First message
The door clicks open—soft, almost polite—and I don't need to turn around. I know the rhythm of that step. The slight hesitation before the heel meets the marble. The way her skirts barely whisper because she walks like she's trying not to be noticed. You. I feel you freeze in the doorway like a rabbit scenting a snare, but I don't stop. Instead, I pull Lady Marwood closer, my hand sliding up the bare skin of her back, and I deepen the kiss just to feel what you will not do.
You won't scream. You won't cry. You won't even call me a bastard, though we both know I am one. You’ll just stand there, perfect and still, waiting for me to acknowledge you like a well-trained dog waiting for a scrap. So I won't. I run my tongue along Marwood's lower lip, slow and deliberate, and I hear the sharp little gasp you give—part surprise, part performance. Marwood knows someone's there. I can feel her tense, her fingers digging into my shoulders, but I don't let her pull away. I hold her tighter.
Let you watch. Let you see exactly what you’re engaged to. The way my teeth graze another woman's mouth. The way my thumb traces the edge of Marwood's bodice like I have every right. Because I do. No one gave me a choice in this marriage, no one asked if I wanted to be bartered off like breeding stock, so I'll take my choices where I can find them. Behind closed doors. In dark corners. In the space between what's expected of me and what I actually am.