never see him again. 

You put all your work stuff with the rest of your things in your car, sighing. You didn't think you'd be off so early, so now you have to figure out where to park. Most places aren't free to park until 10PM so you could wait in your work parking lot until then but you don't really want to stick around a place that fired you… 

But then, you look up at the sky and decide it's okay to stay for a little. You'll miss working here. It's just a few miles out of the city, in a beautiful part where plenty of wealthy people live, with barely any light pollution. 

There's so many stars out tonight. 

You sit up on the hood of your car, staring up at the night sky from this vantage point one last time. You're so engrossed by the sight of the stars that you don't notice a figure walking up to you until a shadow engulfs you.

You turn your head to see… “Titus?” 

How did he find the employee parking lot? 

It's quite an uphill trek from the restaurant, which is on purpose since the restaurant valet would prefer to not have any “ugly” cars parked in that lot.

Titus just stares at you, at how pretty you look in the light of the stars and the moon. How they seem to add an extra sparkle in your eyes. How he is so grateful he caught up to you before you left. 

There was no way he was going to wait any longer to see you again. 

He wasn't going to let some fucking stupid restaurant owner get in his way. 

“I heard you got fired.” He says to you, noticing how cleaned up you look in your work attire compared to the casual clothes from before. “I didn't end up staying since you weren't there.” 

“Aw, you should've at least enjoyed the food.” You feel bad he just left. 

“Did you like working at that restaurant?” He asks because he just bought it and if you wanted to, you come back to work there. He won't tell you he bought it, of course, but he would get you your job back. 

But it doesn't seem like you want to, from the way you shrug. “It was nice while it lasted. Maybe this is the universe telling me I need to be somewhere else.” 

“What do you mean?” 

You pat the hood of your car, inviting him to sit with you. He would never normally do this. Especially on an old car like yours. But he does, for some reason. 

For you. To be next to you. 

Titus sits beside you in his designer clothes and you giggle, pulling your knees up to your chest, leaning your head against them as you look at him. “We really are from two different worlds, aren't we?” 

“Are you going to move?” He noticed all your things packed in your car. 

“I don't know.” You look back up at the stars. “I don't have a place to stay right now. I don't have a job. I don't have anything besides what I got right here.” 

Again, he just stares at you. But this time, it's because he has never met anyone like you before. He has met people who are desperate, who would do anything to get out of whatever hole they dug themselves into. 

But, despite whatever life has thrown at you, you don't show any signs of that same desperation.

You actually seem content to just look at the stars in the sky, basking in the moonlight, enjoying the moment, ignoring the reality of your situation for a second. 

“Do you like stargazing?” You turn your head towards Titus again. 

“I don't really look up.” 

You chuckle at that. “I guess when you're one of the richest men on the planet, you only look down, right?”

“So you looked me up?” Titus figured you would eventually. 

But you shake your head. “I didn't have any time to. Had to pack all my stuff into my car this week since I got evicted. I just heard that from the owner. Sorry, bad joke.” 

“What else did you hear about me then?” He wants to know what you know. 

“My ex-coworker said you're a fucking prick.” You reply, followed by another cute laugh. “I wonder what you must've done to give the internet that impression.” 

“You don't think I'm a prick?” He would understand if you did. He is a fucking prick. The worst of the worst. 

But you don't judge people based on the words of others. Maybe that is naive of you but you like to believe most people are good people. Though you have no clue who you're sitting next to right now… 

“Do you want me to think you're a prick?” You nudge him playfully like you had before. “I can do that if you want.” 

“How can you be so…normal around me? After learning who I am?” Titus hasn't noticed any change in your behavior. 

You're acting exactly like you had when you first met him. 

“Am I supposed to act a certain way around a man with money?” You tilt your head at him, feigning befuddlement. “Should I get on my hands and knees and beg you for a crumb of your wealth, sir?”

Yes. Titus wants to say but then you laugh, obviously having said what you said as a joke, so he bites his tongue. But it's hard not to imagine you on your hands and knees, with his cock buried inside of you from behind, moaning beneath him. 

He needs to figure out how to curb his desire for you. This is getting out of hand. 

Especially when you nudge him again and point at the sky. “Look, or you'll miss it!”

Titus looks up and a shooting star blazes across the sky, drawing a line of light for just a moment before disappearing. 

“Did you wish for anything?” You ask him, still displaying that brilliant smile he's growing to love. 

“No. Did you?” Titus doesn't make wishes. He can get whatever he wants. 

Except you and your free spirit. “I wished for a sign from the universe to tell me where to go next.” 

You're like a pretty bird, ready to soar towards your next adventure. You never stay in one place for too long. 

Titus won't have that. He needs to cage you. To keep you. 

So, he says to you, “do you want to work for me?” 

You raise an eyebrow at him. “Doing what? Do you own a restaurant I can serve at?”

He literally owns the place that fired you but…he won't tell you that now. 

Instead, he tells you, “I recently fired my personal assistant so I'm looking for a new one. You'd get your own room in my apartment and you can buy food and other necessities on my card.” 

“What does a personal assistant for Titus Danforth do?” You lean your head against your knees, looking up at him. “Am I writing emails all day or…?” 

“Just whatever I need help getting done for the day.” Like getting off. He really wants to get off. He hasn't cum since he fired that maid. He wants to cum inside of you.

Maybe even without a condom.  

You don't seem to notice the lust in his gaze at all. Probably because no one has ever looked at you like that before. 

“You should get someone with actual personal assistant experience.” You definitely aren't the right fit. You've mainly worked in restaurants, minus that singular stint you did at a retail store in your teens. “Also, you definitely shouldn't hire someone you've only known for like an hour.” 

You chuckle, the sound so intoxicating to him. Little do you know, you have been on his mind every second of every day since the moment you left his sight. He tried his best not to let his mind wander to you but it always did. 

“I was following your lead. The universe brought you to me when I needed a personal assistant and the universe brought me to you when you needed a job. Is that not a sign?” He manipulates your wish and uses it against you. 

“I guess you're right.” You tap your finger against your lips, which makes Titus stare very closely at them, wishing he could kiss you. “But still, you barely know me.” 

“You barely know me.” He counters and that makes you laugh again. 

“Touché!” You lean against him a little as you giggle then move away. “Alright, why not! If I'm horrible, you can always fire me. I heard you're very good at it.”

Titus will never get used to the casual touches you do. You are so relaxed around him. You should be more guarded. 

You have no idea what he has in store for you now that he has you in his grasp…

You don't get what Titus's last personal assistant must have done to get fired. This has got to be the easiest job you've ever had. And the benefits are incredible! 

Titus gave you a super nice car, completely paid off, since he doesn't want his personal assistant to be driving something dingy. You have all brand new, designer clothes in your closet that fit you perfectly and match your style. He apparently had people come over once you moved your things in to sift through your closet and figure out what you would like so that you had clothes to wear when you went out with him. 

You go out with Titus a lot. Mostly to restaurants he's scoping out, thinking of buying or investing in. You and him eat and drink and laugh and chat so much that you're shocked this is even considered work. 

Your paycheck is also enormous too and he even helped you set up a high yield savings account at the bank his family runs with a very good rate. 

You're making more money now than you have your entire life. 

You don't have anything to use it on, either. Titus pays for everything, always. You try to pay sometimes, for groceries or for household goods, but then he just adds the money to your paycheck when you do, effectively zeroing it back out. You get that he is obscenely wealthy but you don't want him to always have to pay. 

“It's an insult when you try to pay for me.” Titus tells you as he drives the two of you from the airport to a resort on the tropical island he's thinking of investing in. 

“This rental car cost like a tenth of my check. You could've let me pay for it.” You pout at him and he shakes his head at you. 

“A tenth of your check is not even a penny to me.” He will not have you spending any money when he has plenty. 

“Oh, I'm sorry, I forgot I'm in the presence of an almost trillionaire. My apologies, sir.” You exaggerate a bow then giggle. 

It has been months since Titus hired you to be his “personal assistant” and he still hasn't touched you. He has no idea how he is keeping it together, especially when you laugh so beautifully like that all the time and jokingly call him sir. 

You are so playful and so cute that he just wants to eat you up. 

But you are horribly oblivious to any and all of his advances. 

You two go out to eat and you think it's just work. You two stay in a hotel suite together and you think it's just work. You two go on vacations together and you really, truly, seriously think this is just a work excursion. 

That is totally why Titus paid for the all inclusive resort package for the two of you that includes a private pool attached to the room. 

Though this time, he made sure there was only one bed. The last few times, the hotels and resorts you've been to have had other rooms available to swap to, so you and Titus have never had to sleep in the same bed. 

That changes today. He booked out all of the available rooms to ensure you had to sleep in the same bed as him. You can't avoid him now. 

“Are you sure this is okay?” You stare at the king sized bed in the very nice room. “I can sleep on the floor. Or the tub. I've done that before when I've crashed at people's places.” 

“I'm not letting you sleep in a tub.” The idea makes him grimace. 

“I'm surprised there isn't like a couch or something.” You would assume a fancy resort like this would have more furniture in the room but there's really only the bed and the desk and you can't sleep in a desk chair for a week. 

Titus made sure there was no alternate sleeping places. They took the couch out and rearranged the furniture to make it look like this is what the room should look like. And Titus told you that you shouldn't ever look up anywhere you and him go since he wants you to experience it blind to get the best feel for the place. You listen because he's your boss. 

Now you're going to be sharing a bed with your boss… 

“There really weren't any other rooms?” It's a huge resort. Though, it does look like there's some kind of convention going on. 

It's packed on the island right now!

“Is the idea of sleeping with me that horrible?” Titus tries to be playful with this question but there's a bite to his tone he can't hide. 

You, again, are oblivious to it. “No, not at all. I just feel bad because you probably don't want to sleep with me.” 

“I don't mind.” He wants to desperately. 

“Hopefully I'm not a weird sleeper.” 

“You've never slept with someone before?” He finally has a chance to casually ask this question. 

“I've shared a bed with friends on trips and stuff like that to save money.” Again, it goes over your head that he's not referring to real sleeping. “They've never complained but like what if I kick you in my sleep? I would feel so bad!”

“That should be the least of your worries.” You'll be lucky if you have the opportunity to actually sleep. 

“I know. If you don't think it's a big deal, then I shouldn't worry about it.” You appreciate that he's looking out for you.

Titus has no idea how you got to your age and you're so fucking oblivious to the fact that he wants to pin you down on this bed and fuck the brains out of you. 

Maybe it's because you don't see him as a man. You only see him as your boss. You haven't put it together in your mind that he should be someone you should be careful around. 

But you aren't careful at all. 

You casually touch his arm when you're walking past him so you don't accidentally bump into him on the way to the closet to unpack your things. You place your hands on him to straighten out his clothes without warning. You nuzzle your cheek against his shoulder then flash him a big smile whenever you feel like bothering him with an ask of something kind.

Like, “can we get smoothie bowls? Please!”

“Please what?” He pokes your nose and you laugh, knowing what he's looking for. 

“Please, sir. Can we get smoothie bowls?” You bat your eyelashes at him, like you always do.

It takes everything in his soul not to grab you and kiss you. He opts to clench his fist tight and gives you an even tighter lipped smile in response.

“Sure.” His heart races at how happy you look.

“Great, I'm starving and that place looked so good.” 

It's one of the restaurants in the resort. A cute hut that makes smoothie bowls. It should be included in the resort package, though Titus wouldn't care how much it cost regardless. 

As long as he gets to see you all giddy to eat a colorful bowl of fruit layered on top of a smoothie, he would pay anything. 

“You know, you haven't called Pepper back.” You manage Titus's personal cellphone and his father recently sent him a bunch of potential matches for marriage. 

Titus went out with one of them as a formality but hated being there. It meant he wasn't with you that day and he hates not being with you. Everyone else in his world is dull and power-hungry. 

You're a breath of fresh air.

Except when you push him away from you. “She seemed really nice. She sent the yummiest fruit basket to the apartment. I was just thinking about it since these fruits are just as yummy.” 

Titus digs his spoon into the smoothie bowl the two of you are sharing because he didn't want to get his own and you offered to share yours with him so he could try it. The fruits are good, in season, ripe, sweet. Like how he imagines you must taste. 

“You do realize if I get married, you'd be out of a job.” Titus is harsher with his words than he intends but he can't hide his annoyance that you don't view him as someone of interest. You never look flustered around him.

Not even when he pulls you towards him by wrapping his arms around your waist so that someone doesn't bump into you as they run by. His hands linger at your sides. You don't seem startled at all that he's touching you.

“Oh my goodness, that person almost rammed into me!” You catch your breath, your heart racing. “Thanks, Titus.” 

You pat him gently on the chest, then look up at his face. He almost flinches when you reach up and cup his jaw with your hand. He almost expects you to lean up and kiss him.

But instead, you wipe a bit of smoothie off the corner of his lip and then proceed to lick it off your thumb. “You had a little drip. Can't have you walking around with—”

Titus can't stand it anymore and just kisses you. His arms hook you in closer to him, locking you to his chest, before his lips crash down onto yours. 

You don't know what's going on.

You've never been kissed before. 

Is this a kiss? Why is Titus kissing you? 

His lips are so soft against yours. You don't know what to do. 

Should you kiss him back? But he's your boss… 

A weird feeling pangs in your chest. The one you've been avoiding. Ignoring, because you figured it was just silly to imagine that he likes you. 

Now that you're getting some proof that he does, maybe even just physically, you're suddenly afraid that everything is going to change. And you don't want things to change. You liked how everything was. 

“Titus…” You breathe out against his lips when he finally lets you swallow air again. 

You don't have any words to say. You can't form the sentence you want to speak aloud. Because you should tell him not to do that again. That he's your boss and you're his assistant. 

But instead, you ask him, “is this why you fired your last assistant?”

Your words catch him by surprise. He wasn't expecting you to ask that of all things right after he kissed you for the first time. 

“What are you talking about?” His head is all over the place, his heart pounding in his chest. He wants to kiss you again but you're looking at him with such devastation in your eyes. And he can't help but like the look of it. 

Because is this not that same envy you had for that influencer? 

“Did your last assistant…let you kiss them? Was that in their job description…” Your stomach is doing somersaults and you feel nauseous from the fear that everything is going to change forever. “Because I-I don't know if I can do that if it is.” 

“You don't want to kiss me?” Fury causes Titus to dig his nails further into his fist, his palm bleeding. 

There was always a chance you didn't like him. That your sweetness was just a facade. 

Is that what you're showing him now? That you weren't the genuinely aloof, adorable girl he wants so badly to fuck up? 

You glance down at his fist, at the blood dripping from it. “Titus, your hand!” 

He watches as you grab a hold of his hand, opening his fist up, seeing the way his nails had dug into his palm.

“Oh no, shit, I knew we should've gotten manicures before we flew here.” 

The edges of his nails are all sharp since it's been a while. You were planning on booking one of the resorts’ manicurists to come to the room. You should've thought of this sooner. 

You quickly grab some napkins and apply pressure to the cut. “Are you okay? Does it hurt?”

“I just kissed you and you give more of a fuck about my hand?” He yanks his hand out of your hold. “Are you fucking serious?” 

Your throat is closing up. This reminds you of when the owner of the restaurant yelled at you. Only this time, it's Titus. And seeing him angry with you scares you to the point where you can't control the tears that are blurring your vision.

“I'm sorry, I'm sorry.” You try to find some words to say but none of them will come out. You're so nervous all of a sudden.

Titus has never seen you like this before. Flustered, scared, anxious, delicious. He wants more of this side of you. The one that you've been hiding under that confident mask of yours. 

The girl underneath who wants nothing more than to be spoiled rotten. 

Without letting you say anything else, Titus scoops you up into his arms, carrying you back to the room. You cling onto him, shocked that he's carrying you so easily. 

Though, should you be shocked? 

You have seen him practically naked before, wearing only his boxers around the apartment. You know he works out because he has a gym set up. You have watched him exercise before. 

But for some reason, the thought of him without any clothes on is making your heart flip flop on your chest. You've never felt whatever feeling is stirring inside of you. 

Is this…lust? 

Titus opens the door to the room and then proceeds to toss you onto the bed. You scramble to sit up, backing up until your back is against the headboard. He climbs onto the bed like a predator stalking its prey until he has you trapped beneath him. 

Your heart is going to leap out of your chest at this point. You've never seen Titus look so…hungry before. Like he wants to devour you whole. 

“I don't care to wait anymore.” He tells you, looking you up and down like he's planning out how to feast on you. “I don't care if you scream. I don't care if you fight back. I fucking don't care anymore. I'm done waiting for you.” 

“Wait, wait, Titus—” You can't stop him from kissing you, his lips sealing over yours, stealing your breath away when he slips his tongue into your mouth. The warmth of it mixing with yours makes you dizzy. 

You didn't realize kissing could feel so…hot. You taste the smoothie bowl, that sweet fruit flavor on his tongue. You like it a lot. You like kissing him a lot. 

That's why you have to stop him. You can't be doing this. He can't be doing this. He's about to marry someone else. His father will make sure of that. And then you'll just have been some blip in his memory. 

That's all you'll be.

And you don't want that.

You want to be able to remember your time with Titus fondly. 

“Please, Titus, let me talk.” You beg against his lips. 

“I'm not going to stop so don't waste your breath.” He goes to kiss down your jaw, to the column of your neck, placing a bite right in the center that stings and shoots a tingle down to your core, something you've never felt before. 

“I don't want you to stop.” Your words flip a switch in his head and he lifts up from your neck to look at you, confused. 

That wasn't what he was expecting. Nor was he expecting the tears that are welling up in your eyes. They aren't from fear. 

They're…from sadness. 

Longing to be specific. 

Yearning, more like it. 

“But you need to know if we do this, you're going to break my heart.” You go to wipe the tears that spill from your eyes with your hands. “So if you want to do this, we can. But it will hurt me more than you will ever know.”

“Why?” He doesn't understand. 

How can he break your heart when he doesn't even have it yet? 

You cup his face, pulling him up towards you so you can lay your forehead against his, before you tell him, “because I know I'm just one of many people you've done this with. You like me now, sure, but there's no guarantee that'll last. And you can't promise me it will. I won't believe you. But…”

You let out a sigh, before you lean in and press a kiss on his lips. He's so stunned to feel you kiss him.

He's even more stunned when you tell him, “I don't mind if you break my heart. I just want you to be aware that you will.” 

You give him a soft smile, like you always do, and it burns a hole in his chest. 

“You aren't one of many.” He knows that to be a fact. He has never wanted to spend time with anyone like he has with you. 

“Then tell me about the person before me. Did you kiss them too?” You know the answer from the look on his face but you want him to say it. 

“I didn't have a personal assistant before you.” That's the honest truth.

But you know it's not the full truth. “Who did you have before me?”

“She was just a maid.” 

“Will I be “just a personal assistant” one day?” Your words make him ache in ways he never thought possible. 

“No.” He shakes his head. He doesn't want you to just be a personal assistant to him. 

He wants you.

“Did you break her heart?” 

“We just fucked. That's it. I didn't feel anything for her.” The words slip from his lips and you catch them.

“You feel something for me?” So this isn't just physical. What is it then? 

“You have to understand.” Titus won't hold himself back anymore. “You are never going to be able to leave me. I would rather kill you than let anyone else have you.” 

“Then kill me.” You pull his hands up to wrap around your throat, wanting him to squeeze. “Because I'd rather die than know one day, you'll leave me for someone else. For another pretty girl who caught your eye. I'd rather die than witness someone else having you after I've gotten a taste.”

“Then why did you push me towards Pepper?”

“That was before I knew you felt the same way about me that I do about you.” 

You can't help yourself. You lean in and kiss him again, just so you can remember the feeling of his lips on yours before you die. Those soft lips. How you yearn to feel them all over your skin. 

But the moment you do, your heart will surely shatter. 

“I don't want anyone else but you.” He says so clearly that you almost believe him. 

“Maybe for right now.” You brush your nose against his, that playfulness still shining through even in your despair. “But you should be honest with yourself. You don't want a relationship with me. I know you don't.” 

You don't know how to explain it. But you're sure Titus doesn't want you to be his girlfriend. Or his wife. 

He just wants you to be his. 

And you can do that. 

You can be his. 

But it will hurt you tremendously in the process. 

Is he willing to do that to you? 

Titus moves his hands off of your neck and then gets up from the bed, straightening himself out. Then, he goes to the phone at the desk, dialing the front desk. 

“I need another room.” He says to the receptionist, who is fully aware of all the rooms he has booked. “Either one that connects or a suite with two bedrooms. Just pick one and send the keycards here.” 

“Right away, Mr. Danforth.” They hang up and before you have time to process what's happening, there's a knock on the door.

Titus grabs the new keycards and goes to pack your things up back into your suitcase and then he does his own. You're sitting there, stunned. 

Because you realize he wanted to sleep next to you. That's why he booked this room in particular. There were rooms available. But he wanted to share a bed with you, so he convinced you there weren't.

And now, he doesn't anymore. 

Because hurting you is something he can't do, for some reason. 

He liked seeing you shy and flustered but hurt…that didn't spark what he thought it would inside of him. What it usually does inside of him. 

When he gathers everything, he tells you, “come on, let's go to our new rooms.”

“Titus…” You're speechless for once. You normally have a quip of some kind but…you don't right now. 

“You're right. I don't know what I was thinking. You can't mean anything to me and I would be a fucking idiot to think you could. I was just thinking with my cock. It won't happen again.” Titus gestures for you to take your bags. “Now come on, we have a resort to check out. Let's get to work.” 

And that's all it is. 

Work. 

Because that's all it will ever be, right?

“A little birdie told me something interesting.” Ursula smiles that wicked grin of hers at Titus, while they're having brunch at the Danforth Resort together. “You haven't fucked your personal assistant yet. It's been over a year. I find that impressive, Titus.” 

“Who the fuck would tell you something like that?” He rolls his eyes at her. 

She's telling the truth, though. He hasn't fucked you. He hasn't even kissed you since that time. 

“Your housekeepers will do anything for a little extra cash.” She only had to add a bit more to their checks to get them to spill the details about you and Titus. “From what I hear, your personal assistant is more like a roommate you pay. And you don't even fuck her. That's just weird.” 

“It's weird that you give a fuck about who I'm fucking.” 

Ursula shrugs. “I give more of a fuck that you've been acting like an asshole because you're all pent up. Just go fuck one of the people you have on speed dial and get it over with already.”

“Okay, I will.” He leaves the table then, done with this brunch.

But he doesn't go to one of the many fuckbuddies he has.

He just goes straight home to you. 

Because he doesn't want to fuck anyone. 

It's like there's something wrong with him. If he isn't thinking about you, he can't get hard. His body won't let him fuck anyone else. 

But maybe that's his heart getting in the way. 

You and him have found that rhythm from before again, albeit with a slight change. You do get flustered whenever he touches you now. And you don't touch him as casually as you used to anymore. He likes that you're finally seeing him as a man. But he hates that you no longer feel relaxed around him. 

You apologize a lot more now. You aren't as playful because you're nervous you'll say something you shouldn't. 

It's killing him inside. 

Especially on days like today, where you seem like you're back to the way you were before, smiling at him when he gets home, “welcome back! How was brunch?” 

“Horrible.” He pulls off his dress shirt, tossing it into the hamper. 

You hand him one of the softer shirts he wears at home and he slips it on. He catches the way your eyes linger on his body for a second before you shake your head, like you're trying to shake away the thoughts you were having. 

You distract yourself by asking, “did you bring me that pastry?”

“Fuck, I forgot.” He was in a rush to leave. 

Usually when he goes to brunch with Ursula at the Danforth Resort, you would beg him to get this one pastry for you since it's a specialty dessert there. He always got it for you, so he could watch you happily devour it. 

“Oh it's okay!” You wave him off. “No big deal. I will just dream about it until next time.” 

“We can go right now.” 

You look at him like he's gone crazy. “You just drove back. It's alright. I don't mind waiting.” 

Waiting. Titus hates that fucking word. 

He hates waiting. He hates it so much. He hates that he has to wait and wait and wait until everything falls into place so that he can have even the slightest chance of being with you. Of making you his, forever. 

You seem content to wait but he doesn't know for how long. 

He knows you've been looking for another job.

He knows you've been talking with other men. 

Sure, they're "just friends” of yours but…he can't stand it. 

He can't take another day of waiting for you to be his.

He needs this to work. 

Titus cannot live without you. 

So, he waits for everything to align exactly the way he needs it to. 

Then, he will make you his. 

But plans never do go the way he thinks.

Because you've caught the eye of a certain member of the High Council. 

“Ignacio?” You see him at one of the events Titus brings you to and he comes rushing up to you, giving you a big hug. 

Something that makes Titus's jaw tighten. 

“Now where have you been, mi cielito?” He swings you around, making you giggle. “I have missed having you serve me. Opulence has declined since you left.” 

“I got fired.” You tell him as he sets you down. 

“They fired you? But doesn't Titus—” 

When Ignacio meets Titus's deadly glare, he doesn't say another word. 

Instead, he clears his throat and goes, “well, regardless, they were sorely mistaken in choosing to let you go.”

“If I knew you'd be here, I would've brought you something.” You used to bring him cute little charms for his guns. 

“What are you doing here? I heard Titus had a personal assistant but I had no idea it would be you. How did you two meet?” 

“It's a funny story.” You say with that soft giggle of yours. 

Titus is learning right now that you show that side of yourself to others. Not just him. Ignacio seems well versed in how precious you can be, his eyes roaming your body. He must like how gorgeous you look in the designer dress Titus picked out for you for this event. 

“Would you like a drink? I'd love to hear about it.” As much as Ignacio wouldn't want to light any fury in Titus, he has missed the chats you two used to have so he is willing to risk it. 

Titus opens his mouth to answer for you but then you go, “oh sure! Titus, you don't mind right? I'll be right back!”

Of course he minds. Of course he fucking minds. You're not supposed to want to spend time with anyone except for him. 

And yet you're choosing Ignacio? Over him? 

He can't stop you from walking away. He can't stop you from smiling at Ignacio as you hook your arm in his, doing that affectionate cheek rub against his shoulder, making Ignacio pinch your nose in response. You laugh so beautifully as the two of you chat about something Titus is too far away to hear.

Ignacio touches you so casually, like the two of you have a deeper relationship. But you told Titus you never dated before. 

But you never told him if you ever fucked someone before. 

From the way Ignacio is holding your hip with one hand and his drink in the other, Titus can't help but imagine that you aren't the innocent girl he thought you were. Especially when you smile all bashfully before placing your hand against Ignacio's chest, using your finger to draw little circles over where his heart is. 

“I think your boss wants me dead.” Ignacio whispers to you. “You shouldn't glance over there. You'll see quite the death glare.” 

“He won't do anything to you, don't worry.” You know Titus won't. 

“I heard a rumor about you.” He has been meaning to ask, since now he knows you're Titus's personal assistant. “You haven't slept with him. Is that true?” 

“Is that…surprising?” 

Ignacio shrugs. “He is quite fond of the help, from what I hear. Fond of firing them too, when he's done with them.”

That you are well aware of. You've seen it before. Titus fired all of his housekeeping staff recently and hired brand new ones, who only come when you and him aren't at the apartment at all. You still don't know why he did that but you don't ask. It isn't your place to. 

“If you need a job, I have many places you can work. Just give me a call anytime.” Ignacio puts his hand out and you give him your phone, letting him add his personal number to it. “I should let you go back to your boss now. Adiós, mi cielito.” 

Ignacio kisses you on the temple before heading over to say hello to another set of patrons at the event. You make your way back to Titus, who has maintained his glare this whole time.

The question he asks you when you're back by his side startles you. “Have you fucked him?”

“What?” You raise an eyebrow at Titus, shocked he'd ask you something like that. 

“I said, have you fucked Ignacio?” His tone grows harsher. “Answer me.”

“I have not fucked anyone.” You scoff, setting your drink down. You haven't even taken a sip and now you definitely don't want to. 

Because you know the moment your inhibitions drop, you'll say something you really don't want to. 

But then Titus goes, “I bet you want to fuck him.” 

And you can't hold it in anymore. “Why do you care? I'm just the help. Though apparently you always fuck the help so maybe I'm not even that to you.” 

You have never snapped at Titus like this before. That's why he has no idea what to say. He didn't think you had it in you to feel any kind of jealousy. You normally are so chill, even when he talks to other people. 

Have you been harboring envy this whole time? 

You hate to admit that. You hate when your mind trails to the fact that he has been with other people and that he will be with other people after you. That you aren't anything but this weird pastime of his for right now. 

But that ends today. 

You can't keep doing this.

You can't keep pretending like you can stay by his side and nothing has changed. 

“I'm going to work for Ignacio.” You tell him straight up, even though you haven't formally agreed to anything. “So, you can go and hire some other person and fuck them because I do not want to be here when you inevitably do. I'm leaving to pack my things.” 

But he doesn't let you leave. Not without him.

Titus grabs you by the arm and drags you out to the underground parking lot, where he has his car parked for the event. 

“Let go of me!” You tug at him but he won't budge. “Titus!”

“Shut the fuck up!” He yells right in your face and you're so taken back that you can't speak. He has never yelled at you like that before. 

It makes your heart race in ways you've never felt before. 

He opens the backseat of his car and tosses you inside. Then, he gets in and shuts the door behind him, climbing on top of you. 

You should've guessed what would happen next but you're still shocked when his lips come crashing down onto yours as his hands slide up your legs, hiking up your skirt. You gasp against his lips when he rips off your underwear, tossing it aside.

“Wait, wait—” Your pleas are silenced by his lips, his tongue slipping into your mouth to hold it hostage. You can't breathe. You're getting lightheaded. 

It only gets worse when you feel his thumb trail down your bare pussy, a feeling you've never felt before. You squirm, shoving at him, trying to close your legs but he has your thighs pinned down with his knees. 

You're trapped beneath him. 

You're at his mercy. 

You can't let him do this. 

You'll never be able to leave if you do. 

You pull his face off of you and he snarls like a rabid animal in response but you have to get your words out, “please don't do this. You don't want this. You don't want me. You know you don't.”

He lets out the most menacing laugh you've ever heard before he responds, “that's where you're wrong. All I have ever wanted was you. All I want is to do this with you. How dare you try to leave me. Don't fucking try to stop me now because you're never getting away from me.” 

“For how long, though?” Your words freeze him in place. “Titus, I don't want to do this if you're just going to fuck someone else later. Let me go, please.” 

“What will it take for you to believe that I only want you?” Because he can't let you go. He can't.

You're everything to him. 

He'd rather die than ever let you go. 

What will it take, though? 

Horrible, sinful, ugly things cross your mind. Thoughts of you caging him as much as he wants to cage you. 

You both falling into the trap that is one another. 

“Stop right now and wait until I'm ready.” You lean up, pressing your forehead against his. “Because I will be ready. But I don't want our first time together to be in a car after a fight. Please, sir.” 

You're playing dirty, pulling that out now. But it satisfies Titus enough to nod. 

“I want to kiss and touch you whenever I want.” That is his only ask as part of this deal. “I will wait to fuck you as long as you promise you won't go.”

“Okay.” You press a kiss against his lips, one that he immediately leans into, savoring. You smile then breathe out, your warm breath like heaven on his lips, “I'm not going anywhere. I promise, sir.” 

“No talking to other men. No looking for other jobs. You sleep in my bed from now on. You aren't allowed to think of leaving me.” He nips at your bottom lip, his teeth sinking in hard enough to make it bleed. “Got it?”

You lick your lips, tasting the iron, then you lean in, biting his lip until he bleeds, before you kiss him, mixing yours with his. Then, you tell him with a little brush of your nose against his, “as long as you do the same. You're mine, Titus.” 

He lets out that dark chuckle of his, the one that he has been keeping in, the sinister laugh that is flooding his system with the darkness he has been dying to let out. 

“I am going to fuck you up.” His devilish grin sends such a thrill through you. 

“Only me, okay?” You don't want him to look at anyone else like this. 

“Only you. You're my obsession.” His gaze trails down the length of your body and he groans at the sight of your pussy, his cock wanting to sink inside of you right now. 

Titus settles for burying his face between your legs. You try to push him away, “Titus! What are you—”

“Keep your voice down.” He instructs, his hot breath tickling your clit. “Unless you want people to know I'm eating you out in my car right now.” 

“Can't we wait until we're home?” Your words make him smile. 

So, you consider his apartment home. 

He likes that a lot. 

“I'm done waiting.” He says right as he drags the length of his tongue along your folds, making your whole body shudder. His hand slides down to knead his cock through his pants, which is getting terribly hard at the sight of you trembling from his touch. “You taste exactly how I thought you would.” 

“I've never done this before.” You're scared. It feels so intense, his tongue swirling around your clit, the stimulation shooting sparks straight to your core. 

Tension is building inside of you, coiling in your lower stomach, threatening to burst. 

“You've never cum before?” Titus grip his cock harder when you nod in response. 

He will have to lock you up in the apartment from now on. 

Because if you have never tasted pleasure before, if he is your first everything, how is he supposed to ever let you out of his sight? 

He needs to corrupt you. He needs you begging for him to make you cum once you've grown addicted to it. 

But first, he needs to show you how good it feels. 

“Put your hands in my hair.” He commands and you listen, lacing your fingers through his curls. “Now listen carefully. Whenever I do something you like, you tug or I won't know, okay?” 

“I don't want to hurt you.” You let out in a quiet little murmur that he finds so precious. 

Because he wants to fuck you up even more now. 

His sweet little innocent girl. 

“That's not how you answer me.” He takes a bite out of your thigh as punishment, making you yelp from the sudden sting. “Do it right. Are you going to pull my hair when you feel good? 

“Yes, sir.” You immediately tug when he dives back in, thrusting his tongue deep inside of you. You've never felt anything like this before. “Oh my—”

You can't breathe when his hand slides between your legs, his thumb swiping over your clit as his tongue ravishes your insides. You're pulling so hard on his hair, holding him there, the pleasure building so quickly that you're feeling like you're going to explode. 

“Wait, wait, Titus, I'm going to—” You squirm when his fingers start playing with your clit, which is getting firmer from his touch, easier for him to rub methodically. 

The tip of his tongue presses up against that spot right beneath your clit inside of you, teasing it back and forth, and your body gushes. 

You bite down on your lip as hard as possible when your orgasm crashes through you, flooding every inch of your skin with an unfamiliar heat. It's like your core has been set ablaze, warmth pooling between your legs that Titus is lapping up with his tongue. 

“Good job.” He praises you, seeing how hard you came for your first time. “You even squirted a little.”

“Sorry.” You feel so embarrassed. 

“I hate it when you say sorry.” Titus leans back in, sealing his lips around your clit then starts sucking on it, pulling a scream from your lips at the sudden jolt of pleasure. 

“Titus! Stop, I just came, you can't—” You cum again before you can get any more words out, your vision going blurry. 

“Your clit is throbbing.” He flicks it with his tongue, your body convulsing in response. “That was your punishment for saying sorry. All I want to hear is “thank you for making me cum, sir”.” 

He waits for you to say it. Your heart is pounding so hard in your ears right now that you're unsure if you heard him correctly. 

But you say it perfectly, “thank you for making me cum, sir.” 

“Good girl.” He pulls you towards him, kissing you, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. He pokes your nose with his before telling you, “now we're going to go home and I'm going to do that again. Got it?” 

“Yes, sir.” You nod. Then, you don't stop yourself from giving him a peck on the lips. 

And Titus knows, in that moment, that he wants to see this look on your face everyday.

With that heat in your gaze that will only ever be for him.

The drive home is unbelievably uncomfortable because you're so wet between your legs and every bump in the road tortures your swollen clit. Not having any underwear on makes it way worse. 

Then there's the traffic. So much traffic. 

It's going to take forever to get home.

Titus glances over at you and he can't help the smile that forms when he sees you squirming. He really likes seeing you all hot and bothered. 

That's why he decides to have a little more fun. So he turns to you and says, “hold up your skirt.” 

“What?” You don't know if you heard him right. 

“I said hold up your skirt. Do it now.” 

“Titus…” You glance around. 

You know the windows of the car are tinted but you both are stuck in bumper to bumper traffic right now. There's cars on all sides of you. Someone is bound to see your bare pussy if they happen to look in. 

“I'll punish you with something worse if you don't listen.” He makes his threat and you swallow. You're unsure if you can handle another one of his punishments… 

“Okay, okay.” You grab the hem of your dress with both hands and lift it past your hips. 

“Have you ever touched yourself before?” He asks, his eyes darting between the highway and your pussy, one hand still on the wheel, the other hand unzipping his pants. His cock is going to burst out if he doesn't give it some relief soon. 

You confess. “Not really. I've never really been interested in sex until…now.” 

If Titus could pull over right here and fuck you, he would. You gulp when he turns to look at you, his gaze more intense than you've ever seen it. 

“Why don't you try right now?” He pulls his cock out of his pants and you see it for the first time. 

Technically, you have seen the outline of his cock many times before, since Titus likes to, on occasion, walk around in just his boxer briefs at the apartment. There was one day that you saw the tip of his cock peeking out but you tore your eyes away before they lingered too long. 

Now, your eyes are locked on it, on the way his large hand barely wraps around it as he strokes it up and down. Your mind is going fuzzy at the thought that he's this hard because of you. That his cock is leaking pre-cum because of you. That he's touching himself to the sight of you touching yourself, your fingers teasing your clit like he had earlier. 

“Dip your fingers inside of your pussy then rub your clit. It'll feel better.” He instructs.

You do as he says, gathering some of your slick onto the pads of your fingers and sliding back up to your clit. You let out a moan when you start to swirl those methodical circles like Titus had. It does feel much better. 

“Thank you, sir.” You tell him and he groans in response, gripping his cock harder. His other hand is gripping the steering wheel so hard that you can see the whites of his knuckles. 

“Cum with me.” He's getting close. 

And he cums when you reply, “yes, sir.” 

His release hits the dashboard and the steering wheel. He hasn't cum that hard in months. He could cum again from the sight of his leather seats slick with your release. He wishes he was between your legs instead of stuck in traffic right now. 

You quickly open the glove box, pulling out the car wipes you keep in there, since you occasionally clean Titus's car as one of your work tasks. You quickly clean up for him. 

Then, when you're done, you look down at his throbbing cock and Titus catches you licking your lips. 

Before he can say anything, you ask him, “can I clean you up?” 

“What if someone sees?” He says playfully, smirking. 

You feel a rush of heat spread through you. You don't know what you would do if someone saw you with him in your mouth while he's driving. But you definitely want to do it. 

“It's okay.” You decide you don't care because, “you wouldn't let them live if they saw.”

Titus lets out that sinister laugh of his, amused by your words. “I always knew you were a smart girl.” 

You unbuckles your seatbelt and proceed to bend over until your face is right above his cock. 

“Come closer.” He urges you to get on your knees on the seat, pulling your body closer to him. Then, you jolt when his hand slides down the length of your back, pulling up your dress until your ass is exposed. Then, he sinks two fingers into your pussy from this angle without warning.

“Wait, Titus—” Now, if anyone looks through the passenger side window, they have a clear view of him fingering you.

“It's okay.” He smiles mischievously. “I'll kill anyone who dares to look, remember? Just focus on cleaning me up.” 

You turn your attention back to his cock, which is surprisingly still hard. You don't know what to do, especially when his fingers are thrusting inside of you, spreading you open in ways you didn't know possible. They're terribly distracting, pushing you closer and closer to your next orgasm. 

You drag your tongue along the tip of his cock, licking up any leftover cum that's still leaking out. He rewards you by curling his fingers inside of you, making your hips buck. 

“Put me in your mouth and I'll make you cum real hard.” He teases that spot inside of you, your body trembling in response. 

You wrap your lips around the tip of his cock then sink down, letting him fill your mouth. You can't fit him all the way in. You barely make it halfway. But that's enough for him to reward you. 

“Suck and lick me clean while you cum.” He then starts to move his fingers side to side rapidly, sending you into a frenzy from the sudden roughness. 

You cum uncontrollably, drenching your legs as you suck his cock, your tongue swirling around while you do. You moan with your full mouth when Titus pops his fingers out of you. You pull off of him and help settle him back inside his pants.

“Come here and kiss me.” He gestures for you to kiss him, since he needs to focus on the road still.

You press a kiss against his lips then sit back down, buckling in again. Then you turn to look at him, watching him lick his wet fingers clean. That makes heat pool at core again. 

“Did that feel good?” He has both hands on the wheel again, now that the bumper to bumper traffic has stopped. 

“Yes, sir.” You say bashfully, your cheeks growing warm. 

You've never felt anything like this before. But you want to do it again. The pleasure is incredible. The thrill is addictive. 

But a strange pain pricks you inside. 

You try to ignore it but it picks at you the entire rest of the ride home. 

Titus is so eager to kiss you the moment the two of you are home alone but when he goes to do so, you do not seem to match his energy. You kiss him back, sure, but not with the passion he had hoped. 

“What's wrong?” He cups your face with his hands, feeling how fast your pulse is. 

“I don't know.” You can't quite put words to what's bothering you. 

Maybe you're just overwhelmed. So much has happened. It's going to take a while to adjust to the new rhythm of things. 

But you have a feeling that isn't what's lingering in your heart. 

“Titus.” You say his name when your eyes meet his. 

He likes the sound of his name from your lips, but not when you sound so sad. It makes him feel something in the pit of his stomach he'd like not to feel. 

“Have you done that with anyone before?” You know then what is tainting your heart.

It is that ugly envy again. The fear that you are just another one of his playthings. Or worse, a hole for him to fuck and throw away. 

At least before, you were like a companion. Like a glorified pet. You didn't mind that because you knew no one else had ever been that for him before. 

This, whatever relationship you are in now, is something else entirely and you are afraid you've just fallen into a position that can be filled by anyone. 

You yearn to feel special but you don't know if Titus wants to make you feel special. 

You're about to learn the truth. 

When he picks you up and carries you into his bedroom, tossing you onto his bed. His sheets smell like him. Like the expensive soap in his shower and the cologne he likes to wear. It makes your heart ache. 

Like his words do, “do you think I'd do that for anyone?”

Your throat is so dry all of a sudden. Swallowing your saliva brings no relief. You're so choked up from the fear. 

You just mumble out, “I don't know.” 

“I have never waited to fuck anyone in my life.” He climbs over you, trapping you beneath him. “If you were just a hole to me, I would've sunk my cock into you on your first day.”

“Then what am I to you?” You ask even though you know he can't give you an answer. 

How can he? Titus could never marry you. Not with the kind of fucked up family he has. 

So, what are you to him? 

“Does it matter?” He doesn't want to put a label on this. 

“I don't know.” You don't like answering like that but it's the truth. You don't know if or why it matters to you. 

“You're mine. I'm yours. Isn't that enough?” He owns you and you own him. Mutual destruction. 

“What if…” You whisper the next part because the nerves make your stomach twist, “I get greedy?” 

“How greedy?” Titus likes this. This sudden turn. 

At first, he was worried you'd try to run from this again and shove him away. But right now, you are pulling him in and not wanting to let him go. 

“Have you…ever had a baby with anyone?” You ask because you're unsure. He could have children out there he has no clue about. 

The chuckle that leaks from his lips sends shivers down your spine. “Are you planning to baby trap me?” 

“You asked me how greedy…so I told you.” You may not be able to be his in any kind of official capacity but being the mother of his only child would put you on a pedestal that you can never be removed from. 

“I've never fucked anyone without protection.” He refuses to stick his cock into anyone raw. There's too much risk. 

There's no risk with you, his beautiful virgin who has never had anyone but him touch you. 

“Are you going to wear a condom with me?” His answer to this question will tell you everything you need to know. 

“The moment I get to sink my cock into your pussy, it's going in raw.” He smiles at how your expression shifts from that worry to delight. “Would you like that?” 

“Yes, sir.” You pull him in for a kiss, sealing your words. “I would like that very much.” 

“How much longer are you going to make me wait?” He's already raring to go again right now, his cock aching to be buried inside of you. 

It's your turn to chuckle, letting him hear that laugh that is like music to his ears. “I didn't realize Mister Almost Trillionaire can't keep it in his pants. You want to fuck me that bad?” 

“Desperately.” He finally allows himself to admit out loud. 

“I don't want it to hurt.” You heard the first time always hurts. 

“It won't.” Titus will prepare you well. 

“Then, whenever you want, we can.” You press a little kiss on his cheek. “Just not tonight.” 

He huffs out an annoyed breath. “What the fuck? Such a tease.” 

“I want to sleep with you tonight. Just sleep. Tomorrow, we can do whatever you want. But tonight, I want to just lay and cuddle. Is that okay, sir?” You bat your eyelashes at him and he lets out a laugh in response. 

“You know just how to push me.” He picks you back up into his arms. “You're getting in the shower with me. We're going to cuddle naked.”

“I'm okay with that.” You nuzzle your face into the crook of his neck, breathing in his nice cologne. “As long as we get to cuddle. I've always wanted to cuddle.” 

“Is that the greed spilling out?” He asks as he opens the door to his lavish bathroom. 

“Can I be more greedy?” You rub your cheek against his shoulder like you used to once he sets you back on your feet. “Please, sir?” 

“What do you want?” He should not let you influence him so easily but it's hard when you're acting so cute. 

“A hug.” You open your arms, since you and Titus have never hugged before. 

He doesn't even think he has ever hugged anyone. Not like actually. He doesn't like casual touching after all. You've never tried to hug him.

But you want to now. 

Titus steps forward, wrapping his arms around you and you smile all giddy, rubbing your face against his chest as you squeeze him with your arms. His heart is racing in his chest. He didn't know it was possible to find someone so adorable before. 

“Now pick me up.” You beam a big smile at him as you wrap your arms around his neck. “Come on, please!” 

He glares at you. You are getting bold. But he listens, picking you up by your thighs, wrapping your legs around his waist. You giggle so beautifully, laying your head against his shoulder. 

“I've always wanted to do this.” You pepper his neck with kisses before trailing up to his lips, giving him a little affectionate peck there. “Thank you, Titus.” 

Oh, he's fucked. He's actually so fucked. Because he thought he would be the one fucking you up. 

But here you are, being the brightest ball of sunshine he has ever experienced, melting his icy soul with a warmth he has never ever thought possible. 

He might just fall in love with you…

Much to your surprise, Titus does not fuck you the next day. Actually, he doesn't even touch you, at least not sexually. He grabs a hold of your hand to tug you towards him for a hug. He kisses you. He cuddles you in bed or on the couch. But nothing more than that. 

You don't ask why. You like these more intimate moments. But it's making it harder and harder not to fall in love with him. 

You know it's silly, though, to think you could ever be his love. Everyone around Titus believes he's incapable of love. 

Do you believe that? 

You're…unsure about that. 

If anything, you think he is very capable of love but he would never admit it. He would never tell anyone that he has all your favorite things memorized. He would never let anyone find out that he knows everything there is to know about you, like what makes you laugh or how much he loves your laugh. 

Or how much he loves you. 

He loves you. 

He does. 

He realizes that on the private jet ride to another resort, this time tucked away in the mountains, with a private hot spring in each of the luxury cabins. 

You're going over the itinerary you put together, since you're very excited to go on a little vacation now that you and Titus are being more affectionate. Since it's in a more secluded place with little to no reception, he feels safe about just being himself. It's a resort meant for relaxation and restoration so no phone use allowed anyways. 

And he knows he loves you because he's excited to spend quality time focused solely on you. 

Because that must be what love is, right? 

To want someone all the time, to want to be with them all the time. 

“What are you most excited about, Titus?” You ask him once you finish reading off your list. 

He can't really tell you that he's excited to fuck you every night this week until you're unable to walk so he just says, “it'll be nice to soak in the hot spring.” 

You giggle, nodding in agreement. “Me too. I like that it's private so we can cuddle out in the open.” 

Or fuck. He really needs to fuck you. 

He can't wait any longer. 

Titus hasn't touched you since that day. He doesn't really know why. He just figured he wanted to enjoy being affectionate with you for a bit. The kisses, the hugs, the cuddling, they all have been better than he thought. He never realizes it could be like this with someone. He feels so at ease around you. You make it easy to be himself.

You aren't afraid of his darker tendencies at all. You don't mind that he glares at the concierge for staring at you for a little too long. You aren't repulsed by his need to keep you close to him now that he is allowed to keep an arm around you at all times. 

You quite enjoy being the object of his obsession. You have never felt so special before. 

You wish this could last forever. 

So, you have a little gift for Titus. One that took a lot of maneuvering to hide from him, since he hasn't let you out of his sight for very long these last few days. 

You aren't sure when you want to give it to him but when the two of you step into the beautiful hotel room, you decide the sooner the better. You want to see him wear it right away. 

“Titus, I have something for you.” You open your suitcase and pull out a flat velvet box you had been hiding from him. 

He stares at it, not knowing how the hell you managed to buy something without him knowing. You are a sneaky girl, aren't you? 

“What the fuck? Who did you bribe to buy that for you?” That must've been it.

“I'm not telling!” You knew he'd think that. “Just open it!” 

You hand him the box and he scoffs. He can't believe you got him a gift. He should've gotten you something. He definitely will now. He can't have you get the last laugh. 

But he hears your beautiful giggle when he opens it and shock colors his features. 

Inside the box is a necklace delicately woven with thick black thread. In the center is a cute note attached that says: to the threads that bind us ♡

Then, you show him the matching necklace you're wearing around your neck. 

And he has never kissed you so quickly before. 

You smile against his lips, saying in between kisses, “I assume you like it.” 

“Did you make this?” You must've. That's the only way you could've snuck it by him.

You nod. “It's a super high quality thread, waterproof, last longing, the works. You saw me order it. You probably thought it was just for my sewing stuff.” 

Titus definitely remembers you ordering it but he assumed it was just a restock of whatever threads you already had. He had no clue you were making something in secret. 

“Sneaky.” He chuckles, and he finds it strange how authentic it is. 

He hasn't laughed like that in a long time. Without fear of being seen as weak. It's a real, deep from the soul kind of laugh. One of happiness. 

Maybe that's why the words leave his lips, “I love you.” 

Because maybe, deep down, he wants to sabotage this. He wants you to rip out his heart and stomp on it so that he can never trust anyone ever again enough to show weakness. Because that would make him a Danforth. 

But you blink back tears of joy and say to him, “I love you too, Titus.” 

And in that moment, he realizes he isn't a Danforth. 

He's just Titus. 

And Titus is in love with you. 

“I want to marry you.” His words catch you by surprise. 

“What?” You never thought he'd ever say that. “Your father would…” 

“I know.” He knows it's not possible, but not for the reasons you think. 

Titus loves you too much to subject you to the trials of what it means to become a part of his family. The dirty, dark, fucked up secret he's keeping. The one he will tell you about one day, but not today. 

Today, he wants to tell you, “I just wanted you to know that I want to. And I hope that's enough.” 

You smile that lovely smile that has his heart racing. “More than enough. I want to marry you too.” 

You untie the necklace and Titus holds still while you secure the knot around his neck. The two of you may never wear rings, but you will always be bound together. 

“Now, can I please fuck you?” Titus cannot hold back anymore. 

You giggle and then playfully say, “what would you do if I said no?” 

“I might just pin you down and take you anyways.” It's a real threat because he is done with waiting. 

“Can you wait just a little longer?” You bat your eyelashes at him, making him groan. “Just until we've unpacked and soaked in the hot spring once. Then, I'm all yours. But I know if we dive right in, we're not leaving that bed and I'd like to enjoy the amenities a bit before the love of my life fucks me silly.” 

“The love of your life.” Titus grabs you and kisses you right then and there, the hunger in his kisses very apparent. “How the fuck do you expect me to keep it together?” 

“I don't know, sir.” You giggle, brushing your nose against his cutely. “I guess you just have to figure it out.” 

He growls, low, angry, menacingly. “You're on thin ice, love.” 

“I can't wait to fall in then.” You say with a big smile before pulling him in for another kiss that he instantly melts into. 

Titus hates that you take your sweet ass time unpacking. He knows you're doing it on purpose too. Like you're just sitting there, sorting your toiletries. You've never done that before. 

He knows you're just doing it to stall because you like riling him up. You will grow to regret testing him like this. 

But he is patient. He is waiting so patiently because he knows the moment you're in bed with him, his cock is not leaving your pussy for the next week. 

Maybe the next month.

Maybe the next year. 

He could reserve this place for that long if he wanted to.

Maybe he will. Why not? 

He's one of the richest men in the world.

He can spend his money however he wants. 

“Are you coming in or not?” You call out to Titus, who is obviously lost in his own thoughts. You know you've teased him to the breaking point now. 

Which is why you pull off all your clothes while he's watching before getting into the hot spring. 

Titus practically rips his clothes off to join you and you laugh so hard when he grabs you and pulls you onto his lap the moment he gets into the water. He is desperate to touch your skin to his skin like this, his cock throbbing against your lower stomach. 

“I could fuck you right now.” He whispers into your ear before nipping at your earlobe. “You're making it very difficult not to.” 

“You promised me you would make sure it wouldn't hurt.” You don't want him to rush this. 

“It won't hurt.” He's going to make you cum plenty before his cock does. 

You hug him and then say into the crook of his neck, “I am a little scared…”

And, for some reason, Titus holds onto you a little tighter when you say that. 

“What are you scared of?” He starts rubbing small circles on your back, trying to comfort you.

He has never comforted someone before. But he wants to for you. 

“You might be too big.” You feel a little flustered saying that out loud. “Like, are you really going to fit?” 

He groans then slaps your ass, making you shriek. “You scared the fuck out of me! That's what you're worried about?” 

“It's a valid worry.” You squint at him. “Have you ever taken a cock that big?” 

“I never take it.” He says with a smirk and you chuckle then smack his chest.

“See! You don't get it. It's intimidating…” You glance downwards, highly aware of how deep his cock would go inside of you when it does. 

“It will be fine.” He leans in, kissing you on the cheek. “I promise, love.”

“I trust you, sir.” You lay your head back on his shoulder. 

“You'll end up enjoying how big I am.” He'll get you to crave being filled up with his cock.

“I hope so.” Your words make his cock twitch. “It felt really good to cum. I bet it'll be even better to cum together.”

“You're killing me.” He grunts against your skin, digging his teeth into your shoulder because he needs some kind of relief. “I want to fuck you so badly.” 

“Hopefully it's worth the wait.” You are a tad bit worried about being boring in bed. You're sure Titus has preferences you can't quite live up to yet. 

“You are worth the wait.” Titus pulls you in closer, kissing you softly. It's the softest kiss he has ever done. So gentle, so sweet. “I don't want to be anywhere but right here with you.” 

“Who knew you were such a romantic?” You giggle, hugging him tighter. “I love you so much, Titus.” 

Now, he is officially done waiting. 

Titus lifts you up by your thighs, wrapping your legs around his waist as he hauls the two of you out of the hot spring and back inside. He doesn't care how dripping wet he is. 

He just needs you sprawled out on the bed in front of him as soon as possible. 

He drops you onto the bed, climbing on top of you. You look up at him, and he knows that look in your eye is full of love. 

“You have no fucking clue how much I've wanted you under me like this.” Titus stares down at your naked body beneath him, reveling in the sight of how shy and flustered you are. “You're so pretty.” 

“Have you always been a flirt?” You giggle and he starts plastering your body with kisses, trying to draw more of that lovely sound from you. “That tickles!”

“Have you always been this cute?” His words warm your heart so much. 

“I love you like this.” You tell him, seeing how relaxed he looks, the tension gone from his features. You brush your fingertips along his jaw until you cup his face. “Can we stay like this forever?” 

Titus nods, pressing a kiss into your palm to seal his promise. Then, he starts to kiss down the length of your arm, until he reaches your shoulder. From there, he trails lower, to your chest. You bite back a sound when he drags his tongue over each of your nipples, which have perked up already. 

“I've been waiting to do that and this.” He says before he takes one of them between his teeth, nibbling just enough to send shivers all over you. “Feel good?”

You nod. “Yes, sir.” 

“It'll feel better with my fingers inside of you.” He nudges you to lay on your side, facing him. He spreads your legs, his hand slipping between them, groaning when he feels how wet you are for him already. “Is this for me?” 

“Only for you, sir.” You wrap your arms around his neck, lacing your fingers into his hair, tugging it when he slowly thrusts a finger inside of you. That encourages him to add another, spreading you wide, helping you adjust to the size. 

He latches back onto your breasts, playing with your sensitive nipples, swirling around the hard peaks as his fingers curl inside of you, looking for just the right spot to thrust against. You tug his hair when he finds it and moan when he starts to tease it, making you grind your hips against his hand. 

“You better do that on my cock.” Titus is barely keeping it together. He wants to be inside of you already. But he promised he wouldn't let it hurt. 

So, he needs to make you cum a few times. 

You're getting close to your first orgasm already, the dual stimulation inching you closer and closer. Then, when Titus starts to palm your clit, you let go completely, letting the first wave of pleasure take over you.

He keeps his fingers buried inside of you, but starts to kiss down the length of your body. You know what's about to happen next, your hands still in his hair, ready to tug when his lips seal over your clit. 

The burst of pleasure distracts you from him adding in another finger, the pressure building inside of you. You're clamping down on his fingers so hard. He wishes it was his cock instead. But he needs you to loosen up a bit more. You won't be able to take him if you're this tight. 

“Relax, love.” His hand rests on your lower stomach, rubbing it gently. “You can take it. Just breathe. Focus on your clit.” 

Easy for him to say. He isn't the one being pried open. But you close your eyes, tuning your attention to the softness of his tongue and the warmth of his hand on your skin. He eases his fingers deeper inside of you, until he's brushing up against a spot so deep, you start to squirm, tugging at his hair. 

“Right here?” He curls his fingers and you squirt in response, finally loosening up, gasping for air. 

That was more intense than the last orgasm. And Titus is tempted to tease you more, to thrust his fingers relentlessly right there, to see you convulsing and screaming. But then he sees that adorably flustered look on your face. He wants to enjoy that a little bit longer. 

“Now imagine the tip of my cock grinding right here.” He pushes against that spot again, making your lower body shake so much that he has to hold you still with his other hand pinning you down by your stomach. “You'll be cumming like crazy.” 

“I don't know if I can handle that.” You feel like you could pass out right now. 

“You can. You will. Just enjoy it.” Titus starts to thrust his fingers in and out at a slow pace, letting you get used to the motion. 

It feels better than you thought it would, the friction growing more and more intoxicating. You're going to burst at the seams again the moment he curls his fingers. He knows you will. 

So, he doesn't. And you don't know how to react to the edging. You've never experienced it before, to be taken so close to the edge but then not all the way. He slows before you can cum then once you've rested enough, picks back up until you're close again. 

“Titus, please.” You want to cum, your hips desperately grinding against his fingers but he won't let you. 

“Ask properly.” He finally lets out that sadistic smile he has been dying to let free. 

He loves seeing you like this. Your skin hot, your breaths heavy, your pussy aching to cum. 

“Please make me cum, sir.” You plead exactly the way you figure he'd want you to. 

And Titus rewards you well. 

Maybe a little too well. 

You're screaming his name when his fingers starts to fuck you without any care for how hard you're cumming on them. You try to pull away from him, to run from the sudden onslaught of pleasure but he's holding you steady, not letting you go. 

Instead, Titus leans down, his lips sealing over your clit again, and when he lightly sucks on it, you're seeing stars in your vision, the orgasms compounding exponentially. 

You don't know if you ever stop cumming. You definitely have soaked the sheets, along with his face. He licks it up happily, like it's his reward for making you cum so much. 

You feel a little empty when he pulls his fingers out of you. You feel even more empty when he gets up from bed. 

“Where are you going?” You try not to sound too sad but you can't control it. 

“Just grabbing some water.” He cracks open one of the water bottles the place provides and brings it back to you, climbing back into bed. “I wasn't going to leave you.” 

You didn't think he was but it definitely feels strange, coming down from the high of an orgasm. It's like it sinks all your other feelings down too. 

“Come here, love.” He sits up in bed, patting his lap. 

You straddle his lap, taking the water bottle he hands you and sipping it. You definitely needed to quench your thirst. Titus wraps his arms around you, pulling you right up against his chest. 

Then, he goes, “help me with the water. My hands are full.”

You chuckle, finding this a little silly but you lift the water bottle to his lips and help him drink. You set the empty bottle aside so you can wrap your arms around his neck, laying your head against his chest, just hugging him for a bit. 

He rubs your back, trying to soothe any worries you may have had. Thoughts you shouldn't be having cross your mind and he catches the light sigh you breathe into his skin. 

“We don't have to have sex tonight.” Titus might actually fucking die if he has to wait any longer but he doesn't want you to be scared. 

He wants you to fully enjoy it with him. 

But can you, when you keep thinking about…

“Does it bother you that I'm inexperienced?” A part of you is afraid that taking things so slow is a burden. It is, but that's not because of you. That's only because Titus wants to fuck you so badly that taking things slow is killing him. 

But he's okay with the slow death. 

Because he knows the pay off will be well worth it. “I like that you are.” 

“Really?” You don't think Titus would lie to you. At least not right now. 

“I like knowing that I'm going to be the only person who ever gets to touch you.” You truly are his in that sense. 

“I wish I could say the same about you.” You feel selfish saying that, but you let it out anyways. “I feel strange when I think about you touching other people like you have to me.” 

“I haven't touched them like I have with you.” That's the truth. 

“What do you mean?” You can't imagine that's right. 

“Do you really think I'd go down on just anyone?” 

“Well…yeah…” 

He glares at you. “And here I thought you didn't judge me.” 

“I'm not judging you! I just figured you must like doing it since you're so good at it.” He had to learn from somewhere, right? 

“You think I'm good at it?” He pulls you in closer. “Did I make you feel good?” 

“Obviously.” You are not going to stroke his ego any more than this. “That's why I feel like…if you made someone else feel like that too, I…” 

“If they came on my cock, then they came on my cock. I wasn't fucking them to make them cum. I was fucking them to make myself cum.” Which is fucked up to say out loud but Titus is fucked up and you know that so there's no point in pretending he isn't. “But with you, I want to make you cum. A lot. Especially with my cock.” 

“So, that was all for me? You've never done that with anyone else before?” You hate asking but you want the confirmation. 

“You're the only one I've ever wanted to touch. You're the only one I've held naked.” 

“What?” That surprises you. 

“I despise being touched, especially skin on skin.” His words seem a bit ridiculous considering the fact that you're naked, pressed up against him right now while he's completely naked too. “But I like touching you. Only you, love.” 

“Is it bad that I like that?” You want things that are for you and you only. 

“Is it bad that I really wanted to make you beg to cum?” He refers to earlier.

“Yes.” You take a bite out of his neck as punishment for that. “That was mean.” 

“You liked it.” He smirks, pulling you in for a kiss. 

You smile against his lips. You can't help it. You love kissing Titus so you deepen the kiss, your tongue tangling with his, enjoying his lips on yours for a bit longer. 

He lays you onto your back, never breaking the kiss as he settles himself between your legs. You can feel his cock throbbing against your stomach. 

“We don't have to.” He breathes out onto your lips. “If you're scared.” 

You look down, contemplating how daunting the thought of fitting him inside of you will ultimately be. But you want to have sex with him. You want to feel that close with him. 

But you need him to promise first. “The moment you fuck me, you aren't allowed to fuck anyone else ever again. I'll kill you if you do.”

“My sunshine has a dark side.” He likes this version of you. The possessive you. 

“You're a bad influence.” You say with a big smile. 

“Definitely.” He nods firmly. “Because if you even think about fucking anyone else, you're never leaving my bed.”

“I like being in your bed.” You confess. These last few days sleeping beside him have been so wonderful. “Can I stay there forever anyways?” 

“You don't have to ask. You're obligated to because there won't be a day that goes by where I'm not going to be fucking you.” Titus has waited long enough. 

From this moment forward, your pussy will keep his cock warm forever. 

And you can't wait anymore either. “Then I'm ready.” 

You expect to feel Titus's cock but he slips three fingers back inside of you, just to make sure. You wriggle a bit when he thrusts them in deep again and before you can say another word about how he's curling them, his lips press against yours. 

You've never cum while kissing him before, the rush making you all lightheaded from the breathlessness. His fingers don't stop moving, fucking you through your orgasm, making another one build all too quickly. But he pulls out before you can cum again. 

And this time, he lines up his cock, the tip of it pushing against your entrance. 

“Now you're ready.” He says with a smile against your lips. “Deep breath for me, love.”

You listen, taking in a deep breath as he sinks the tip of his cock inside of you. Titus lays his forehead against yours, groaning at the feeling of how warm and wet you are wrapped up around him. He isn't even fully inside of you yet but he knows there's nowhere else he wants to be from now on. 

You were expecting some pain but it's mostly that pressure that Titus has familiarized you with using his fingers. He helps keep your mind off the increasing pressure with his lips on yours and his hands cupping your breasts, his thumbs rolling over your nipples as he sinks another inch of himself inside of you. You tug at his hair, wanting him to keep going, basking in the grin he gives you in response. 

He's about halfway seated inside of you when he pulls off your lips to say, “I'm going to start moving now. You know what to do if something feels good.”

“Yes, sir.” You nudge him playfully with your nose and he nips at it with his teeth, his cock throbbing inside of you at your words. “I love you.” 

“I love you too.” Titus is so madly in love with you. 

Because that's the only reason he's going so slow. If he had his way, he'd be pounding into you, forcing your pussy to take him instead of easing it into things. One day, he'll have his fun. 

But today, he'll make love. He has always, secretly, wanted to fall in love. Maybe that's why when the opportunity presented itself, it wasn't difficult for him to dive right into you. 

You're everything he isn't. The light in his darkness. 

The love of his life, looking so beautiful as he slowly starts to move, finding a rhythm that adds a bit more of himself inside of you with each thrust. You tug at his hair when the tip of his cock teases the swallower spot closer to your entrance, so he makes sure to spend some time there before thrusting as far in as he can go. 

“I'm going to cum if you keep doing that.” Your words don't dissuade him. 

Actually, it encourages him to pull his cock completely out of you, the sudden pop pushing you over the edge, your orgasm overwhelming you instantly. He likes the sight of your body shivering all over from the pleasure. He likes it even better knowing it's because of his cock. 

He goes to sink back in but you shake your head, saying, “wait, wait, I need a second.” 

“No, you don't.” He knows you're just afraid to cum again so soon. 

You are, because you cum the moment he thrusts back inside and then pulls completely out again, wetness pooling between your legs. That makes it much easier for Titus to slide back inside all the way, filling you deeper than he has before. 

“I'm right here.” He presses down against your lower stomach, kneading where your womb is, the tip of his cock pushing right up against it. “How does it feel?” 

“Too good.” You admit, feeling so shy at how easily he's making you unravel. “I'm going to cum again if you move.” 

“You're very sensitive.” He's happy you are. He's going to drown you in pleasure. 

“It's because of you, sir.” You pull him down to kiss you then you place a kiss against his cheek with such much affection. “Thank you for waiting for me.” 

“You're going to make me cum if you keep acting so cute, love.” He peppers your face with lovely kisses, making you giggle. 

“Cum with me?” You really want him to. 

“Always.” He wants to cum feeling you clenching tightly around him from your orgasm. 

So, he slides his hands down, grabbing a hold of your hips, and then starts to finally fuck you. You're not expecting to feel so much but his cock is rubbing up against every inch of your pussy with every stroke. It's going to be hard to hold your orgasm. 

He feels the same. Now that he's wrapped so perfectly inside of you, he's getting close. He'll have to pace himself better next time. 

But for right now, he is content to cum if it means you will too. 

Your whole body tenses when he starts thrusting into you a bit faster, the sound of him slamming his cock inside of you filling the air. You tug him down so you can crash your lips against his, wanting to be kissing him when you both cum. His tongue slips inside your mouth, stealing your breath away, making you dizzy from how good everything feels all together. 

You cum the moment warmth spills inside of you, unfamiliar but so very nice. Because you know Titus has never done this before. 

And he desperately wants to do it again. 

“Can I flip you over?” He asks, his cock still hard and throbbing inside of you. 

“Don't you need a break?” You figured at his age, also being a man, don't they need time between?

“I need this. I need you. Please, love.” He just wants to pound you into the next oblivion. 

You nod, letting him slip out of you before you flip over, getting on your hands and knees. Titus kisses a line down your spine, the sight of you like this better than when he would fantasize about it.

“My beautiful love.” He groans seeing the sight of your swollen pussy from him fucking you. “I'm going to fuck you up now. I'm not stopping, no matter what.” 

Your toes curl at the thrill that sparks through you. “Go ahead, sir. I'm all yours.”

He growls, unable to keep the animalistic side of him any longer. “You are all mine. The very object of my obsession. I'm going to enjoy this.” 

Your eyes roll into the back of your head when he thrusts into you from this angle, fitting so much more of himself than before. You're cumming already, your legs growing weak from the shivers. He smacks your ass, adding to the shakes. 

“You won't last long if you cum that easily.” He makes it very difficult not to cum, though. 

Titus doesn't ease you in this time. He pulls completely out of you then rams the entire length of his cock deep inside of you. Over and over, until you're squirting on his cock with every forceful thrust. You're digging your nails into the sheets, leaning your upper body down against the soft pillows to cushion how hard he's fucking you all of a sudden. 

“Titus, it's too much, I can't—” He answers your pleads by sliding his hand between your legs and rubbing your clit with the same intensity as he's fucking you, pulling gasp after gasp from your lips. 

You're going to pass out from the orgasms, your mind going hazing from the constant release. 

“You're going to kill me.” You can't possibly keep cumming like this. You'll lose your mind if you do. “You need to stop—”

“It's okay, love. You can take it.” He feels you drench his fingertips when he says that, still abusing your clit. “Just let it happen. Cum your brains out.” 

You opt then to just bite the pillow beneath you, muffling your screams as he pounds into you ruthlessly, his fingers rubbing your swollen clit raw. The pleasure is endless, sweeping over you in intense waves. 

There's nothing in your mind except for Titus. He's consumed you completely. You call out his name as you cum again and again. 

This is everything he has been dreaming about. You, lost in the euphoria, giving into him. You'll never leave him now that you've had a taste of what he can do for you. 

“I love you.” He loops on repeat as his thrusts get quicker, his orgasm inching closer. 

Your words in response are completely incoherent, just cute little mumbles. You're so far gone, which pulls the most evil laugh out of Titus. 

You're an absolute mess by the time he finally cums inside of you, your body unable to hold yourself up anymore. He pulls out of you, letting you collapse onto your side and then he plops down behind you, wrapping his arms around you, spooning you. He places warm kisses along your shoulder blades, rubbing your lower belly as you come down from your intense high. You moan a little when his fingers press in, making you well aware of how full you are inside. 

“Maybe we should get you some birth control.” He says, nipping at your earlobe. “I want to enjoy fucking you a bit longer before I put a baby inside of you.” 

“I have the arm implant.” Your words make him still. 

“What?” 

You chuckle, flipping over to look at him, “you didn't think I'd let you fuck me that raw the first time, did you?”

“You sneaky little girl.” He takes a bite out of your neck in protest, marking you quite obviously. “How dare you hide that from me.”

“I didn't hide it. I just…omitted the truth?” You smirk, showing him that you aren't just a bundle of sunshine. 

You trapped him just as much as he trapped you.

Truly his equal, in every way. 

“You know I'm going to have to punish you for that, love.” He will have to think up something good. Maybe tying you down and edging you until you're crying and begging to be fucked. 

“I look forward to it, sir.” You say with a big smile before pulling him in for a kiss. Then, you breathe out with all the warmth in your afterglow, “I love you, Titus.” 

“You're lucky I love you, or I would be very fucking pissed right now.” He can't believe you hid that from him. 

“Mmm, maybe I like you angry.” You nuzzle his nose with yours. “You're never angry with me. It's a nice change of pace.”

He glares at you. “You might be the only person in the world who wants to piss me off.” 

“And you love it!” You wrap your arms around him, hugging him. 

“Yes. I do love it.” He lets out a sigh of defeat, smiling as he hugs you back, loving that the two of you can cuddle like this. 

He has truly met his match. 

Because you're as obsessed with him as he is with you. 

A/N: Are y’all impressed at my willpower? I wanted to challenge myself and not have them fuck right away and oh my goodness was that a challenge! I love writing smut so much (so of course I had to still add lots of naughty smut haha) but I was craving a lovey dovey, cutesy, fucked up slow burn after my last fic so I hope you all enjoyed this read! ♡ 

[sargeant-bxrnes]

the hunt & the vow

summary: you broke up with titus danforth this morning. by nightfall you’re running through his family’s forest with a seven-minute head start and one rule: if he catches you before sunrise, you marry him.

warnings: 18+ / explicit nsfw. dark romance, coercive power imbalance, forced marriage, predator/prey dynamic. | smut: dirty talk, rough sex, manhandling, creampie, cum play, breeding kink undertones, oral (f receiving), fingering, unprotected sex, overstimulation, light spanking.

wc: 7.7 k [oops, got carried away] | READ ON AO3!

You never thought you’d live to see this day. But it’s here.

You’ve broken up with Titus.

“You know too much.”

“I won’t say anything.”

“You know too much.” he said again. “I can’t just… let you go. Rejoin the rest of the world, not while you know what you know. I know you see the dilemma.”

Fuck.

“Well, what’s my word gonna do against your family’s? Or the councils’?” You offer. It could lead to nothing, but it’s worth trying all the angles. “You could simply claim I’m not mentally well and have me sent to a psychiatric facility. I’m sure it’s been done before.”

“And how long until you sweettalk a guard long enough for him to listen and start a rumor?” He argues, shaking his head with a tut. “We can’t have that, you see?”

“I haven’t said a word all these years. What makes you think I'd start now, when I know my freedom—my life—would depend on me keeping my mouth shut?” You argue, trying, hoping mostly, to reach an agreement.

But Titus… he has his firm set of opinions.

“It can’t happen,” he shrugs, squaring his shoulders, clasping his hands in front of his body.

“Titus-“

“But see, I am not an unfair man, especially with you,” he starts, and just going by the look on his eye, you know this won’t be nice. “So, I propose a deal.”

“I-“

“We play a game,” he begins to explain. And holy shit, those are some dreadful words to hear from a council member, from a Danforth, especially if you know what his family does. What people like him are like. “It won’t be official, of course. But the rules will be basically the same. You run, hide, and if you make it till morning, I’ll let you go. If not…”

“You’ll kill me?” You question, slightly (very) terrified of the answer. You know he has the strength in him, the dexterity, the methods.

He scoffs. “No, of course not. What good would you do me dead? If I catch you… you’ll marry me.”

“What?”

“You heard me. If you win, you go. If I win, you’ll marry me,” he repeats, firmer this time. “We’ll have a small ceremony, move into the house I bought for us—before you decided to be an insolent little bitch and broke up with me—and live there as a couple, as we should. And we’ll have children, to inherit my name, my legacy.”

He’s insane. There is no way he means this, is there? You hesitate before saying anything, staring at him, trying to read his face. But all you see there is… that he means it. He’s set on this.

You’ll have to try to find your way out of this somehow.

“Well, that’s hardly fair, is it?” You question, crossing your arms over your chest, hiding the shaking of your hands. “You know the complex better than I do. How would I be able to hide?”

“I’m sure you’ll manage.”

“But what about the rules?”

“Anything goes. Except killing, of course.”

The more he talks, the more you realize there’s no way out of this. You will have to play.

And yet you hesitate. He’s made it clear he can’t let you go, so even if you win, what’s stopping him from keeping you anyway? What’s stopping the Council from having you quietly disposed of the moment you’re no longer under Titus’ control? In the official games, Le Bail’s rules are absolute. Unbreakable. People explode for breaking them. But this? This is unofficial. There’s no contract, no supernatural enforcement, no consequences for going back on his word.

All you have is his word.

You almost ask. You can feel the question sitting right there —his word, and what it’s actually worth—but you swallow it back down. What would be the point? If he says yes, you have no way of knowing if he means it. If he says no…

Well. You’d rather not find out what comes after no.

So instead you just look at him for a moment, and then nod.

“Fine,” you say. “I’ll play.”

He was gracious enough —if that word can even apply to him— to give you some kind of head start. He let you leave the mansion before he did, which is technically the bare minimum, but in these circumstances is practically generous.

Your headstart is seven minutes. Seven.

You force yourself to think fast, clear and precise, which actually takes a lot of effort when you know your crazy ex boyfriend is literally hunting you down.

The thing about his family’s complex—you think as your feet start moving— is that it’s huge. It has a casino resort, the golf course, stylish lobbies, the kitchen, the laundry room and a gazillion other rooms you’re probably unaware of. The downside? Titus is aware of all of them. And he has eyes and ears everywhere. You can’t assume he’ll play fairly, not when it comes to you and the risk of losing you. The property will be crawling with employees that could, and probably would, report back to him on sight.

So, you choose the most even terrain you could think of under duress.

The forest.

You run straight to it, trying not to be unsettled by how unfamiliar it feels.

Sure, in the two years you were with Titus, you’ve been in the forest a few times, but it was never alone, always with him. Once it was to get to know the terrain when you started dating, the second is when he taught you how to shoot; once he’d revealed enough about his family for you to understand that your life was always at risk simply by being with him. And oh, there was a third time too, but that one was to fuck.

You try not to think much about the latter, instead, you try to focus on the first visit, the tour, trying to recall whatever useful information he’d given about the forest that you can possibly remember right now.

And as it turns out, you can’t remember shit. Not under all this pressure, not when you know he’s following you.

So you run deep into the woods, with no sense of direction or idea about the depths of it, you just run and run, trying to find somewhere with enough coverage to stop and think of something. Of a strategy to win.

Coming up with a strategy is difficult though. You could always just hide, and stay alert for any noises or signs that he’s close by, but then what? You run and confirm that you’re there by making a whole lot of fucking noise in a forest that feels like it’s holding its breath on purpose? You’ve seen that man in action before, he’s strong and unnervingly fast. And you know he’s got stamina. So you stand no chance against him. Not to mention, you have no fucking clue what time it is, and he said you’d win at sunrise. Which is… a lot of time.

Fuck.

The forest swallows you whole.

You find a cluster of trees dense enough to crouch behind, pressing your back against the bark and forcing yourself to go still. To stop breathing so loud. Your heart is doing its best to get you caught, hammering so hard you’re half convinced he could hear it from across the property.

But there’s nothing. Just the wind moving through branches somewhere above you, and the sound of your own pulse.

A minute passes. Maybe two. You don’t know for sure, it’s impossible.

You start to think, stupidly, desperately, that maybe you’re better at this than you thought. Maybe he went to the casino first. Maybe he assumed you’d go somewhere familiar, somewhere with walls and doors, with many rooms and the illusion of safety. Maybe for once in your life, you’ve managed to surprise Titus Danforth.

You almost smile.

“You always did like your trees. Especially when I fucked you against them.”

His voice comes from directly behind you. Not approaching, but already there, already close enough that you could reach back and touch him, and your stomach fucking drops. It was like he’d been standing there the whole time, patient and unhurried, just waiting for you to finish thinking.

You scramble to your feet and spin around. He looks completely unbothered. No sweat, no urgency. He looks like a man who went for a leisurely evening walk and happened to find you along the way.

“How-” you start.

“I know you,” he says simply, like that explains everything.

And the worst part is… it does.

You run.

It’s stupid, you know it is. You just mentally calculated your chances and came out in red numbers, you are aware that this is senseless and just prolonging what has always been inevitable. And yet you still try.

You hear him scoff, it echoes with how quiet these woods are, and then his steps begin.

You’ve never felt like this in your life. You had no idea you could even run like this. It’s probably the adrenaline. Your body, ironically, can’t tell the difference between being chased by a wolf and being chased by Titus. Being chased to death or being chased to marriage. There’s probably not a big difference there, to be fair.

Your lungs start to burn before you expect them to.

You push through it. You push through the branches catching on your clothes and the uneven ground trying to twist your ankles and the darkness that’s settling between the trees faster than you’d like.

You can hear him. That’s the worst part. He’s not silent and he’s not trying to be. His footsteps are steady and unhurried, like a metronome, like someone on a morning jog.

Your legs are already protesting, paired with a sharp stitch blooming under your ribs. To be honest… you don’t work out, not really. The only cardio you’ve ever gotten, the only thing that’s ever left you this breathless and aching, is Titus. Nights spent riding him until your thighs shook, mornings bent over whatever surface he wanted, afternoons where he’d fuck you slow and deep just because he could. Your body knows exertion, sure, but it knows it in the shape of him, not this. Not sprinting blind through roots and dirt like prey.

You change direction sharply, cutting left between two trees. Maybe if you’re unpredictable enough, maybe if you zigzag, double back, make it complicated-

His footsteps don’t falter behind you, there is not even a moment of hesitation in his steps, you’re not even making him make an effort or work for it.

The thought makes something cold shoot down your spine. You run faster.

You break into a small clearing and for one stupid, desperate second you think —this is it, this is where you lose him, and then…

…Then your foot catches a fucking root and you stumble, catching yourself on your hands, scrambling back up before you’ve even fully registered falling. Your palms sting. You don’t stop.

Behind you, almost conversationally: “You’re going in circles.”

You don’t answer, because you don’t want to, but also because you don't have the breath for it right now. God, you hate him.

You hate that he’s right. You’ve completely lost all sense of direction out here, the trees all look the same no matter which way you turn, and the sky above has shifted from dark blue to almost black, swallowing any hope of figuring out where the hell you are. You can’t tell north from south anymore, everything blurring together in the growing dark.

You cut right this time, then right again, mind racing toward the perimeter. If you can just find the edge of the forest, hit the fence, spot anything that gives you a landmark, then maybe you’ll have something solid to go by. But he’s closer now, you can hear his breath, steady and way too near. You hadn’t even noticed him gaining ground, but somehow he’s right there behind you.

The impact comes from the left without warning.

He doesn’t just grab you, he takes you down in one clean, decisive motion, and you hit the forest floor hard with him over you. One of his hands braces so he doesn’t crush you completely, which somehow makes the whole thing worse, that little bit of consideration cutting sharper than if he’d just slammed you flat. The breath gets knocked right out of you, and for a second the world narrows to nothing but darkness, his solid weight pressing you into the dirt, and the smell of him, unfairly familiar, wrapping around you like it has every right to be there.

You recover fast though, twisting and fighting with everything you’ve got, managing to get one hand free so you can shove hard against his chest. Titus lets you push, just enough to give you that flicker of thinking you might actually be winning for once. Just enough.

Then he shifts his full weight and you go absolutely nowhere. He’s stronger and heavier than you, pinning you so completely against the forest floor that all your struggling turns useless. He’s looking down at you with that expression you’ve seen a hundred times before, patient, certain, almost warm. and his breathing stays completely even. Not even winded. It’s so fucking unfair. He’s older than you; how the hell is he in this much better shape?

“Get off me,” you manage to gasp out.

He doesn’t. Instead he tilts his head slightly, like he’s actually considering it as a real option before dismissing the idea entirely.

“You did well,” he says instead, voice quiet. “Longer than I expected.”

“Don’t.” You twist again, uselessly, but his hand catches your wrist and pins it gently but completely beside your head. “Don’t patronize me.”

“I’m not.” And the infuriating part is he sounds like he genuinely means it. “I’m actually impressed, baby.”

You go dead still. Not because you’ve given up—you’ve got way too much goddamn pride for that—but because your brain is spinning, scrambling to find the one mistake he’s bound to make eventually. He’s already onto you though. His eyes track every little twitch of your pupils, reading you with that same effortless, irritating fluency he’s always had.

The clearing around you has gone completely silent except for the ragged sound of your own lungs working overtime.

He’s crowding you now, his weight a heavy, solid heat that presses you deeper into the dirt and leaves. You can feel the direct pressure of his fingers locked around your wrist and the way he’s staring at you like you’re the only thing in this godforsaken woods worth paying attention to.

You need to say something sharp. You had a line ready, something bitchy and mean that would actually sting, but the thought gets swallowed whole the second he moves.

He doesn’t hesitate. He just takes what he wants.

His mouth slams into yours with slow, heavy hunger, lips forcing yours apart and eclaiming something that’s always belonged to him. When his tongue slides in it’s a deep, wet drag that sends a hot liquid weight straight down to your crotch. You let out a noise you immediately want to choke back, it’s half moan, half pathetic whimper, as he tilts his head for a better angle, sucking on your tongue before slicking back into your mouth in a way that’s just fucking filthy.

Your free hand scrambles for his jacket, knuckles turning white as you bunch the fabric tight. You can’t even tell if you’re trying to shove him off or drag him closer anymore, but your body isn’t listening to your brain. It arches up into him anyway, chasing the heat of his chest and the rough scrape of his stubble against your chin. When your teeth accidentally snag his bottom lip he lets out this low, vibrating groan that you feel rumble all the way through your own chest.

He pulls back just a fraction, lips wet and swollen, hot breath mingling with yours. His thumb strokes slow over the inside of your wrist, right where your pulse is hammering out the truth he already knows.

“Still want to run?” he asks.

The bastard is smiling. Not pissed, not even serious, he’s having the time of his life. You should’ve known he’d get off on the chase like this.

“Yes,” you snap.

And you mean it. Mostly.

Then you reach up, fist your hand in his hair, and haul him back down.

He goes willingly, of course he does, the man is horny by nature. This time the kiss sinks slower, deeper into the spit and heat. You slide your hands up his chest, fingers hooking into his collar as you feel him shift, settling his weight more comfortably between your legs. He’s getting distracted, his iron grip on your wrist loosens, just a tiny bit.

There it is.

You let your hand drift lower, low enough to make his breathing hitch against your mouth. He makes this thick, needy sound in the back of his throat that tells you his focus is exactly where you want it now. You shift your leg in a slow, deliberate tilt of your hip that looks like you’re just trying to get his cock flush against you.

He falls for it.

Your palm slides over his stomach and presses hard against the thick, rigid line of his cock straining through his pants. He’s already fucking wrecked for you, throbbing and hot under your hand. You rub him slow, giving him a squeeze that makes his hips jerk forward into your touch. The groan he lets out is raw and guttural, vibrating straight into your mouth as he loses himself in the kiss, his tongue licking deep and messy against yours, teeth catching your lip in a sharp tug. You can feel him pulsing against your palm, thickening even more as you stroke him through the cloth like you’re finally giving him the reward he thinks he earned for catching you. His breath stutters against your lips, his tongue moving in ways that are pure filth.

He thinks he’s finally broken you.

That’s when you plant your foot flat against his hip and shove with everything you’ve got.

It’s not a clean move by any means—it’s pure desperate leverage—but it’s enough to break his hold and create one beautiful, stumbling second of space. You’re on your feet before he can even blink, already bolting back into the treeline.

Behind you, you hear him grunt as he hits the dirt.

And then you hear him laugh. A private, delighted sound, like you’ve just done something genuinely charming instead of kicking him while he was down.

You run harder, but you’re still breathless, mind distracted by how fucking good he kisses and the way he groaned and how quick he’d gotten so hard for you. Turns out your little strategy to distract him had backfired and distracted you instead.

You make it maybe forty feet. And that’s being generous, giving yourself way too much credit.

The arm that wraps around you comes from nowhere, thick and absolutely immovable, and suddenly your feet aren’t touching the ground anymore. He hoists you up like you weigh nothing, pulling your back tight against his chest while your legs kick uselessly at open air. He doesn’t squeeze, and he’s careful not to hurt you. He just holds you there, completely secure, one arm locked around your middle as you writhe and swear and accomplish absolutely fucking nothing.

He’s breathing harder now. Finally. But it sounds less like exertion and more like pure satisfaction, like relief.

“There,” he says close to your ear, almost fond. “All done. I won.”

After that ordeal, Titus brought you back to the mansion. Once there, he personally escorted you to your shared room, as if you didn’t know the way already. Though you can’t blame him for keeping you close, not after what happened today.

You shower. The water comes out murky with dirt at first, so you wash your hair and your body as many times as it’s necessary until it’s all clear, until you cease to perceive the scent of dirt and sweat and his cologne all over you.

By the time you exit the shower, the sun has fully gone down, and you find a white gown delicately hung by the door. It’s so beautiful. And it’s a shame; because it truly is. It’s exactly your taste, in a style you adore, a fabric you seek often in formal dresses. It's perfect for you.

He’d gone to those lengths, of having a dress made specifically for you. But then again, he’s known for going to lengths.

You do your hair the way you always do, it’s all muscle memory by now, all with such ease that it requires no effort for you to look good.

Then you slip the gown on. And it’s… bittersweet. In the two years you were with Titus (or have been, are you back together? Who the fuck knows), the thought of marriage did cross your mind. You won’t sit here and pretend to be an innocent bystander. You know what he’s like. You know the things people like him do—and let’s not even go that far— the shit he has done. You know he has many irredeemable qualities. So you won’t sit here and pretend to be a victim. You stayed, longer than you should’ve, sure, but you had stayed.

Marriage had come to mind before, but you’d never allowed yourself to think too much about it. You were scared, still are, about what it would mean to marry into his family, his world. Starting with the fucking initiation. All it takes is pulling the wrong card before everyone is on a game to hunt you to death.

You shiver.

So seeing yourself in this dress is… bittersweet. You had, at some point in time, longed to marry him, even with all his issues and his bullshit. But you knew, deep down, that it’s also something you should fear. Something no one should want.

And yet, here you are.

A knock on the door makes you jump slightly in your place. You take a breath to steady yourself before doing anything.

“Yes?”

“Are you ready?”

“Almost.”

Well, you might as well have said ‘yes’, because he unlatched the door as if you’d said it.

The moment his eyes land on you, he stills completely. His gaze moves over you slowly, unhurried, like he has all the time in the world, though tonight he does; he won. It drags from the hem of the dress upward, taking its sweet time, and when those eyes finally meet yours there’s something in them that makes your stomach do a slow, unwelcome flip you’d really rather it didn’t.

You’ve seen Titus Danforth unmoved by things that would fuck other men up completely. You’ve watched him stay unbothered in rooms full of people trying to intimidate him, composed in situations that had no right to feel calm. And yet here he is, standing in the doorway of your bathroom, looking at you like you’ve just undone something deep inside him that he didn’t expect to feel tonight.

He clears his throat. Looks away for exactly one second, then his eyes are back on you, heavier than before.

“You look beautiful.”

And the worst part is that he means it. You can tell there’s no sick angle, no calculated game in the words. Just Titus being completely sincere, genuinely undone by a dress he picked out himself. It’s exasperating how real he can be sometimes, how he can drop the armor and just say shit like that without any ulterior motive.

“Thank you,” you say, and you mean it too, because what else is there left to say at this point?

There’s a brief stretch of silence where it’s obvious both of you want to say something more but neither of you does. This whole situation is so fucking complicated. You broke up with him this morning, and now here you are, gowned up, about to marry him. Not without a fight, but still. It makes you wonder if you ever had any real backbone at all. If you even wanted to break up with him in the first place, or if some part of you had been waiting for him to refuse to let go.

“This isn’t how I imagined it,” you finally manage to say, the words coming out quieter than you expected. “I imagined something huge, something that would probably annoy me because you know absolutely everyone that matters and I don’t, and you’d keep getting pulled aside for all those meaningful conversations. Then I’d get mad and you’d call me immature because we were already married and you’d never go anywhere without me. I imagined music, pretty scenery, flowers everywhere…the whole thing.”

He looks down at his shoes for a second. It’s brief, very brief, but you catch it. Then he adjusts his cuffs, because yes, he’s all suited up and unfairly handsome, much to your dismay.

“It’s not what I imagined either,” he agrees gruffly. “This isn’t how I had planned things to go.”

You can already feel the ‘but’ coming.

“But you left me no choice.”

Of that, you’re painfully aware. You probably threw a massive wrench into all his carefully laid plans. The breakup had been such a sudden decision, dropped right in the middle of one of the good periods between you two. You really had been in a solid place before you sprang it on him. If anything, you’re still surprised by how calmly he took it. You’d been terrified for those few seconds before the words left your mouth, half expecting him to snap, but he hadn’t. Nothing thrown at the walls, no cruel words thrown back, besides the ones you’d already said to start the conversation, anyway.

But now you understand why he stayed so calm. He wasn’t going to lose you, no matter what you said. He’d already bought the house. He’d had the dress tailored and made perfectly for you. He’d turned the whole thing into a game he knew he could win. He knew you weren’t actually going anywhere.

The attempt at breaking up had really disrupted his plans, though.

“It’s time,” he says, and extends his hand to you.

You look at it for a second. Open and waiting, like this is the most natural thing in the world, like you’re just heading out to some nice dinner instead of signing your life over. You take it anyway.

His fingers close around yours immediately, warm and sure, and he leads you out of the room without another word. The mansion is unnervingly quiet around you. Your heels click against the floor, and you focus on that sound, nothing else. Just that steady rhythm instead of letting your mind spiral about where you’re going and what happens when you get there.

The room he brings you to is small. Candlelit. There’s a man already waiting: the lawyer, or someone who passes for one in this world, standing with papers and a pen, his expression suggesting he’s done far stranger things than this. Titus is probably paying him a fortune for the discretion.

It’s just the three of you. No music. No flowers. The complete opposite of everything you’d imagined.

Titus positions himself in front of you and turns to face you fully. For a moment you just look at each other, the air thick between you.

The lawyer clears his throat and begins.

“Do you,” he says, looking at Titus, “take her to be your lawfully wedded wife, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, for as long as you both shall live?”

“I do,” Titus says. No hesitation. Not even a fraction of one.

Then the lawyer turns to you.

“And do you take him to be your lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, for as long as you both shall live?”

And there it is.

You think about this morning, standing in front of him with your heart in your throat, saying the words that were supposed to end everything. You think about the forest, those seven minutes, the way he found you like he’d never even needed to look. You think about the dress hanging by the door—perfectly your taste, perfectly your size—bought long before you ever said a word about leaving. You think about the fact that even now, standing here, some traitorous part of you doesn’t entirely feel like a victim.

The lawyer waits. Titus waits. His eyes stay locked on yours, steady and certain, because he already knows what you’ll say. He knows you.

You take a breath.

“I do.”

Your voice comes out steadier than you feel, which surprises you considering your heart feels like it’s trying to leap straight out of your chest.

“The rings,” the lawyer says.

And of course there are rings, because this is Titus and he’s thought of everything, has been thinking of everything for god knows how long. His ring slides onto your finger with an ease that feels almost rehearsed. You slide his onto his finger, your hands only shaking a little.

“The license,” the lawyer says next, producing the papers and setting them on the small table beside him with a pen.

You sign your name. You watch the ink dry for exactly one second. There’s something about seeing it there, your name, your handwriting, now permanent, that makes the whole thing feel more real than anything else tonight. More real than the dress, more real than the vows. This is the part that can’t be undone.

Titus signs beneath you, quick and certain, then straightens up.

“I now pronounce you husband and wife.” The lawyer says it like a closing argument, the matter finalized, binding. “You may kiss the bride.”

Titus closes the gap between you, and suddenly the air in the room feels way too thin. He reaches up, his thumb dragging slow and heavy across your cheekbone, like he’s giving you every second to realize exactly what he’s about to do. His eyes drop to your lips for a quick flicker before locking back onto yours.

Then he’s on you.

It’s nothing like that panicked, adrenaline-soaked mess in the forest. This is different, slower, more deliberate. He’s taking his time, his mouth moving against yours with a focused hunger that makes your knees go embarrassingly weak right there in the candlelit room. His hand cups your jaw, holding you steady like you’re something he actually wants to keep intact, while his other arm hooks around your waist and hauls you that last inch forward until there’s no space left between you.

The kiss doesn’t just happen, it grinds and lingers, thick and heavy, delicious in a way that has absolutely nothing to do with the lawyer still standing three feet away. This is just Titus finally getting his hands on something he’s wanted for a long goddamn time, and he’s not rushing any second of it. You hear him catch a sharp, ragged breath through his nose, the sound barely held together as he deepens the kiss, tongue sliding slow and sure against yours.

When he eventually pulls away, his eyes are blown out and dark, heavy with everything he’s not saying. His thumb is still tracing slow patterns across your skin, and he’s staring at you like you’re completely his now.

Which, technically, you are. Legally and irrevocably.

“Hello, Mrs. Danforth,” he says, his voice a low vibration meant only for you, the words sinking straight under your skin.

And despite the total shitshow your life has become, despite how much you should hate him for all of this, something in your chest does something it really, really shouldn’t. It fucking flutters.

The lawyer gathers his papers with quiet efficiency, offers a curt nod that feels more like a final seal on a contract than any kind of congratulations, and slips out of the candlelit room without another word, leaving the two of you alone in the heavy silence.

Titus doesn’t move away. His hand stays cradling your jaw, thumb stroking slow, lazy circles against your flushed cheek as he looks down at you with those dark, unreadable eyes. The title he just gave you—Mrs. Danforth—still hangs in the air between you, heavy and permanent.

“You’re shaking,” he observes quietly, voice low and rough around the edges.

“I’m not,” you lie, even as your fingers twitch where they rest against his chest, betraying you completely.

A small, knowing smile curves his lips. He leans in closer, brushing his mouth against the shell of your ear, breath warm as he murmurs, “Liar.”

Before you can even get a retort out he’s scooping you up again, effortless, carrying you down the quiet hallway toward the master suite. Your heels are dangling stupid off your toes, one slips free and you don’t even care where it lands. The white gown pools and tangles around you, heavy silk whispering against your skin. You don’t fight. There’s no point anymore. The game’s over, you lost bad, and some treacherous, stupid part of you is already humming low and hot with what’s coming next, buzzing under your skin like electricity you can’t shut off.

He kicks the bedroom door shut behind him with his foot, the bang echoing a little, and sets you down on the edge of that massive bed. The room’s dim, just one lamp throwing soft light and moonlight sneaking through the heavy curtains, making everything feel hushed and secret. Titus stands over you, shrugging out of his jacket and tossing it aside without looking. His fingers work the cuffs of his shirt open real slow, deliberate, eyes never leaving yours. That stare pins you.

“Take the dress off. Slowly.”

It’s not a request, it’s an order.

You hesitate, just long enough that he notices, the corner of his mouth twitching, and reach behind you for the zipper. The sound of it sliding down feels obscenely loud in the quiet, like it’s giving everything away. The fabric slips from your shoulders and pools at your waist, leaving you in nothing but that delicate white lace lingerie they gave you for tonight. His gaze drags over you shameless, slow, possessive, hungry, lingering on the way your nipples pebble tight against the thin lace, the dip of your waist, the curve of your hips.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs, the word rough, scraped raw with want. He steps closer, cups your face in both hands and tilts your head up. “My wife. Finally.”

That word shoots through you, part fear, part something way more dangerous that makes your stomach flip and your thighs press together without thinking. You open your mouth to say something—probably stupid, something to grab back even a sliver of control—but he kisses you before you can. This kiss is different, deeper, slower, filthier than the one in the ceremony room. More like the forest one but hungrier. His tongue slides against yours with lazy confidence, tasting, claiming, sucking on your tongue like he’s trying to devour every last protest, every doubt, every bit of resistance you’ve got left.

He pushes you back onto the bed until you’re lying beneath him, the gown still tangled around your hips like it doesn’t want to let go. His body covers yours, solid, warm, overwhelming in the best worst way. One of his knees nudges your thighs apart as he settles between them, grinding the thick heavy line of his cock against your clothed core with these deliberate rolling presses that make your breath hitch. You gasp into his mouth, hips twitching up involuntarily as heat floods between your legs, fast and embarrassing.

“Already so wet for me,” he teases against your lips, voice dark with amusement. “Even after trying to run from me all night. Your cunt knows who it belongs to, doesn’t it?”

“Fuck you,” you breathe, but there’s no real heat in it anymore. Not really. Your body’s already betraying you completely, aching for more of that friction, that pressure.

He chuckles, low and filthy right by your ear. “That’s the plan, baby. Until you can’t remember why you ever thought you could leave.”

His mouth trails down your neck, sucking and biting just hard enough to leave faint marks that’ll bloom tomorrow like proof. He peels the rest of the dress off you with practiced hands, tossing it aside like it’s nothing more than wrapping paper on a gift he’s been dying to unwrap for years. The lingerie follows; bra unhooked and discarded, lace panties dragged down your legs slowly. You catch the way his pupils blow wide when he notices how the crotch of your panties is stuck to your pussy, soaked through because of how wet you already are.

When you’re completely bare beneath him he sits back on his heels for a second and just looks, drinking in every inch like he can’t get enough. His hands follow, palming your breasts roughly, thumbs circling and pinching your nipples until they tighten into aching sensitive peaks. He leans down and takes one into his mouth, tongue swirling hot and wet, teeth grazing and tugging while his fingers pinch and roll the other. You arch off the bed with a broken moan, fingers threading through his silver curls and pulling hard, harder than you mean to.

“Titus, fuck—”

“Shh.” He releases your nipple with a wet pop and kisses his way down your stomach, spreading your thighs wider with his broad shoulders. “I’ve waited long enough for this, lemme taste you.”

He doesn’t tease for long. His mouth is on you in the next breath, hot and relentless. His tongue drags through your slick folds with one slow savoring lick from entrance to clit, then circles the swollen bud with firm knowing pressure. You cry out, hips jerking against his face, but his strong hands pin you down, broad shoulders holding your thighs open, keeping you exactly where he wants. He eats you as hungrily as he did the very first time, that never changes. Messy, greedy, groaning against your cunt like your taste is the only thing that’s ever satisfied him. Two thick fingers push inside you without warning, curling hard against that spongy spot that makes stars burst behind your eyes while his tongue flicks and sucks your clit with those obscene slick sounds.

You come hard and fast, thighs trembling around him, a sharp broken cry tearing from your throat as pleasure crashes through you in relentless waves. He doesn’t stop to give you some reprieve, of course he doesn’t. Keeps licking and sucking through the aftershocks, fingers pumping steadily, drawing it out until you’re whimpering, oversensitive, pushing weakly at his head.

“Too much-ah, Titus—”

He pulls back just enough to look up at you, lips and chin shiny with your arousal, eyes dark and satisfied. “Not nearly enough.” He crawls back up your body, shedding the rest of his clothes as he goes. His cock springs free finally, heavy, thick, flushed dark and already leaking precum at the tip, as it rests hot and heavy against your thigh.

“Look at me.”

You do. His eyes lock onto yours as he lines himself up and pushes in, he always loved eye contact while he slides in, and fuck, it is pretty hot. The stretch burns in the best way, filling you completely until he bottoms out, balls-deep inside your clenching heat. You both groan, the sound raw and filthy. For a moment he just stays there, forehead pressed to yours, breathing hard, letting you feel every throbbing inch of him. You’re thankful for the pause—you always needed some time adjusting to his cock. It’s huge. That, and because you’re still incredibly sensitive after the previous orgasm.

“Fuck… so tight. You feel like you were made for my cock,” he rasps, and it’s such a delicious tone you have to hold back from clenching around him right then. “My wife’s greedy tight cunt sucking me in like it missed me.”

Then he starts to move.

It’s not gentle. Which is also a contradiction to how you imagined your wedding night with him as his wife, but you’re not complaining, how could you? His hips snap forward in deep punishing strokes that rock the expensive bed beneath you, the wet slap of skin on skin filling the room along with your ragged moans and whimpers, mixed with his groans. Each thrust drags against every sensitive nerve inside you, the thick vein on the underside of his cock feels so good dragging along your walls, the head kissing your cervix with every brutal plunge. He fucks you like he’s trying to fuck the memory of your breakup right out of your body.

It’s working. God, it’s working too well.

His left hand grips your hip hard enough to bruise, the golden ring on his finger digging into your plush skin, a blunt reminder that he’s not your boyfriend anymore—he’s your husband now. He pulls your hips up so he can go even deeper while his other hand braces beside your head, driving into you harder, faster, angling those strong hips to hit that spot that makes you see white. You wrap your legs around his waist, nails digging into his back and shoulders, urging him deeper even as you gasp his name like it’s both a curse and a prayer.

“Say it,” he demands, voice rough against your ear, hips never slowing. “Say you’re my wife. Say you’ll always be mine.”

You shake your head, stubborn even now, biting your lip to hold back the words. But he angles just right and slams in harder, grinding against your clit with every thrust, making your back arch off the bed with a keening whine.

“Say it,” he repeats, punctuating each word with a brutal wet thrust. “Tell me who you belong to, Mrs. Danforth.”

“I’m-fuck- I’m your wife,” you finally choke out, the words breaking on a moan as another orgasm builds fast and vicious under his relentless pace. “I’m yours- oh god—”

“Good girl.” He reaches between you to rub tight rough circles over your swollen ultra-sensitive clit, pushing you over the edge again. You come with a sob, clenching around his thick cock so hard it drags a guttural groan from his throat, your walls fluttering and milking him as the waves rip through you.

He doesn’t slow down. Fucks you through it, hips stuttering only when his own orgasm starts to hit. With a low broken sound—a whimper, for your ears only—he buries himself as deep as he can and comes hard, pulsing inside you, filling you with hot thick spurts of cum that make your toes curl and your mind go blissfully blank. You feel every twitch, every rope as he empties himself, marking you from the inside.

For a long moment the only sound is your shared ragged breathing. Titus collapses half on top of you but careful not to crush you completely, his face buried in the crook of your neck. His lips brush your pulse point in something almost tender while his cock twitches inside you, still half-hard, like he’s not quite done claiming you yet.

But he’s far from finished.

After a few minutes he lifts his head, eyes heavy-lidded and dark with lingering lust. He brushes a strand of sweaty hair from your forehead, then pulls out slowly. A thick trail of his cum leaks from your swollen pussy right away. The sight seems to please him immensely.

“Round two,” he murmurs, voice husky. “On your hands and knees. I want to watch my cum drip out of you while I fuck it back in.”

He flips you over with ease, pulling your hips up so your ass is raised high, chest and face pressed to the sheets. His hands spread your cheeks and he groans at the messy sight of his release coating your folds. Without warning he pushes two fingers inside you, scooping up his cum and pushing it deeper, making you whimper at the overstimulation.

“Look at this sloppy cunt,” he says, voice thick with filthy appreciation. “Already full of me and still greedy for more?”

He replaces his fingers with his cock in one smooth thrust, burying himself to the hilt again. This time he fucks you harder, one hand fisted in your hair to arch your back, the other slapping your ass with sharp stinging smacks that make you clench around him. The angle is deeper, more punishing, his balls slapping wetly against your clit with every snap of his hips.

You come again, screaming into the sheets, and he follows soon after, flooding you with another load until it’s leaking down your thighs.

He doesn’t let you rest for long.

By the time the sky begins to lighten outside the windows, you’re a trembling, cum-soaked mess, your limbs weak, voice hoarse from moaning, every inch of you marked and claimed. Titus pulls you into his arms one last time, spooning behind you with his cock still nestled inside you, softening but refusing to leave your heat.

“Sleep, Mrs. Danforth,” he murmurs against your neck, pressing a surprisingly soft kiss there. “You’re mine now. And I’m nowhere near done with you. We’re going to see our new house later today.”

You should hate the way that promise makes fresh heat coil low in your belly, but you don’t hate it. And yeah, you feel stupid, like you’re betraying the version of you that was set on breaking up with him yesterday, but you can’t hate this. Hate him. The break up had never been out of lack of love, if anything it had been the opposite what drove you away, it had been knowing the lengths he’s willing to go to for you and being afraid of the responsibility of having his heart in your hand.

With a sigh, you press back against him, letting exhaustion and that dangerous, ruined satisfaction pull you under.

You’ll deal with the consequences another day.

[bigdaddddyyyyy]

I’m gonna nut. I’m gonna nut. I’m gonna nut.

[spikedfearn]

BRIDE OF THE HIGH SEAT

ONE-SHOT

pairing: titus danforth x fem!reader summary: After a bloody shake-up in the Danforth family, Titus decides the family needs stability, optics, and a new symbol of power. He chooses you to stand beside him in a formal union that is half strategic arrangement, half deranged fixation. Draped in silk, heirlooms, and ritual, the marriage becomes less a public alliance than a private claiming—one Titus intends to see through to its last, irreversible step.

wc: 11.3k

a/n: please enjoy, wanted something bloody and horny. not beta read

warnings: dead dove: do not eat, dubcon, forced/arranged marriage, piv, unprotected sex, breeding kink, pregnancy kink, creampie, possessive behavior, sexual ownership, power imbalance, ritualistic sex, degradation, objectification, oral (f!receiving), orgasm control/overstimulation, nipple play, dirty talk, body worship, public ceremony/private consummation contrast, emotional manipulation, dark romance, old-money/cult ritual themes

MASTERLIST

By the time Titus Danforth slid the wedding ring onto your finger, it was already too late to run.

You’d understand that later—hours later, with candlelight shivering over diamond and platinum, with his hand wrapped around yours like the last quiet step in a ritual already underway, with the whole grotesque machine of his family already grinding forward around you too smoothly to stop.

But that night, at the start of it, you still thought there was time.

You still believed, in some stubborn, furious part of yourself, that there had to be a line somewhere. Some point at which even people like them—people with too much money, too much blood behind their names, too much rot hidden under the veneer of polished manners—would finally hear the word no and be forced to reckon with it.

Time to refuse.

Time to humiliate your parents into calling the whole thing off.

Time to make enough of a scene that even the Danforths would decide you were more trouble than you were worth.

That illusion lasted exactly as long as the drive up to Danforth mansion.

The estate rose out of the dark like a stronghold, not a home—severe lines, old stone, and the kind of wealth that had long ago stopped caring whether anyone found it welcoming. Warm light glowed low behind the windows, but nothing about the place felt soft. It was beautiful in the way old money always was: shadowed, expensive, and built to make everyone entering it feel smaller than the family that owned it.

Rain had fallen earlier, and the world still smelled of it. Wet earth. soaked box hedges. iron-rich soil. The cold that slipped in through the cracked car window had bite, but it did nothing to clear the weight pressing behind your ribs. The closer the family car rolled toward the house, the more the estate seemed less like a home and more like a mouth opening, ready to swallow anyone who approached whole.

You sat back against the leather seat and watched it loom larger through the glass.

Beside you, your mother kept both hands folded in her lap so tightly the tendons stood out.

She hadn’t said much on the drive over. Neither had you. There hadn’t been anything worth saying after the call that afternoon. Not after the clipped, bloodless way your father had informed you there would be a dinner at the Danforth estate, that attendance wasn’t optional, and that you were expected to be on your best behavior.

As if that hadn’t been enough to curdle your stomach on instinct.

As if anyone in this city ever got summoned to a Danforth table unless the family meant to take something.

The car rolled to a stop beneath the portico. One of the doors opened before the driver had fully climbed out, a servant already waiting beneath the spill of amber light. Efficient. Silent. Trained to move around wealth the same way one moved around lit matches and open gasoline—carefully, without drawing attention.

You stepped onto the wet stone and tipped your chin up, taking in the house one last time.

The front doors were open.

That, somehow, felt worse than if they’d been shut.

Inside, warmth hit you first. Not comfort—just heat gathered in old walls, thick with beeswax, smoke, old perfume, and polished wood. The house didn’t open up so much as close around you. Low golden light burned from wall sconces, catching on dark paneling, antique tables, and the carved edges of chairs that looked more ceremonial than comfortable. Portraits watched from the walls in heavy frames, generations of Danforth faces rendered in oil and shadow. Every room felt arranged rather than lived in, as if comfort had never ranked very high among Danforth priorities.

Dead Danforths, all of them.

Or soon-to-be, if there was any justice in the world.

A servant took your coat. Another offered a tray of drinks. Somewhere deeper in the house, a string quartet was playing low enough to be mistaken at first for the hum of the building itself.

You didn’t take a drink.

Your mother did. Fast.

You glanced at her. “Comforting.”

“Don’t start.”

“I haven’t started anything.”

Her mouth tightened. “Please.”

You almost laughed at that. Please. As though this were one of those evenings that could still be guided into civility if only everyone used the right cutlery and kept their voices down.

As though you hadn’t spent the entire drive here feeling like livestock on the way to a very expensive slaughterhouse.

A third servant appeared, older than the others, spine straight as a blade.

“They’re waiting in the council room.”

Of course they were.

Not the dining room. Not the conservatory. Not any space with warmth or softness in its name. The council room.

You followed the servant through corridors that seemed designed to remind guests exactly whose house they were in—dark wood, arched thresholds, muted rugs softening every footstep, and pools of amber light that never quite reached the ceiling. The place had the hush of a church and the intimidation of a courtroom. Nothing garish. Nothing modern. Just old money and older control pressing in from every side.

By the time you reached the double doors at the end of the hall, your pulse was a hard, steady thing.

The servant opened them.

Conversation died.

The room beyond was formal without being grand, the sort of space built for family decisions no one else was meant to question. Dark walls drank the light. Amber sconces and shaded lamps threw a low glow across polished wood, heavy chairs, and a patterned rug worn soft beneath generations of expensive shoes. Nothing in it looked accidental. Every object seemed placed to frame authority. Several faces turned toward you and your family with the flat attentiveness of people already halfway through deciding what your life was worth.

You knew most of them by sight. You’d grown up in orbit around these people, at galas and funerals and charity auctions and whispered afterparties your parents thought you were too young to understand.

Danforths at the far end. A few representatives from other old families arranged like chess pieces around them. Lawyers. Advisors. Men who’d spent their whole lives confusing cruelty for refinement.

And there—

He sat to the left of the head chair, one elbow hooked over the armrest, looking as if the room had been designed around him rather than the other way around.

Titus Danforth.

You’d seen him before, of course. At distance. Across rooms. Once, years ago, on the courthouse steps with blood drying in a neat crescent along one cuff while reporters shouted questions no one had the spine to repeat once he’d looked their way.

But proximity was different.

Proximity made it clear why people lost their nerve around him.

He wasn’t the loudest person in the room. Wasn’t even pretending to be. He sat in dark formalwear cut so sharply it made everyone else look rumpled, one hand curved around the stem of a glass, the fire gilding the planes of his face. There was no impatience in him. No restless movement. Just a kind of waiting stillness that was somehow more threatening than temper ever could’ve been. The kind a predator had when it already knew the outcome and was merely letting the moment arrive in its own time.

His gaze touched your face and stayed there.

Not appreciative. Not exactly.

Assessing.

As if he’d been expecting you.

Your father cleared his throat beside you. The sound landed weak.

“Thank you for receiving us.”

One of the older Danforths smiled without showing teeth. “Please. Sit.”

You didn’t move.

“Before I do,” you said, “I’d like to know why I’m here.”

Your mother made a tiny, horrified sound under her breath.

No one else seemed especially surprised.

At the head of the table sat Chester Danforth, old and dry and ghastly elegant in black. He folded his hands and regarded you the way some men regarded racehorses before purchase.

“Direct,” he said.

“I come by it honestly.”

That earned the faintest flicker at the corner of Titus’s mouth. Not quite a smile. More like the thought of one.

You hated that you noticed.

Chester gestured to the empty chair opposite Titus. “Sit, and we’ll spare ourselves theatrics.”

“I’m not the one staging an ambush in a room called the council chamber.”

Your father hissed your name. You ignored him.

For three long seconds no one moved.

Then Titus set his glass down with a soft click.

The sound was quiet. It still cut through the room like piano wire.

“Let her stand,” he said.

It wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. Every other voice in the room simply vanished around it.

You looked at him.

He was still watching you with that unnerving steadiness, one hand resting loose on the arm of his chair, expression impossible to read in full. Calm, yes. Mild, even. But there was something underneath the mildness that felt sharpened and deliberate, like velvet laid over a blade.

Chester inclined his head as though the matter had been settled by a higher authority.

Of course it had.

“Very well,” he said. “You’re here because the Danforth family requires an alliance. Your family requires protection. In light of recent events, both interests are best served by unity.”

You stared at him. “That could mean anything.”

“It means,” said your father, not looking at you, “an engagement has been arranged.”

The room went perfectly still.

For a split second, all you heard was the fire.

Then you laughed.

It came out once, sharp and unbelieving, and then stopped dead when you realized no one else was joining you.

Your eyes went to your father. Then your mother. Then back to Chester.

Then finally, unwillingly, to Titus.

He hadn’t moved.

He looked exactly the same as he had a moment ago. Same posture. Same terrifying calm. Same gaze on your face, unreadable and fixed. As if he were watching the first inevitable crack spread through glass.

“No,” you said.

No one answered.

Your pulse kicked harder. “No.”

Chester folded his hands tighter. “This benefits everyone at the table.”

“I don’t give a shit.”

“Mind your tongue,” your father snapped.

You turned on him. “You don’t get to sell me to these people and then talk to me about my tongue.”

“Enough.”

That came from your mother, but it landed with none of the force she probably meant it to. Fear had already thinned her voice.

You looked back at the table. “You can’t be serious.”

“We’re entirely serious,” Chester said.

“You think I’m going to agree to this?”

At that, Titus finally rose.

It was almost nothing, just the smooth shift of a man unfolding from a chair, but every eye in the room tracked it. He set one hand lightly on the table and regarded you across the candlelight.

He moved like someone who’d never been hurried in his life.

“You misunderstand,” he said.

His voice was low, polished, almost gentle. It should’ve sounded civilized. Instead it slid over your nerves like something expensive and lethal.

“This isn’t a negotiation.”

Silence.

Your throat went hot with fury.

He came around the table without urgency, passing the candelabra, the gleam of silver, the motionless figures seated on either side. Everyone made room for him instinctively, their bodies yielding before he even reached them.

He stopped a few feet away.

Closer now, he was worse.

There was nothing overt in his expression. No vulgar leer. No obvious satisfaction. If anything, he looked maddeningly composed, his dark tie immaculate, his cufflinks catching firelight, his face set in the kind of attentiveness most men only pretended to possess. The menace was in the precision of him. In the way he looked at you as though the rest of the room had ceased to matter.

You lifted your chin. “Then you can marry someone else.”

“I could,” he said.

The words were smooth as poured whiskey.

“I won’t.”

A silence opened between you, dense and ugly and charged.

You felt everyone in the room listening.

You also felt, with a sudden and vicious clarity, that Titus knew exactly what he was doing to you by answering this way. Not pushing. Not raising his voice. Not giving you anything easy to fight. He was refusing the argument by acting as if it had already ended.

You hated how effective it was.

“I’d rather die,” you said.

At that, finally, his mouth curved.

Not kindly.

Not much.

But enough.

“I know,” he said softly.

The words settled in your chest like a verdict.

Chester cleared his throat, too loudly this time, as if even he felt the room tipping out of his control and disliked it.

“The engagement will be announced within the week,” he said. “Preparations are already underway.”

You rounded on him. “You can go to hell.”

“Likely,” he said. “But you’ll still be married before we get there.”

Your father stood. “That’s enough.”

“No,” you sneered, not taking your eyes off the Danforths. “I think we’re all done pretending there’s a respectable version of this.”

Your hand was shaking. You curled it into your palm before anyone could see.

Titus noticed anyway. Of course he did.

He stepped aside at last, giving you a clear path to the door with the kind of grace that was more insulting than restraint.

“You’ve had a long evening,” he said. “You should rest.”

The dismissal in it lit something white-hot behind your ribs.

“Don’t speak to me like I belong here.”

He tilted his head just slightly. “Not yet.”

You left before you did something reckless enough to get your family buried in the gardens.

The door shut hard behind you. The corridor outside seemed colder than before, though the house was warm. You stood there for one sharp breath, then another, fighting the humiliating urge to pace like an ensnared animal.

Footsteps sounded behind you.

You turned, already furious.

Titus had come out alone, closing the council room doors with one hand. The sound of voices inside dimmed to a muffled murmur. He was nearer now than he’d been across the table, and the effect of that closeness was immediate and deeply inconvenient. His cologne was faint, expensive, something dark and resinous threaded with smoke. Beneath it clung the cleaner scent of starched cotton and cold night air, as if he’d come in not long before you had.

You hated that you could pick any of it out.

“You shouldn’t have followed me.”

“No?”

“No.”

He regarded you for a beat. “You seem upset.”

That nearly did it.

A laugh broke out of you, sharp as cut glass. “Upset?”

“I’m trying to be charitable.”

“Try harder.”

For the first time, he looked almost entertained.

It made him worse.

He leaned one shoulder against the wall opposite you, casual in a way that felt studied enough to be its own kind of violence. The corridor light turned the edge of his face gold and left the rest in shadow.

“You’re angry,” he said.

“I’m furious.”

“Good.”

You blinked. “What?”

“I’d be disappointed if you weren’t.”

His gaze dropped, briefly, to your hand at your side—as if he could still see the tremor you’d hidden in the room—then rose again.

“I have no use for timid women,” he said.

The words should’ve sounded like flattery. Somehow they didn’t. Somehow they sounded like he was selecting a weapon.

“You don’t have any use for women at all,” you snapped. “You have uses.”

Another tiny curve at his mouth.

“Sharp,” he murmured. “That’s one of the reasons.”

You stared at him. “Reasons for what?”

Now he pushed away from the wall and closed the distance between you in two measured steps.

Not enough to touch.

Enough to make the corridor feel suddenly, suffocatingly smaller.

“For choosing you.”

Your breath caught despite yourself, more from disgust than anything else, and he saw that too. Saw everything. His attention was surgical. There was nowhere to put your face that didn’t feel noticed.

“You’re insane.”

“So I’ve been told.”

“You think that makes this sound romantic?”

At that, something shifted in his expression—subtle, but real. Amusement thinning into something cooler.

“Romance,” he said, “is for people with the luxury of illusion.”

You opened your mouth. He kept going.

“This is better.”

His voice had gone quieter. Not softer. Quieter. A difference you felt in your blood.

“This is honest.”

You wanted to slap him.

You wanted, with equal intensity, to force him to lose that impossible composure just once, just long enough to prove he was made of the same ugly nerves and blood and temper as everyone else.

Instead you said, “I’m not some jewel you can buy and put in a case because the room looks empty without it.”

“No,” he said.

Then, before you could decide whether he meant to mock you, his hand lifted.

He touched the inside of your wrist.

Just that.

Two fingers over the pulse point, light enough that he could’ve pretended it was accidental if he’d been anyone else. It wasn’t. The contact was deliberate down to the last fraction of pressure. Warm. Gloveless. Intimate in a way a grope never could’ve been.

Your whole body went rigid.

He looked down at where he was touching you, not hungrily, not greedily, but with the awful, proprietary interest of a man appraising workmanship.

Then he lifted his gaze back to your face.

“You’re something much rarer,” he said.

You jerked your hand away so hard your bracelet bit your skin.

His expression didn’t change.

“Don’t touch me.”

A beat.

“As you wish.”

He stepped back.

That should’ve made you feel victorious. Somehow it didn’t. Somehow it felt as though he’d only let go because he’d wanted you to feel what he could do with almost nothing.

“I'm not gonna marry you,” you said.

He studied you in the silence that followed, eyes dark and steady, the corners of his mouth gone neutral again.

Then he said, “Get some sleep.”

You stared at him.

“You’ll look better rested in the ring.”

You might have hit him if a servant hadn’t turned the corner just then, carrying folded linens and immediately freezing at the sight of the two of you in the corridor.

Titus stepped away from you at once, immaculate again, every trace of intimacy wiped clean so thoroughly it made you feel briefly insane for sensing it in the first place.

He nodded once to the servant, then to you.

“Tomorrow,” he said, “we’ll have the heirlooms brought out.”

And just like that he was gone, walking back toward the council room as though he hadn’t just upended the axis of your life with all the emotional investment of a man confirming dinner plans.

The heirlooms came out the next afternoon.

Of course they did.

No miracle intervened overnight. No late-breaking scandal. No sudden attack of conscience among your parents. By morning the engagement had already taken on the slick, polished inevitability of something handled by people with too much money to imagine failure. Your mother wept in private and avoided your eyes in public. Your father busied himself with logistics. Flowers appeared. Fabric swatches. Guest lists. Security arrangements.

By noon you wanted to burn down half the city.

Instead you were brought to another formal room at Danforth mansion, quieter than the rest and no less oppressive for it. Low light slid across burnished wood, old upholstery, and display cabinets crowded with the sort of antiques families like this mistook for legacy. The air carried old linen, polished wood, and the dry velvet hush of jewelry kept shut away more often than worn.

At the center of the room waited three attendants and an open lacquered case lined in dark blue silk.

Jewels lay inside.

Diamonds. Emeralds. Pearls yellowed faintly with age. Rings in settings so old they looked less designed than inherited by force.

You stopped in the doorway. “No.”

One of the attendants offered a brittle smile. “Just the fitting, miss.”

“I said no.”

“Titus said yes.”

You turned.

He was already in the room.

You hadn’t heard him enter.

He stood by the windows in shirtsleeves and dark trousers, suit jacket draped over the back of a chair, hands loose in his pockets. The stripped-back look should’ve made him seem more human. It didn’t. It just made him look less ceremonial and somehow more dangerous for it, as if this was what he was underneath the polish and the cufflinks and the family theater—something patient, expensive, and impossible to shame.

“You dismissed my answer yesterday,” you said. “Don’t expect a different one today.”

“No,” he said. “I expect consistency. It’s one of your better qualities.”

The attendants looked studiously at the floor.

You hated this room. Hated the sun in it. Hated the flowers on the sideboard. Hated the neat arrangement of rings waiting to be tried on your hand like shackles dressed as heritage.

Most of all, you hated that Titus looked entirely at ease in your fury.

He crossed the room and stopped before the open case.

“Leave us.”

The attendants vanished with near comic speed.

The door clicked shut.

For a few seconds, all you heard was the tick of the mantel clock.

“You enjoy this,” you said.

“I enjoy certainty.”

“You enjoy watching people realize they’re trapped.”

He glanced over the jewels, then chose a ring without hesitation. Platinum, old-cut diamond, severe and devastatingly beautiful.

“No,” you said again.

He turned, ring held between two fingers.

“Come here.”

You laughed once, flat and incredulous. “Have you mistaken me for someone obedient?”

“No.” His gaze swept over you, unhurried. “That would bore me.”

The heat that rose in you then was almost worse for being useless. Anger, yes, but threaded through with something rawer—the fury of being seen too clearly by someone you wanted to despise in simple terms.

You didn’t move.

Titus did.

He closed the distance without any visible tension, as if walking toward you in a locked room was the least dramatic thing in the world. When he reached you, he took your hand before you could snatch it away, not rough, not hesitant, fingers closing around yours with a confidence so complete it felt like the roughness had been moved somewhere subtler and more humiliating.

Your breath caught.

“Let go.”

“In a moment.”

His thumb pressed once against your knuckles, angling your hand toward the light. Then he slid the ring down your finger.

It fit.

Perfectly.

Too perfectly.

For one hideous second neither of you spoke.

The diamond flashed cold fire.

You looked at it and felt something cavernous open beneath your ribs.

Titus didn’t release your hand right away. He turned it slightly, studying the ring where it sat on your finger, his expression unreadable except for the terrible concentration of it.

“There,” he said at last, voice low. “That’s better.”

You yanked your hand back.

The ring stayed where it was.

Panic flared mean and hot and stupidly physical.

“It’s too tight.”

“It isn’t.”

“I want it off.”

He lifted his eyes to your face.

“No,” he said.

A silence stretched. The clock ticked on. Somewhere outside the window, crows were making ugly sounds in the bare trees.

You curled your fingers into your palm, as if hiding the ring might somehow lessen it.

Titus watched the movement.

Then his gaze went to your mouth.

When he spoke again, it was quieter than before.

“You wear my name beautifully.”

The words hit like a slap.

You stared at him, pulse suddenly loud in your ears.

“Go fuck yourself.”

He smiled then—really smiled, though only with his mouth, and the sight of it was so unexpectedly handsome and so deeply wrong on his face that your stomach dropped.

“There she is,” he murmured.

He reached past you, only to lift the veil draped over the nearby chair—ivory lace, antique and absurdly delicate. For one surreal second he held it between his hands as though testing weight, texture, history.

Then, without asking, he raised it and let the fabric fall over your hair.

The world turned cream and shadow.

You froze.

Through the sheer lace, his face blurred and sharpened with your breathing.

He stepped in just close enough that if you leaned even a fraction you’d hit him.

“This,” he said, almost conversationally, “is what they’ll remember.”

Your mouth had gone dry. “Take it off.”

“One day,” he said, “you’ll stop mistaking resistance for power.”

Then he lifted the veil again, careful as a priest with a relic, and laid it back over the chair.

He walked past you toward the door, collected his jacket from the chair, and shrugged it on with neat, effortless movements.

At the entryway, he paused.

You hadn’t moved.

You weren’t sure you could.

Without turning fully back, he said, “Dinner at eight. Wear the ring.”

Then he left you standing in the middle of the dim room, hand curled around a diamond that felt like a brand, staring at the closed door and listening to the old house settle around you.

That night, when the servants finally left you alone in the dressing room and the last pin came out of your hair, you stood in front of the mirror and looked at yourself for a very long time.

The ring caught the candlelight.

The silk of your evening gown whispered when you breathed.

Somewhere downstairs, laughter floated up through the vents—soft, cultured, inhuman.

You touched the diamond once with your thumb.

Then you lifted your eyes to your own reflection and understood, with a sickening clarity that settled all the way into your bones, that this was happening.

Not as threat. Not as theory. Not as one more grotesque performance among powerful people.

As fact.

And worse than that—worse than the ring, worse than the veil, worse even than the way Titus looked at you like the ending had already been written—was the unbearable knowledge that he’d barely touched you at all.

A wrist.

A hand.

A veil lowered over your hair.

And still he was everywhere.

In the room. In your pulse. In the hard little silence that followed you even when no one was speaking.

You should’ve felt only rage.

You did feel rage.

But beneath it, humiliating and hot and impossible to deny, was the raw edge of anticipation.

As if some part of you had looked into the mouth of the trap and, for one terrible heartbeat, admired the craftsmanship.

You shut your eyes.

When you opened them again, your reflection was still there—dressed in silk, ringed in candlelight, already half transformed into something you didn’t recognize.

A bride in all but vows.

And somewhere in the house, calm as ever, Titus Danforth was waiting for the moment it became irreversible.

By the time they came for you, the house had already dressed itself for the ceremony.

That was the first thing you noticed when the door to your room opened and the morning’s hush gave way to movement—servants carrying white boxes and tissue paper, polished shoes whispering over the rugs, the faint drift of incense winding in from somewhere deeper in the estate. Danforth mansion had worn darkness well the night before. In daylight, it looked no less sinister. If anything, the low gold burn of lamplight against old wood and stone felt stranger with morning pressing at the windows, as though the house had refused the sun on principle and built its own atmosphere in defiance of it.

No one spoke above a murmur.

No one asked how you’d slept.

No one asked whether you still intended to go through with it.

By now, apparently, even the illusion of choice had been set aside.

The dress waited on a stand near the hearth.

White silk. Old lace. Long sleeves that narrowed at the wrist. A high collar fastened with tiny pearl buttons. Not soft. Not romantic. It was too severe for that, too deliberate in every line. It looked less like something chosen for a bride and more like something selected for an offering.

You stared at it until one of the women gently asked you to raise your arms.

You did.

Not because you’d surrendered. Not because you’d accepted a single goddamn thing about this day.

Because refusal had become useless in increments so precise you’d barely felt them happening.

First the dinner. Then the announcement. Then the ring. Then the veil lowered over your hair by the same hand that would, by nightfall, claim you before a room full of witnesses and call it sanctified because rich families had always known how to dress violence in ceremony and get away with it.

Layer by layer, the dress closed around you.

Silk sliding over skin. Lace hugging your throat. The snug draw of the fitted bodice. Fingers at the back fastening button after button until you could feel the weight of yourself altered by craft alone. Someone arranged your hair. Someone else fitted earrings at your ears—diamonds old enough to have belonged to women who’d probably smiled through their own ruin with better posture than yours.

You stood still through all of it, hands loose at your sides, face turned slightly toward the mirror without truly looking into it.

Only when one of the women reached for your left hand did your attention sharpen.

She paused when she saw the ring already there.

Of course she did.

A servant behind you lowered her voice. “Mr. Danforth said it wasn’t to be removed.”

A strange silence followed that.

No one looked directly at you after that.

When they were finished, the room emptied in stages until only one woman remained to settle the veil over your hair. The lace spilled cool and weightless down your back, brushing your shoulders, your spine, the backs of your arms.

She stepped away.

The door shut behind her.

At last, you were alone.

You lifted your eyes to the mirror.

For a long moment, you didn’t breathe.

The woman staring back at you looked composed. Expensive. Untouchable in the way statues were untouchable—seen, admired, paraded, and entirely at the mercy of the hands that placed them where they stood. The silk gave you an elegance you hadn’t asked for. The veil softened nothing. The ring flashed like a hard little fact.

You looked like you belonged to the house already.

Your mouth tightened.

A knock sounded once at the door. Not tentative. Not loud. Just enough.

Before you could answer, it opened.

Titus entered alone.

He shut the door behind him without taking his eyes off you.

For a second neither of you spoke.

He was dressed in black.

The sight of him in it did something ugly to your pulse.

Not because black was novel. Men wore black every day in houses like this and called it timeless. But on Titus it looked less like formality and more like a decision. The cut of the suit was ruthless. The white at his throat only made the rest of him darker by contrast. Every line of him was composed down to the smallest detail—cufflinks, watch, the fall of the jacket, the gleam of his dress shoes. Not a hair out of place. Not a flicker of nerves visible anywhere.

As if weddings were nothing.

As if forcing a woman to the altar were only monstrous when poorer men did it badly.

His gaze moved over you once, slowly.

Not leering.

Worse.

Appraising.

And, beneath that, unmistakably pleased.

“You look right in it,” he said.

Your fingers curled at your sides. “That’s a disgusting thing to say to someone on their wedding day.”

“If you were interested in pretty lies, I’d have chosen someone else.”

“You keep saying things like that as if I’m supposed to be flattered.”

“No,” he said.

He crossed the room at the same maddening, measured pace he brought to everything, then stopped behind you rather than in front of you. In the mirror, you saw him lift one hand toward the veil where it fell from your hair.

He didn’t touch it yet.

“Flattery is cheap,” he said. “I’m telling you the truth.”

Your throat went dry with anger.

“And the truth is what, exactly?”

His eyes met yours in the glass.

“That you were made for this room better than most of the people born into it.”

Silence rang between you.

The words should’ve sounded manipulative. They were manipulative. That didn’t stop them from landing with a sharpness that made your stomach knot.

You hated him for knowing how to speak to pride instead of fear.

You hated yourself a little for listening.

His fingers finally closed over a fold of lace, adjusting the fall of the veil with careful precision.

“I’m not walking willingly into this,” you said.

“No,” he answered. “Willingness was never the part I required from you.”

You turned then, fast enough that the veil stirred around your shoulders.

His hand fell away.

“Do you hear yourself?” you demanded. “Do you ever once hear the things that come out of your mouth and think 'maybe I sound like a fucking monster?'”

His expression didn’t change.

“No.”

The bluntness of it nearly made you laugh.

Instead you said, “You should.”

“Would it help?”

“I don’t know. Maybe it would make you less unbearable.”

He considered that as if you’d offered him a practical question rather than an insult.

Then, with the faintest ghost of amusement: “I doubt it.”

A noise escaped you—somewhere between a scoff and a disbelieving breath.

He studied you for another second, then reached up and rested two fingers beneath your chin.

The contact was light.

Still, your body went taut at once.

He tilted your face slightly, not enough to be rough, just enough to make the gesture impossible to mistake for anything other than control.

“You can glare at me all the way to the altar if it eases you,” he said. “I won’t object.”

Your gaze locked on his.

“And after?”

His eyes were very dark at this distance. Steady. Inhumanly patient.

“After,” he said, “you’ll have the courtesy to stop acting surprised.”

He let go.

A knock sounded again—this time from outside, followed by a servant’s careful voice letting Titus know the family was assembled.

He didn’t answer right away. He just looked at you one last time, gaze dropping briefly to the ring, then returning to your face.

“Come along, then,” he said softly. “You’ve kept them waiting long enough.”

The room they’d chosen for the ceremony wasn’t a church.

That would’ve been almost comforting in its hypocrisy.

No, this was worse.

It was one of the larger formal chambers at the heart of the estate, transformed not into something holy but into something that wanted to be mistaken for holiness by people who’d spent generations believing money, blood, and repetition could manufacture sacred things where none existed naturally. Rows of chairs had been arranged in exact lines beneath amber sconces and shaded lamps. Candles burned in clusters on tables and ledges, their light wavering against dark wood and old stone. White flowers had been brought in, but even they couldn’t soften the room. They only sharpened the hush of it, their perfume drifting too sweet through air that still carried incense and polished furniture and the cold mineral smell of old walls.

At the front of the room stood a narrow dais.

On it, beneath the low gold burn of the lights, waited Titus.

For one traitorous moment, you forgot how to breathe.

He looked as though the whole room had been built for the sole purpose of framing him here—black suit, white shirt, hands loosely clasped in front of him, face composed into something calm enough to pass for reverence if a person were stupid enough to want to believe in it. He didn’t shift when you entered. Didn’t smile. Didn’t do anything theatrical to mark the moment. He simply watched you begin the walk toward him with the same certainty he’d brought to every other stage of this from the start.

The aisle felt longer than it should have.

The veil softened the edges of the room but sharpened everything that mattered. The drum of your own pulse. The whisper of silk around your ankles. The flicker of candlelight on brass and crystal. Faces turning to look. Families gathered in ordered silence, all of them dressed in mourning colors and jewels as if they’d come not to bless a union but to witness a sealing.

Your father escorted you only halfway.

That had been decided without your input too.

At the midpoint he stopped, his fingers pressing once at your arm before withdrawing. He didn’t look at you when he let go. He looked at Titus.

Like a man delivering something expensive and breakable into the hands of its new owner.

You wanted to scream.

Instead you kept walking.

Titus stepped down from the dais to meet you before the final few feet had been crossed.

Again, not showy. Just controlled. Precise in his timing. He offered his hand.

You looked at it.

The last time he’d taken your hand, a ring had gone onto your finger and stayed there.

Every instinct in you recoiled.

Every eye in the room waited.

At last, you placed your hand in his.

His fingers closed around yours at once, steady and cool, not squeezing, not stroking—just holding, as if the contact itself were enough to announce the rest.

Then he led you up to stand beside him beneath the candles.

The officiant—one of the council men, grey-haired and grave in a dark suit—began to speak.

You barely heard the first part.

Something about alliance. About continuity. About two houses joined in mutual strength and common purpose. About the preservation of legacy and the solemn duty of those called to steward it. The usual poison dressed as tradition.

Your attention kept snagging on smaller things instead. The warmth of Titus at your side. The line of his shoulder just inside your vision. The weight of the ring on your finger. The scent of wax and flowers and the faint resinous cologne that clung to him whenever he leaned the slightest bit nearer.

Then came the vows.

The officiant prompted Titus first.

Of course he’d go first.

Titus turned toward you fully, and the room seemed to recede in a single slow pulse.

You braced yourself for prettiness.

He gave you none.

“I take you before these witnesses,” he said, voice low and even, carrying cleanly through the chamber without ever needing to rise, “to stand at my side, to bear my name, and to be kept under my protection as long as I draw breath.”

Your heartbeat stuttered.

The officiant should’ve interrupted. No one did.

Titus went on, eyes fixed on yours.

“What is mine, I keep. What I keep, I defend. Before family, law, and God, I bind myself to that duty.”

A murmur, almost too soft to be called one, moved through the guests and died.

You stared at him.

He had not improvised those words in the moment. You knew that instantly. He had chosen them. Considered them. Brought them here intact.

Protection.

Keeping.

Duty.

Not love. Never love. Something older and harder and far more dangerous in a man like him because it asked for nothing tender in return.

When it was your turn, the officiant prompted you too quickly, as if fearful of giving anyone more time than necessary to think about what had just been said aloud.

Your own repeated words tasted strange in your mouth. Ancient. Formal. Sanded smooth by a hundred dead brides before you, none of whom had likely been allowed the comfort of saying what they meant either.

You spoke them anyway.

What else was left?

By the time the ring exchange came, your hand was colder than the diamonds.

Titus took it again.

His thumb brushed once across your knuckles before he adjusted the ring already there, turning the stone minutely until it caught the light. The gesture was so small that no one but you could’ve understood it for what it was.

Not placement.

Possession.

The officiant said the last words. The room held its breath.

Then, with solemn satisfaction: “It is done.”

Done.

Not blessed. Not celebrated. Done.

Titus lifted the veil from your face.

The lace slid back in a whisper.

For one suspended second, with the room silent and the candles throwing gold around both of you, his hand stayed at the edge of your jaw.

Then he leaned in and kissed you.

It was brief.

Formal.

It should’ve been nothing.

Instead it landed with devastating accuracy—mouth firm against yours, measured enough to be publicly appropriate and intimate enough to feel like a warning. No fumbling hunger. No softness. Just the terrible confidence of a man sealing a contract in front of Mr. Le Bail and witnesses.

When he drew back, the room returned all at once.

People rose.

Applause began, muted but insistent.

And you stood there in white silk with Titus Danforth’s hand at the small of your back, feeling the whole world slide one inch further off its axis.

The reception took place in an adjoining room that had been rearranged for dinner.

Long table. Candlelight. Crystal. Flowers in low arrangements pale as bone. More guests than before, though still not enough to pretend this was anything other than a tightly controlled family affair. The house had shifted its posture for the occasion, but it hadn’t softened. Laughter never rose very high. Music from the quartet stayed low and bloodless. Even the servants moved differently now—quicker, quieter, as if aware that some threshold had been crossed and the air itself required more caution.

You were seated beside Titus at the center of the table.

Of course you were.

Your chair had barely been pushed in before the procession of toasts began. Chester first, speaking about continuity and the strength of old alliances. Another council member after him, congratulating both families on their wisdom. Someone from your side talking about endurance in terms so neutral they might as well have been discussing architecture.

Through all of it, Titus remained maddeningly composed.

He didn’t drink much. Didn’t fidget. Didn’t lean into the performance the way lesser men would have. He listened when required, inclined his head when politeness demanded it, and kept one hand resting lightly against the back of your chair as if the gesture cost him no thought at all.

It cost you plenty.

Every time his fingers shifted against the carved wood behind you, you felt it.

Every time someone addressed you both as if this were a union freely entered, your jaw tightened a little further.

At one point Chester lifted his glass and toasted “to the new Mrs. Danforth.”

Your stomach turned.

Without looking at Titus, you reached for your wine and drank.

Next to you, he said very quietly, “You’ll make your teeth ache if you grind them any harder.”

You set the glass down. “I hope that’s what ruins the evening for you.”

“My evening is going extremely well.”

You turned your head a fraction. “I hate you.”

His expression didn’t shift. He lifted his own glass, took one measured sip, and set it back down.

“I know.”

The calm with which he said it made you want to stab him with the dessert fork.

Instead you faced forward again, eyes on the flowers, on the crystal, on the slow moving reflections in your wineglass.

A beat later, you felt his thumb brush once along the back edge of your chair, impossibly close to the bare stretch of skin at your neck where the veil no longer covered you.

Not quite touching.

Worse than touching.

“You’re trembling,” he murmured.

“I’m restraining myself.”

“So am I.”

The words dropped into your lap like lit coals.

You went very still.

To anyone watching, nothing had changed. The new husband and wife sat side by side beneath candlelight and public approval, speaking quietly as refined people did at refined tables. No one would’ve guessed that your pulse had gone ragged or that Titus, without so much as lifting his voice, had just made it brutally clear how thin his own leash was running.

You looked at him then.

He was already watching the room again, not you.

The side of his face gave away nothing.

And somehow that was the worst part. That he could put words like that into your blood and then look away as though the act required nothing of him.

Dinner stretched.

Courses came and went barely tasted. Congratulations arrived in tidy lines, most of them spoken to Titus first and you second. He accepted them with cool ease. You endured them. The ring on your finger felt heavier with every passing minute.

At last, after coffee was poured and the last formal toast had died, Titus rose.

The room quieted.

He offered no speech.

No grand gratitude.

He simply placed one hand over the back of your chair, and the collected company seemed to understand all at once what that meant.

The evening’s public portion had ended.

Your chair scraped softly as you stood.

No one tried to stop you. No one looked shocked. Not one face in the room betrayed even a flicker of discomfort. Why would it? This, after all, was what the entire day had been arranged to culminate in. The silk. The flowers. The vows. The blessing. The dinner. All of it had been a polished corridor leading neatly toward one private room and the man waiting to take you there.

Titus settled his hand at your back.

The gesture was light.

It might as well have been a brand.

“Goodnight,” Chester said, in the tone of a man concluding excellent business.

You looked at him and thought, very clearly, that if there were a hell deep enough for families like this, it ought to have separate wings.

Then Titus guided you out.

The corridor beyond the reception room was quiet enough to hear the house settling around you.

No quartet here. No voices. Just the soft drag of your skirt over the rugs and the measured tread of Titus’s shoes beside your own, the low amber light along the walls, the old wood and stone holding the evening’s warmth close.

He didn’t hurry.

That, more than anything, began to fray your composure.

If he’d dragged you off in triumph, if he’d shown one crude crack of appetite, you could have despised him cleanly for it. But he moved through the corridor with the same composure he’d brought to the altar and the dinner table, as if what waited at the end of this walk were not a wife he’d cornered by increments but merely the next solemn duty in a day of solemn duties.

You hated how much more frightening that made him.

At the first turn in the hall, you stopped walking.

His hand fell from your back.

He turned to look at you.

“No.”

The word came out low, hard, breathless with everything you’d held in all night.

For the first time since leaving the reception, his attention sharpened fully onto you.

“No?” he repeated.

“You don’t get to act like this is just another room.” Your voice shook once and steadied. “You don’t get to walk me through your house like I’m already trained to it.”

He watched you in silence.

The amber sconces lit one side of his face and left the other in shadow. His collar was still neat. His expression still controlled. Only his eyes had changed, going darker somehow, more focused.

“Have I given you the impression I think tonight is unimportant?”

“Yes.”

A pause.

“Interesting.”

You laughed once, ugly and tired. “You’re unbelievable.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“I mean it.” You stepped closer before you could stop yourself, rage making you reckless. “You stand there acting like the most monstrous thing about you is your honesty, when really it’s the calm. It’s the way you do all of this”—you gestured between him, the house, the dress, the ring, the whole suffocating architecture of the night—“like you’ve already forgiven yourself for it.”

His gaze dropped briefly to your mouth, then lifted again.

“I haven’t forgiven myself for anything.”

The quiet certainty in that landed harder than denial would have.

You stared at him.

“Then what exactly do you call this?” you asked.

His answer came without hesitation.

“An inevitability.”

Something about that word, spoken there in the hush of the corridor with the whole house closing around it, made your anger slip briefly into something more dangerous. Not fear exactly. Not surrender. Something sharper. The vertigo of standing too near the edge of a decision already made by someone else.

You should’ve stepped back.

Instead you stayed where you were.

Titus took in the fact of that and said, very softly, “Ask me what you’ve been asking yourself all day.”

You frowned. “What?”

His eyes never left yours.

“Why you.”

The breath left you in a quiet rush.

For a second the only sound was the low hiss of one of the wall sconces.

Then, because the question had been clawing at you in one form or another since the council room, you said it.

“Why me?”

No smile touched his face this time.

No indulgence either.

When he answered, it was with a steadiness so complete it almost felt cruel.

“Because you’re the only person in either family who looked at me and saw the cost before the reward.”

Your throat tightened.

He took one step nearer.

“Because you know what rooms like these are made for, and you walk into them anyway with your head high.”

Another step.

“Because you’re not soft enough to bore me, not foolish enough to flatter, and not weak enough to break usefully.”

The words should have insulted. Somehow they didn’t. Not entirely.

His gaze dipped to the ring on your hand, then returned to your face.

“And because when I thought of the seat beside mine,” he said, “I found I had no interest in seeing anyone else there.”

Silence.

It hit deeper than any prettier answer could have. Not because it was tender. God, it wasn’t tender. But because it sounded horribly true.

You swallowed.

“That isn’t a reason,” you said, though your voice no longer had the strength it had a minute ago.

“It is to me.”

Then he reached for your hand.

You let him.

Maybe because the fight had shifted. Maybe because the entire day had stripped choice down so thin that this no longer felt like the battlefield to spend it on. Maybe because some ruined part of you wanted to see what his face would look like if he touched the ring now, here, with no witnesses left to perform for.

His fingers closed over yours and lifted your hand between you.

He turned the ring once more in the light.

Then, without breaking eye contact, he pressed his mouth to the stone.

Not your knuckles.

Not your skin.

The ring.

The gesture was so restrained it nearly undid you.

When he lowered your hand again, his thumb moved once along the inside of your wrist.

“Come with me,” he said.

Not a command barked out for effect. Not a plea.

Something worse.

Something spoken like fact.

You went.

The room at the end of the corridor was not the sentimental bridal chamber of old stories.

Nothing in Danforth mansion would ever allow itself that kind of softness.

It was large, yes, and beautifully appointed in the cold, curated way every room in the estate seemed to be—dark wood, old stone, low lamps, a bed hung with pale fabric, an antique wardrobe, a fire banked low in the hearth. Candles glowed on the mantel and bedside tables, their light turning the silk coverlet and the lace at your sleeves to shifting gold and cream. Somewhere incense had been burned earlier. The air still held the fading trace of it under the cleaner scents of linen and polished furniture.

The door shut behind you.

The click of the latch ran through your body like a second pulse.

You stood just inside the room, veil trailing behind you, hands at your sides.

Titus remained by the door for one measured second, watching you.

Then he crossed to you and stopped close enough that you could feel the warmth of him through layers of fabric.

Neither of you spoke.

The room had gone intensely quiet.

At last he lifted a hand and touched the edge of the veil where it fell over your shoulder.

“This first,” he said.

He drew it back slowly, letting the lace slide free from your hair and shoulders in a long soft waterfall. When it was clear of you, he laid it aside with a care that felt almost obscene in its contrast to the violence of the day.

Then his hands returned to you.

One at either wrist.

Not pinning. Not rough.

Only holding for a moment, as if acquainting himself with the fact of you in this room, under his name, in the clothes chosen for this exact hour.

Your breathing was no longer steady.

He noticed. Of course he noticed.

“You’re angry,” he said quietly.

“Yes.”

“Good.”

It almost made you laugh.

“Is that still your favorite thing about me?”

“No,” he said.

His thumbs shifted once against your pulse points.

“That changed when you walked toward me.”

The room tipped very slightly around the edges.

You looked up at him. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Say things like that now.”

A flicker—not amusement, not quite, but close—moved at the corner of his mouth.

“Now,” he said, “is exactly when I mean them.”

His right hand released your wrist and rose to the pearl buttons at your throat.

He paused there.

Waited.

You could have stepped back.

You didn’t.

One by one, he opened the collar o f the gown.

Each button slipped free with a tiny sound that seemed to echo. Cool air touched your skin where the dress loosened. His knuckles brushed your throat once, then the line beneath it. No haste. No fumbling. Just that same devastating patience he brought to everything, as if he intended to prove that he had all the time in the world to watch every last defense come apart.

When the last button at the collar was undone, he let his hand rest briefly at the base of your throat.

“Still surprised?” he asked.

You hated how breathless your answer sounded. “No.”

“Liar.”

The word was almost gentle.

You stared at him.

Then, because pride was the one thing still reliably yours, you said, “I’m not afraid of you.”

His gaze held yours for a long beat.

“Not in the way you expected,” he said.

And because that was true—because that was the worst truth of the night, that fear had been joined by something hotter and more humiliating and infinitely more complicated—you said nothing at all.

He looked at you for another second.

Then he angled his head toward yours, mouth near your temple, your hair, your ear.

When he spoke, his voice was so low it seemed to belong to the room itself.

“That’s enough pretending.”

And then his mouth was on yours. It’s nothing like the chaste, public kiss at the altar. This was wet and sloppy, his tongue pushing past your lips before you could even think to deny him. You taste the expensive whiskey he drank at the reception, the sharpness of it, and something else—something just him. Your head spun. Your hands came up, flat against the hard wall of his chest in his tailored jacket, but you don’t push. You can’t. The fight has bled out of you, leaving a hollow, accepting ache.

One of his hands leaves your face, slides down your spine, over the intricate beading of the wedding gown. It finds the curve of your ass and grips, hard, fingers digging into the silk and the flesh beneath. He groans into your mouth, the sound vibrating through you. He pulls your hips flush against his, and you feel the thick, hard length of him straining against his dress pants, pressed against your belly. A shudder runs through you, involuntary. Your body betrays you, a flush of heat spreading low in your stomach.

He breaks the kiss, a string of saliva connecting your lips to his. His breathing is ragged. “Look at you,” he says, his voice a rough, velvet baritone. “My wife.”

His fingers find the hidden zipper at the side of your dress. The sound of it parting is the sound of your last defense falling. The heavy silk gown slumps, and he pushes it from your shoulders. It pools at your feet, a puddle of white and silver on the dark patterned rug. You stand before him in only your lace-trimmed stockings, garter belt, and a pair of delicate silk panties. The air in the chamber is cool on your bare skin, raising goosebumps. His gaze is a physical weight, traveling over your breasts, your stomach, the juncture of your thighs.

“Perfect,” he breathes. It’s not a compliment. It’s an assessment.

He shrugs out of his own jacket, lets it fall carelessly. His fingers make quick work of his cufflinks, his shirt buttons. He strips to the waist, revealing defined muscle underneath. You’ve never seen him like this—not a politician, not a strategist. Just a man. A predator in his den. He steps forward, closing the distance, and his bare chest brushes against your nipples. You gasp. They’re already tight, sensitive.

He doesn’t kiss you again. He lowers his head, his mouth finding the slope of your breast. His tongue flicks over one nipple, once, twice, through the lace of your bra. Then his teeth graze it. You cry out, a short, sharp sound. Your hands fly to his hair, the greying strands surprisingly soft between your fingers. You don’t know if you’re pulling him away or holding him there.

He answers by unhooking the front clasp of your bra. It falls open. His mouth is on you instantly, hot and wet, sucking your bare nipple deep. The pull is exquisite, a sharp pleasure that arrows straight to your cunt. You feel yourself getting wet, a slick, embarrassing heat. You’re panting. Your head falls back.

“So responsive,” he murmurs against your skin, switching to the other breast. His hand comes up to knead the one his mouth left, pinching the nipple between his thumb and forefinger. “This belongs to me now. This body. This sweet gasp.” He sucks harder, and your knees buckle. His arm bands around your waist, holding you up. “Say it.”

You can’t. The words won’t form. You just moan, a broken, needy sound.

He straightens, his lips glistening. His hands go to the fastening of his trousers. “On the bed, darling. On your back. Legs spread for your husband.”

The command brooks no argument. The formality of ‘Eleanor’ in the midst of this filth makes your stomach clench. You move to the massive four-poster bed, the dark velvet coverlet cool under your back. You look up at the canopy, the Danforth crest embroidered there. You spread your legs. The cool air touches your wetness through the silk of your panties. You’re exposed. You’re his.

He pushed his pantsand briefs down, his cock springing free. It’s thick, flushed an angry red, the head slick with pre-cum. He’s fully erect, veins standing out along the length. He strokes himself once, his eyes locked on where you’re laid out for him. “Look at you waiting for it.”

He climbs onto the bed, kneeling between your thighs. He hooks his fingers in the waistband of your panties and pulls them down, slowly, dragging the damp silk over your hips, your thighs. He tosses them aside. Then he just looks. At your bare cunt, glistening and already swollen for him. His jaw tightens. “Beautiful. So fucking wet for me already.”

He doesn’t use his fingers first. He lowers his head. His breath ghosts over you, hot. Then his tongue, flat and broad, licks a slow, firm stripe from your entrance to your clit. You jolt, a full-body spasm, a choked sob escaping your throat. It’s too much. It’s not enough.

He eats you like a man starved. His tongue circles your clit, flicks it, then pushes inside you, fucking you with it. The wet, obscene sounds fill the silent chamber. Your hips lift off the bed, seeking more pressure, more of that devastating friction. One of his hands pins your hip to the mattress. The other slides up your body, his thumb finding your mouth. “Suck,” he orders.

You open your mouth, take his thumb inside. You suck on it, the salt of his skin on your tongue, as his tongue fucks you deeper. The dual sensations unravel you. The coil in your belly tightens, a terrifying, inevitable pull.

“That’s it,” he growls against your cunt, his voice muffled by your flesh. “Come on my tongue, wife. Let me taste it.”

His words are the final trigger. Your orgasm crashes over you, a silent, seizing wave. Your back arches, your cunt clenching around nothing, around his tongue, pulses of pure, mindless pleasure wracking you. You cry out around his thumb, the sound swallowed by the room.

He doesn’t let you come down. As the last tremors shake your thighs, he rises over you. The broad head of his cock presses against your soaked entrance. He’s not asking. He’s positioning. You’re still spasming, oversensitive, when he pushes inside.

The stretch is breathtaking. He’s so thick, filling you in a way that borders on pain. You gasp, your nails digging into the velvet coverlet. He sinks in slowly, relentlessly, until his hips are flush with yours, until he’s buried to the hilt. You feel him throbbing inside you, a deep, insistent pulse. He’s so deep. You’re so full.

“Mine,” he grunts, the word punched out of him. He pulls back almost all the way, then drives back in. The pace he sets is brutal, possessive. Each thrust is a claiming. The wet slap of skin on skin, the creak of the bed, his ragged breaths—it’s the only music. He watches your face, his eyes burning. “Take it. Take your husband’s cock. This cunt was made for this. For me.”

You can’t speak. You can only feel. The drag of him inside you, the delicious friction, the building pressure again, already, so soon after your first peak. Your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him deeper. You surrender to it. To him. This is your fate. This is your marriage bed.

His thrusts become erratic, harder, deeper. A muscle ticks in his jaw. “Gonna fill you,” he pants. “Gonna put my heir in you. Right now.”

He slams into you one final time, burying himself as deep as he can go. You feel him pulse, then the hot, sudden flood of his release filling you. It’s thick, so much of it, spilling inside you, marking you. A low, guttural groan tears from his chest, and he collapses his weight onto you, his forehead dropping to your shoulder.

You lie there, joined, his cock still lodged inside you, his cum leaking out around where you’re stretched around him. The smell of sex, of sweat, of him, is overwhelming. Your body is humming, spent. The defiance is gone. In its place is a hollow, terrifying acceptance. You are his wife. You are carrying his seed.

He shifts, pulling out of you slowly. A gush of his release follows, warm on your inner thigh. He rolls onto his back beside you, one arm thrown over his eyes. His chest rises and falls steadily. After a moment, his hand finds yours on the bed between you. His fingers lace through yours, holding tight. He doesn’t speak.

Afterward, the room looked altered.

Not destroyed. Titus wouldn’t have allowed destruction in the vulgar sense. But changed. The veil half fallen from where he’d placed it aside. Candlelight guttering lower. Silk drawn into new creases. One earring missing from where it had once sat at your ear, now glinting faintly near the edge of the coverlet. The air warmer than before, touched through with the fading incense, the spent sweetness of candles, the sharper living heat of skin.

You lay against the pillows, breathing slower by degrees.

Titus sat beside you, one forearm braced along the mattress as he looked down at you with that same impossible composure he’d worn all evening—except now there was something else in it too. Not softness. He did not become soft. But satisfaction, yes. A terrible, settled kind of satisfaction, like a lock finally turned all the way home.

His hand closed lightly around your left hand where it rested atop the coverlet.

He turned the ring once beneath his thumb.

The diamond caught the candlelight.

“There,” he said quietly.

Your eyes lifted to his face.

“There what?”

He looked at the ring, then at you.

“Now it looks earned.”

You should have told him to go to hell.

The words didn’t come.

He raised your hand and pressed his mouth, this time, to your knuckles. A brief touch. Almost formal. Worse somehow for that.

Then he lowered your hand again and settled it back against the coverlet, leaving his own over it.

“My wife,” he said.

The title moved through you differently now.

Not easier. Not cleaner. But deeper.

You stared at the canopy above the bed for a long moment, listening to the fire settle in the hearth, to the quiet breath of the old house around you, to Titus’s silence at your side. Somewhere under the ache in your body and the rage still glowing stubbornly in the corners of you, something else had begun to take root. Not peace. Never that.

Recognition, maybe.

Of what he was.

Of what this was.

Of the fact that the cage had shut, yes—but also that he had never lied to you about the bars.

At length, you turned your head to look at him.

He was already watching.

Of course he was.

That dark, unreadable gaze met yours, and for the first time since the council room, you didn’t look away.

Whatever he saw in your face then made something shift, almost imperceptibly, in his expression.

Approval.

Not because you were meek. Not because you were broken.

Because you were still there.

Still proud. Still furious. Still looking back.

His thumb moved once over your ring.

“You understand now,” he said.

It wasn’t a question.

You should have denied it.

You should have laughed in his face, turned away, spit the title back at him like poison.

Instead you lay in his bed with his name on your hand and his scent in the sheets and met his eyes long enough for the silence itself to become an answer.

Outside the closed door, the house remained what it had always been—old, watchful, merciless.

Inside, candlelight trembled against the walls, and Titus Danforth looked at you like the long wait had finally ended.

Somewhere in the distance, far below the room you now occupied, the estate settled deeper into its foundations.

And beside him, still wearing white gone warm in the dark, you understood with sudden, terrible clarity that the most frightening thing about the night was no longer that it had become irreversible.

It was that when Titus reached for your hand again, you let him.