Private Tales Poisoned Words For the Heart

[Imogen Celreos]

Imogen glanced down the table at Greydon, feigning a look of disgust as she returned her attention to Ilir. "Bastard indeed. He certainly has audacity." she commented, managing not to smirk.

She tilted her head as he leaned in, her lips curving around the rim of her glass before she took a slow, thoughtful sip. The wine wasn’t strong enough for this conversation, but she’d make do. She set the cup down gently, the crystal making the faintest click against the polished wood.

“Friendship is a sweet thing,” she said softly, turning her gaze toward him, just slightly, just enough to meet his eyes without offering the full breadth of her attention. “But not always a lasting one.”

Her voice was honeyed, pleasant, but it carried the edge of steel if one listened closely enough.

“Your sister and I share the common ground of being a woman of nobility in this city,” she continued, plucking an invisible thread from the tablecloth. “We were raised in a world that doesn’t reward softness. I admire her. Truly. She has teeth.” She smiled faintly, her voice dropping to something far silkier. “But so do I.”

She allowed the smile to widen, just a fraction, eyes dancing with something darker.

“If becoming Lady Malennis meant outmaneuvering your sister, I assure you I would lose no sleep over it. I imagine she wouldn’t either. We both know what game we’re playing. Besides, she is to become Lady Solherre, is she not?"

Her gaze flicked toward Eira at the far end of the table, and she lifted her cup slightly in a silent, wry toast.

Then she turned back to Ilir, her voice low and smooth as velvet. “I don’t do friendship the way little girls do, My Lord.. And I don’t need her approval. Only yours.”

She let that linger in the air between them before settling back in her seat, reaching again for her wine like nothing of note had just been said.

 

[Ilir Malennis]

It was pleasure lacing his smile. Perhaps Imogen could be saying things to please him, but Ilir could hear the unwavering confidence in her words. She was becoming more woman before his eyes than viper, and it was an incredibly difficult feat for him to show his interest in someone.

Imogen was someone he needed to watch lest she turned her ire onto him.

"Perhaps I owe your brother an apology. I expected you to be just that, the little girls grown up to do as they say..." Ilir smirked. "But your honesty has been refreshing. Your mind is... a captivating thing to be let in on."

And he would keep speaking, if it had not been at a dinner party to celebrate the announcement of his betrothal to Imogen Celreos. Speeches were made, calling for his attention. Eira then stood, to speak on behalf of him. Her words were carefully chosen, but her charisma for crowds captivated the guests into believing her words. Eira herself garnered attention for the fine additions to her person. The ring on her finger gifted by the Lady Solherre, and the stone dangling from a golden chain around her neck, a sure Solherre heirloom Ilir heard was gifted by Leovold himself.

It irked him that despite taking away every thing Eira had worked for and strived to become, she still found stone to walk on and find shelter elsewhere.

Chalices were lifted to toast the newly betrothed, and Ilir nodded at them.

Before the first course was brought out, Ilir chanced a hand upon Imogen's knee. He turned to her, squeezing his hand. "I wonder, my lady, if you would like to play a game with me? Kill someone I name, and I will grant you a freedom in our marriage."

 

[Imogen Celreos]

Imogen’s eyes remained fixed ahead, the edges of her smile ironed taut by sheer force of will. It was either that or let it twist into something far less polite, far more honest. She refrained from snorting only by biting down so hard on the inside of her cheek that she tasted blood. Of course that was what he expected. A little girl who did what she was told. Her molars ground together behind her tight smile.

Captivating, he said, all because she had a mind of her own. She’d laugh, if it weren’t so nauseating.

Instead, she let out a soft, breathy laugh. “Captivating?” she echoed, tone velvet-smooth but lined with blades. “Careful, Ilir… You’ve only just opened the lid on the box. You might find the rest of my mind far more difficult to put back where you found it.”

She turned her head just enough to meet his gaze, all icy elegance and subtle warning. You have no idea who I am. But she didn’t say it. Didn’t need to.

She didn’t wait for his reply, focusing instead on the rising speeches. They were filled with false warmth, shallow sentiments, all of it meant to smooth over a bloodless union sealed by cold ambition. But her brother, dear, foolish Ivan, spoke like he meant it. Spoke of her as though she were a treasure, a gem polished and ready to be displayed. Her best friend, his brave little sister, his pride, his joy.

She stared at him, her stomach churning.

You’re throwing me into a cage, Ivan. One with gold bars, perhaps, but a cage all the same.

She smiled, sipped, smiled again.

It wasn’t until Ilir’s hand settled on her knee that the smile finally cracked. Her spine straightened, an involuntary flicker of tension, and she dared a glance at him without turning her head.

She nearly choked at his proposal, wine catching in her throat. She covered it swiftly with her napkin, dabbing at the corner of her mouth, but the heat of a hundred unseen eyes prickled at her skin. The laugh she gave was soft yet mirthless.

“I’m sorry, I don’t quite…” Her gaze shifted, briefly, to Ivan. To the unspoken betrayal twisting like a knife between her ribs. He had told him, hadn't he? Of course he had. Her value wasn’t in her beauty alone, or even her name. It was in what she could do, what she had already done.

Her throat cleared. Her voice steadied.

“I think murder might sour the evening, no? Everyone here is either family or a friend of the family, who could you possibly w—”

She cut herself off and her eyes found Greydon. The smile faltered again, just briefly. Surely not.

Then, as though discussing the weather: “And what would that ‘freedom’ be, my Lord?”

 

[Ilir Malennis]

His had flexed, running slightly higher on her thigh. The feel of the black dress was soft beneath his hand, but he soon transferred it to reach for his wine glass. It was red wine freshly poured, and he took it without thanks.

"Of course not, Imogen." He lightly chastised as the rim of the glass balanced at his lip. "The best moments are when they least expect it and without any other witnesses." Ilir drank heartily, clicking his fingers for the server to refill his glass. He looked to his wife to be, dark eyes staring into her greens.

He considered her a moment.

There would have been worse prospects to make the new Lady Malennis, but at least she was the prettiest. Ilir himself was part of handsome children, Sidonie and Eira looking near twins and he their close relative.

His eyes fell on her lips. Stayed there a moment.

"I suppose the freedom of taking lovers to your bed. Give me two heirs, and I will not care who you let into your bed." As long as his lordship was secure, then he did not truly care for having a wife. "But of course, my love. I am always open to hearing your suggestions."

 

[Imogen Celreos]

Imogen felt the heat climb her neck in equal parts rage and revulsion as Ilir’s hand drifted higher along her thigh. Still she did not flinch. She would not. She’d sooner set fire to her own skin than give him that kind of satisfaction.

Let him touch her. Let him believe her frozen smile was anything but venom held behind her teeth. How fucking dare he?

The weight of his stare found her lips, and she wondered how quickly she could bite through her own to keep from snarling. She hated the way he said her name. Drawled it like he owned it already.

He was dangerous..But so was she.

When he finally lifted his hand to his glass, she exhaled slowly and without sound, a release of pressure no one would notice but her. Her eyes remained ahead, feigned interest in nothing in particular, until his words reached her.

The freedom to take lovers.

Her brow arched, slow and sharp, and a low breath of laughter curled from her lips. It was not sweet, nor was it kind.

"And here I thought you entered this bargain to secure yourself a loving, doting, and loyal wife, My Lord," she said, words light with mockery. She held her goblet aloft with a delicate flourish, allowing the cupbearer to refill it. A drop trembled on the rim. She let it fall onto her finger, then licked it clean with a casual grace.

She turned her head then, just enough to look at him fully. Her voice was softer now, yet far more cutting.

"You mistake me for a woman who needs permission." Her lips curled faintly, the wine making her tongue a little too loose. She wasn't his wife yet...

Her gaze drifted out over the hall as she leaned back, cradling her wine in slender fingers.

"And if I were to play along with your proposal…" Her eyes scanned the crowd. The laughter. The silk and finery. The unsuspecting smiles and the faces that wore ambition like perfume.

“…Who would you name?” she asked, sipping her wine, as though they were talking about the weather.

 

[Ilir Malennis]

Ilir could care less if his freedom was lackluster to her. He didn't want to really care about anyone, truly, so that they wouldn't be used against him the way he used others against those he wanted to punish. He supposed Imogen would be fun, something to toy and tease, but he had to remember her skill set. It had been obvious she wanted to hide that, that she were surprised her brother inform Ilir such a thing.

But a name. A name he dared to not give breath to, but all the same it felt nice to lace it with hatred.

"Greydon Tomyris." He set down his glass, staring at the cousin that was speaking with Eira. He hated that he reminded him of another he wanted dead, of Cullen Morvane. At first, it had been fun to ruin his romantic happiness with his sister. It felt powerful to hold his crimes of fraternisation against him, to have that truth in his hand and ready to reveal should he wish to. It was easy that he was Marked, for no one questioned why he deserved to go out to the front.

Then his eyes fell on Eira. Eliminating her had been something he wanted to do for over a decade, but he could not deny there was some morsel of love held for his kin.

Marrying her to Leovold was just a ploy to get rid of her, and to drive the sword deeper into Cullen that his lover was to marry into the family that killed his own.

"He holds a claim to my title, even if he turned his back on bearing the name Malennis. There are some things a lord must do to ensure he is safe."

 

[Imogen Celreos]

Imogen’s face did not move as Ilir spoke the name. But inside, the knot twisted cold and hard in her chest.

Greydon Tomyris.

She should have guessed. She had guessed, somewhere in the dark corners of her mind where she kept the worst thoughts quiet.

Her eyes slid to Greydon across the room, sitting beside Eira. Looking out for her, as he'd promised he would. Meanwhile her own brother had sold her into this shit show.

She sighed, soft and long. “Your request has been duly noted,” she murmured as she lifted her goblet again, drawing it to her lips. She drank deep, as though the wine might dull the discomfort snaking through her ribs.

Then, with studied ease, she turned to him, crossing one leg over the other, her voice light with feigned curiosity.

“Though, I must ask…” she tilted her head, lashes sweeping up lazily to meet his eyes. Her smile was delicate, almost amused, but her eyes remained glacial.

“If you hate him so much… why haven’t you done it yourself?” She lifted her glass in a faint toast, then let the words drip from her lips like poisoned honey.

“Or do you always hire a woman to do your dirty work for you?”

She held his gaze then, no flinch, no fear. Just curiosity, artfully sharpened into a challenge. She wanted him to remember who he’d chosen as his Lady. And she wanted to see how deeply he’d dig his own grave with her watching.

 

[Ilir Malennis]

Ilir turned his attention to Imogen, a great flame and heat stewing emotion within him. "Politics, dear." He answered lowly. Despite the ridiculous things he was capable of saying, there was a noticeable threat in the way he spoke. He was a Malennis, where his childhood had been filled with learning how to fight and be the first to draw blood. Ilir brutalised his way through his education, whereas Sidonie excelled in defense and Eira in planning every attack.

"This is what it is meant to be as a Lord. You have power to let other's do the work, and you stay clean." Caring not for the eyes around the table, Ilir leaned towards Imogen once again. His back was to the rest of the table, his hand disappearing her her lap once again. "If you cannot do what I ask of you, then I will understand, my dearest betrothed." His fingers began to move one at a time, taking a walk up her thigh to where that dangerous slit in her skirt bared skin.

Ilir's mouth turned upwards and a slow, sensual chuckle left his lips when he found a leather strap, no doubt a weapon concealed when not seated. "If you want your hands clean of this, then it is a good thing your brother already swore allegiance to me." Ilir brushed the backs of his finger on her skin. "Is he watching? Trying to figure out what I am whispering to you?"

Grey eyes were staring at Imogen. His conversation with Eira forgotten as his eyes followed the arm of his unfortunate cousin. Greydon stared at the spot the arm disappeared beneath the table. Something stirred in his eyes, but ever the dutiful soldier, had kept it from showing.

 

[Imogen Celreos]

She forced herself not to roll her eyes, though it took effort. When his hand crept up her thigh, the steel in her spine locked into place. She kept her face smooth, but her skin crawled and her blood turned to ice. Touch me again when no one’s looking, and I’ll make sure you regret it.

“I never said I couldn’t do it,” she replied, quiet but barbed. What she didn’t add was that she just didn’t want to. Her brother would have no such qualms. If Ilir wanted Greydon dead, Ivan would see it done without blinking.

She kept her breathing even, refusing to flinch or give him the satisfaction of seeing discomfort. Still, the weight of her family’s reputation bore down on her, a chain around her throat. She thought of her father. Her mother. The people who would have ripped Ilir’s hand off for less. Ivan, of course, knew exactly how much she despised this, and he showed no such care.. It hurt.

Her eyes stung with tears before she could stop them. She looked past Ilir and found Greydon’s gaze locked on her. So, yes, he was watching. She let her stare linger just long enough for him to know she’d noticed before dropping it like a blade.

“No,” she lied, if only to irritate him. “It seems he’s not interested in what you’re saying. Likely assumes you’re whispering sweet nothings. Promises of love and affection…” she said with a faint curl of her lips..

The courses came in procession - five plates of delicate artistry she didn’t bother to touch. She drank instead, wine filling the silence she kept wrapped tight around herself. Laughter and conversation flitted across the table like birds, but she sat in the eye of her own storm, unmoved. She wasn’t even married to this man yet, and already she could feel the cage snapping shut. Alone, despite so many around her..

When the call came for more wine and dancing, she rose smoothly, the excuse barely more than a murmur. Her heels struck the floor in measured rhythm as she headed for the nearest door. Only once did her balance falter, and even then, she caught herself. She would not stumble, not here, not in front of them, and certainly not for him.

 

[Greydon]

Dinner had come to an end, or at least it did for him. Eira had begun to look ill, her head she claimed was throbbing, and with Ilir's impatient wave of a hand as dismissal, Grey had helped his cousin to their carriage. The Celreos' home was not too far from the Malennis residence, but a carriage pulled by mule drakes of a deep bronze were ready to return them back to Eira's home. Only, Greydon hesitated as his boot was mounted to step into the carriage after Eira.

"Something the matter?" Eira asked, the fresh air making her look better, but he could read the exhaustion building in her. Greydon gave her a sheepish smile. "You... want to stay?"

"I want to check up on Imogen Celreos. Weeks back, I... uh, was witness to a scene between her and Ivan. My squad helped out the Lord who was drunk off his face, but... your friend, I think I should check in on her. Offer her my congratulations, and condolescences."

Eira's lips pursed. "Which one of those is on the news of her betrothal?"

Greydon smiled. "Congratulations, of course." He could see it in Eira's face that she would ask him of this later, but she was in no power to order him around. "From what I know of your friend, I am sure she will dismiss me the moment I open my mouth. I'll walk back home, see to you before I go to the barracks."

He felt odd walking back towards the dining room. Felt as if he didn't belong here, that he was only here because his cousin insisted on it. It was a stupid idea, one he should abandon before he stepped back into that room of strangers.

But it seemed fate was walking towards him.

"Imogen?" She was walking away, her head held high and her feet walking slowly but surely. He quickened his steps, moving to match her pace. "Are you alright?"

 

[Imogen Celreos]

Her thoughts spun in too many directions at once, unsteady from the wine. She barely registered the faces she passed as she moved toward the nearest escape - the side door leading to the kitchens. The closest door. The only door that mattered.

A hand caught her arm and she jolted, a gasp breaking free before she could stop it. She tried to wrench herself back, panic flaring at the thought of Ivan or Ilir catching her mid-flight. Her heel snagged on her black skirts and she stumbled, forced to clutch at the nearest anchor.

Greydon fucking Tomyris.

Her eyes widened, then narrowed, her expression flickering between shock and confusion. She had watched him leave with Eira minutes earlier, and a sharp relief had come with it, because his absence meant she would not be forced to strike him down for Ilir’s amusement on this cursed, celebratory night.

“Gregory Tamson..” she muttered, righting herself with a clumsy grace, her mask of composure sliding back into place as if nothing had cracked beneath it. “I am fine. Always fine.” Her tone clipped, even if her pulse betrayed her.

She cast a quick glance over her shoulder to where Ilir still sat with Ivan, heads bent close, mercifully blind to this interruption. Imogen clutched Greydon’s arm and drew him the few necessary steps into the kitchens before a wandering eye could notice.

“Out,” she snapped, and the handful of startled staff obeyed, scattering with lowered heads.

When they were alone, she turned on him, restless, her pacing carrying her across the stone floor. Her fingers pressed into her temples, uncaring of the flour gathering at the hem of her skirts. “I thought you were gone. You should not be here." she huffed.. "Have you not riled him enough already?” Her words left her in a rush, brittle with exhaustion and too much wine.

 

[Greydon]

Greydon couldn't stop the smirk, the way his mouth liked to respond to her when he knew he had to be on his best behavior. He did not let go of her, even as she whisked them both away into the kitchens, ensuring they were alone.

His brow raised, and that sliver of a scar that interrupted the brow was more pronounced as he looked at Imogen. "Riled who? Ilir?" Grey snorted and shook his head. He let go of her then, moving to pace away from her a few steps. "I wonder what misdeed I am guilty for in order to have his ire. Can't be my birth and sheer existence... nor can it be the fact I got the biggest Moon Dragon drake."

Grey wasn't smiling anymore. He stared at her before his eyes flicked behind her, to the door that led to the dining hall they were in for most of the evening.

"Congratulations. I just came to see how you were, but I see I am overstepping." He would have to move past her to get to the door, and the space between them wasn't a large space. Greydon slowed as he approached, shuffling past her and making for the door. "Enjoy your betrothal."

It tasted bitter on his tongue. There was a blade being pressed into his chest, finding it's way past ribs and muscle.

 

[Imogen Celreos]

Her hand twitched at her side. Ilir's order sat heavy in her mind. This was her chance, clean and simple. Everyone thought him gone. Eira would be spared the sight. Ilir would be pleased.

But her chest pulled tight with something sharp and unfamiliar. Guilt, yes, but not only that. Gods, Eira would be shattered if he died, yet it wasn’t just for her friend’s sake that she hesitated. It ached. Why did it ache? It never did. She and Ivan had long since learned to carve themselves hollow, to strip out anything tender. There was no room for softness. No room for weakness.

Her head shook, lips twisting into something that looked like scorn but felt closer to despair. His parting words grated, but not in the way she expected. A dry snort slipped from her.
“How kind of you,” she muttered, the words slightly slurred.

And then he was slipping past her, too close, the scent of smoke and steel trailing him toward the door. Leaving. Again.

Her breath caught.
“No—wait.”

She moved quickly, skirts brushing stone as she darted ahead of him. With both hands she pulled the door shut, the wood thudding as she pressed her back against it, blocking his way.

Her eyes found his, her voice tight. “Why did you really come back?” she demanded, the question spilling sharper than she meant, the ache burning raw beneath her mask.

"Why do you care how I am?.." she frowned.

 

[Greydon]

His jaw tightened, annoyed that she was delaying his departure.

Even her question earned a flare in his eyes, his head canting to the side as he leveled her with quiet for a few tense moments. She hadn't been interested in him checking in on her, but now she was going to all this trouble to figure out why? Greydon laughed, a dark rumble that spilled from his chest.

"Because I am a decent human being, Imogen. I haven't seen you since that night, and seeing you now... forgive me for having a heart." It was the truth, but there also was something he was keeping behind a door he did not want to open. It would be a mistake.

Ilir hated him enough, there was no need to make things worse.

"Satisfied?" Greydon asked, his hand waving her out of his way so that he could unburden her with his concern.

 

[Imogen Celreos]

She caught the irritation that flickered across his face. She had spent her whole life drawing the ire of men, but this time it cut deeper. Her eyes, sharp and green, betrayed more than she wanted, they gleamed like crushed emerald with unshed tears. The shame of it clawed through her. She had never hated herself as much as she did now, standing here and weighing a choice she did not want to make. To kill him would buy her a sliver of freedom, a promise of joy in a marriage where joy had no place.

But Ilir’s shadow lingered. She could still feel his hand burning against her thigh, his breath against her ear. If she gave him what he asked, he would reward her with that illusion of happiness. If she failed… If she failed, Ivan would do it anyway, and she'd be a prisoner.

Her mouth tightened.

“No,” she said flatly when he asked if she was satisfied, the small shake of her head sending silver strands tumbling loose across her cheeks. She shifted as if to step aside, to let him go, but when he reached for the door, she snapped forward.

Steel caught the light. She shoved him hard against the wood, the tip of her blade pressing to his throat.

Her voice was low, sharp as the edge she held. “So you feel sorry for me, is that it? You think I need your pity?”

 

[Greydon]

He was still, not because of the steel at his throat, but in surprise that Imogen Celreos could throw him to a wall just as she had. To use his own force and movement against him, he couldn't help but stare down at her in wonder. His lips parted, shocked only for a moment before his tongue darted out enough to wet his lips.

"Whatever gets me out of here the fastest, that's my answer." He replied, leaning his head down an inch. His neck pressed into her blade and by the gods, she kept it sharp. Grey could feel it's threat to cut, and it surely would if he spoke more and his throat moved.

His hands dared to move to her waist, resting there only a second before moving her back a pace. Only, Greydon followed her, kept her knife there at his throat.

"I won't feel anything for you, Celreos, if you just let me fucking leave. Let me leave, and you won't see me again." He should take his hands off of her, disarm her within a few moves, and then leave... but Greydon had never seen Imogen so alive than she did with uncertainty clouding in her eyes. She didn't believe him, that he could be concerned for someone he truly did not know. "I always make good on my promises."

Then he thought fuck it. Carefully, slowly, Greydon leaned his head dangerously close again. His hand moved to the side of her face, softly guiding her to tilt her head back so that their eyes never broke their contact. "Unless you want me to pity you. You are to marry the idiot of the Malennis family, after all."

 

[Imogen Celreos]

She held the knife steady, or at least tried to. He would feel the faint give of her hand as he leaned closer, the dangerous leniency that betrayed her thoughts for she knew all to well the potency of the venom coating her blade.

Careful.. Idiot.

Her other hand balled tight in his shirt, a silent threat, though her eyes gave her away. Emerald green, glittering with a warning that he had the nerve to push against. His hands had found her waist, moving her with him as though this were nothing but a dance.

“I can’t let you leave,” she whispered, her jaw locking as the ache twisted in her chest. His words stung worse than she wanted to admit.. I won’t feel anything for you...You’ll never see me again. They clung, like barbs lodged deep.

Then his hand was at her face, guiding her head back, holding her gaze when she wanted to look anywhere else. Her blade was still between them, but the air itself felt thinner with how close he leaned. One slip, one twitch, and the venom would end him in less than a minute.

“Stop it,” she bit out as he mocked her. “I don’t have a fucking choice.” The tear betrayed her before she could stop it, falling from her lashes and sliding hot down her cheek. Fury at herself made her drop her hand from his throat just to scrub it away with the back of her wrist.

“Get out, then. Go.” Her shove was sharp, desperate, her head bowing so he wouldn’t see if any more tears dared shame her by falling.

 

[Greydon]

He was a fool, and yet despite knowing this, Greydon damned himself by showing care for her once again.

His thumb twitched to catch her tears, smoothing the silver sheen against her perfect cheek. There was a delusion beginning in his mind, that she needed him to save her. That he was a savior, and he was here to take her away from all of that waited for her behind that door.

Greydon was wading in treacherous waters, but when had he truly cared about his life? His mother and his cousin, and all the other distant Malennis cousins he had that treated him with respect, that was who he lived for. If he had to fight for himself, then that was where things could go wrong.

He had nothing to keep him here.

His dragon perhaps, but nothing made him feel alive as she was doing to him now.

"Imogen." Her name fell from his lips unbidden. "You cannot say shit like that and expect me to leave you like this... Ilir is not worth tears. He deserves to be fucked over, and I have to say I might be jealous he gets to have you..."

His chest rose and fell rapidly. Breaths came heavily, and warmed against her lips.

"When we sat through dinner, I thought what it would be like to have..." What it would be like to have her all to himself.

 

[Imogen Celreos]

She turned her face sharply as his thumb brushed the tear, her jaw tight as though she could bite down the humiliation. Imogen did not cry. She did not fail. She did not lose her nerve. And yet, the sound of her name leaving his lips, soft and dangerous, made her eyes close and her knuckles blanch around the hilt of her blade. She was failing. Fuck, for the first time in her life, she was losing her nerve.

“It is a simple truth,” she forced out, her chin lifting, eyes flashing with that same defiance that had kept her alive this long. “There is nothing you can do to change it.” Her lips parted on a bitter laugh when he spoke of Ilir. “And they are not for him,” she snapped back, the words low and venomous. “And I—”

His words caught her off guard. His proximity, his warm, his scent, all of it caught her off her fucking guard...

Jealous? He had said jealous. Of Ilir?

Her gaze betrayed her. Dropped from his eyes to his lips, then lower, to the soft pulse fluttering at his throat where she should have cut him open, where she should have let the venom decide his fate. Her own pulse lurched in answer, a drum beat against her ribs as he leaned closer.

“I’m really… nothing to be jealous about,” she whispered, the words trembling against his mouth. She could not stop it, could not stop herself.

The knife clattered to the floor.

And then her lips crashed into his, desperate and reckless, her arms suddenly twined around his neck as if the floor might suddenly swallow her. Her body pressed flush against his, hunger and fury tangled in one unforgivable act.

It was the wine. It had to be the wine. Not the way he looked at her, not the way she hadn’t stopped replaying that first beautiful smirk, that first “darlin’” with his infuriating drawl, and nothing at all to do with the way he seemed to fucking care when no one else dared.

Just the wine.

 

[Greydon]

This was a blessing and relief, that she met him when he was too scared to take that leap. Once fed her lips, his hands moved to put into action what he wanted. Greydon lifted her and sat her on the bench, forcing her legs to open so that he may take up that space.

He had been telling the truth when he said he would feel nothing for her if she had asked that of him. He would have felt it all at once, live through it, and eventually he will have turned numb from feeling. How was it other people could show their emotions so freely? Why had he been born into a House that saw affections and connections as weakness?

And so Greydon took the risk. If this was the one chance to make a mistake, then he should take it with both hands.

He groaned, raising a hand to cling to the back of her head. Fingers disappearing into her pale locks, locking her right there so that his lips could learn the taste of her wine drunk kisses. If he could bottle up that taste, then he would gladly drink himself to ruin.

"I will be jealous watching him do this to you." He had to pull himself from her lips, but through panting breaths that tried to catch air, he began trailing kisses down her neck at an agonisingly slow pace. "I'm going to remember this moment every time he puts a hand on you."

 

[Imogen Celreos]

Oh gods. Oh gods. Oh gods. The thought thrummed through her skull, dizzying, drowning, her body alight in ways she had never dared let it be. Her fingers curled into his hair, pulling, holding him close. Her tongue tangled hungrily with his, breath stolen in every kiss, her legs wound tight around his waist to keep him there, right there, where she needed him most.

A sharp gasp tore from her throat when his lips grazed her neck, the sound betraying her as her head tipped back, baring more of herself to him, giving him all the room he wanted to let his mouth roam.

“Stop talking about him,” she managed, the words rough with need, her brow furrowed as though it pained her even to hear the name. Her fingers curled tighter into his dark hair, dragging his mouth back to hers. “I don’t want him—” her desperate whisper broke between kisses. “I want this...”