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The training yard is quiet at this hour, the pale morning light just creeping over the high walls. The sand smells faintly of dust and the air is cool enough that your breath fogs when you exhale. You half expect him to keep you waiting—to make a point that you’re only here by your father’s permission—but Marcus Acacius is already there, as though he has been waiting for you.
He rises from where he was seated on the edge of the weapon rack, towering, sun at his back. The sight of him unsettles something low in your stomach: broad shoulders under a simple linen tunic, the sleeves rolled to his forearms, leather bracers still buckled on as if he might be summoned to war at any moment. His eyes find you immediately, and when they do, he softens.
“Little dove,” he says, voice low and warm, the words falling like a caress. “I was beginning to think you’d changed your mind.”
“I’m not one to break my word, General,” you reply, lifting your chin.
His mouth curves, just faintly. “I never thought you were.” He steps closer, stopping just short of touching you, and gestures to the wooden practice sword propped against the rack. “Shall we?”
You take it, surprised by the weight. He notices. “Heavy, isn’t it?”
“More than I expected,” you admit.
He tilts his head. “You’ll grow used to it. Grip it here—no, like this.” His hand covers yours, warm and callused, guiding your fingers into place. He doesn’t rush, doesn’t correct you sharply like the other instructors do with their charges. Instead, he treats your hand as if it’s the most delicate thing he’s ever held. “Good,” he murmurs when you adjust, and the word sends a thrill through you, entirely disproportionate to the simple praise.
He steps behind you, close enough that you feel the heat radiating from his body. “Spread your stance a little more,” he instructs, his palm grazing your hip as he nudges your foot outward. “Perfect. Now lift your arms.”
You obey, the wooden blade trembling slightly as you hold it aloft. He hums softly—approval, not judgment. “Better already. Do you know why I agreed to this?”
You glance back over your shoulder, startled by the question. “Because my father asked you to?”
“That was part of it,” Marcus admits, leaning closer, his breath warm against your ear. “But mostly because I wanted to see if the little dove could fight. I wanted to see what she’s made of.”
Your pulse leaps. “And what do you think?”
His hand lingers on your waist, fingers tightening just enough to ground you. “I think she’s stronger than she knows,” he says softly. Then, quieter still: “And I think I’d lay waste to any man who dared to harm her.”
The words steal your breath. You don’t turn to face him—you can’t—but your knuckles whiten on the hilt. He senses your silence, and with the gentleness of a man who knows his own strength, he steps back, giving you space.
“Again,” he says, voice even. “Show me what you’ve learned, little dove.”
You raise the sword again, trying to steady the slight tremor in your hands. He notices, of course. He notices everything.
“Easy,” Marcus murmurs, stepping in once more. His voice carries none of the impatience you’ve heard from other men, none of the sharpness you expected. “Breathe, little dove.”
You inhale, exhale—too quickly.
“Not like that,” he chides gently. “Here.” His arm comes around you from behind, his chest brushing your back as he places his hand over your sternum. “Slowly. Let me feel it.”
It’s ridiculous, how such a simple thing makes your pulse race harder. But you follow his lead, matching the rhythm of his breathing. In. Out. His hand remains firm against you until he’s satisfied.
“Better,” he says finally, voice low, almost approving. “Now—swing.”
You pivot, awkward but determined, and the practice blade slices through the air. It’s clumsy, but he catches the movement with a smile you can feel rather than see.
“Good,” he says again, and you realize you’re starting to crave that word from him. He steps in front of you now, taking the sword from your hand with effortless ease. “You have a quick wrist. That will serve you.”
You watch him twirl the weapon, muscles shifting under his tunic, and something in your chest tightens. He notices your gaze, of course he does. He holds your eyes as he flips the sword once more and presses the hilt back into your palm.
“Again,” he says, softer this time.
You obey, and when you falter, his hand comes down over yours again—strong, steadying. You realize he hasn’t taken his eyes off you once since you walked in. Not to glance at the weapon rack, not to scan the yard, not even when a shout rang faintly from beyond the wall.
It’s only you.
When you lower the sword, frustrated at your own clumsiness, he tilts your chin up with one knuckle. The gesture is shockingly tender. “None of that,” he says quietly. “You think I’d let you fail?”
Your throat goes dry. “You barely know me,” you whisper.
His eyes warm, dark and sure. “I know enough.”
For a moment, the world narrows to the space between you—the brush of his calloused thumb against your jaw, the faint scent of leather and steel clinging to him, the heat in his gaze that feels almost like a promise. Then, as if sensing just how close you are to crumbling, he steps back again, giving you room to breathe.
“Tomorrow,” he says, voice returning to its calm, instructional cadence. “Same hour. Don’t be late.”
As you leave, you swear you can still feel the ghost of his hand at your throat.
-
The sun is higher today when you arrive, the air warmer, buzzing faintly with distant activity from the villa. You expect to find him waiting again, but you don’t expect the way he looks up at you the moment you step through the gate—like you’re the only thing worth seeing.
“Little dove,” he greets, and somehow the endearment sounds even lower, more intimate than yesterday. He sets aside the short sword he’d been polishing and straightens, his eyes taking in your light tunic, the way you’ve bound your hair up to keep it from your face. He lingers there for a beat too long before coming forward. “You’re early.”
“So are you,” you answer, trying for poise.
He chuckles softly. “I told you not to be late, not to be eager.”
Your lips twitch despite yourself. “Is eagerness such a flaw, General?”
His mouth curves, but his gaze doesn’t waver. “Not in the right context.”
You swallow, heat pricking under your skin. He notices, of course, and mercifully turns to the rack, handing you the practice blade. His fingers brush yours deliberately this time. “Show me what you remember.”
You start, determined to prove yourself, and manage a clean strike at the air—better balanced, steadier. He watches silently, arms folded, until you finish the sequence. Then he steps in close, circling you like a patient predator.
“Good,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “But you’re still leading with your shoulders. It gives you away.”
Before you can ask, he’s behind you, molding your stance with his hands. One firm palm flattens at your lower back, encouraging you to straighten, while the other hovers at your shoulder blade. “Here,” he instructs, voice near your ear. “Relax. Breathe into my hand.”
You do, and his quiet “There you go” sends a shiver down your spine.
He stays close as you repeat the movement, murmuring adjustments—“Lift your chin, little dove… lower your elbow… better”—until you almost forget what you’re doing and can only feel him: the heat of his body at your back, the steadiness of his touch, the quiet dominance threaded through every word.
When you falter, he catches your wrist mid-swing, stopping you. You glance up, startled to find his face so near—eyes dark, mouth a hair’s breadth from yours.
“Do you trust me?” he asks softly.
The question steals the breath from your lungs. “Yes,” you hear yourself say.
Something flickers across his face, and for a moment you think he’ll kiss you. Instead, he releases your wrist slowly, deliberately, as though letting go of a fragile thing.
“Then trust yourself,” he says, stepping back at last. “Again.”
You do. This time, when the blade cuts cleanly through the air, he smiles—proud, warm, and entirely yours in that moment.
You finish the sequence once more, the wooden blade slicing cleanly through the air, and when you lower it, Marcus steps forward without hesitation.
“Better,” he says simply, and the word feels like sunlight on your skin.
You offer the sword back to him, expecting him to take it. He doesn’t. Instead, he curls his fingers lightly around your wrist, halting you. His thumb drags once across the inside of your pulse point—unmistakably intimate, though his face remains composed.
“You’re learning faster than I thought you would,” he says quietly. “Though I should have known—my little dove has steel in her bones.”
The way he says my sends your heart into a wild stutter. You glance up at him, ready to protest the familiarity, but he’s already studying you as though cataloguing every flicker of your expression.
“Why do you call me that?” you ask, surprised by the sound of your own voice—low, uncertain.
He considers for a moment, then lifts your wrist higher between you, his thumb still stroking slowly over your skin. “Because you remind me of one,” he answers. “Soft feathers. A gentle face. But I’ve seen doves break their captors’ fingers to get free.”
Your breath hitches. “And what am I to be freed from, General?”
His mouth tilts at the corner, though his eyes never lose their warmth. “Perhaps from the notion that you’re powerless.”
You can’t find words. Not when he’s looking at you like that—like you’re not just your father’s daughter, not just another noblewoman to be married off, but something wholly your own. Something worth fighting for.
When you finally manage to speak, your voice is barely above a whisper. “You speak as though I matter.”
He steps closer, close enough that your knuckles brush his chest where he still holds your hand. “You do,” he says, with such steady conviction that you believe him. “At least to me.”
The silence that follows is heavier than any touch. Then, as if realizing how far he’s gone, he bends his head and presses his lips to the back of your hand—a fleeting kiss, reverent, almost courtly.
“Tomorrow,” he says as he releases you, though his fingers trail reluctantly over yours before they fall away. “Same hour. Don’t keep me waiting, little dove.”
You walk away on unsteady legs, the phantom of his mouth on your skin lingering long after he’s gone.
-
The day is hotter than the last, the air shimmering above the flagstones as you cross the villa’s courtyard toward the training yard. You’re intercepted halfway by Lucius Varro, one of your father’s political allies—a man twice your age with a smile that’s all polished charm and calculation.
“My lady,” he greets, bowing over your hand. He holds it a moment too long, eyes lingering on the neckline of your light summer gown. “What a vision you are this morning. Off to meet our famous General, are you?”
Your spine stiffens. You try to tug your hand back politely, but he doesn’t release you right away. Before you can think of an excuse, a shadow falls over you both.
“Varro.”
Marcus’ voice is calm—polite, even—but it carries the weight of command. He steps into the small space between you and the older man, as though he belongs there. The air shifts.
“General,” Varro replies, attempting a genial smile. “I was merely offering the lady my—”
“Your time is better spent in the council hall,” Marcus interrupts smoothly. Not a snarl, not an accusation—just a simple statement, as though Varro has no business here. “Her father expects you.”
Varro hesitates, then releases your hand with a final, too-sweet smile. “Of course. My lady.” He retreats, and only when he’s gone does Marcus turn to you.
“Little dove,” he says softly, and the contrast to the curt tone he used a moment ago nearly undoes you. His eyes search yours briefly, checking for discomfort. “Did he trouble you?”
You shake your head, though your pulse still races. “I can handle men like him.”
“I know,” Marcus replies. And yet, his hand finds the small of your back as he guides you toward the training yard. A subtle pressure, protective but not smothering, his fingers spread just enough to remind you that he’s there.
Once inside, away from prying eyes, you finally exhale. He notices.
“You shouldn’t have to handle them alone,” he says quietly.
Something in your chest tightens at the words. “Why do you care?” you ask before you can stop yourself.
He doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he takes up the wooden practice sword and hands it to you, his fingers brushing yours with deliberate calm. “Because you’re mine to look after here,” he says at last. “And I take care of what’s mine.”
Your breath catches—not at the possessive word itself, but at how gently he says it. Not as ownership, but as a vow.
“Now,” he continues, stepping back but never far enough that you don’t feel his presence, “show me what my little dove has learned.”
And you do—every strike sharper, every movement steadier, buoyed by the warmth of his quiet claim.
-
The training yard smells of warmed sand and olive oil when you arrive. Marcus is already there, sleeves rolled to his elbows, forearms gleaming with sweat as he tightens the leather strap of his bracer. He looks up at your approach, and that small, private smile—the one meant only for you—curves his mouth.
“Little dove,” he greets, as always, though his voice is rougher today, as if worn from barking orders all morning. “You’re late.”
“I’m not,” you protest automatically, though you are by a handful of minutes.
His brow lifts, amused. “Then my clock must be wrong.”
You hand him the practice sword, expecting him to give you the usual warm-up drills, but instead, he studies you closely. “You’ve been favoring your right arm,” he observes. “Since yesterday.”
You blink. “I—have not.”
“You have,” he counters, stepping closer, unconcerned by your denial. “Give me your hand.”
You hesitate, but he just holds out his own, palm up, steady, waiting. The patience in that gesture undoes you more than any command could. You place your hand in his, expecting a perfunctory inspection, but what you get is… far more.
He kneels.
Without a word, Marcus sinks to one knee before you, still holding your hand as though it’s a sacred thing. He gently rotates your wrist, eyes intent, calloused fingers mapping each tendon with surprising care. “Not broken,” he murmurs. “But strained. Did you hit too hard?”
You can’t answer. Your pulse is roaring in your ears, your skin tingling where his thumb presses lightly at the base of your palm. He doesn’t seem to notice what this is doing to you—he’s too focused on his task, his dark head bowed at your waist, his hands firm and sure on your skin.
“There,” he says after a moment, voice low. He takes your other hand as naturally as breathing, checking for balance. When he’s satisfied, he lifts his gaze to meet yours, still kneeling. “No weakness,” he says simply. “Not in you.”
It’s the most erotic thing anyone’s ever said to you, and he probably doesn’t even realize it.
“Thank you,” you manage, your voice embarrassingly thin.
He releases you slowly, rising to his full height. “We’ll take it easier today,” he says, as though kneeling at your feet hadn’t just set you aflame.
Throughout the lesson, you can’t stop glancing at his hands—how they grip the hilt, how they adjust your stance with a brief touch, how they once held yours with such unthinking reverence. By the time you leave, your skin still tingles where he touched you, and you’re half certain he can smell the effect he’s had on you, even if he pretends not to.
The sun is high by the time today’s lesson winds down, your tunic clinging to your back with sweat, strands of hair escaping their pins to stick against your neck. Marcus has been relentless—not cruel, but firm, always demanding more precision, more strength.
You wipe your brow with the back of your arm and lower the practice sword. “How much longer will these lessons go on?” you ask, trying for nonchalance though your breath still comes fast.
He glances over, head tilting slightly as if considering. “Why?”
“I was only wondering when I might finally meet your standards, General,” you reply, injecting just enough bite to disguise the question’s real meaning. “When you’ll decide I’m finished.”
The corner of his mouth lifts. He strides toward you, taking the sword gently from your grip. “Finished?” he repeats, as if savoring the word. He turns the blade over in his hand once, then sets it aside.
When he faces you again, he’s closer than necessary. “I don’t end lessons until I’m satisfied,” he says, calm, matter-of-fact—utterly unaware of what it sounds like until the silence between you thickens like honey.
Your breath catches. His brow furrows slightly, as though replaying his own words in his mind. Then his gaze drops to your mouth for a heartbeat too long.
“Until you’re satisfied,” he amends smoothly, though his voice has deepened, softened. “And beyond.”
Heat blooms low in your belly. You can’t think of a single appropriate response. He seems to sense that too, because instead of pressing, he simply reaches up and tucks a damp strand of hair behind your ear, his touch unhurried, intimate.
“Don’t rush to be done, little dove,” he murmurs. “The end is rarely as sweet as the anticipation.”
Then he steps back, leaving you standing there with your pulse thrumming and your thoughts scattered like chaff on the wind.
The evening air is cooler, a soft breeze carrying the scent of rosemary from the villa’s gardens. Tonight, the lesson runs longer than usual. You’re flushed and sore, but too proud to show it. Marcus notices anyway—he always does.
“Enough for today,” he says finally, taking the practice sword from your unsteady hand. You expect him to dismiss you as usual, but instead, he gestures toward a stone bench near the wall. “Sit.”
It’s not a request.
You hesitate only a moment before obeying. The stone is cool beneath you, a relief against the heat still lingering on your skin. Marcus crouches at your feet, surprising you again with the ease of it—a general of Rome lowering himself to the ground without ceremony.
“Boot,” he says simply, holding out his hand.
You blink. “What?”
“Your boot. Off.” His tone is gentle but firm, leaving no room for argument.
Reluctantly, you extend your leg. He unties the laces with practiced efficiency, sliding the worn leather free. Then he takes your bare foot in his hand and begins to knead lightly at the arch, fingers finding the ache you hadn’t dared to admit was there.
You gasp—quiet, involuntary.
His eyes flick up to yours briefly, dark and unreadable, before returning to their task. “Too much weight on your toes,” he says, voice low. “You’ll cripple yourself if you keep that up.”
You can barely hear him over the pounding of your heart. Watching him like this—broad shoulders bowed, strong hands moving with such care over such a small, vulnerable part of you—undoes you far more than any touch to your skin ever could.
“You don’t have to do that,” you manage, though your voice lacks conviction.
“I want to,” Marcus replies, simple and steady. “I take care of what’s mine.”
The words hang between you, heavy, and this time he doesn’t amend them. He just keeps working the tension from your foot, thumb stroking slow circles, until you have to bite your lip to keep from making a sound.
When he finally stops, he slides your boot back on, tying the laces with the same unhurried precision. Then he looks up at you fully, still crouched, and says, softly but with absolute certainty:
“Tomorrow. Same hour. I expect you.”
You nod, unable to trust your voice. As he rises, he brushes his hand along your calf—a fleeting touch, almost innocent, but it leaves your skin burning long after he’s gone.
-
The cicadas hum lazily in the late afternoon heat, their drone almost hypnotic as you spar with Marcus. Your movements have grown sharper over the past weeks, your body stronger, but today your mind is elsewhere. You can feel his eyes on you—always, unyielding. They don’t just watch you. They consume.
When you falter, he steps in to block your clumsy strike. The wooden blades collide with a dull thud, and he twists yours easily from your grasp. It clatters to the ground.
“Focus,” he says, voice low but not harsh. He doesn’t step back. His proximity is suffocating—in the best and worst ways.
“I am,” you lie, though your heart hammers wildly.
His eyes narrow slightly, searching your face. “You’re distracted. By what?”
“Nothing.”
A faint smile ghosts over his lips. “Liar.”
Before you can retort, he reaches out and cups your jaw lightly in his calloused palm. The touch is so unexpected, so intimate, that you freeze. His thumb strokes once along your cheekbone, and you swear you feel the restraint in every careful movement.
“Little dove,” he murmurs, softer than you’ve ever heard him. “Do you have any idea what you look like when you fight? All fire. All defiance. Gods help me, I can’t—”
He cuts himself off abruptly, dropping his hand and turning away, as though the admission nearly slipped past his defenses.
The silence between you is deafening. Finally, you find your voice, brittle and low. “Why?”
He looks back, startled.
“Why me?” you press, the words tumbling out before you can stop them. “What purpose could I possibly serve for you, General? I’m my father’s daughter. I’m meant to smile, to pour wine, to become some senator’s ornament. That’s my future.”
His face hardens—not in anger, but in something far deeper. He strides back to you, stopping just short of touching, his eyes molten.
“Purpose?” he repeats quietly, as if the word itself is an insult. “You think I seek purpose in you?”
You swallow. “Don’t you?”
He exhales sharply, a sound that’s almost a laugh but too bitter to be amused. Then, slowly, deliberately, he takes your hand in his. His grip is firm but gentle, grounding you.
“I have purpose enough in war, little dove,” he says, voice low and rough-edged. “What I see in you has nothing to do with what you’re meant to be for anyone else. When you stand before me, there is no senator’s wife, no ornament, no role. There is only you. And gods help me, that is more than enough.”
Your breath catches. His thumb brushes over your knuckles once, a quiet, almost reverent caress. Then, as if realizing he’s laid himself bare, he releases you and steps back, armor snapping back into place.
“Again,” he says, tone steady, as though nothing just happened. But his gaze lingers—unhidden, unashamed—and you know, finally, that he wants you.
-
The training yard is empty, save for the fading orange light of dusk spilling across the sand. Today’s lesson ran long; neither of you seemed eager to end it. You’re both breathing hard, chests rising and falling in unison as the last echoes of wooden blades clashing fade into silence.
Marcus lowers his practice sword first, his gaze locked on you. There’s no pretense of instruction now—just the weight of weeks of unspoken want between you.
“You’ve improved,” he says finally, his voice quieter than usual, almost hoarse.
You smile faintly, trying to mask the tremor in your hands. “Is that your way of saying I might finally be finished?”
He steps closer—one deliberate stride, then another—until there’s barely a hand’s breadth of space between you. “Finished?” he echoes softly, eyes darkening. “Hardly.”
Your breath hitches. He notices; his gaze drops briefly to your lips before lifting again to meet your eyes.
“Marcus—”
“Don’t,” he murmurs, though there’s no command in it, only raw restraint.
He raises his hand slowly, as if giving you time to pull away. When you don’t, his fingers brush your cheek, tracing lightly from your temple down to your jaw. The touch is achingly gentle for such a strong man, reverent in a way that makes your knees weak.
“Little dove,” he breathes, almost to himself.
It’s the first time he’s said it like this—not as a greeting, not as encouragement, but as a confession.
Your heart pounds painfully in your chest. His thumb sweeps once across your lower lip, and you feel him falter—just for a heartbeat—as though he’s about to close the distance. The world narrows to this single moment, this single choice.
Then a voice calls from the villa, distant but jarring.
Marcus stills. His jaw tightens, and for a long moment he doesn’t move, his thumb lingering on your lip as though unwilling to let go. Then, with excruciating care, he lowers his hand and takes a single step back.
“We should stop for today,” he says, his voice steadier than his eyes.
You nod, though you can’t seem to breathe properly. He turns away first, retrieving the practice swords, giving you the illusion of composure while the air between you still crackles with everything almost said, almost done.
When he looks back at you, just before you leave, his expression softens. “Tomorrow,” he says quietly. “I’ll be here.”
-
The heat of the day lingers even as the sun dips, casting long shadows across the training yard. You’re already there when Marcus arrives—an inversion of your usual routine. He stops short when he sees you, practice sword in hand, hair bound tightly back, your stance squared and ready.
“Little dove,” he says, and there’s a glint of approval in his eyes, tempered with something softer. “Eager, I see.”
“Prepared,” you counter, raising your weapon.
His mouth curves in that faint, private smile. “Show me, then.”
You don’t wait for further instruction. The first strike you deliver is clean, forceful, and he blocks it easily, of course—but your follow-up comes faster than he expects, a quick pivot and slash that makes him grunt as he parries.
“Good,” he says, eyes sparking with something like pride. “Again.”
The rhythm of sparring takes hold—strike, block, pivot, strike—but tonight you’re bolder. You feint left, then sweep low to his right; he barely twists out of range in time. He laughs under his breath, a rare, warm sound.
“You’ve teeth, little dove,” he murmurs, circling you. “I wondered when you’d bare them.”
His teasing fuels you. You lunge, and he catches you by the wrist, spinning you around—but instead of faltering, you drop your weight unexpectedly, pulling him off balance. His boots skid on the packed sand. He stumbles.
And suddenly you’re behind him, your wooden blade pressing lightly at the hollow of his throat.
For a moment, neither of you moves. His breath catches audibly, the sound low and rough. Then he laughs again—softer this time, incredulous.
“Well done,” he says, voice low and uneven, as though the air itself has thickened around you. “Very well done.”
You lower the sword, heart pounding, but he turns to face you before you can step back. His expression is unreadable—pride, yes, but also something darker, more dangerous.
“You’ve been holding back,” he says quietly.
“Maybe I was waiting,” you reply, surprising even yourself.
His eyes darken further. “For what?”
“For the right moment.”
The silence that follows hums like a drawn bowstring. Slowly, deliberately, Marcus reaches out and takes the sword from your hand. His fingers linger over yours as he does, warm and callused, his thumb brushing the base of your palm in what could almost be called a caress.
“You found it,” he murmurs, so softly you almost miss it.
Then he steps back, schooling his face into neutrality, but the set of his jaw, the quickened rhythm of his breath, betray him. For the first time, you’ve shaken him.
“Tomorrow,” he says at last, voice low but unsteady in a way only you would notice. “Same hour.”
You leave the yard with your pulse thrumming, knowing you’ve changed something between you forever.
-
The villa’s great hall is alive with light and laughter, awash in gold from hundreds of oil lamps and the gleam of polished marble. Senators and their wives drift through the space like jeweled fish, voices rising above the plucked strings of a lyre in the corner. You stand near the central fountain, your hair pinned with pearls, the pale silk of your gown shimmering faintly each time you turn your head.
Marcus spots you from across the hall before you notice him. For a moment, he simply stands there, one hand curled loosely around the rim of his wine cup, watching. This is not the little dove of the training yard, hair damp with sweat and wooden sword in hand. This is a woman—graceful, poised, already inhabiting the role the world has carved out for you.
And it strikes him, hard and unwelcome, how badly he hates it.
He makes his way toward you, weaving through clusters of dignitaries. As he nears, he catches fragments of conversation:
“…a fine match for Varro’s son…”
“…such a composed young lady, a credit to her family…”
His jaw tightens.
You notice him at last when he’s only a few paces away. Your face softens, the faintest smile touching your lips, and gods help him—it’s like a hand around his heart.
“General,” you greet, dipping your head politely, as if you haven’t spent weeks with his hands on your waist and his voice in your ear.
“My lady,” he returns, and the formality tastes bitter on his tongue. His gaze sweeps over you—unavoidable, reverent despite himself. “You… look well.”
You arch a brow, sensing more in his tone than the words themselves. “That sounds almost like surprise.”
He leans in slightly, just enough that only you can hear. “Not surprise,” he says, voice low and rough. “Recognition.”
The simple word sends a tremor through you, though you mask it with a sip of your wine.
“Excuse me, General,” a voice interrupts—Varro’s son, resplendent in crimson and gold, bowing gallantly before you. “May I claim this dance?”
Before you can answer, Marcus steps subtly into the space between you, a gesture so natural and unhurried that it cannot be called improper. He looks at the young man, expression unreadable but undeniably commanding.
“She’s promised to her father for this set,” Marcus says evenly. “Perhaps later.”
Varro’s son hesitates, clearly unwilling to challenge him, and retreats with a polite nod. Only when he’s gone does Marcus turn back to you.
“Do you always dismiss suitors on my behalf, General?” you ask lightly, though your pulse drums in your ears.
“Only the ones who don’t deserve you,” he replies without hesitation.
You look at him then, really look—and see the tension in his shoulders, the darkness in his eyes, the way his hand flexes at his side as though itching to reach for you. He’s seeing you as the world does tonight: groomed, poised, almost claimed by another. And you see how much he loathes it.
“Walk with me,” he says suddenly, softly, as though he can’t bear the thought of leaving you here another moment.
You shouldn’t. But you nod.
The night air is cooler beyond the hall, the manicured gardens quiet except for the soft trickle of a marble fountain and the whisper of olive branches overhead. The revelry inside fades to a muted hum as Marcus leads you along a gravel path, his hand resting lightly against the small of your back. It’s nothing anyone inside could have called improper—yet it feels as though he’s claiming you with every step.
You wait until the hall’s glow is a distant blur before speaking. “General,” you say softly, though your voice is steadier than you expect. “What are we doing out here?”
He glances at you, the torchlight catching the scar along his jaw, making his expression seem sharper, more unguarded. “I wanted a moment where you weren’t someone else’s ornament,” he admits quietly.
The words stop you cold. “That’s what you think I am?”
His brow furrows. “No. That’s what they think you are. I… I needed to see you as you.”
You turn to face him fully, silk skirts whispering around your ankles. “And what, exactly, do you see when you look at me?”
For the first time, he doesn’t answer right away. His eyes roam your face, your hair pinned with pearls, your shoulders bared to the night air. He exhales, slow and rough. “Trouble,” he says at last. “The kind I can’t seem to stay away from.”
Your heart kicks hard against your ribs, but you force the question that’s been gnawing at you for weeks. “Why?”
He blinks. “Why?”
“Why me, Marcus?” Your voice wavers despite yourself. “You’re a general of Rome. You could have anyone. And you know what I am. What I’m meant to be. A bargain to strengthen my father’s alliances. A wife to some politician who’ll want me pretty and silent. Out of bounds, as you well know.”
For a moment, you think you’ve gone too far—that he’ll retreat behind duty and decorum. Instead, he takes a deliberate step closer, closing the space between you until you have to tilt your head to meet his gaze.
“What you’re meant to be,” he says, each word measured, “and what you are are not the same thing.” His hand rises, stops just shy of your cheek, as though touching you might shatter whatever fragile control he has left. “I don’t want what I’m allowed, little dove. I want you.”
The confession hangs between you, raw and unsoftened. It steals the air from your lungs, leaves you trembling in your finery while his eyes burn into yours.
And then, as quickly as it came, he reins himself in. His hand drops, his jaw tightens. “I shouldn’t have said that,” he mutters, voice hoarse. “Forgive me.”
He turns as if to leave, but you catch his sleeve. “Do you regret it?” you ask quietly.
He stills. “Not for a moment,” he admits, then pulls gently free and walks back toward the villa, leaving you alone under the olive trees with your heart pounding so hard you’re sure the whole world can hear it.
-
You’ve managed to stay away for nearly a week. It’s been easier to feign headaches, to linger in the women’s quarters, to busy yourself with embroidery you don’t care for. Easier than facing Marcus after what he said in the garden, easier than remembering the way his voice broke on I want you.
But avoidance can only last so long.
Your father finds you in the peristyle at midday, sitting with a half-finished piece of needlework in your lap. “Why haven’t you been in the yard?” he asks without preamble, his tone sharp enough to cut.
You keep your eyes on the thread, careful. “I’ve lost interest, Father. The lessons were… unnecessary.”
“Unnecessary?” He steps closer, shadow falling over you. “You begged for those lessons, and now you claim they’re nothing? Do you want to be helpless when the time comes? Do you want to shame this house with weakness?”
You flinch despite yourself. “No.”
“Then you’ll go to the General now,” he orders, pointing toward the courtyard gate. “And you’ll train until he tells me you’ve earned the time you’ve wasted.”
There’s no room for argument. You rise, smoothing your skirts, and bow your head in silent obedience. Inside, your stomach churns.
The training yard is as you remember it—quiet, sunlit, smelling faintly of sand and steel. Marcus is there, as always, practicing with a real blade this time, the muscles in his arms flexing with each controlled arc. He doesn’t see you at first. When he finally does, he stops mid-swing, lowering the sword slowly.
“Little dove,” he says, softly, as though unsure if you’re real.
You force your chin up. “My father insisted I resume my lessons.”
Something flickers across his face—disappointment, maybe, or pain—but he masks it quickly, nodding once. “Very well,” he says, voice measured. “Shall we?”
He reaches for the wooden sword, but you don’t take it. Not yet. “Marcus…”
He looks at you then—really looks—and you almost break under it. Weeks of tension, of everything unsaid, churn between you. He sets the wooden sword aside and closes the distance in two strides, stopping just short of touching you.
“You’ve been avoiding me,” he says quietly. Not accusatory. Just truth.
“I…” You can’t lie, not with him this close. “I didn’t know what you wanted from me.”
His breath leaves him in a slow exhale, and he raises a hand—not to touch you, but to hover just above your cheek, the restraint in him almost painful to watch. “Everything,” he admits, voice rough. “And I know I have no right to it.”
Your heart pounds so loudly you barely hear yourself whisper, “Then why do you look at me like you do?”
He closes his eyes briefly, as though steadying himself. When they open again, they’re molten. “Because I can’t stop,” he says simply.
The words hang there, impossible to take back. And this time, you don’t run. You take the practice sword from his hand, grip steady, and say, “Teach me.”
The lesson begins in silence.
Marcus guides you through the drills as though nothing has changed, his voice even, his touch minimal. Yet every movement carries weight—his gaze lingering a fraction too long, his corrections delivered in a tone too gentle to be impersonal. He is careful with you in a way that feels almost mournful, as if trying to memorize something he knows he shouldn’t keep.
It’s unbearable.
When your strike falters, he steps in to correct your stance, hand brushing your hip. You expect the usual firm pressure, the grounding presence that always steadies you—but it’s fleeting, his hand gone almost immediately, as though he fears he has no right to linger.
“Better,” he murmurs. But there’s no warmth in it, only restraint.
You can’t take it. Not the ache in his voice, not the distance he’s forcing between you after everything he’s admitted. You drop the practice sword. It lands with a dull thud on the sand.
His head lifts, startled. “Little dove?”
Before he can say another word, you reach for him. Your fingers fist in the front of his tunic, pulling him down as you surge up onto your toes, and you press your mouth to his.
It’s clumsy at first—desperate, unpracticed—but then he groans low in his chest, the sound guttural and raw, and every wall he’s built shatters. His arms wrap around you, hauling you against him as his mouth claims yours in return, deep and unrestrained.
He kisses like a starving man—hungry, reverent, almost disbelieving. One hand cradles the back of your head, the other spans your lower back, holding you as if to anchor himself.
When he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, his breath uneven. “Why?” he rasps. “Why now?”
You swallow hard, still clutching his tunic. “Because you looked at me like you’d already lost me,” you whisper. “And I couldn’t bear it.”
A harsh sound escapes him—half laugh, half groan. He presses another quick, fierce kiss to your mouth, then pulls back just enough to meet your eyes.
“You haven’t,” he says, voice rough with promise. “Not yet. Not ever.”
The words feel like a vow, sealing something neither of you can undo.
You leave the training yard as though pursued, your hand in his, hidden in the folds of his cloak. Neither of you speaks as you cut through the villa’s shaded corridors, avoiding the busier halls, taking turns down narrow passageways until you reach a disused storeroom near the far stables.
Marcus pushes the door shut behind you, the quiet click of the latch sealing you off from the world. For a moment, neither of you moves. His chest rises and falls with restrained force, his dark eyes fixed on you like you’re the only thing keeping him alive.
Then you reach for him again.
The kiss is fiercer this time, mouths open, teeth clashing. His hands cup your face, then skim down to your waist, gripping as though he can’t quite believe you’re real. You tug at the clasp of his cloak until it falls to the floor, and he follows your lead, loosening the ties of your tunic with hands that tremble just slightly despite his strength.
When the fabric slips from your shoulders, pooling at your feet, you shiver—not from cold, but from the rawness of being so exposed. You’ve been stared at all your life, appraised, measured, weighed as someone’s future wife—but never like this. Never with reverence.
Marcus sinks to his knees before you.
“Little dove,” he murmurs, his hands warm against your thighs, steadying your shaking legs. “Look at you.” He presses a kiss to your hip, delicate, almost hesitant, then another lower, lips mapping the line of your body with infinite care. “Perfect.”
The word undoes you. Your fingers find his hair, threading through the dark waves as he mouths higher along your belly, then lower again, kissing the inside of your thighs. The gentleness fades by degrees, replaced with a hunger that makes your knees buckle.
When his mouth finally finds you, you gasp aloud, your head tipping back against the wall. His tongue is slow at first—teasing, coaxing—but soon it’s everywhere, deep and relentless, his arms hooked under your thighs to hold you open for him as you writhe. You come with a cry you barely stifle, clutching his shoulders as heat floods you in waves.
He pulls back only when you sag against him, resting his forehead briefly against your stomach. His breathing is ragged. “We can stop here,” he says hoarsely, looking up at you with eyes that burn. “You’re still untouched this way. You don’t have to give me more.”
You nod automatically, though your chest heaves, your pulse racing. You don’t know if you want to stop—if you can. When he rises, towering over you with his lips wet from you and his hands still trembling, you know this is only the beginning.
-
The villa feels different when you return, though nothing has changed. The halls are the same, filled with the rustle of servants, the murmur of distant conversation. Your mother still fusses over dinner arrangements, your father still pores over scrolls in the study. You do what’s expected—smile, nod, speak when spoken to—but it’s all hollow, an echo of who you were before the storeroom, before his mouth on your skin, before his voice rasped you don’t have to give me more and you realized you would, gladly, forever.
At night, you lie awake, staring at the carved beams of your ceiling. You can still feel him—his hands, his breath, the weight of his gaze like a brand on your skin. You imagine other futures: one where you belong to someone else, smile on command, give children to a man who sees you as part of his holdings. The thought makes you ill.
So you start to plan. Maybe you’ll speak to your father. Tell him that Marcus Acacius will ask for your hand, that you’ll not have anyone else. You imagine his face—pleased at the prestige of it, perhaps, or furious at the impropriety. But each time you steel yourself to do it, doubt stops you cold.
What if Marcus doesn’t want marriage? What if this was only fleeting for him, a stolen indulgence before duty calls him elsewhere? You cannot bear to force his hand if he does not truly want you.
Except the choice is taken from you.
You overhear it by chance, standing just beyond the open doors of your father’s study.
“…leaving within the fortnight,” your father is saying, voice brisk. “The northern front. He’s to command there. A long campaign, I’m told. Years, perhaps.”
The world tilts under your feet.
“Acacius is too valuable to keep idle here,” another voice replies—a senator’s, smooth and unconcerned. “He’ll distinguish himself. Rome will owe him much.”
They move on to other topics, but you hear none of it. Years. The word rings in your skull like a bell. Years without him. Years for someone else to claim you. Years in which this thing between you could vanish like smoke, unspoken and unremembered.
That night, you sit alone in the peristyle, moonlight silvering the tiles, and you finally admit to yourself what you’ve known since the first time he called you little dove: if he leaves without knowing you are his, you will never forgive yourself.
-
The decision comes suddenly, like a storm breaking.
You wake before dawn, heart pounding, and know you can’t wait any longer. You’ve spent days trying to convince yourself to be patient, to let him speak first, to hide behind duty and propriety. But now the thought of him leaving—of him riding off without knowing you belong to him, without hearing that you want to be his wife and nothing else—fills you with such panic that you can hardly breathe.
So you go.
You leave the villa before the household stirs, taking only a light cloak and a horse from the stable. The road to his estate is cool and quiet, lined with cypress trees whispering in the wind. Every hoofbeat drums your resolve deeper: I will tell him. I will not let him go without knowing.
By the time you reach his gates, the sun is cresting the hills in pale gold. You swing down from your horse, skirts dusty, hair slipping from its pins, and march toward the front steps—only to stop short when you see the stableyard beyond.
Empty. No soldiers drilling. No horses waiting. No Marcus.
A servant emerges from the house, startled to see you. “My lady,” he says, bowing quickly. “General Acacius left before first light. His orders came sooner than expected.”
The words hit like a blow. “Left?” you repeat, barely more than a whisper.
“Yes, my lady. For the northern front. He bade us keep the estate ready for his return but…” The man hesitates, pity flickering in his eyes. “He did not say when that would be.”
You manage a nod, throat tight, and turn away before he can see your face. Back at your horse, you stand for a moment with your hand on the saddle, staring at the empty yard.
You imagine him here just hours ago—armored, mounted, glancing back once before riding into the dawn. Did he think of you? Did he wish you’d come? Or has he convinced himself, as you nearly did, that this is for the best?
The tears burn hot in your eyes, but you swallow them down. He cannot know. Not yet.
Mounting again, you ride home with the taste of unsaid words heavy on your tongue, a vow forming in your chest with every mile: I will find a way. This isn’t over.
-
The letter comes at dusk, slipped into your hand by a discreet messenger who vanishes before you can question him. It bears no seal, no signature—only a single sheet of parchment folded tight.
Your heart hammers as you unfold it.
Little dove, I cannot write what I wish, nor sign this as I should. Know only this: every mile I ride feels further from the only thing that matters to me. I leave Rome not because I desire it, but because I must. Be well. Be safe. I will return to you, if the gods grant it.
You press the parchment to your chest, tears pricking your eyes. He is gone, and yet in these spare, careful words, he is closer than ever—close enough to undo you.
You don’t think. You go straight to your father’s study, letter clutched tight. He looks up from his scrolls as you enter, frowning at your tear-streaked face.
“What is it?”
You place the parchment before him. He scans it once, twice, his expression hardening. “This… came from Acacius?”
“Yes,” you whisper.
For a long moment, silence stretches between you. You brace for anger, for accusations of impropriety. Instead, he leans back in his chair, sighing heavily. “I should have known.”
You blink, startled. “You’re… not angry?”
He studies you, his lined face softening in a way you’ve rarely seen. “I am a father, not a fool. I’ve seen how you look at him. How he looks at you.” His gaze drops briefly to the letter, then returns to yours, piercing. “Do you truly believe I would have had you trained as I did if I thought you fit only to pour wine and bear heirs?”
Your breath catches. “I thought you wanted me prepared… for survival, perhaps. For some husband’s household.”
He stands, coming around the desk to take your hands in his. “I wanted you prepared to stand as my equal. As anyone’s equal. I gave you the same lessons as my sons because I knew you were capable of more. Gods, child—how could you think I valued you less?”
The question breaks something in you. A sob slips free as you throw your arms around him, burying your face against his shoulder. “Because he’s gone,” you choke out. “And I thought… I thought you’d never approve, and now it’s too late.”
Your father holds you firmly, one hand cradling the back of your head. “He’ll come back,” he says quietly. “A man like that doesn’t leave behind what he loves. And when he does, he’ll find me waiting to hear his petition properly.”
Relief floods you—not the giddy kind, but something deep, grounding. Even without Marcus here, you’re not alone anymore.
-
You’ve counted the months in candle stubs and ink stains, in restless nights and folded letters read until the parchment wore thin. It’s been longer now than the time you actually spent with him, and fear has taken root despite every vow he wrote. Fear that he’s changed. Fear that the man who kissed you like you were salvation would come home hardened, distant, no longer yours in heart.
So when the sound of hooves carries up the road and a servant rushes to announce General Acacius is at the gate, you almost can’t breathe.
You’re halfway down the steps when you see him dismounting in the courtyard. The sight steals the strength from your knees: his hair longer, his jaw darkened with days of stubble, a raw scab along his cheekbone and another at the corner of his mouth. He looks tired—older, perhaps—but still devastatingly, undeniably him.
He looks up and sees you.
The world narrows to that single moment.
You don’t think. You run.
Across the courtyard, past startled servants, skirts hitched in your fists, until you collide with him hard enough that he grunts softly. Your arms wind around his neck, your face pressed against the rough wool of his cloak. You don’t care who sees, don’t care what they whisper—you only know the steady thud of his heart under your cheek, and the way his arms come around you at once, holding you so tightly it almost hurts.
“Little dove,” he murmurs into your hair, voice hoarse, breaking. “Gods, I’ve missed you.”
Your throat closes. “I thought—”
“Don’t,” he interrupts, pulling back just enough to frame your face in his hands. His eyes are wet, though he blinks the tears away. “Don’t ever doubt me again.”
A throat clears behind you.
You startle and turn to see your father at the top of the steps, hands clasped behind his back, expression unreadable. Marcus releases you immediately, stepping back with soldierly precision, though his gaze never leaves yours.
“General Acacius,” your father says evenly. “You’ve returned.”
“My Lord,” Marcus replies, bowing slightly. “I have.”
“Then you’ll come inside,” your father continues. “We have matters to discuss.”
Your heart lurches. He knows.
You glance at Marcus as you follow them into the house, silent but trembling with hope. He walks just behind you, close enough that when your fingers brush by accident, his callused thumb grazes yours in reassurance.
Inside, the door shuts on the courtyard whispers, and for the first time in months, you believe again: this isn’t over. It’s only beginning.
-
The study door shuts behind your father and Marcus with a weight that makes your heart stutter. You stand just outside in the shadowed hall, hands clasped tightly in front of you, trying to steady your breath.
Muffled voices drift through the thick oak door—your father’s deep and measured, Marcus’ lower, steadier than you expected but with an edge of something fierce beneath it.
You catch fragments:
“…honor her properly…”
“…my only intention…”
“…I will not fail her…”
And then, silence. A pause so long you press your palm flat to the cool wood, as if you might will the outcome into being.
The door opens.
Marcus steps out first. His hair is mussed where he’s likely dragged a hand through it, and his knuckles are white where he still grips the hilt of his sword—but his face—oh, his face. It’s alight, a joy so unguarded it steals your breath.
He sees you and his whole body loosens, as though you are the one thing that finally releases him from tension.
“It’s done,” he says simply, voice thick with triumph and relief. “He’s given us his blessing.”
The world seems to tilt. And then you’re moving—running the few paces between you, leaping into his arms.
He catches you effortlessly, spinning you once in the narrow hall despite the weight of his armor, laughing—a deep, rich sound that bursts from him like sunlight breaking stormclouds. It’s a laugh you’ve never heard before, younger and freer than you thought possible from a man like him.
“Little dove,” he murmurs into your hair, holding you close as you clutch at his shoulders. “My wife-to-be.”
You laugh too, breathless against his neck, unable to stop smiling even as tears sting your eyes. For the first time since this began, there is no secrecy, no fear—only this: the man you love, beaming like he’s been given the world, and the knowledge that, somehow, you are it.
-
The wedding is held at your family’s villa under a late spring sky, the gardens blooming with rosemary and white roses. The ceremony is simple but beautiful—your father insisted on dignity over spectacle, and Marcus agreed.
He stands tall beside you as vows are spoken, scars still fresh on his handsome face, his dark hair tamed for once. When he takes your hand to seal the union, he presses his lips to your knuckles in front of everyone. It’s a kiss full of quiet devotion rather than display, and though polite applause follows, you barely hear it. His eyes never leave yours.
Later, at the feast, he stays close—attentive without smothering, smiling only when you laugh, answering every toast with gratitude but little interest. When at last the guests have gone and your father embraces you both at the villa’s threshold, you feel a thrill of anticipation that no amount of formality can dull.
The chamber door closes behind you with a quiet click, shutting out the world. The soft golden glow of oil lamps bathes the room, making shadows dance across the walls. You turn to Marcus, heart hammering in your chest, and find him already watching you. There’s no hunger to devour you at once—just quiet intensity, the steady gaze of a man who has waited too long and intends to savor what’s finally his.
“Little dove,” he murmurs, voice deep and rough as he crosses to you. “My wife.”
The words send a shiver through you. Before you can answer, he’s cupping your face, lowering his head to kiss you. It starts soft—feather-light brushes of his mouth over yours—but deepens with each pass, until his tongue slides between your lips and your fingers clutch at his tunic to keep from swaying.
He draws back just enough to look at you, his thumb stroking your cheek. “May I?” he asks quietly, fingers brushing the first tie of your gown.
“Yes,” you whisper, breathless.
He undoes each fastening with deliberate care, revealing you inch by inch until the gown slips from your shoulders to pool at your feet. His eyes darken as he takes you in—bare beneath the thin shift. “Beautiful,” he says, voice reverent, as though the word itself is a prayer.
When he lifts the shift over your head, leaving you completely naked, you tremble—not from fear, but from the sheer vulnerability of being so exposed to him. He notices.
“Shh,” he soothes, kneeling before you like a supplicant, pressing kisses along your belly, your hips, the tops of your thighs. “I’ll worship you properly, little dove. Tonight and always.”
His mouth finds your sex and you gasp, knees buckling as his tongue slides through your folds. He holds you open with strong hands, lapping at you slowly at first—tasting you, savoring you—but soon the strokes grow firmer, more insistent, until you’re clutching his hair and rocking helplessly against his mouth.
“Marcus,” you moan, your voice breaking as he sucks your clit between his lips, tongue flicking mercilessly. The pleasure crests fast and hard, ripping through you as you cry out, shaking in his arms.
He rises, kissing you again, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. When he lays you back on the bed and strips out of his tunic, your breath catches at the sight of him—broad chest crisscrossed with scars, muscles carved from years of battle, and his cock, thick and flushed, standing proud against his stomach.
He settles between your thighs, guiding himself to your entrance. “We’ll go slowly,” he promises, voice hoarse with need. “Tell me if it’s too much.”
The first push stretches you unbearably, a sharp ache that makes you gasp. He stops instantly, forehead pressed to yours. “Breathe with me,” he murmurs, and when you nod, he eases in again—inch by inch, filling you completely until you’re gasping at the fullness.
“You’re perfect,” he groans, kissing your temple as he begins to move. His thrusts are slow at first, patient, giving you time to adjust, but your body quickly learns to crave more. You lift your hips, meeting him eagerly, and his restraint snaps.
“Gods, little dove,” he rasps, driving deeper, harder, until the sound of your bodies meeting fills the room. You cling to him, nails digging into his back as pleasure builds, white-hot and overwhelming. When it breaks, you cry his name, trembling apart around him as he buries himself deep with a guttural moan, spilling into you with a shudder.
He doesn’t pull away immediately, just holds you close, his face tucked into your neck, whispering, “Mine. Always mine.”
When he finally withdraws and rolls to his side, you’re limp with afterglow. Your thighs fall open, and you glance down to see his release seeping from your swollen cunt, trailing warm and sticky onto the sheets.
The sight mesmerizes you. You touch yourself there lightly, fingers coming away slick. “It’s…” you whisper, unable to find the words.
Marcus props himself up on an elbow, watching you with a soft, almost awed smile. “It’s me,” he says quietly, covering your hand with his and pressing it back against you. “All of me, inside you. Where I belong.”
The intimacy of it moves you more than anything else—the act of him giving himself to you in this way. You meet his gaze, heart aching with love, and whisper, “Always.”
He gathers you into his arms then, holding you close as the night deepens, his warmth and his promise surrounding you. For the first time, you are not just a daughter, not just a bride—you are his, and he is yours, wholly and forever.
-
The months that follow are unlike anything you could have imagined when you first stepped into the training yard.
You’re no longer merely your father’s daughter or Marcus’ bride—you are his partner. When he attends council meetings, you sit beside him, your opinions sought and respected. When disputes arise among the villa’s tenants, you hear them together, his hand sometimes resting on your knee under the table as a quiet reassurance.
You still spar in the yard, but now as equals—no longer pupil and teacher. Sometimes you win, and Marcus never hides the pride in his eyes when you do.
One such afternoon, you best him with a clever feint, sending his sword spinning to the sand. You grin, triumphant. “Yield, General?”
He narrows his eyes in mock offense, stepping close, sweat slick on his chest. “Never,” he growls, scooping you up over his shoulder. You squeal and laugh as he carries you inside, ignoring the servants’ amused glances.
He tosses you gently onto your bed, looming over you with a wolfish grin. “You think to conquer me, little dove?”
“Already have,” you tease, kicking off your sandals.
The laughter fades into heat as his mouth claims yours, kisses turning rougher, hungrier. Soon you’re both stripped, bodies tangling in the soft light of late afternoon. He drags you astride him, fingers digging into your hips as you grind down on his cock, taking him deep.
“You ride me like you fight,” he groans, voice ragged. “Strong. Relentless.”
You smirk, leaning forward to kiss him, but he flips you suddenly onto your back, pinning your wrists above your head. “My turn,” he rasps, before sliding down your body, his mouth finding your cunt with practiced, hungry precision.
Your thighs shake as he devours you, tongue stroking deep while his thumb circles your clit. When you cry out, arching, he pulls back just enough to murmur, “Turn around.”
Breathless, you obey, and he pulls you over him until you’re straddling his face while his cock presses against your lips. The position is filthy, intimate, perfect. You take him into your mouth as he buries his tongue in you, both of you moaning against each other’s flesh.
The pleasure builds fast, overwhelming. You tremble, release crashing through you as his tongue works you mercilessly, his groans vibrating against you. He spills into your mouth moments later, and you swallow him down before collapsing beside him, both of you panting and laughing softly.
Marcus gathers you into his arms, pressing a kiss to your damp hair. “Equal in all things,” he murmurs, voice warm with satisfaction and love.
You grin against his chest, tracing idle circles over his scars. “Except maybe in who gives up first.”
He chuckles, low and content. “We’ll see about that tonight.”
As the sun dips behind the hills, you know this is what you fought for—not just love, but freedom with him, as his partner in every way that matters.