GUESS WHAT??? I'm self-publishing my first ever book, His Prisoner! This is a rework of a fanfiction I published on here a while back -- medieval romance with all the war, political intrigue, snark, sex, and family drama from the original. This will be available on Kindle Unlimited and as a regular Amazon paperback October 3rd, but it's available for Kindle preorder right now! It would mean so much to me to have your support! My savings have taken a big hit after paying for all the editing, marketing, and gorgeous artwork. In the meantime, please follow me on Instagram!
GUESS WHAT??? I'm self-publishing my first ever book, His Prisoner! This is a rework of a fanfiction I published on here a while back -- medieval romance with all the war, political intrigue, snark, sex, and family drama from the original. This will be available on Kindle Unlimited and as a regular Amazon paperback October 3rd, but it's available for Kindle preorder right now! It would mean so much to me to have your support! My savings have taken a big hit after paying for all the editing, marketing, and gorgeous artwork. In the meantime, please follow me on Instagram!
Crazy
(127 notes)
Summary: Sy's girlfriend worries that she's lost him. Can he convince her otherwise?
Why it should be included: Breaking your own heart by jumping to conclusions resonates with me more than I'd like to admit.
The Arrangement
(105 notes)
Summary: (from the author) "When you're friends with benefits with the hottest guy ever and get baby fever."
Why it should be included: Any story that includes sexy time with Henry is worth the read.
Waitin'
(131 notes)
Summary: Defining your relationship with Sy
Why it should be included: A short and sweet little bit of fluffy Sy angst.
The Finish Line
(96 notes - Part 1)
Summary: (from the author) "You meet a handsome, mysterious man while running a marathon. What will happen when you realize he’s a lot closer than you think"
Why it should be included: Adorable meet-cute and the aftermath.
Widow's Pique
(199 notes - Part 1)
Summary: (from the author) "Penny is a 41 year old mother of one, existing day to day in the normal world until a chance encounter changes everything, for everyone."
Why it should be included: Henry is stranded and gets help from a single mom and her young son. It's a whole series (23 chapters so far) about meeting, building a relationship, and the struggles along the way. The main character is a plus-size lady. The author includes some great inspiration photos of beautiful, curvy ladies.
the nearness of you
(69 notes)
Summary: (from the author) "He’s nothing less than a piece of fine art himself, and you can’t help but prove it to him when he models for you to sketch. Museums tell you not to touch the art, but they don’t say anything about making the art touch itself."
Why it should be included: It's a really beautifully written combination of art and intimacy that's different from anything else I've read.
Unnoticed
(227 notes - Part 1)
Summary: (from the author) "He had watch her grown up. He had seen her transform into a beautiful woman, with a strong will but insecurities. Despite being away from time to time, he had fallen for her, hard. She on the other hand, had seen him become a big, strong man. But deep down she knew he had a soft side. She had fallen, hard, for him too. Another thing they have in common? The believe that the other will never feel the same. Will their feelings for each other always stay unnoticed?"
Why it should be included: 1. Plus size main character 2. Brother's friend (one of my favorite tropes) 3. Mutual pining (another favorite trope) 4. It's a series :)
cardio
(166 notes)
Summary: (from the author) "For Henry and you, cardio doesn’t mean running and you like that. VERY MUCH."
Why it should be included: You all know that interview. This story expands upon it ;)
Pineapple
(177 notes)
Summary: (from the author) "Lately you feel depressed and Henry will do everything in his power to make you feel a little less shitty."
Why it should be included: Fluffy, caring Henry as the best partner you could imagine if you were depressed.
Surrender
(167 notes)
Summary: (Prompt) "How is it like to be with the Captain in a nutshell."
Why it should be included: A quick, sexy Sy drabble.
The Veterinarian and the Werewolf
(45 notes - Prologue)
Summary: (from the author) "Jessie struggles to make connections with humans her greatest friends are animals."
Why it should be included: Henry is a werewolf. Need I say more?
Prisoner
(106 notes - Part 1)
Summary: (from the author) "ENEMIES TO LOVERS (SORT OF) - Henry Cavill is a respected Norman baron who has been tasked with finding Lady Thomasin, an ill-tempered Saxon noblewoman, and returning her to London so the king can marry her off to a cruel Norman invader. The two grow close during the long journey, and Henry puts his own life in danger (more than once) to protect the woman he loves."
Why it should be included: Henry, history, angst, fluff, smut. This story has it all.
Thank you for this amazing list @ysmmsy . So many great stories and writers.
Some of them have deactivated sadly, but I'll tag the ones who are still active
I finally figured out what I want to do with this story! Get ready for a real plot to form!
masterlist
It was the middle of the night for us when the flare happened.
People who were outside at the time were the ones who died right away or got an aggressive case of sun sickness. People indoors got slightly less, people on the lower floors of buildings got less, etc.
I was in my parents’ basement when the flare happened. The accompanying earthquakes jammed the door to the stairs shut. It was a few hours before I finally made it out.
In the end it was sheer dumb luck that I survived, that I didn’t get sick.
Evolution, survival of the fittest – that didn’t factor into it at all when the world ended. Just your location.
I’m sure down the road I’ll have some sort of horrific health problems, that everybody will because you don’t encounter that much radiation without some of it infecting you. But I’m still alive and healthy for now.
I don’t know about the rest of the world, though. Nobody does, since all the technology was simultaneously fried and there’s no real way to get across an ocean anymore.
Usually I try not to think about it, but the soldiers accompanying us are talking about their travels while in the military. Two of them were stationed in Japan for a while; a third was stationed in South Korea. It was the middle of a sunny day in those countries when the flare hit.
One of the men from Japan shakes his head, smiling sadly. “I’ll never have sushi like that again,” he says mournfully.
The other frowns. “It’s a fuckin’ shame.”
We’re mostly on bikes or horses. A pickup truck accompanies us to carry back anything of value we find, but August tries to minimize car usage whenever possible, so we have a single truck with us to lug back whatever valuables we find.
We all pull off to the side when we reach the neighborhood. A bunch of identical little houses on cul-de-sacs that were once full of yuppie commuters. Now it’s empty.
“Each of you will have one guard,” August says to the six of Miss Ally’s people. “You will not leave their side. You will wait for them to clear each and every room before you enter it.” He pairs them up and sends them all in different directions, telling them to return to this exact spot in two hours.
They all head off. Only August and I are left.
“I don’t have a guard,” I say once everyone is out of earshot.
August gives me a shit-eating grin. He’s my guard. Of course. He motions me toward a one-story home with a detached garage. “Come along. We’ve got things to do.”
The first house we enter has no front door. The windows have all been blown out, but the treadmill and stationary bike in the living room appear to be going strong.
August picks up a discarded magazine from the floor. “Health nuts,” he says sadly. “Not known for having full pantries.”
“You’d be surprised,” I say.
He cocks a dark eyebrow. “Oh?” He gestures toward the kitchen. “In that case, take the lead. I insist.”
Health nuts can be similar to squirrels in terms of stashing food for a rainy day. We don’t bother opening the freezer or fridge because whatever was in there was either eaten by now or has turned it into a mold jungle.
August and I work in silence, scouring the kitchen for anything that might be of use. August immediately finds a bottle of wine, which he looks over, then seems to contemplate deeply. He puts it in his pack and I have a feeling he’ll be adding it to his private collection.
I pause in the middle of ransacking a drawer full of oatmeal packets. “You really couldn’t wait until I was out of the tent to fuck somebody else?”
August doesn’t miss a beat. “I could and I did. Andie came in unannounced and uninvited,” he says, pulling out a plastic jar of protein powder. “You woke up before things got too interesting.”
I square my shoulders and return to sorting. “I take it that sort of thing happens a lot.”
“Often enough.” He shuts the cupboard and sticks the powder into his backpack. “Find anything?”
“Oatmeal packets mostly. And this.” I hold up the plastic jar of trail mix. “It’s mostly empty but –”
“We’ll bring it. We need everything.”
His choice of words gives me pause. Need, he said. But I’ve seen the supply trucks myself and we seem to have plenty of almost everything. Nobody in the camp goes hungry or lacks in basic necessities, at least not as far as I know. But I’m also not part of the inner circle.
The pantry upstairs boasts two value-sized bottles of shampoo and three bars of soap, plus about a thousand toothbrushes still in their packaging. “Jackpot.”
“I’m checking the bathroom. Start on the bedrooms when you’re done.”
My bag is brimming with floss picks and antiperspirant.
The nearest bedroom once belonged to a woman. I can tell by all the expensive - and now very expired - perfume and makeup.
“Do we need clothes?” I call over my shoulder.
“Underwear and socks,” August calls back.
I head for the dresser. I don’t love the idea of wearing someone else’s panties even if their clean but I guess beggars can’t be choosers.
There are plenty of socks, so I grab a bunch of those. As I reach back to access the underwear, my hand brushes against something else.
I grab it and pull it out and see a familiar book cover. I used to have a copy on my Kindle, not a well-worn paperback like this. But it’s the same story. I want to squeal with delight. Of course that’s when August comes in.
“Find anything good?” he asks, leaning a shoulder against the door jamb.
I reflexively hide the book behind my back which is of course a dead giveaway.
He raises a dark brow, a smirk growing on his incredible lips. “What’s that?”
I don’t reply. I know he won’t believe anything I say until he sees it for himself.
He crosses the room to stand in front of me and holds his hand. Reluctantly, I give the book over. He watches my face, reveling in the embarrassment for a moment before looking at the book in his hand.
Slowly, his smirk widens. He flips to a dog eared page and begins to read and I want to die.
“He gripped her wrists in one of his hands, pinning them against the wall above her head. With his other hand, he cupped her sex over her dress and squeezed – not enough for it to be painful, but enough to make it clear that he was in charge, and this would go exactly the way he wanted it.”
I hate him. I hate the way he reads it in that deep sexy voice and I hate the way he smirks up at me and the fact that it’s getting me going and I hate him.
He’s smirking again when he looks up at me. “Is this the sort of thing you’d like?”
“It’s just a smutty book.” I try to sound dismissive.
He turns back to the book. “Her pussy throbbed under his touch —“
“Jesus Christ, stop that!” I snatch the book out of his hands and I’m way too turned on just by the fact that he said pussy and he’s still smiling and I hate him. “You’re acting like a teenager, trying to embarrass me.”
“I’m not trying to embarrass you,” he says. “I’m trying to turn you on.” He takes a step toward me; I take a step back. “Get you wet.” Another step and I’m pressed against the dresser as he looms over me. “I have a feeling it’s working.”
I hate him.
And then he’s leaning in slowly, lowering his head as I turn mine up.
And his mouth is on my mouth, his fingers digging into my hips and I can’t breathe around the lump in my throat, the ache between my legs, that God-awful feeling in my gut that I will regret this.
But it doesn’t matter right now. Because right now all I can think about is the man pressed against me, the way his fingers are tugging at my hair enough to cause the slightest bit of pain that somehow makes me want him more.
My right mind isn’t in control – I know that – this sort of aching need is primal and weird and frankly a little scary because I’ve never felt this out of control before.
And then a shout comes from outside. “Boss!”
August pulls back enough to shout, “What?” My mouth is slightly open because I can’t get enough air through just my nose and all the while, August’s eyes are on that mouth, and I know he’s imagining everything that he could do to it and that it could do to him.
“We found some people in one of the houses. They’ve got Draven’s mark.”
That snaps us both out of our lusty haze.
Michael Draven is one of the six most powerful warlords roaming the continent. Besides August, he’s probably the scariest. Maybe even scarier, since August at least takes people in and protects them. From what I know, Draven only takes warriors and prostitutes into his group, and they’re not necessarily warriors and prostitutes by choice.
August’s soldiers have rounded up a man and a woman – a boy and a woman, more accurately. The woman is around my age but seems much older, and she glares at us hatefully enough to make me shudder.
They each have a tattoo on their forearms that identify them as Draven’s people. Some of August’s people have similar tattoos to identify them, but not all. Bearing any warlord’s mark is a gamble because people are about as likely to attack you for your allegiances as they are to show consideration for it.
“We’re not his people anymore,” the boy says. “I cut the mark. See?” He points to a few still-healing cuts slashing through the crow tattoo that marks him as one of Draven’s. It’s how his followers got the nickname crows. The girl’s mark is pristine.
August takes the man’s wrist in his hand and angles his forearm to get a better look at it. The man winces at his touch.
August drops his wrist. “And why are you no longer his people?”
“He . . . wasn’t a good guy,” the boy says slowly.
“Warlords aren’t known for being good guys,” Miss Evaline – one of Miss Ally’s people on this outing – says. “Except for the Boss.” She sounds more than a little condescending.
“I’m certainly not a good guy,” August says dismissively. He really isn’t and him saying so really shouldn't be hot but I still clench my thighs together.
After weeks of ignoring him, of keeping my legs shut and my vagina as dry as the desert, he reads one teeny tiny snippet of a bullshit Kindle Unlimited-esque romantasy in front of me and here we are.
“Give me details,” August says.
The two crows exchange a look.
“I wasn’t asking.”
“There were rumors of something going down. A merger, a trade, I’m not sure exactly what,” the woman says.
“A trade with who?”
The boy swallows. “John the Revelator.”
John the Revelator, who earned his nickname back before the world ended through apocalyptic religious and political rhetoric, is pretty freaky, too. He was somehow elected to the House of Representatives a year or so before shit hit the fan, and when it did, he knew just how to play it. His followers, now called Thoroughbreds, were ready to flock to him.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see a muscle tick in August’s jaw. He keeps his eyes on the crows when he addresses his soldiers. “Tie them up. We’re taking them back with us.”
The boy’s eyes widen in panic. “We’ll tell you anything you want to know!”
“I’m glad to hear it,” August says. “Blindfold them, too.”
***
Our little mission has been cut short. Whatever information those two people have is worth more than anything we’ll find in these houses.
I go back into the house to grab my shit. I hurriedly stuff the book into my bag and bury it under a bunch of shit. There’s no way in hell I’m leaving this thing behind.
“Still have that book?”
I jump at the sound of August’s voice; he neither notices nor cares.
“Why?” I challenge. “Gonna make me put it in the library truck?”
“Of course not,” he says. “That book is yours.”
I quirk an eyebrow because I find that difficult to believe. “Really? You want me to keep it?”
“Really,” he agrees. “In fact, I insist.”
“Why?” He can’t possibly just want me to keep it out of the goodness of his heart.
His eyes travel down to my mouth and linger there before returning to mine. “Because I know you’re going to think about me every time you read it.”
Fuck. Why am I turned on when I know he has every intention of torturing those two crows if they don’t give him what he wants?
He’ll torture the boy, at least. I heard a rumor that he doesn’t torture women – at least not physically – and I don’t know if that makes him a gentleman or a chauvinist.
***
August Walker had an unfailing ability to keep himself in check.
He was especially grateful for it at times like these, when he was simultaneously interrogating prisoners and imagining Delilah Reid pleasuring herself as she thought of him.
How did she like to pleasure herself, he wondered? Was she the sort of woman to rub frantic circles around her swollen clit, desperate for release, or would she take the time to tease herself?
Perhaps she put fingers into her tight cunt. Two at a time, he guessed, and only up to the first knuckle. He was very good and guessing the little details that brought women pleasure.
When he had her, which he inevitably would, he would start with one finger. He’d penetrate her slowly and deeply and only give her enough time to catch her breath before plunging in and out, steadily increasing his pressure and pace.
Thankfully, he stood with his back to the rest of the men in the tent, bent forward at the waist to mark the maps laid out on the tabletop. If anyone saw the impressive bulge in his pants, they assumed it was because he was in the middle of an interrogation, that his subjects; fear and his own power were what turned him on.
Not that a random, rude blue-collar twentysomething had him in knots – especially since that rude twentysomething wasn’t at the level of drop-dead gorgeous that was required for most men to withstand such high levels of bullshit.
“Where did you hear the rumors?” Sy asked the boy. He was in a wooden dining chair with arms, as was the woman. Neither of them were tied or taped down, though most of the soldiers in the room had rope or duct tape – a clear threat of what would happen should they cease cooperating.
“One of the other soldiers said he saw Draven meeting with a Thoroughbred at a stopover,” the boy said, using the nickname for John the Revelator’s followers.
One of the other soldiers in the room produced a knife and started tossing it up into the air and catching it by the blade. The boy saw and started speaking faster.
“One of them should’ve killed the other but they didn’t. They passed things back and forth; I don’t know what.”
“There’s not enough food in Draven’s camp,” the woman said, her words stumbling over the boy’s. “It’s not sustainable. Draven would only trade if he absolutely had to.”
“Is that why you left, then?” August asked without turning towards the captives. “You were hungry?”
“I left cause all Draven has to trade is women,” the woman snaps. “I’m not gonna be a whore for a bunch of white supremacists.”
Sy turned to the boy. “And you left because?”
“Because he’s in love with her,” August said dismissively. He finally turned to look at his prisoners. Judging by the look on his face, the boy had never voiced his feelings. Judging by the look on hers, the woman was fully aware of this and chose to ignore it.
“You were a whore in Draven’s camp?” August said. The woman looked him up and down, eyes briefly catching on his groin, and nodded once. “Would you like to be a whore in mine?”
The woman’s eyes went back to the bulge in his pants.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” August said. “It’s not for you.”
Lilah was probably fucking herself right this second while the rest of the camp was sleeping, he thought. She was probably doing it under the covers on her shitty cot in her shitty tent with at least ten other people in there.
Maybe some of them were awake. Maybe Lilah knew they were. Maybe she was too desperate to care.
“If I don’t want to be a whore?” the woman asked.
“Then I would hope you have something else of value to offer,” August said. “Otherwise, well . . .” He shrugged casually. “Take the night to think about it. Sy, put them somewhere secure for the night. I have other things I’d like to get done.”
I finally figured out what I want to do with this story! Get ready for a real plot to form!
masterlist
It was the middle of the night for us when the flare happened.
People who were outside at the time were the ones who died right away or got an aggressive case of sun sickness. People indoors got slightly less, people on the lower floors of buildings got less, etc.
I was in my parents’ basement when the flare happened. The accompanying earthquakes jammed the door to the stairs shut. It was a few hours before I finally made it out.
In the end it was sheer dumb luck that I survived, that I didn’t get sick.
Evolution, survival of the fittest – that didn’t factor into it at all when the world ended. Just your location.
I’m sure down the road I’ll have some sort of horrific health problems, that everybody will because you don’t encounter that much radiation without some of it infecting you. But I’m still alive and healthy for now.
I don’t know about the rest of the world, though. Nobody does, since all the technology was simultaneously fried and there’s no real way to get across an ocean anymore.
Usually I try not to think about it, but the soldiers accompanying us are talking about their travels while in the military. Two of them were stationed in Japan for a while; a third was stationed in South Korea. It was the middle of a sunny day in those countries when the flare hit.
One of the men from Japan shakes his head, smiling sadly. “I’ll never have sushi like that again,” he says mournfully.
The other frowns. “It’s a fuckin’ shame.”
We’re mostly on bikes or horses. A pickup truck accompanies us to carry back anything of value we find, but August tries to minimize car usage whenever possible, so we have a single truck with us to lug back whatever valuables we find.
We all pull off to the side when we reach the neighborhood. A bunch of identical little houses on cul-de-sacs that were once full of yuppie commuters. Now it’s empty.
“Each of you will have one guard,” August says to the six of Miss Ally’s people. “You will not leave their side. You will wait for them to clear each and every room before you enter it.” He pairs them up and sends them all in different directions, telling them to return to this exact spot in two hours.
They all head off. Only August and I are left.
“I don’t have a guard,” I say once everyone is out of earshot.
August gives me a shit-eating grin. He’s my guard. Of course. He motions me toward a one-story home with a detached garage. “Come along. We’ve got things to do.”
The first house we enter has no front door. The windows have all been blown out, but the treadmill and stationary bike in the living room appear to be going strong.
August picks up a discarded magazine from the floor. “Health nuts,” he says sadly. “Not known for having full pantries.”
“You’d be surprised,” I say.
He cocks a dark eyebrow. “Oh?” He gestures toward the kitchen. “In that case, take the lead. I insist.”
Health nuts can be similar to squirrels in terms of stashing food for a rainy day. We don’t bother opening the freezer or fridge because whatever was in there was either eaten by now or has turned it into a mold jungle.
August and I work in silence, scouring the kitchen for anything that might be of use. August immediately finds a bottle of wine, which he looks over, then seems to contemplate deeply. He puts it in his pack and I have a feeling he’ll be adding it to his private collection.
I pause in the middle of ransacking a drawer full of oatmeal packets. “You really couldn’t wait until I was out of the tent to fuck somebody else?”
August doesn’t miss a beat. “I could and I did. Andie came in unannounced and uninvited,” he says, pulling out a plastic jar of protein powder. “You woke up before things got too interesting.”
I square my shoulders and return to sorting. “I take it that sort of thing happens a lot.”
“Often enough.” He shuts the cupboard and sticks the powder into his backpack. “Find anything?”
“Oatmeal packets mostly. And this.” I hold up the plastic jar of trail mix. “It’s mostly empty but –”
“We’ll bring it. We need everything.”
His choice of words gives me pause. Need, he said. But I’ve seen the supply trucks myself and we seem to have plenty of almost everything. Nobody in the camp goes hungry or lacks in basic necessities, at least not as far as I know. But I’m also not part of the inner circle.
The pantry upstairs boasts two value-sized bottles of shampoo and three bars of soap, plus about a thousand toothbrushes still in their packaging. “Jackpot.”
“I’m checking the bathroom. Start on the bedrooms when you’re done.”
My bag is brimming with floss picks and antiperspirant.
The nearest bedroom once belonged to a woman. I can tell by all the expensive - and now very expired - perfume and makeup.
“Do we need clothes?” I call over my shoulder.
“Underwear and socks,” August calls back.
I head for the dresser. I don’t love the idea of wearing someone else’s panties even if their clean but I guess beggars can’t be choosers.
There are plenty of socks, so I grab a bunch of those. As I reach back to access the underwear, my hand brushes against something else.
I grab it and pull it out and see a familiar book cover. I used to have a copy on my Kindle, not a well-worn paperback like this. But it’s the same story. I want to squeal with delight. Of course that’s when August comes in.
“Find anything good?” he asks, leaning a shoulder against the door jamb.
I reflexively hide the book behind my back which is of course a dead giveaway.
He raises a dark brow, a smirk growing on his incredible lips. “What’s that?”
I don’t reply. I know he won’t believe anything I say until he sees it for himself.
He crosses the room to stand in front of me and holds his hand. Reluctantly, I give the book over. He watches my face, reveling in the embarrassment for a moment before looking at the book in his hand.
Slowly, his smirk widens. He flips to a dog eared page and begins to read and I want to die.
“He gripped her wrists in one of his hands, pinning them against the wall above her head. With his other hand, he cupped her sex over her dress and squeezed – not enough for it to be painful, but enough to make it clear that he was in charge, and this would go exactly the way he wanted it.”
I hate him. I hate the way he reads it in that deep sexy voice and I hate the way he smirks up at me and the fact that it’s getting me going and I hate him.
He’s smirking again when he looks up at me. “Is this the sort of thing you’d like?”
“It’s just a smutty book.” I try to sound dismissive.
He turns back to the book. “Her pussy throbbed under his touch —“
“Jesus Christ, stop that!” I snatch the book out of his hands and I’m way too turned on just by the fact that he said pussy and he’s still smiling and I hate him. “You’re acting like a teenager, trying to embarrass me.”
“I’m not trying to embarrass you,” he says. “I’m trying to turn you on.” He takes a step toward me; I take a step back. “Get you wet.” Another step and I’m pressed against the dresser as he looms over me. “I have a feeling it’s working.”
I hate him.
And then he’s leaning in slowly, lowering his head as I turn mine up.
And his mouth is on my mouth, his fingers digging into my hips and I can’t breathe around the lump in my throat, the ache between my legs, that God-awful feeling in my gut that I will regret this.
But it doesn’t matter right now. Because right now all I can think about is the man pressed against me, the way his fingers are tugging at my hair enough to cause the slightest bit of pain that somehow makes me want him more.
My right mind isn’t in control – I know that – this sort of aching need is primal and weird and frankly a little scary because I’ve never felt this out of control before.
And then a shout comes from outside. “Boss!”
August pulls back enough to shout, “What?” My mouth is slightly open because I can’t get enough air through just my nose and all the while, August’s eyes are on that mouth, and I know he’s imagining everything that he could do to it and that it could do to him.
“We found some people in one of the houses. They’ve got Draven’s mark.”
That snaps us both out of our lusty haze.
Michael Draven is one of the six most powerful warlords roaming the continent. Besides August, he’s probably the scariest. Maybe even scarier, since August at least takes people in and protects them. From what I know, Draven only takes warriors and prostitutes into his group, and they’re not necessarily warriors and prostitutes by choice.
August’s soldiers have rounded up a man and a woman – a boy and a woman, more accurately. The woman is around my age but seems much older, and she glares at us hatefully enough to make me shudder.
They each have a tattoo on their forearms that identify them as Draven’s people. Some of August’s people have similar tattoos to identify them, but not all. Bearing any warlord’s mark is a gamble because people are about as likely to attack you for your allegiances as they are to show consideration for it.
“We’re not his people anymore,” the boy says. “I cut the mark. See?” He points to a few still-healing cuts slashing through the crow tattoo that marks him as one of Draven’s. It’s how his followers got the nickname crows. The girl’s mark is pristine.
August takes the man’s wrist in his hand and angles his forearm to get a better look at it. The man winces at his touch.
August drops his wrist. “And why are you no longer his people?”
“He . . . wasn’t a good guy,” the boy says slowly.
“Warlords aren’t known for being good guys,” Miss Evaline – one of Miss Ally’s people on this outing – says. “Except for the Boss.” She sounds more than a little condescending.
“I’m certainly not a good guy,” August says dismissively. He really isn’t and him saying so really shouldn't be hot but I still clench my thighs together.
After weeks of ignoring him, of keeping my legs shut and my vagina as dry as the desert, he reads one teeny tiny snippet of a bullshit Kindle Unlimited-esque romantasy in front of me and here we are.
“Give me details,” August says.
The two crows exchange a look.
“I wasn’t asking.”
“There were rumors of something going down. A merger, a trade, I’m not sure exactly what,” the woman says.
“A trade with who?”
The boy swallows. “John the Revelator.”
John the Revelator, who earned his nickname back before the world ended through apocalyptic religious and political rhetoric, is pretty freaky, too. He was somehow elected to the House of Representatives a year or so before shit hit the fan, and when it did, he knew just how to play it. His followers, now called Thoroughbreds, were ready to flock to him.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see a muscle tick in August’s jaw. He keeps his eyes on the crows when he addresses his soldiers. “Tie them up. We’re taking them back with us.”
The boy’s eyes widen in panic. “We’ll tell you anything you want to know!”
“I’m glad to hear it,” August says. “Blindfold them, too.”
***
Our little mission has been cut short. Whatever information those two people have is worth more than anything we’ll find in these houses.
I go back into the house to grab my shit. I hurriedly stuff the book into my bag and bury it under a bunch of shit. There’s no way in hell I’m leaving this thing behind.
“Still have that book?”
I jump at the sound of August’s voice; he neither notices nor cares.
“Why?” I challenge. “Gonna make me put it in the library truck?”
“Of course not,” he says. “That book is yours.”
I quirk an eyebrow because I find that difficult to believe. “Really? You want me to keep it?”
“Really,” he agrees. “In fact, I insist.”
“Why?” He can’t possibly just want me to keep it out of the goodness of his heart.
His eyes travel down to my mouth and linger there before returning to mine. “Because I know you’re going to think about me every time you read it.”
Fuck. Why am I turned on when I know he has every intention of torturing those two crows if they don’t give him what he wants?
He’ll torture the boy, at least. I heard a rumor that he doesn’t torture women – at least not physically – and I don’t know if that makes him a gentleman or a chauvinist.
***
August Walker had an unfailing ability to keep himself in check.
He was especially grateful for it at times like these, when he was simultaneously interrogating prisoners and imagining Delilah Reid pleasuring herself as she thought of him.
How did she like to pleasure herself, he wondered? Was she the sort of woman to rub frantic circles around her swollen clit, desperate for release, or would she take the time to tease herself?
Perhaps she put fingers into her tight cunt. Two at a time, he guessed, and only up to the first knuckle. He was very good and guessing the little details that brought women pleasure.
When he had her, which he inevitably would, he would start with one finger. He’d penetrate her slowly and deeply and only give her enough time to catch her breath before plunging in and out, steadily increasing his pressure and pace.
Thankfully, he stood with his back to the rest of the men in the tent, bent forward at the waist to mark the maps laid out on the tabletop. If anyone saw the impressive bulge in his pants, they assumed it was because he was in the middle of an interrogation, that his subjects; fear and his own power were what turned him on.
Not that a random, rude blue-collar twentysomething had him in knots – especially since that rude twentysomething wasn’t at the level of drop-dead gorgeous that was required for most men to withstand such high levels of bullshit.
“Where did you hear the rumors?” Sy asked the boy. He was in a wooden dining chair with arms, as was the woman. Neither of them were tied or taped down, though most of the soldiers in the room had rope or duct tape – a clear threat of what would happen should they cease cooperating.
“One of the other soldiers said he saw Draven meeting with a Thoroughbred at a stopover,” the boy said, using the nickname for John the Revelator’s followers.
One of the other soldiers in the room produced a knife and started tossing it up into the air and catching it by the blade. The boy saw and started speaking faster.
“One of them should’ve killed the other but they didn’t. They passed things back and forth; I don’t know what.”
“There’s not enough food in Draven’s camp,” the woman said, her words stumbling over the boy’s. “It’s not sustainable. Draven would only trade if he absolutely had to.”
“Is that why you left, then?” August asked without turning towards the captives. “You were hungry?”
“I left cause all Draven has to trade is women,” the woman snaps. “I’m not gonna be a whore for a bunch of white supremacists.”
Sy turned to the boy. “And you left because?”
“Because he’s in love with her,” August said dismissively. He finally turned to look at his prisoners. Judging by the look on his face, the boy had never voiced his feelings. Judging by the look on hers, the woman was fully aware of this and chose to ignore it.
“You were a whore in Draven’s camp?” August said. The woman looked him up and down, eyes briefly catching on his groin, and nodded once. “Would you like to be a whore in mine?”
The woman’s eyes went back to the bulge in his pants.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” August said. “It’s not for you.”
Lilah was probably fucking herself right this second while the rest of the camp was sleeping, he thought. She was probably doing it under the covers on her shitty cot in her shitty tent with at least ten other people in there.
Maybe some of them were awake. Maybe Lilah knew they were. Maybe she was too desperate to care.
“If I don’t want to be a whore?” the woman asked.
“Then I would hope you have something else of value to offer,” August said. “Otherwise, well . . .” He shrugged casually. “Take the night to think about it. Sy, put them somewhere secure for the night. I have other things I’d like to get done.”
ENEMIES TO LOVERS - After a solar flare ended the world as we know it, former spy August Walker becomes the most terrifying of the many warlords who pop up across the US. He leads his militia from town to town, taking what he wants and all killing those who resist him. And now he wants Lilah. And one way or another, he’ll have her.
Masterlist
August didn’t know what possessed him to save that girl. Maybe it’s just that he didn’t like killing women. Maybe he was impressed with the unique mix of bravery and stupidity that led the vaguely ethnic twentysomething to shoot at him, only to fail spectacularly. More likely, he was just bored. Life after the flash was hard and violent but painfully predictable.
i am tired of people tagging this with weak shit like "uwu i wouldnt fuck him but i would hold his hand maybe" no fuck off this post is for horny bitches only
I've been in a writing mood lately and I'm trying desperately to hold onto it. The next chapter of Man's World is nearly done and I have part 13 of By Tomorrow all planned out. I've also got a random drabble in the works!
Henry opened his eyes when he was sure Sybil was really asleep. Her hand still rested against his cheek, and he turned his face to kiss her palm before slipping out of the bed.
He was relieved that she didn’t wake up. It was strange for him to kiss her like that. He wasn’t entirely sure why he did it and he wasn’t interested in discussing it.
He grabbed a few spare plaids and made himself a nest on the ground beside the bed. She probably didn’t want him in the bed with her after what he’d done, and a bit of space would do him some good too.
For hours, sleep eluded him. He gave up and climbed back into the bed before dawn. Sybil sensed the disturbance and rolled over until she was pressed directly into his side.
He stiffened, suddenly afraid to touch her despite his usual tendency to do so — all the times he lifted her onto his horse or into his arms without even giving her a warning.
It seemed different now, though, because while he was taking liberties before, he wasn’t crossing any lines. He’d have to pull back now to remind Sybil that he didn’t think he was entitled to touch her, that she could refuse him and he would obey without complaint, and he had to show her that.
Because after the events of the past night, between their bedding, the Macleans arriving, Henry confessing more of his mother’s dark past – he wasn't sure he would be able to put the words together, let alone say them aloud.
***
Sybil didn’t know what time it was when she woke. The cottage was dark and she didn’t want to open her eyes. She wasn’t ready to come back to the world yet, to deal with the reality of her situation.
She clung to the last remnants of sleep as tightly as she possibly could but they still slipped away from her. Reluctantly, she opened her eyes.
Henry was nowhere in sight. Part of her was relieved because she wasn’t sure how to face him now. The other part was disappointed and terribly lonely.
She couldn’t face him but she couldn’t be alone. Not now. Not with her stomach churning and the memories of her father’s friend swimming in her head. She had to get out.
It was late morning. People’s windows and doors were open to let in the cool air and the sun but hardly anyone was outside. They were still on alert after the Maclean incident.
Sybil didn’t care about that. She just wanted to see her friend.
It was unladylike to run and difficult to do so with long, heavy skirts but Sybil didn’t care. She nearly fell on her face a few times and was grateful that so few people were there to see.
Sybil was nearly to the keep when she caught sight of Catherine headed in her direction.
“Sybil!” She was still running toward her friend when she began talking. “Did you hear about what happened to the boy after you left?” She came to an abrupt stop a few feet away when she saw the silent tears streaking down Sybil’s face.
Catherine knit her brows in concern, even though it was probably nothing serious. Sybil cried at just about anything. “What is it?”
Sybil shut her eyes and shook her head. “I can’t.”
“Can’t what? Can’t tell me what’s wrong?” Catherine took Sybil’s hands. “Why not?”
“I can’t,” Sybil whispered.
“You can,” Catherine insisted. “You can tell me anything and everything. You do tell me everything.” Her attempt to lighten the mood fell flat.
“You’ll think differently of me.”
“Well we won’t know that until you tell me, will we?”
Sybil took a shuddering breath. “I slept” – she sobbed – “with Henry.”
“I don’t understand,” Catherine said, her face contorted in confusion. She could understand why that would be upsetting, but this was beyond Sybil’s usual disproportionately dramatic reactions. “Was he not – did he not treat you well? The first time can be terribly uncomfortable – painful, even – and I’m sure Henry feels –”
Sybil shook her head. Her stomach twisted, the words bubbling in her throat like vomit. She couldn’t hold them back. “It wasn’t – he wasn’t the first.”
***
Henry joined a hunting party to seek out the stag that had drawn the Maclean boy into Cavill territory. When he went back to the cottage to tell Sybil he was off and would be gone for at least one night, it was empty. Catherine wasn’t in her rooms, either; Henry figured that at least they were together.
Perhaps a night alone with Catherine would do Sybil some good. Settle her nerves. Make her feel at ease, since that was something he seemed unable to do.
He rubbed his forehead, trying to get at the ache behind it.
This hunt was supposed to be a distraction, but of course they couldn’t begin the hunt until picking up the stag’s trail. So here he was, still trapped in his thoughts but now with a dozen men by him.
Fuck. He hated being married, Henry decided. It was exhausting and difficult, just as he knew it would be. This was why he hadn’t wanted a wife: He knew it would be nearly impossible to be the sort of husband his wife deserved.
Not that he wanted to give up his wife – he’d rather sever a limb than lose Sybil. But he did wish they’d had more time. He wanted to have courted her, earned her trust, demonstrated his value. All his hard-won progress with her was forfeit now.
Henry set down his horse’s reins in his lap to rub at his head with more vigor.
Arran nudged his horse closer to Henry’s. “Did you sleep at all last night?”
His nephew kept his eyes forward and grunted.
“And the girl? How is she after last night?”
Henry swallowed hard, which did not go unnoticed by his uncle. “She is with Catherine today.”
Arran knew Henry in a way the others did not. He’d been a father figure to the boy growing up, and he was the only person Henry could tolerate having a deep conversation with, though Henry’s idea of a deep conversation was giving the shortest answers possible to any questions about his feelings – and now his wife, too. If anyone else asked him about Sybil’s state after the consummation, he’d likely break the fool’s nose.
“She’s a good woman,” Arran said. “And she is good for you. She’ll come around.”
Henry grumbled in reply. If Sybil were here, she would’ve been able to translate his nonsense sounds into words. He frowned at the thought. How was she supposed to come around if she was afraid of him? Again.
***
Catherine was silently fuming, her hands shaking as she moved them over Sybil’s back soothingly. She wanted to say something but God, what could she say? What could anyone say?
She felt sick at the thought of her friend being abused and hurt and being too afraid to tell anyone what had happened. Even if she did confide in someone, Sybil’s horrid father would blame her for it. She was so, so grateful to Henry for marrying Sybil and taking her away from that man.
Catherine always knew how lucky she was to have a husband like Garrett, who was considerate and kind and handsome and strong. They’d grown fond of one another in their time together; many married couples detested one another their entire lives.
Sybil would have that fondness with Henry. She already did. And Catherine was sure, soon enough, that fondness would develop into something more.
“What did Henry say when you told him?” she finally asked.
Sybil pulled away, fresh horror on her face. “You’re the only person I’ve told. He doesn’t know. And you can’t tell him, Catherine, please.”
“In God’s name, why?”
Sybil shook her head. “I don’t want him to know. I don’t want him to think differently of me.”
“He wouldn’t,” Catherine insisted. “You are his wife. He would —”
Sybil shook her head again. “Please, just don’t.” Her tears had run dry for the moment, exhaustion overtaking her sorrow.
“I won’t say anything,” her friend murmured. “It’s not my story to tell.”
“Thank you.”
Catherine stood and held her hands out to help Sybil to her feet. “Henry and the others have gone off hunting. I doubt they will be back until morning. Come stay with me tonight.”
Sybil smiled sheepishly. “You are my dearest friend. Do you know that?”
Catherine looped their arms together. “I suspected as much, but it’s always nice to hear you say so.”
***
It was Hamish and Kier’s idea to give the stag to the Macleans once they killed it as an offering of peace. They had to catch the damn thing first, though.
It was swift and clever and Henry was no help at all. He completely gave up on the charade of stalking the deer and started using his bow and arrow to take down rabbits instead. Owen was the only one to call him out on it, and he gave up when it became clear that Henry was paying no attention to him.
Henry offered no excuse when he headed back to the keep; he didn’t tell anyone he was leaving, either. They’d figure it out for themselves.
The hillside was quiet as he rode home. The hall, usually teeming with activity so close to supper time, was all but abandoned.
Two serving girls were scrubbing blood from the stone floor, and the table on which they’d set the boy was nowhere to be seen. They would break it down and burn it, most likely, if they couldn’t clean all the blood from it.
Henry wondered errantly what they had done with the Maclean boy’s severed leg. Did his brothers take it back with them? Would they bury it? Burn it?
He shook his head to clear it and stepped deeper in.
The midwives and healer who attended the boy were still gathering their supplies from the hall. There was a bluish purple flower among them. Henry wordlessly crossed the room to the midwife, everyone’s eyes on him.
He stopped a few feet away and she stared up at him, unsure of what to do or say. After a moment, he pointed to the flower. “Can I have that?”
The woman’s eyes flashed to the flower and then back to his. She wordlessly plucked two of them from the table and gave them over.
Henry examined the delicate lavender sprigs in his hand. He would give these to Sybil and draw her a warm bath like the ones she had as a child. That would make her smile. And he wanted to make her smile more than anything.
Oh dear... This chapter was very moving. I'm very happy that finally Sybil was strong enough to find the courage to open up and let someone else to know about the burden that she is carrying for so long. And at the same time, I felt so mad that she had to go through that alone, all this time.
The healing process is starting for both of them and it's a very lovely - yet difficult - thing to see.
Henry is such a sweetheart, in every sense of the word. He is desperate to make her feel good and cared for, safe and happy; and everyone around is totally sure if it. I loved how Arran, on his own particular way, gave him encouragement words and assured him he is doing all properly.
The ending is way too precious. It made me tear up a bit, not gonna lie... 🥹 I truly hope they can communicate freely as soon as possible. They both deserve to be so fucking happy.
As always, thank you for the amazing work.
Ps: sorry it took me so long to read this one. I'm about to swallow the next chapter right now.
To all the fic writers out there that are not currently writing. Either it's because of RL, health, writer's block or something has happened that have disheartened you. Thank you for what you've written, and don't ever feel pressured or stressed - fanfic should be something good for all of us; both reader and writer. You're more important than what you do, but thank you for what you've done!
A/N: Here we go, another chapter! I have the climax and ending of this story all planned out, I just need to figure out how to get there. Don't worry though, this isn't ending any time soon. Thank you all for reading!
Henry was relieved that made it back to the cottage before Sybil did. He wasn’t sure what he would say to her yet, and he would need the headstart preparing the bath for her. It was important to him that he do this for her and do it properly.
Henry had just finished when Sybil swung the door open and yelped in surprise, clutching a hand to her chest. “Oh. Forgive me. I did not think you would be here.” She struggled to regain her breath, her hand still pressed against her chest as if to keep her heart from pounding too hard.
“Does that disappoint you?”
“What? No, of course not. This is your house as much as mine – more so, actually, considering you’re part of the clan by birth. I simply wasn’t expecting you. Expecting you here and, I mean. I thought everyone would be gone at least one night hunting that stag, and you know how easily I get surprised.” Sybil finally ran out of words and concentrated on gnawing the dry skin from her lips and looking anywhere but at her husband. Surely there was more she could say to fill this awful silence.
She’d only come back to retrieve a piece of embroidery she wanted to show to Catherine, but Henry was now directly standing between her and it and she had no clue how she was to get around him, grab the garment, and slip back outside. So she lied.
“You know, I’ve quite forgotten what I came in here for, and you’re clearly preparing for a bath. I’m terribly sorry for interrupting. I’ll go back up to the keep so you –”
Henry said, “I thought we made progress. Getting accustomed to one another. To your life here. Has that been undone now?”
The air seemed to go out of her. “No,” she said unconvincingly. A moment later she added, “It’s something else to get accustomed to.”
It was his turn to eye her. Something was wrong – something more than their disastrous coupling – but he couldn’t guess what it was. “Is something else the matter?”
“No,” she said again.
Henry shut his eyes and breathed deeply, trying to cast off his frustration. “I can’t fix what troubles you unless you tell me what’s wrong.”
“Nothing’s wrong.”
It took everything in Henry’s power not to slam his head against the wall. “Come closer, then, if nothing is wrong.”
She took a single step in his direction.
For the love of God.
He took another deep breath. “Please come here.”
There. He said it. He said please. And he’d apologized to her after bedding her, too. He could feel his masculinity slipping through his fingers.
He took yet another deep breath and softened his face as she stepped up to him; he meant to set her at ease, not add to her troubles. Then he wordlessly held out the lavender sprigs.
Sybil carefully took them from him.
“Lavender?” she asked softly, staring down at his gift. She hardly noticed that she’d begun crying.
Henry nodded once, keeping his gaze on the dried flowers in her hands because he was too uncomfortable to meet her teary eyes.
“Thank you,” she managed, sniffling. “This is very kind.” She was surprised that he remembered her ever even mentioning lavender, and the fact that he’d actually gone out and gotten her some –
“If you don’t stop crying I’ll toss them in the fire.”
She smiled, her gaze still focused on the blooms; Henry’s throat constricted. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hands and grinned up at him. “I will stop crying then.”
This was his apology for hurting her, for making her rush into something she clearly was not ready for, and it was the kindest apology she could have asked for. She had the urge to kiss him as she did whenever she wanted to thank him for something without words. But could she still do that?
He must have seen the trouble in her eyes. His voice was whisper-soft when he spoke. “The bath is for you, too. You alone, I mean. I don’t want you to think I expect anything after what we did. It will be as before: We will do only as much as you’re comfortable with.”
He remained perfectly still as she rocked up on the balls over her feet to kiss his stubble-roughened cheek, and continued to remain still even after she returned to her feet.
She did not have to thank him aloud.
***
Henry took a seat outside the cottage near one of the windows to give Sybil privacy as she bathed. The linen curtain over it was drawn closed of course but he could hear her shuffling about.
She hadn’t mentioned that she was supposed to spend the night with Catherine; honestly, she’d forgotten.
Henry leaned his head back against the wooden wall and had started to doze off when there was a yelp from within.
“Sybil?” Henry called.
She gasped in surprise, slapping her arms over her chest to shield herself despite the fact that she had no idea where his voice was coming from. “Henry?”
“I’m outside by the window,” he explained. “I heard you make a noise; are you all right?”
“Oh. Oh yes I’m fine. I stubbed my toe on the edge of the bathtub.” Suspiciously, she added, “You can’t see me through the window covering can you?”
“I haven’t looked. I just heard you.”
“Right. Yes. Well. Thank you for asking. I’m perfectly all right though. Just clumsy.”
She climbed into the tub and settled herself in the water. She took a deep breath, savoring the smell of the lavender, and sighed contentedly.
“Are you still out there?” she asked after a moment.
“I can go elsewhere if you like,” he replied. “Leave you to yourself.”
“Oh, no, that’s not necessary – unless you would like some time to yourself, that is.”
She could almost hear him shrug. “I’m comfortable where I am.”
“Oh, yes, well, it is a lovely day after all. I’m sure Finn will be out with the horses until sunset. I think his father is with him – I hope so, at least. I know he’s the best rider in the clan, but Finn still worries me a bit. I saw him stand up on the back of a horse last week and I nearly fell over! You don’t do that, do you?”
He nearly smiled at her babbling. At least she was back to acting normally around him. “No, nott since I was very young.”
Sybil was uncharacteristically quiet for a long moment.
“Henry?”
He grunted loudly to be sure she could hear him and know that he was listening.
“When you were young . . . who cared for you?” She wasn’t afraid that he would get angry with her for asking these questions; she just didn’t want to push him to discuss something he didn’t want to, especially when he was being so kind.
“Many people,” he said after a moment.
Arran’s wife, Clara, had adopted a somewhat maternal role. Her first child died a few months before Henry was born, and caring for her nephew was both a heartbreak and a comfort. It was many years before she had another child, but she was blessed with three at once. Any other woman giving birth to three children at once would likely have died, but she was delivered safely by the grace of God.
Her interest in Henry quickly waned once she had sons of her own to attend to. Henry remembered overhearing Clara’s arguments with Arran about his care. Husband and wife were not overly fond of each other in the best of times, and Clara’s rejection of Henry, whom Arran regarded as his son, only drove them further apart.
Clara was tending to her ailing father in the lowlands now, and likely would be for some time. Her brother, a fool by all accounts, would need her help when he eventually took over the clan – assuming their uncle, the dying laird’s younger brother, was not chosen to lead instead.
Clara would stay with her family for as long as she could either way. She was happiest living separately from Arran. He was too good of a man to admit it, but he was relieved she was gone, too.
“Uncle Arran was very interested in my upbringing,” Henry continued. “Uncle Patrick, too, but he was more easily distracted.” There was a long pause. “My grandfather died shortly after my mother. Arran took on the responsibilities of laird, but he still spent an hour with me every day. So I’ve been told.”
Every day, despite the fact that Henry would not have known or cared at that age. Despite Arran’s avalanche of responsibilities, despite his wife’s resentment.
Sybil cleared her throat. Henry’s voice was too low, too thoughtful. She didn’t want him to get trapped in his thoughts. “I like Arran very much,” she said brightly. “He lets me talk for as long as I want.”
A wide smile broke on Henry’s face. “Is that your only criteria for liking someone?”
“Certainly the most important, but not the only one, no.”
“What are the other requirements, then?” he asked, and she could hear the smile in his voice. “I want to be sure I meet all of them.”
“That’s not necessary,” she said. “I already like you.”
It was silent for a moment. Sybil cursed herself for saying something so embarrassing, so stupid; Henry felt as if a weight had been lifted from him. She still liked him, even after their awful coupling.
He would never admit it to himself, but he wanted her to do more than just like him; this was at least a start.
He frowned in thought and asked, “Do you like many people?”
Sybil was unfailingly friendly, but she seemed to have dealt with more than her fair share of unpleasant people in life.
“I don’t like everyone but I don’t dislike anybody, either,” she said. “Except for Elizabeth and Lillian,” she amended. “They’re twins. And I’m not overly fond of Joan, either. Actually, I don’t particularly like any of my sisters now that I think about it, though I haven’t seen Madeleine and Demelza since they were sent to live at the convent years ago, so I can’t be sure if I would like them now but I think I would not. Does that make me an awful person, Henry?”
Henry wracked his brain for what she’d told him about her family but there was so much information she’d dumped on him and so many siblings to keep track of. She had . . . Six sisters? Seven? How was he ever to remember all their names?
“No, I don’t think so,” he replied. “Sisters are difficult, I think.” He wasn’t basing that statement on anything, as the only girl in his family, Catherine, was the best sister to Finn that anyone could possibly be. “What about your brothers?”
She had seven or eight of those, if his math was right. He’d never be able to remember all of their names, either.
“I don’t mind them, more or less. I liked Garrett very much. Royston and Gilard are at terrible ages where all they want to do is wrestle and shout at each other and make the younger girls cry but I hope they’ll outgrow it.” She stopped to breathe. “Your cousins must have been a handful around their age, especially since they’re triplets, but they all seem to have fine heads on their shoulders now. I must get to know them better. Alistair is very quiet and William doesn’t speak English, but I actually think I know Hamish fairly well. I must better acquaint myself with your friends, too.”
“You must?” he repeated dubiously.
“Well I should, shouldn’t I? They’re important to you. The whole clan is. And everyone seems to think that you’ll be laird one day which means I will be lady, and a lady ought to know her people.” She received only silence in response; it unnerved her. “Have I said something wrong?”
Was she being too presumptuous about the laird-and-lady things? Did he not want her getting closer to other people – men, in particular – the way her father did not want his wife or mistresses to?
“No,” Henry finally said. “I’m only thinking.”
She swallowed hard. “What are you thinking about?”
You, he thought. But he didn’t say it aloud.
“You’ve told me about your brothers and sisters,” he said, “what about your parents?”
“Oh. Well my mother seemed very tired all the time.” Sybil’s father said she was naturally weak, and the midwives were surprised she didn’t die in childbirth. “But after Samuel was born she caught a fever and did not recover.
“I like my stepmother though, I think. She doesn’t much like spending time with us children, even the older ones. I think she still misses her first husband, the twins’ natural father.”
It was both very romantic and very sad. Sybil knew she was naive for wanting that same sort of endless love that not even death could blunt, but it meant she would be in pain when it inevitably ended, leaving either her or her partner heartbroken.
“And what about your father?” Henry finally asked.
“What about him?”
Henry was surprised by her tone. It wasn’t rude or sharp, exactly, but it wasn’t as pleasant as usual.
Sybil shivered, her teeth chattering slightly. “Thank you for the bath, Henry. I appreciate it very much – I don’t want you to think that I don’t – but I’m quite cold now and I would like to get out but I don’t want to injure your feelings by doing so.”
“You won’t injure my feelings,” Henry assured her. “I’m glad you enjoyed it.”
“You may come in now,” Sybil said a few minutes later. “I’m decent.”
She was wearing one of her English gowns when he came in, not the plaids that the other clan members wore. “The plaids you gave me are in poor condition at the moment,” she explained, “and these gowns are easier to put on. I needn’t worry about getting the pleats right.”
She smelled lovely and inviting. Her cheeks were pink, her wet hair unbound. She had a blanket pulled around her shoulders like she’d just woken from a nap.
“The bath is still a bit warm,” she said. “I just get cold very easily. Which you already knew. And it seems cruel to make you bathe in freezing water after going to all the trouble of drawing a warm bath for me.” Usually an entire family would bathe in the same water, one after the other, since lugging and heating and filling a tub with water was such an arduous task.
Henry just nodded. He took a step toward the tub.
“I can wait outside like you did,” Sybil said quickly. “Or go up to the keep. Give you your privacy.”
“You don’t need to leave,” Henry said slowly. “I would like it if you would stay and talk with me more.”
Her breaths were shorter now, her lips parted slightly as if to make an excuse. She was afraid to be alone with him while he was undressed. And considering what happened last time she was with a man while he bathed . . .
“I . . .” Her throat was closing fast.
“You’re free to go if you want. I don’t want to make you feel uncomfortable,” Henry said. “But I would also be happy if you stayed.” He added, “I told you, I don’t expect anything from you.” He was going to court her properly, he’d decided. He would earn his place beside her in bed.
She was still quiet.
He took a deep breath. “Sybil, it doesn’t have to be any time soon, but . . . I would like another chance to take you to bed. To show you what it should be between us. How it will be.”
She didn’t say anything for a long time. She kept her eyes on his chest, not daring to meet his gaze.
“Will you say something?”
“Not anytime soon . . .” she repeated to herself. “Henry, it still frightens me. I think it will for some time. But if you say it will be better, then I believe you.”
And then he broke another one of his rules, because he didn’t know how else to express how much he valued her trust. “Thank you.”
A/N: Here we go, another chapter! I have the climax and ending of this story all planned out, I just need to figure out how to get there. Don't worry though, this isn't ending any time soon. Thank you all for reading!
Henry was relieved that made it back to the cottage before Sybil did. He wasn’t sure what he would say to her yet, and he would need the headstart preparing the bath for her. It was important to him that he do this for her and do it properly.
Henry had just finished when Sybil swung the door open and yelped in surprise, clutching a hand to her chest. “Oh. Forgive me. I did not think you would be here.” She struggled to regain her breath, her hand still pressed against her chest as if to keep her heart from pounding too hard.
“Does that disappoint you?”
“What? No, of course not. This is your house as much as mine – more so, actually, considering you’re part of the clan by birth. I simply wasn’t expecting you. Expecting you here and, I mean. I thought everyone would be gone at least one night hunting that stag, and you know how easily I get surprised.” Sybil finally ran out of words and concentrated on gnawing the dry skin from her lips and looking anywhere but at her husband. Surely there was more she could say to fill this awful silence.
She’d only come back to retrieve a piece of embroidery she wanted to show to Catherine, but Henry was now directly standing between her and it and she had no clue how she was to get around him, grab the garment, and slip back outside. So she lied.
“You know, I’ve quite forgotten what I came in here for, and you’re clearly preparing for a bath. I’m terribly sorry for interrupting. I’ll go back up to the keep so you –”
Henry said, “I thought we made progress. Getting accustomed to one another. To your life here. Has that been undone now?”
The air seemed to go out of her. “No,” she said unconvincingly. A moment later she added, “It’s something else to get accustomed to.”
It was his turn to eye her. Something was wrong – something more than their disastrous coupling – but he couldn’t guess what it was. “Is something else the matter?”
“No,” she said again.
Henry shut his eyes and breathed deeply, trying to cast off his frustration. “I can’t fix what troubles you unless you tell me what’s wrong.”
“Nothing’s wrong.”
It took everything in Henry’s power not to slam his head against the wall. “Come closer, then, if nothing is wrong.”
She took a single step in his direction.
For the love of God.
He took another deep breath. “Please come here.”
There. He said it. He said please. And he’d apologized to her after bedding her, too. He could feel his masculinity slipping through his fingers.
He took yet another deep breath and softened his face as she stepped up to him; he meant to set her at ease, not add to her troubles. Then he wordlessly held out the lavender sprigs.
Sybil carefully took them from him.
“Lavender?” she asked softly, staring down at his gift. She hardly noticed that she’d begun crying.
Henry nodded once, keeping his gaze on the dried flowers in her hands because he was too uncomfortable to meet her teary eyes.
“Thank you,” she managed, sniffling. “This is very kind.” She was surprised that he remembered her ever even mentioning lavender, and the fact that he’d actually gone out and gotten her some –
“If you don’t stop crying I’ll toss them in the fire.”
She smiled, her gaze still focused on the blooms; Henry’s throat constricted. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hands and grinned up at him. “I will stop crying then.”
This was his apology for hurting her, for making her rush into something she clearly was not ready for, and it was the kindest apology she could have asked for. She had the urge to kiss him as she did whenever she wanted to thank him for something without words. But could she still do that?
He must have seen the trouble in her eyes. His voice was whisper-soft when he spoke. “The bath is for you, too. You alone, I mean. I don’t want you to think I expect anything after what we did. It will be as before: We will do only as much as you’re comfortable with.”
He remained perfectly still as she rocked up on the balls over her feet to kiss his stubble-roughened cheek, and continued to remain still even after she returned to her feet.
She did not have to thank him aloud.
***
Henry took a seat outside the cottage near one of the windows to give Sybil privacy as she bathed. The linen curtain over it was drawn closed of course but he could hear her shuffling about.
She hadn’t mentioned that she was supposed to spend the night with Catherine; honestly, she’d forgotten.
Henry leaned his head back against the wooden wall and had started to doze off when there was a yelp from within.
“Sybil?” Henry called.
She gasped in surprise, slapping her arms over her chest to shield herself despite the fact that she had no idea where his voice was coming from. “Henry?”
“I’m outside by the window,” he explained. “I heard you make a noise; are you all right?”
“Oh. Oh yes I’m fine. I stubbed my toe on the edge of the bathtub.” Suspiciously, she added, “You can’t see me through the window covering can you?”
“I haven’t looked. I just heard you.”
“Right. Yes. Well. Thank you for asking. I’m perfectly all right though. Just clumsy.”
She climbed into the tub and settled herself in the water. She took a deep breath, savoring the smell of the lavender, and sighed contentedly.
“Are you still out there?” she asked after a moment.
“I can go elsewhere if you like,” he replied. “Leave you to yourself.”
“Oh, no, that’s not necessary – unless you would like some time to yourself, that is.”
She could almost hear him shrug. “I’m comfortable where I am.”
“Oh, yes, well, it is a lovely day after all. I’m sure Finn will be out with the horses until sunset. I think his father is with him – I hope so, at least. I know he’s the best rider in the clan, but Finn still worries me a bit. I saw him stand up on the back of a horse last week and I nearly fell over! You don’t do that, do you?”
He nearly smiled at her babbling. At least she was back to acting normally around him. “No, nott since I was very young.”
Sybil was uncharacteristically quiet for a long moment.
“Henry?”
He grunted loudly to be sure she could hear him and know that he was listening.
“When you were young . . . who cared for you?” She wasn’t afraid that he would get angry with her for asking these questions; she just didn’t want to push him to discuss something he didn’t want to, especially when he was being so kind.
“Many people,” he said after a moment.
Arran’s wife, Clara, had adopted a somewhat maternal role. Her first child died a few months before Henry was born, and caring for her nephew was both a heartbreak and a comfort. It was many years before she had another child, but she was blessed with three at once. Any other woman giving birth to three children at once would likely have died, but she was delivered safely by the grace of God.
Her interest in Henry quickly waned once she had sons of her own to attend to. Henry remembered overhearing Clara’s arguments with Arran about his care. Husband and wife were not overly fond of each other in the best of times, and Clara’s rejection of Henry, whom Arran regarded as his son, only drove them further apart.
Clara was tending to her ailing father in the lowlands now, and likely would be for some time. Her brother, a fool by all accounts, would need her help when he eventually took over the clan – assuming their uncle, the dying laird’s younger brother, was not chosen to lead instead.
Clara would stay with her family for as long as she could either way. She was happiest living separately from Arran. He was too good of a man to admit it, but he was relieved she was gone, too.
“Uncle Arran was very interested in my upbringing,” Henry continued. “Uncle Patrick, too, but he was more easily distracted.” There was a long pause. “My grandfather died shortly after my mother. Arran took on the responsibilities of laird, but he still spent an hour with me every day. So I’ve been told.”
Every day, despite the fact that Henry would not have known or cared at that age. Despite Arran’s avalanche of responsibilities, despite his wife’s resentment.
Sybil cleared her throat. Henry’s voice was too low, too thoughtful. She didn’t want him to get trapped in his thoughts. “I like Arran very much,” she said brightly. “He lets me talk for as long as I want.”
A wide smile broke on Henry’s face. “Is that your only criteria for liking someone?”
“Certainly the most important, but not the only one, no.”
“What are the other requirements, then?” he asked, and she could hear the smile in his voice. “I want to be sure I meet all of them.”
“That’s not necessary,” she said. “I already like you.”
It was silent for a moment. Sybil cursed herself for saying something so embarrassing, so stupid; Henry felt as if a weight had been lifted from him. She still liked him, even after their awful coupling.
He would never admit it to himself, but he wanted her to do more than just like him; this was at least a start.
He frowned in thought and asked, “Do you like many people?”
Sybil was unfailingly friendly, but she seemed to have dealt with more than her fair share of unpleasant people in life.
“I don’t like everyone but I don’t dislike anybody, either,” she said. “Except for Elizabeth and Lillian,” she amended. “They’re twins. And I’m not overly fond of Joan, either. Actually, I don’t particularly like any of my sisters now that I think about it, though I haven’t seen Madeleine and Demelza since they were sent to live at the convent years ago, so I can’t be sure if I would like them now but I think I would not. Does that make me an awful person, Henry?”
Henry wracked his brain for what she’d told him about her family but there was so much information she’d dumped on him and so many siblings to keep track of. She had . . . Six sisters? Seven? How was he ever to remember all their names?
“No, I don’t think so,” he replied. “Sisters are difficult, I think.” He wasn’t basing that statement on anything, as the only girl in his family, Catherine, was the best sister to Finn that anyone could possibly be. “What about your brothers?”
She had seven or eight of those, if his math was right. He’d never be able to remember all of their names, either.
“I don’t mind them, more or less. I liked Garrett very much. Royston and Gilard are at terrible ages where all they want to do is wrestle and shout at each other and make the younger girls cry but I hope they’ll outgrow it.” She stopped to breathe. “Your cousins must have been a handful around their age, especially since they’re triplets, but they all seem to have fine heads on their shoulders now. I must get to know them better. Alistair is very quiet and William doesn’t speak English, but I actually think I know Hamish fairly well. I must better acquaint myself with your friends, too.”
“You must?” he repeated dubiously.
“Well I should, shouldn’t I? They’re important to you. The whole clan is. And everyone seems to think that you’ll be laird one day which means I will be lady, and a lady ought to know her people.” She received only silence in response; it unnerved her. “Have I said something wrong?”
Was she being too presumptuous about the laird-and-lady things? Did he not want her getting closer to other people – men, in particular – the way her father did not want his wife or mistresses to?
“No,” Henry finally said. “I’m only thinking.”
She swallowed hard. “What are you thinking about?”
You, he thought. But he didn’t say it aloud.
“You’ve told me about your brothers and sisters,” he said, “what about your parents?”
“Oh. Well my mother seemed very tired all the time.” Sybil’s father said she was naturally weak, and the midwives were surprised she didn’t die in childbirth. “But after Samuel was born she caught a fever and did not recover.
“I like my stepmother though, I think. She doesn’t much like spending time with us children, even the older ones. I think she still misses her first husband, the twins’ natural father.”
It was both very romantic and very sad. Sybil knew she was naive for wanting that same sort of endless love that not even death could blunt, but it meant she would be in pain when it inevitably ended, leaving either her or her partner heartbroken.
“And what about your father?” Henry finally asked.
“What about him?”
Henry was surprised by her tone. It wasn’t rude or sharp, exactly, but it wasn’t as pleasant as usual.
Sybil shivered, her teeth chattering slightly. “Thank you for the bath, Henry. I appreciate it very much – I don’t want you to think that I don’t – but I’m quite cold now and I would like to get out but I don’t want to injure your feelings by doing so.”
“You won’t injure my feelings,” Henry assured her. “I’m glad you enjoyed it.”
“You may come in now,” Sybil said a few minutes later. “I’m decent.”
She was wearing one of her English gowns when he came in, not the plaids that the other clan members wore. “The plaids you gave me are in poor condition at the moment,” she explained, “and these gowns are easier to put on. I needn’t worry about getting the pleats right.”
She smelled lovely and inviting. Her cheeks were pink, her wet hair unbound. She had a blanket pulled around her shoulders like she’d just woken from a nap.
“The bath is still a bit warm,” she said. “I just get cold very easily. Which you already knew. And it seems cruel to make you bathe in freezing water after going to all the trouble of drawing a warm bath for me.” Usually an entire family would bathe in the same water, one after the other, since lugging and heating and filling a tub with water was such an arduous task.
Henry just nodded. He took a step toward the tub.
“I can wait outside like you did,” Sybil said quickly. “Or go up to the keep. Give you your privacy.”
“You don’t need to leave,” Henry said slowly. “I would like it if you would stay and talk with me more.”
Her breaths were shorter now, her lips parted slightly as if to make an excuse. She was afraid to be alone with him while he was undressed. And considering what happened last time she was with a man while he bathed . . .
“I . . .” Her throat was closing fast.
“You’re free to go if you want. I don’t want to make you feel uncomfortable,” Henry said. “But I would also be happy if you stayed.” He added, “I told you, I don’t expect anything from you.” He was going to court her properly, he’d decided. He would earn his place beside her in bed.
She was still quiet.
He took a deep breath. “Sybil, it doesn’t have to be any time soon, but . . . I would like another chance to take you to bed. To show you what it should be between us. How it will be.”
She didn’t say anything for a long time. She kept her eyes on his chest, not daring to meet his gaze.
“Will you say something?”
“Not anytime soon . . .” she repeated to herself. “Henry, it still frightens me. I think it will for some time. But if you say it will be better, then I believe you.”
And then he broke another one of his rules, because he didn’t know how else to express how much he valued her trust. “Thank you.”
