His majesty's tastes

by Anonymous

Summary:

The emperor Edmund Bridgerton is a noble man, who treats everyone justly, rules his country with care and is considered invincible. His only vice is his ever growing harem. He has particular penchant for young, supple virgins. These concubines of his are generally ladies of noble birth, chosen and trained exclusively for the task of pleasuring the Emperor. But when he comes across a scullery maid in the royal kitchen, he makes an exception to this rule.
Because he can't stop obsessing over the girls bosom.

Little does he knows that she will become an exception to all his rules.

Chapter 1: Selection

 

Edmund Bridgerton, Emperor of a vast and flourishing empire of Armadilon, was a man both feared and admired. A seasoned warrior, invincible in battle, and wise in governance, his name carried weight across every border. His queen, Violet, was beloved by the people and mother to his heir, Crown Prince Anthony, who had been groomed since birth to one day inherit his father’s throne.

But even the most disciplined of rulers had his vices, and for Edmund, it was his ever-growing harem of concubines. Each beauty he gathered became a glittering jewel in his collection, pampered, cherished, yet ultimately replaceable when his eye wanders anew. His most recent obsession, the enchanting Rhyena, lay in confinement with child, and though Edmund still visited her chambers tenderly, his hunger for novelty did not end. He needed a fresh virgin cunny, now that he knew Rhyena's would be stretched and unusable for a few months after childbirth.

One afternoon, while passing through the palace kitchens, Edmund’s gaze unexpectedly landed upon a young scullery maid. She was unlike the slender, willowy court ladies that so often vied for his favour. Plump and softly curved, with peach-pale skin flushed from the heat of her work and striking blue eyes that lowered quickly in deference, Penelope captured his attention in an instant. The simple way her hair slipped from its binding, the natural grace in her movements as she scrubbed and carried, stirred something restless within the emperor's groins.

Mesmerised, Edmund lingered longer than he ought, concealed in the shadow of the archway, watching her with a predator’s patience. That night, the image of her lingered in his mind, haunting his dreams with unbidden sweetness. By morning, his decision was made.

Summoning his most trusted minister, Edmund issued a command with all the authority of his crown: a private screening of new prospects was to be arranged in the coming days. The emperor would choose a new addition to his harem.

 

The next morning, Penelope was bent over her usual tasks in the steamy depths of the palace kitchens, her hands raw from scrubbing pots, when the clang of armoured boots echoed against the stone floor. Two imperial guards, stern-faced and wordless, stepped into the chamber.

“You are summoned,” one said, and before she could ask why, they lifted her from her work and guided her firmly through the winding corridors of the palace.

Confusion knotted in Penelope’s chest. She had broken no rule, offended no mistress. Yet she was carried away from the familiar heat of the kitchens and led towards the outer bathing quarters. There, waiting women received her, all business, no explanations given.

They stripped her bare and guided her into the common bathing pond, its cool waters shocking against her flushed skin. Before she could gather her breath, hands were upon her…scrubbing, cleansing, polishing as though she were some precious jewel. Fragrant oils followed, slicking over her soft curves until her skin gleamed. Then her damp hair was combed and brushed until it shone like newly minted copper in the lantern light, tumbling in glossy waves down her back.

When at last they clothed her, it was only a sheer white muslin shift, thin as a whisper, clinging scandalously to her form. No stays, no petticoats, nothing to shield her modesty. Penelope’s cheeks burned as she clutched the flimsy fabric against herself, bewildered and trembling. 

The guards returned and ushered her into a chamber already occupied by half a dozen other girls of her age. They were dressed the same, standing in clusters, whispering in low, eager voices. Some looked excited, even smug, eyes glinting at the thought of imperial favour.

Penelope froze, her breath catching in her throat as realisation crashed upon her. This was no punishment. This was… a selection.

Her heart thudded wildly. A concubine’s screening?

She gasped aloud, her hands tightening on the fabric at her breast. She, plump Penelope Featherington, the scullery maid with flour on her cheeks and roughened hands, summoned here, amongst beauties, to be presented before the Emperor himself?

It could not be. And yet the truth loomed around her, in every shift-clad girl’s whisper.

She was to stand before Edmund Bridgerton, the invincible sovereign, and be judged.

 

The chamber fell silent the moment the heavy doors swung open. Every girl dropped into a bow, heads lowered, the air thick with the sharp edge of fear and giddy anticipation.

Edmund Bridgerton, the Emperor, entered with the calm assurance of a man accustomed to worship. Cloaked in imperial silks, his crown glinting faintly in the torchlight, he walked with the unhurried confidence of a sovereign who held absolute power, not only over a nation, but over the futures of the trembling young women before him.

The minister at his side began the formalities, announcing the names of each candidate, extolling their virtues, their lineage, their purity. Virgins, every one of them. That was law. That was necessity. No woman entered his harem without the certainty that her womb, if blessed with life, carried only the Emperor’s child.

Edmund let the words wash over him, outwardly attentive, his expression composed, but inwardly… inwardly he burned.

For though a dozen delicate girls stood before him, it was only one who drew his gaze again and again.

She did not even try to meet his eye. Her head was bowed, her copper hair shining in the torchlight, tumbling like a river over her shoulders. The thin white shift clung scandalously to the swell of her breasts, the curve of her hips, her soft thighs pressed together as though she could somehow shield herself from the hungry stares in the room.

Plump. Ripened. Untouched. She was no courtesan’s fragile beauty, no brittle ornament polished for show. She was softness incarnate, lush and unspoiled, a body meant for warmth, for pleasure, for the Emperor’s taking.

She was a beacon to him. Her very presence calling out to be possessed, to be enjoyed, to be used as he pleased.

And though no one in the chamber could guess it, Edmund Bridgerton, emperor of an empire, had marked his next concubine.

Edmund moved methodically down the line, his hands grazing a shoulder here, tilting a chin there, before shaking his head at each maiden. Whispers of disappointment fluttered through the chamber as he dismissed one after another.

Then he stopped before her.

Penelope felt the weight of his presence before she dared to lift her eyes. A single finger slid beneath her chin, coaxing her face upwards until her startled blue gaze met his steady one. Her lips parted, a small gasp slipping free, her breath trembling as if caught between fear and… something she did not wish to name.

He studied her intently, then let his hand wander. It skimmed down the line of her throat, over the rise of her collarbone, until it cupped the fullness of her breast through the thin muslin. She shivered, a flush creeping up her cheeks. His thumb teased against her, and when his fingers closed, pinching lightly, she could not help the sharp intake of breath that followed.

Edmund smirked at her reaction, eyes gleaming with satisfaction. “So responsive,” he murmured, voice pitched for her alone.

His palm continued its slow exploration, gliding down her side, tracing the soft swell of her hip. When he reached her rounded derriere, he kneaded gently, and a tremor coursed through her body. She did not draw back. She did not resist. She stood utterly still, dazed, her body answering even as her mind reeled.

Leaning close, his lips brushed the shell of her ear.

“Part your legs for me,” he whispered.

A pause. Then, almost dreamlike, she obeyed. The shift of fabric whispered as her thighs opened. His hand slid lower, beneath the flimsy muslin, until his fingers discovered her softness. Warmth. Wetness. She gasped, eyes widening, but she did not close herself again.

Edmund’s smirk deepened. Satisfied. Claimed.

He withdrew his hand with unhurried grace and turned to his minister.

“She will do.”

Then, back to her, his voice rich with possession:

“What is your name, girl?”

“Penelope,” she whispered, breathless.

“Penelope,” he repeated, tasting it. He let the name linger on his tongue as his hand returned to cup her breast once more, kneading with deliberate slowness. His other hand gave a playful pat to the curve of her bottom, as if marking her as his.

“I shall look forward to spending much more time with you… Penelope.”

 

For a moment after the Emperor turned away, Penelope could not move. Her body was still trembling from the ghost of his touch, her breath shallow as if she had run a great distance. Her name still hung in the air, Penelope, wrapped in his voice…rich, commanding, claiming.

Only when the guards and ministers trailed after him and the doors closed with a heavy thud did the chamber stir again.

The other girls erupted into whispers. Some whispered with envy, others muttered sharp words of jealousy.

“Did you see? He touched her…her!”

“She was trembling like a rabbit. He’ll tire of her in a week.”

“No, he likes her softness. You saw how he smiled while feeling her breasts.”

Penelope pressed a hand to her breast where his fingers had been, the shift still warm from his palm. Her nipples ached where he had pinched them, and her thighs tingled with the memory of his hand slipping beneath the muslin. The shame of it scorched her cheeks, yet beneath the shame… there was a heat she could not quite understand.

Why had she not pushed him away? Why had she obeyed, dazed, when he whispered for her to part her legs?

Her heart pounded wildly. She was no longer merely Penelope the scullery maid. By the Emperor’s will, her fate had been rewritten.

As the whispers of the other girls swirled around her, Penelope shrank back into herself, clutching at her shift as though it might protect her from their barbed envy. The scent of the oils still clung to her skin, heady and strange, reminding her of what had just happened.

Her heart ached in a way that was different from the shame of being touched like a harlot that still lingered in her limbs. It was the ache of something lost.

She had always dreamed…quietly, secretly, of love. Of being chosen not for duty or desire, but for affection. Of one day meeting a man whose eyes softened when they found hers, who wanted her not as a possession, but as a partner. Perhaps a tradesman, or a kind court clerk…someone who would take her hand and laugh with her, someone with whom she might share an honest life.

But now, that dream slipped from her grasp like water through her fingers. She was to be a concubine. A jewel for the Emperor’s collection. Her body was his to use, her heart did not matter at all.

Yet even as the grief of it rose within her, a dangerous thought followed.

What if… what if it was not so?

What if the powerful, invincible Edmund Bridgerton himself could be moved by her? What if his touch tonight was not just hunger, but the beginning of something more? What if he fell in love with her?

Her breath caught, and she pressed her lips together, ashamed of the hope blossoming in her chest. It was folly, the sort of fantasy that earned laughter in the scullery. A servant girl dreaming of an emperor’s heart.

And yet… she could not stop the thought. Not when she could still feel the weight of his hands on her breasts, the way he had spoken her name as though he savoured it.

And even if he didn't fall in love with her, she would have all the comforts he had to offer.

 

That night, the maids of the harem took her into their hands as if she were clay to be shaped. They murmured little as they worked, some with envy sharp in their eyes, others with an almost dutiful precision.

Penelope stood still, her heart thudding, while they slipped her into silk unlike anything she had ever touched. The gown was fine as a spider’s thread, dyed the richest crimson, slit scandalously high along her thighs, cut daringly low across her bosom. Every seam seemed designed for ease, for display, for the Emperor’s hand to claim her without hindrance.

Jewellery followed, delicate chains of gold that draped across her collarbones, a glittering bracelet at her wrist, and a circlet for her hair that caught the lamplight. A thin chain looped around her waist, trailing down her hip like a line meant to guide a lover’s gaze.

When at last they drew her before a great bronze mirror, Penelope hardly recognised the reflection.

Gone was the scullery maid with flour-dusted cheeks and roughened hands. In her place stood a woman robed in silk and jewels, her copper hair gleaming, her blue eyes luminous with fear and something more. The silk clung to her plump curves, revealed and adorned them, until she looked less like a servant and more like a treasure meant for display.

Her lips parted in disbelief. She lifted a hand to her own cheek, to the line of her breast where the silk dipped scandalously low, to the golden chain that winked at her waist.

She was… beautiful.

For the first time, she saw it. Not in the way she had secretly hoped as a girl in the kitchens, dreaming of love, but in the way of a woman who might indeed turn the head of an emperor.

A thought whispered through her, soft and reckless.

Perhaps, if he sees me so… he might see more. Not only my body, but me.

Her heart gave a hopeful flutter, fragile as a bird in a gilded cage.

And then the guards arrived at the door, their voices deep and unyielding.

“The Emperor is waiting.”

She walked, escorted by two guards through torchlit corridors she had never been allowed to tread before. 

Penelope kept her gaze lowered, though she could feel the weight of the guards’ curiosity. They knew where she was being taken, who she was about to face. A flush crept up her throat.

When at last the procession stopped, she found herself before tall lacquered doors guarded by soldiers in ceremonial armour. One of them struck the butt of his spear to the marble, and the doors opened.

Penelope’s knees almost weakened.

Inside, the chamber was vast, awash in the glow of lanterns and perfumed with incense. Silk draperies cascaded from the ceiling, gilded furniture gleamed, and at the far end, upon a couch strewn with cushions, sat Edmund Bridgerton.

The Emperor.

He wore only a robe of black silk, open at the chest, his dark hair falling loose about his shoulders. His sharp, commanding eyes lifted at once to her.

The guards ushered her forward, then retreated, leaving her alone in the vastness of the room.

She felt his gaze travel over her. Slowly, possessively. The gown, cut with scandalous slits, clung to every curve of her body, revealing more than it concealed. The gold chains winked at her waist, her throat, her wrists. For a moment, she thought she saw something flare in his expression, hunger, yes, but also satisfaction, as though his choice in the chamber had been vindicated beyond question.

He leaned back against the cushions, lips curving into a slow, dangerous smile.

“So,” he said, his voice deep as velvet. “They have polished you like a jewel for me.”

Penelope blushed and looked down. 

“Come closer, Penelope,” he murmured, tasting her name again as if it were a luxury in itself. “Let me look at you properly.”

Penelope had barely taken two hesitant steps closer when Edmund rose from the cushions. His robe slipped loose about his shoulders, his stride predatory, his gaze burning with an intensity that robbed her of breath.

Before she could speak, his mouth claimed hers.

It was not a courtly kiss, not the chaste brush she had once imagined love might bring. It was hungry, devouring, stealing the air from her lungs. His hands yanked her hair, tilting her head back as his lips demanded, his tongue coaxed, until she yielded, gasping softly into him.

When at last he drew back, his breath was ragged. His eyes raked over her, then he turned her, pressing her forward over the nearest cushioned couch. 

His body covered hers, his hands roaming greedily, one cupping the fullness of her breast through her low cut neckline, kneading, teasing until her nipples hardened beneath his touch, the other splayed at her hip to hold her still. She gasped at the suddenness, her knuckles gripping the velvet of the couch, but she did not resist. She leaned into him, trembling, dazed by the sheer force of his desire and desperate to please his majesty. His fingers traced the edge of her nightgown, and with a swift, impatient tug he lifted her skirts, baring her cunt to the cold air of the room.

When his gaze fell between her thighs, he froze.

Her folds glistened, pink and swollen, slickness gathered there as though her body had been waiting for him all along. His breath left him in a harsh exhale, hunger darkening his features. He shifted, and she caught sight of how his cock strained, hard and urgent, against the embroidered fabric of his robe.

“Gods,” Edmund muttered, pleased beyond reason, voice rough and thick with lust. “You’re soaked for me. Look at you.” He brushed the back of his knuckles over her trembling thigh, smirking as her slickness clung. “Your pretty little cunny is begging for my cock, and I’ve not even touched you properly yet.”

Her chest rose and fell rapidly, her hands fisting at the sheets. The crude words only made the wetness pool hotter, her body betraying her with every throb.

“You’re mine now,” he growled, lowering himself until his mouth hovered just above hers. “And I can’t wait another moment. I’m going to fuck you, Penelope, hard and deep, until you can’t think of anything but me inside you.”

At his promise, a helpless moan slipped from her lips, her thighs parting of their own accord. The emperor’s answering grin was wicked, triumphant, as he slipped out of his robe at last.

Her eyes widened when she saw the sheer size of him, thick and proud in his hand, and her body clenched with desperate anticipation.

And Edmund, aching, straining, already undone by the sight of her glistening heat, lined himself up, intent on burying himself inside her in the very next breath. She shifted shyly against him, her curves pressing into his arousal accidentally, and he let out a low growl of hunger. In a swift motion, he tore the silken gown from her body, leaving her adorned only in the delicate gold chains.

The moment he claimed her was fierce, rough, the thrust of a man who had lost all semblance of restraint. She cried out at the sharpness of it, her maidenhood breaking beneath his need.

He moved with a ferocity that stole her breath, every motion claiming her, every brush of his lips leaving fire in its wake. He bit at her shoulder, the soft skin at the juncture of her neck and she felt the sting burning through her core. Her hands clutched at him, nails digging into silk and skin, as he held her tightly, possessing her utterly.

She cried out, shivering, lost in the intensity of him, her body helpless against his force. Every touch, every shift of weight, made her ache and moan, consumed by the rough, greedy fervor of his attention. It was painful, taking his harsh brutal thrusts, and this was not at all the kind of intimacy she had imagined engaging in when she thought of the touches she'd share with her future lover. But she was determined to please her emperor. So she relented. As it is, it was foolish harbouring any fantasies about a lover now that she was entirely his. He whispered her name, low and commanding, and she trembled, letting herself melt into the rhythm of his dominance.

He groaned her name, his lips brushing against her skin in desperate, greedy nips and kisses. And when at last he spent himself, his forehead fell against her shoulder, his breath hot and uneven, whispering, “So beautiful… my pretty Penelope. My sweet little girl.”

Penelope's cunt fluttered and squeezed his cock, she herself had been so close to orgasm but his sudden release left her core throbbing, aching. The emperor seemed to realise this by her dazed, confused expressions. 

His mouth closed over her breast in a hard, possessive suck, as if he meant to brand her with nothing but his lips and tongue. She cried out, but he didn’t relent. If anything, he drew harder, tongue flicking mercilessly until her back bowed off the bed. His hand pressed her down, pinning her in place while the other kneaded her neglected breast, rolling her nipple between his fingers until she was shaking beneath him.

“Look at you,” he growled against her skin, his teeth grazing before he soothed the sting with another hungry pull. “Writhing and gasping like you can’t bear it. You like me taking you like this, don’t you?”

She whimpered, thighs clenching tight, but he caught the motion instantly. His palm slid down her belly, pressing her legs apart with a rough insistence that left no room for refusal. “Don’t hide it from me. I can feel how soaked you are, I had fucked you minutes ago, and your cunt is weeping for me already,” he rasped, his tone dark with satisfaction. He gave her breast another sharp suck, drawing it deep into his mouth until her hands fisted in his hair, tugging helplessly.

“You want more, don’t you?” His mouth released her with a wet pop, his gaze burning into hers. “Say it. Beg me for it. I’ll keep you right here, squirming under my mouth, till you do.”

His tongue flicked over her peaked nipple again, then he latched back on, relentless, ruthless in his devotion, dragging her closer and closer to breaking with every hungry pull.

His mouth released her breast with a wet plop, and she sagged beneath him, breathless. But he didn’t give her a chance to recover. His lips traced a scorching path lower, over the trembling rise of her ribs, the soft curve of her belly, her whole body tensed with anticipation, thighs trembling open for him without conscious thought.

He chuckled low, a sound of dark amusement. “So eager,” he murmured, teeth scraping lightly at her hip before he dragged his tongue across her skin.  His hands pushed her thighs wider, spreading her open, but he didn’t immediately give her what she craved. Instead, he hovered close, hot breath fanning over her slick folds, so near she could sob with frustration.

“Please…” she whispered, her voice trembling, but no longer with fear. “Please, my Emperor...take me again.”

Her plea undid him.

He obeyed with fervour, claiming her once more, guiding his cock to her opening with a tenderness that matched his hunger. This time her body blossomed beneath him, surrendering to the sensation of his cock stretching her walls until she cried out, her first release tearing through her with shattering sweetness. He kissed her over and over, swallowing her cries, whispering her name over and over again.

At last, spent and softened, he gathered her against him, pressing gentle kisses across her face, her hair, her shoulders. His hand stroked idly over her curves as her breath slowed, until her lashes fluttered closed and she sank into sleep against his chest.

Edmund held her, squeezed her curves possessively, awake still, gazing at her as though he had found something rare. Something he had not expected to find. And he knew he was going to keep this latest obsession of his for a long time. 

 

Chapter 2: Submission

Summary:

Penelope resigns to her fate and tries to fit into her role as his majesty's favorite concubine.

When Penelope woke up the next morning, the chamber was hushed but flooded with pale golden light. She blinked, her body sore and heavy, the scent of musk and sandalwood clinging to her skin. For a moment she wondered if it had been a fever dream, the ferocity with which the emperor had taken her virtue, the way he had kissed her until she couldn’t breathe. But the ache between her thighs told her it had been all too real.

She shifted, half-expecting him to still be there, but the sheets beside her were empty, the imprint of his body already cool. “Where… where is His Majesty?” she asked faintly when she noticed the young woman standing silently near the screens, hands folded.

The maid dipped her head. “The emperor has gone to attend to imperial duties. He will return later tonight.”

Penelope swallowed. The enormity of it pressed down on her. “Oh… So…I… may I go back to my room then?”

The maid gave a short laugh, not cruel, but edged with disbelief at her innocence. “This is your room, your ladyship.”

Penelope sat up sharply, the embroidered coverlet pooling at her waist. Her gaze swept the vast chamber—the carved screens, the painted silk panels, the gleam of gilded lanterns, the bed itself like a throne. “No,” she whispered, shaking her head. “There must be a mistake.”

“This is a part of the emperor’s inner palace,” the maid said, stepping forward. “This suite is assigned to his chosen concubine. And that is what you are now. Your status is higher than your former head maid in the kitchens… higher than many who serve in the court. So long as His Majesty favours you.”

Penelope’s eyes widened, the words striking her with equal parts wonder and dread. Concubine. Favourite. The titles felt foreign in her mouth, heavy with implications she barely understood.

“Come,” the maid said more softly now, as if to anchor her. “Let me prepare your bath. You must be refreshed before breakfast is sent in.”

Still dazed, Penelope allowed herself to be guided past tall screens into a side chamber where steam already curled from a marble tub, petals floating on the surface. She touched the edge as though it might vanish, her mind whirling. Only yesterday she had been a kitchen girl. Now she was… this.

The maid’s hands were gentle but brisk, guiding her into the tub as though she were porcelain. Penelope gasped softly when her body sank into the warm water. The surface rippled with floating petals, which clung to her flushed skin.

Her breath escaped in a soft sigh despite herself; the water was exquisite, soothing the aches in her body, easing the soreness between her thighs.

Yet when the maid’s cloth brushed over her, she tensed. The first sweep across her breast made her gasp—partly from the suddenness, partly from the intimate touch.

“Relax, my lady,” the maid murmured, voice clipped but not unkind.

The cloth slid lower. When it passed over her thigh, catching on something sticky, Penelope shuddered. She dared look down and saw the faint traces—the dried crimson where her maidenhead had been broken, the pearly seed left inside her. A tremor went through her, and shame flared hot in her cheeks.

So it was not a dream. Not some delirious imagining. The emperor had been inside her. His wild passion had claimed her, fierce and consuming. She could still feel the ghost of his weight, the relentless drive of his body into hers.

The maid scrubbed lightly, as if it were nothing unusual, rinsing her clean before smoothing scented oil across her thighs. Penelope closed her eyes, torn between mortification and the strange, almost guilty pleasure of being tended to so thoroughly. Every pass of the cloth made her flesh tingle, as if reminding her of what had been done to her, what might be done again.

Her gaze drifted across the chamber when she dared open them again. The marble pillars wound with silk, the painted ceilings, the wide bed draped in gossamer curtains. Fresh blossoms perfumed the air. The tub itself seemed carved from a single block of ivory stone, vast enough for three people. She had never imagined such opulence could exist outside of fairy tales. It was a room fit for a goddess, not a kitchen maid.

And yet… it was hers.

A strange thrill tightened her chest. All this splendour—hers to sleep in, to walk in, to claim as her space. She could command servants now. She would be dressed in silks, adorned with jewels. She was no longer a servant, but a concubine.

But the thrill was fragile. Beneath it stirred a deeper ache, one she could not silence. She had dreamed of love, of laughter in a shared cottage, of children in her arms, of a man who adored her not for her body, but for herself. That dream felt impossibly distant now.

For a moment, she let herself sink back, water lapping at her shoulders, her hair floating loose about her face. Could this be enough? This life of silks and pearls, of gilded halls and endless luxuries?

Her heart ached with the answer she could not say aloud. All she had ever wanted was simpler: to fall in love, to marry, to raise children with a man who cherished her as his equal. But concubines did not marry, not once they had belonged to the emperor. And the emperor… Edmund Bridgerton was a good ruler, but as a man he was known to tire of women swiftly, to turn his gaze elsewhere when novelty faded.

So what would she be then? A name forgotten in a ledger? A silken cage of memories and wasted years?

The maid wrung out her hair, speaking with no particular warmth. “You are fortunate. Few ever see this chamber. Fewer still remain in it for longer than a couple of months. And no one has ever been here for their first night with his majesty. Make the most of it, my lady. Make every night count.”

Penelope swallowed, unsure whether the words were meant as comfort or warning.

Once the maid had gone, Penelope found herself adrift in the chamber’s vast silence. The morning light fell golden across the silken drapes, the air thick with the perfume of flowers that had been arranged afresh. She paced from one end of the room to the other, restless, unable to sit still.

Everywhere her gaze landed, splendour mocked her. The carved jade screens, the lacquered chests, the silken robes folded neatly upon cushions—each a reminder of the world she had been dragged into overnight.

She sat at the vanity, tracing the delicate patterns on its surface. She rose again and moved to the balcony, looking out at the manicured gardens where palace maids walked like pale butterflies in their gowns. They looked as if they belonged. She felt like an intruder still, wrapped in silks too fine for her skin.

Her thoughts would not cease. If she were merely a whim, a passing fancy, then once Edmund’s desire cooled she would be discarded—kept within walls but ignored, as so many other concubines were. And the maid’s words echoed: make every night count.

Her heart pounded with the weight of it.

She forced herself to sit at the low table and poured tea with clumsy hands. As the steam curled, she pressed her palms together and thought as she never had before—not as a dreamer, but as a woman cornered.

He had chosen her. Of all women, of all noble daughters, he had taken her, an ordinary girl. There must be a reason. Something he saw.

And if there was a reason, she would find it. She would grasp it and never let go.

A cold kind of clarity settled in her chest. She could not be merely passive, waiting for him to return, waiting to be cast aside. If she wished to survive this gilded prison, she would have to master it.

She would enamour him. Enchant him so thoroughly that he could not think of another. She would learn what stirred his blood, what softened his heart, what made him linger beside her bed instead of another’s. She would feed his desires, meet his hunger without fail, until he could not abandon her even if he wished it.

Her pulse quickened, part fear, part something else. This was not the life she had dreamed of. But it was the life she had been given.

And if she played it well, she might yet secure not only her survival, but her place within the palace.

That night, when Edmund stepped into her chamber, he stopped short, breath catching in his throat.

Penelope lay sprawled against a mound of silk pillows, clad in what could scarcely be called a garment—mere scraps of crimson lace clinging to her curves, veiled only by a sheer robe that fell open to reveal more than it concealed. The gossamer fabric shimmered in the candlelight, trailing over her thighs and breasts in a teasing suggestion. She had arranged herself artfully, one hip lifted, the curve of her body displayed like an offering.

The sight made Edmund’s blood roar in his veins. Desire struck him hard, leaving no room for patience. He strode across the chamber, his gaze fixed on her with a hunger she felt in her bones.

When he reached the bed, she rose to meet him, breathless, letting him draw her into his arms.

“Your Majesty,” she whispered in a voice sweeter than honey.

He claimed her lips in a searing kiss, then pulled back just far enough to murmur against her mouth.

“You look radiant tonight. Did you have a good day?”

She nodded shyly, her eyes downcast for a moment before lifting with a coy sparkle.

“I did, sire. Thank you… for choosing me.”

His gaze locked with hers, molten and unrelenting, before sweeping lower, down to where the scant lace struggled to contain her breasts. With her arms pressed to her sides, the ample swell of her bosom rose up, lush and inviting. His lips curved with a dangerous smile.

“There was never truly another contender,” he murmured, gazing at her tits with undisguised lust.

Then, without restraint, he buried his face in her cleavage. Penelope gasped, startled, then melted as the sensation flooded her. His scent, warm and masculine, mingled with the rasp of his stubble against her silken skin, each graze of roughness sending shivers through her body. To her own astonishment, she grew slick with arousal at once.

The rough scrape of his stubble against her sensitive flesh made her gasp, the sound breaking from her throat before she could contain it. Edmund heard it, of course, he always did. A low, satisfied growl rumbled in his chest as he pressed harder into her, lips and teeth grazing her soft curves until she was arching against him, robe falling open around her.

“You dressed yourself like this for me?” he murmured against her skin, voice already thick with hunger.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” she whispered, slipping her hands into his hair, guiding him closer as if to prove the truth of it. Her body trembled, but she forced herself to meet his gaze when he lifted his head. “I wanted… I wanted to please you.”

His eyes darkened, molten with desire and a flicker of something else…approval, perhaps even pride. The corners of his mouth curved in a wicked smile. “You please me more than you can imagine, little dove.” His hand closed firmly over her hip, pulling her across the cushions until she was sprawled beneath him, his weight heavy and certain above her.

The sheer scraps of lace did little to hide her body, and he tore at them impatiently, the fabric giving way with a satisfying rip. She gasped, half from shock, half from the thrill that raced through her veins at his eagerness. Every shiver, every tremor, made him harder against her thigh, and she knew he was barely restraining himself.

Penelope tilted her chin, choosing this moment to test her newfound resolve. “Use me, Majesty,” she breathed, voice trembling with desire she didn’t have to feign. “I am yours… wholly yours.”

For an instant he froze, eyes blazing as if she had just unlocked something primal within him. Then he bent to capture her mouth, a kiss fierce and consuming, and when he pulled back his words were guttural, rough with need.

“You are,” he vowed. “Every part of you is mine. You’ll beg for no other but me. You belong to me.”

Her cunny clenched at the promise, getting wetter still, and she gave a soft whimper that made him curse under his breath. He shoved her thighs apart with ruthless determination, devouring the sight of her pink, glistening folds.

“Radiant,” he growled again, shoving his cock in the hole between her legs. “Mine.”

Penelope’s body trembled beneath him, her breath catching as his weight pressed her deeper into the mattress. It was painful, the way he had entered her, but she decided to let herself be used, taken, adored in his own brutal way without a single whimper. His thrusts were sharp, greedy, and when his climax tore through him she was left gasping, her own body tingling but unsatisfied.

She shifted, squirming under his still-thick length buried inside her, searching instinctively for some angle that would ease the ache between her thighs.

Edmund chuckled low in his throat, a feral sound against her ear. “What is it, little one? You’d like to come?”

Her cheeks burned crimson. She bit her lip, then gave the smallest of nods. “Yes, Your Majesty,” she whispered, coy and shy.

The grin that spread across his face was wicked. In the next instant, he pulled out, dragging her down the bed and spreading her thighs wide. His mouth was on her before she could think, his tongue and teeth devouring her cunt with a ruthless hunger that made her cry out. He didn’t let her go, not when she came once, not when her thighs trembled through the second release, not when her nails dug into his shoulders through the third. He feasted until she lost count of her orgasms, was wet, swollen, overstimulated, sobbing with pleasure.

When at last he let her rest, she collapsed against the pillows, body trembling, lips parted in exhausted delight. Then he entered her cunt again. She drifted to sleep with him still moving above her, still thrusting back inside her, slow and steady, as though her rest, too, belonged to him as much as her waking.

In the deep of the night she stirred again, hazy-eyed, and found him once more mounted on top of her, buried to the hilt. His face hovered just above hers, eyes glinting in the dim candlelight.

“You’re awake,” he murmured, hips rolling into hers with slow, deliberate strokes. “Good. I’ll go faster now.”

And before she could answer, he slammed into her with wild, merciless thrusts. The bed rattled, her cries filled the chamber, and this time he didn’t finish alone. Her climax tore through her in blinding waves just as he spilled deep inside, and the mingled force of it left her clinging to him.

His thrusts slowed, but he didn’t pull out, his cock still hard, still seated deep in her cunt. Penelope was half-asleep, her body heavy, cunt clenching faintly around the thick spend he’d left inside her. She blinked up at him, dazed, her lips parted as though she hadn’t the strength to close them.

Edmund bent down suddenly, capturing her mouth in a kiss that was nothing like the first fumbling brushes of earlier. His tongue pushed past her lips, claiming her mouth as ruthlessly as he had claimed her body. He tasted her deeply, hungrily, and she whimpered into him, shivering at the sheer intensity of it.

Something about her post-orgasmic haze made it easier to yield, easier to respond. She no longer worried about whether her kisses were clumsy or shy or appropriate. She let him take what he wanted, and in turn she found herself kissing him back more fluidly, lips moving with his, tongue meeting his.

He groaned into her mouth, grinding deeper, as if her response lit another spark in him. The taste of him filled her, hot and overwhelming, and she clung to him weakly, her body pliant, her cunt still slick and heavy with his seed.

“Fuck,” he growled against her lips before plunging back into another deep kiss, taking her mouth until she was breathless, dazed all over again, her body floating somewhere between sleep and surrender. His tongue delved deep, tasting every corner of her mouth until she was gasping softly beneath him. She tried to keep up, her lips moving with his, her tongue brushing hesitantly against his, and that small attempt at answering him only seemed to ignite him further.

Edmund groaned into her mouth, one hand gripping her hip, the other sliding beneath her head to hold her still while he devoured her. His cock, still buried deep inside her, twitched and swelled. When it became rock hard again, slowly, deliberately, he began to move.

At first, his thrusts were lazy, drawn out, as though the kiss mattered more than the pace of his body. He swallowed her little whimpers, savouring the way her dazed mouth opened so easily for him now. He drew her bottom lip between his teeth, biting softly before plunging back in.

Her arms, weak with exhaustion, lifted anyway, circling his neck. She let him hold the rhythm, let him lead both the kiss and the slow drag of his cock inside her. He coaxed her to respond, deepened the kiss until she was lost in it, until the roll of his hips began to match the wet slide of his tongue against hers.

Soon, the pace quickened. The kiss became rougher again, greedy, and his thrusts followed suit—harder, hungrier, pushing her deeper into the mattress. She moaned against his mouth, and he swallowed every sound, groaning low as though each one fed his need.

The lines blurred between the kiss and the fucking, between surrender and demand. She was trembling by the time he broke away, pressing his forehead to hers, still driving into her with desperate, claiming thrusts.

When at last her body gave out, overstimulated and spent, he held her pinned against his chest, still inside her, his lips gentling as he kissed her hair, her temple, the curve of her cheek.

“Sleep, sweet girl,” he murmured, voice low and uncharacteristically tender as he stroked her damp hair back. “I am very pleased with you.”

Wrapped in his arms, his cock softening at last inside her, she drifted into slumber with the taste of him still on her tongue and the sound of his pleased whisper in her ear.

When she woke the next morning, the silken sheets cool against her skin, he was gone again. No trace of him lingered save for the dull ache between her thighs and the faint scent of him clinging to her hair. For a moment she wondered once again, if she had dreamt it all. His kisses, his rough claiming, the tender murmur that had lulled her into sleep. A fevered fantasy. Yet her body told the truth, and so did the absence of him.

Every comfort was hers in the palace. Perfumed baths were drawn for her, jewels laid out, trays of delicacies presented with reverent hands. Yet she was not permitted to mingle with even the other concubines. Rae, her quiet maid, explained it gently: “The Emperor is protective of you, my lady. You are the chosen one. His favourite. He feels the other ought to get jealous of that.”

Chosen. Favourite. The words warmed and unsettled her in equal measure.

Each morning, Rae brought her a steaming porcelain cup of fragrant tea. She had been told it was for her wellbeing, though Rae whispered more honestly, “It is to keep you from bearing a child.” A small pang struck her heart, sharp but fleeting, before she brushed it aside. What place had she longing for something he had not chosen for her? She was his fucktoy, not his lawfully wedded wife. She was not expected to bear children for him. In fact, the last concubine who had been his favourite, fell out of favour fir getting with child. So she began drinking the tea diligently.

Her days followed a careful rhythm. In daylight hours, she was permitted to walk the gardens, always dressed in silks of the finest make, embroidered with pearls and gold thread, yet modest, covering her wrists, her throat, her ankles. Beautiful, yes! But she was a flower meant only to be admired from afar for others.

And then came the nights. Another wardrobe, a hidden one, of garments sheer as mist, scraps of silk that framed and clung to her body, revealed rather than concealed. Jewels glittered at her throat, her wrists, her ankles, but the clothes themselves existed for no one’s eyes save his.

He came without fail. Each night, his presence filled the chamber before she even heard the doors shut. His passion did not ebb; it grew, burning hotter, fiercer, as though her quiet surrender only fed his hunger. Sometimes he took her with near-violent urgency, pinning her against the bed, against the carved pillars, pressing her into the silk cushions until she cried out. Other times his touch was slower, but no less consuming. His drawn-out kisses, his unhurried pace of fucking that left her trembling, and sometimes during these sessions, she found her pleasure from the act before he did.

She learned to yield to his whims, sometimes eagerly, sometimes fearfully, but always completely. And somewhere between one night and the next, she realised that there were days when she wanted this too. On those days, she ached for intimacy, to crave his hands, mouth and cock on her body before he even appeared.

Soon, the servants’ eyes shifted when they bowed to her. Deference sharpened, whispers stilled when she passed. Her place in the palace was changing. She was not merely a concubine; she was his favourite concubine. His chosen. The Emperor’s most guarded treasure.

Then, her monthly blood came. That night, she had thought he would not come. She had thought, foolishly, that her body’s bleeding would grant her a night of reprieve. So she sat in her chamber in nothing but a soft muslin gown, loose at the neckline, her breasts barely contained, soft linen tied between her thighs. Comfortable. Safe.

Then, unexpectedly, the door slid open. He entered.

Her pulse leapt.

“I hear your cunt is not serviceable tonight,” he said, voice low, petulant, as if already miffed by the idea.

She nodded, eyes down. “Yes, my lord.”

He came to the bed and sat, ginger at first, but his hand snapped out, curling round her wrist. “Come closer.”

She obeyed, inching, then gasped when he hauled her fully into his lap, spreading her thighs across his knees. His body heat soaked through her thin gown.

He tugged at the neckline until her breasts spilled free, full and sensitive. She squeaked, breath catching, but his gaze was already fixed on them like a predator sighting prey.

His hands mauled them. Kneading, pinching, tugging until she arched helplessly. Then his mouth descended on them. He began sucking them, nipping  and biting at the skin sharply, then leaving wet open mouthed kisses and long licks, until she was gasping aloud. The sensitivity made her writhe on his lap.

He pulled back only long enough to growl, “Perfect. This will do.”

Her head spun. “Wh–what will do?”

“Your breasts,” he said simply, his lips curling into the faintest, feral smile. “Tonight I’ll fuck these instead of your cunt.”

Her eyes widened, the very idea tilting something inside her, shame and arousal flooding together. She didn't even know how he could possible fuck them. There wasn't a hole anywhere near her breasts…?!

He didn’t wait for her to voice her doubts. He spat into his hand, smeared it over her soft curves, then freed his hard, swollen, already leaking cock. He pressed it between her breasts and forced her hands to push them tight around him.

“Like this,” he growled. “Squeeze them around my shaft. Tighter.”

She obeyed, dazed, pressing herself around him. It felt warm against her skin. His cock slid through, the wetness of spit and his own leaking making the glide easier, slicker. He groaned, a sound so deep it made her clench empty, aching though untouched.

He thrust hard, fucking her breasts as if they were her cunt, rutting between them with single-minded ferocity. His hips snapped, his hands pushed the muslin shift down her shoulders and her shift rested bunches up near her waist, baring her top entirely, he pulled her nipples, and pinched them with every rough motion. She moaned, shock giving way to molten heat as his pace built.

“Look at me,” he ordered, one hand gripping her hair, forcing her eyes up into his. “Watch while I use your soft melons to please myself, little dove.”

She whimpered, but her gaze locked on his, wide and glazed, as he pounded through her softness, groaning into her face.

Her breasts were slick, slippery with spit and sweat and his pre-come, the flesh yielding perfectly around him. Her body trembled with each thrust, nipples burning from his pinches, her cunt throbbing uselessly against the cloth binding that was tied there for catching her monthly.

“Mine,” he snarled, rutting harder, faster, gripping her hair tighter until he broke, spurting thick and hot ropes of cum across her chest, her throat, marking her in streaks of pearly liquid.

He released her hair only to rub his palms in his own seed and smear it across her tits with rough fingers, groaning low. “Look at you. Beautiful. Perfect.”

Her chest heaved, her body shaking, nipples aching from abuse, yet she felt herself shudder, almost as though she’d climaxed simply from the intensity of his taking.

He pulled her close again, holding her on his lap, his cock softening against her slick skin, murmuring in her ear, “You will always serve me whenever I'm ready. Even when your cunt cannot.”

Penelope shivered. She realised that by now he was addicted to her. She didn't know if that was a good thing or a bad thing, despite her earlier resolve of making him so dependent on her for seeking his pleasures, that he wouldn't look at anyone else. 

She thought he was finished, that he would leave her to rest for the night, she would have liked a bit of alone time to rest to be honest, but he wasn’t done. He cleaned her skin with an almost careless swipe, then his voice dropped low, “Does your monthly pain you?”

Her lashes lowered as she nodded. His gaze sharpened. “Where?”

She pressed a hand to her lower belly, then to the small of her back. He covered both places with his broad palms, kneading with surprising care as his mouth claimed hers in a slow, hungry kiss.

“I could be gentle,” he murmured against her lips, “but the trouble is…” his teeth grazed her mouth, making her shiver, “I lose myself when I touch your soft, lush little body.”

Heat raced through her, her cheeks burning. He kissed her again, deeper this time, and when he drew her down to the mattress she didn’t resist. His lips wandered, teasing her back into breathless surrender. She kissed him back, and with each pass of her tongue against his, she felt the hard press of him growing urgent once more.

Flustered, she whispered, “I could use my hand to ease you, my emperor.” But his growl of refusal sent a shock through her. His eyes burned into hers. “No. Not right now. I’ll spill in your sweet mouth first.”

She swallowed, pulse fluttering as his words sank into her. He tipped her chin, brushing his thumb over her lips until they parted.

“Open for me.”

She obeyed, dazed, and he slid two fingers between her lips, pressing against her tongue, watching intently as she closed around him. A satisfied sound rumbled from his chest as he pumped his fingers in and out of her mouth.

“That’s it. You’ll take me the same way.”

With a rough tug he freed his thick and heavy cock, took it in his hand, and guided her down on her knees. The blunt head brushed her mouth, hot and insistent. She tasted salt and musk as he pressed deeper, and he groaned loudly at the sensation of her warm mouth engulfing him.

His hand slid to the back of her head, fingers sinking into her hair, urging her to bob slowly at first. When her tongue traced him, accidentally at first, he jerked, cursing low and filthy. “Do that again!” He commanded and she obeyed.

He began rocking forward until she gagged and her eyes watered. He pulled back, wiped her tears with his thumb, then shoved back between her lips with a ragged growl. “Domt worry. You'll get used to this after a few times. You will even ask for it on your own.”

She gave a subtle shake of his head without letting him slip from her mouth, as if to agree with him. Her breasts bounced slightly, as he began fucking her mouth in earnest. He stared, transfixed by the vision of her on her knees before him, the sound of her little moans vibrating down his cock, her breasts jiggling so deliciously.

His rhythm turned savage, hips driving against her mouth until she gagged. He paused, kissed her temple with surprising softness, enough to whisper a pleased encouragement in her ear, then pushed back in with a groan. The wet slurp of her mouth, the heat of her tongue, the helpless look in her eyes—he was undone.

With a shudder he spilled, holding her tight against him as he pulsed into her throat. She choked, swallowed, tears streaking down her cheeks, and he soothed her with a rough murmur, “Good girl… sweet girl… take it all.”

When he was spent, he eased her back, wiping her mouth with the edge of her gown. Her lips were swollen, her eyes glassy. He kissed her deeply, tasting himself there.

Then he drew her against his chest, his large hand rubbing her lower belly again, gentler now. “Sleep,” he whispered into her hair, voice husky with possession and contentment. “You please me beyond measure, little dove. Tomorrow… I promise… I’ll be gentler.” His voice carried the weight of command, yet softened at the edges, husky with exhaustion and release.

Her lips curved in a dark smile against his chest. She knew he meant it. He always meant it. But she also knew just as surely as she knew her own name, that gentleness was not in his nature. Not when faced with her soft, yielding body, not when her little whimpers drove him wild. His vows of restraint always broke like waves upon the shore of her flesh.

Still, she nestled closer, breathing in the heat of his skin, determined to be his good, sweet girl no matter how violently his control would shatter.

His hand, heavy on her hip, tightened even in sleep. She closed her eyes at last, her faint smile tinged with a shiver. Tomorrow would not be gentle. It never was.

Months had slipped past in a blur of passionate nights and lukewarm days, until Penelope found herself fully steeped in her role as concubine. She had learned the rhythms of her position, the weight of his expectation, the thousand little ways to smile when she was meant to seduce him and fall silent when he commanded. Yet there were moments, small, stolen moments, when she still felt the beating of her own heart, restless and searching.

That morning she had chosen a gown of yellow silk, soft as sunlight against her skin, with a matching scarf draped over her hair. She wandered into the palace gardens, craving the quiet. But fate, mischievous as ever, had other designs.

A sudden gust blew in the opposite direction, tugging at her scarf until it danced like a golden ribbon in the air. It fluttered straight into the path of a horse, startling the beast. The rider was pitched from the saddle with a heavy thud.

Penelope gasped, hurrying forward, skirts gathered in her hands. “My lord! Are you hurt?”

The man was already pushing himself up, broad shoulders rolling as he shook the fall from his frame. He took her offered hands, rising with ease, and only then did she truly look at him.

Blue eyes met hers. Clear, startling, the colour of deep water under the sun. The breath left her chest in an instant, her tongue faltering uselessly.

He gave a low chuckle, brushing soil from his sleeve. “Well,” he said, his lips quirking into a smirk, “That was not very well done of me, was it?”

Penelope could only stare, caught in the pull of his gaze, her words lost as though the wind had carried them away with her scarf. Her heart drummed wildly, more alive in that moment than it had felt in months.

And in that moment she would only gaze into the ocean-deep blue eyes of the man who, she knew, with his uncanny resemblance to the emperor himself, would be none other than Prince Colin, the Duke of Bloomsbury, the emperor's bastard-born son. 

Chapter 3: Introduction

Summary:

Penelope and Colin form an unlikely friendship.

Notes:

A lot of you may wonder, is it going to be Polin?
Well, I ask you, do you want it to be?

 

It was indeed Prince Colin. The emperor’s bastard.

Penelope’s breath caught as recognition struck. She had never seen him before, not in the flesh, but she had heard enough whispers in the perfumed shadows of the concubines’ chambers to paint his likeness in her mind. The resemblance to the emperor was uncanny. Ocean blue eyes, sharper cheekbones, the same imperious brow, even the same subtle dimple when he smiled. More alike than Crown Prince Anthony himself, they said.

And that was precisely why he was both favoured and feared. The emperor adored him. The empress despised him. Out of jealousy, or fear, or both, she had demanded his removal from the palace walls, claiming his very presence threatened her son’s claim. So he had been cast away. Sent first to wander on the continent, then bestowed with the earldom of Bloomsbury, far from the centre of power in the capital city of Mayfair.

Yet he returned sometimes. To visit his father. To remind the court he still existed. And today, of all days, she had stumbled into him.

Lucky—or unlucky? She could not decide.

For now that she had seen him, truly seen him—the chestnut brown hair, the lazy amusement in his smile, the startling gentleness in those ocean-blue eyes—her heart betrayed her. It raced in a way it had never raced before. Not for the emperor’s touch. Not for any of the luxuries in her chambers. This was different. This was the reckless drumbeat of first love, raw and uninvited.

Her scarf still danced in the branches behind him, forgotten. All Penelope could see was him.

She froze as he stepped closer, sunlight glinting in his hair, that smile—so careless yet so gentle—unsettling her balance more than the uneven path ever could.

“My fair lady,” he said, bowing slightly with a courtliness that seemed instinctive rather than rehearsed. “Forgive me for intruding. I did not mean to startle you.”

For a heartbeat she thought he must be addressing someone behind her. But no—his gaze was steady, fixed on her with an intensity that made her cheeks warm.

He thought her a lady of the court. Silk, jewels, the emperor’s chosen garments upon her skin had fooled him. A laugh bubbled in her throat, half-nervous, half-horrified, but she swallowed it down. To correct him would be to invite shame. To admit she was no more than a scullery maid who had caught the emperor’s eye— and was now simply his father's new whore. No, she could not possibly sustain watching his kind eyes cloud with disgust for her.

She stammered instead. “I… y-you did not startle me, Your Highness.”

His smile deepened, softening, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Then I count myself fortunate. Most flee when they see me approach. I’ve yet to decide if it is my reputation, my low birth, or simply my face that frightens them.”

It was meant as a jest, but it pierced through her heart. She had thought of him as a powerful man. There were sonnets written about this man's fighting prowess, his skilled swordsmanship, and the various strategies of his that had won his father one too many battles. This wonderful warrior prince thought of him as someone with low birth? But perhaps, Penelope thought, he had been getting trouble for simply being a bastard born. 

“Umm… are you thinking about the best way to get rid of me?” He asked, breaking Penelope's internalizations. 

“Not at all. I was just thinking about how anyone could possibly think you're scary.”

The way his gaze lingered—deep and searching, as though she were some secret he longed to unlock—stirred something treacherous in her. His pupils had widened, his lips curved in that slow, devastating smile, and when he drew a breath she swore she could feel it across the small space between them.

He was attracted to her. She knew it, felt it, like the whisper of flame on dry wood.

And she… oh, she was drawn too.

If only he had met her seven months ago, before this fate was chosen for her.

But—seven months ago. She had been bent over greasy pans, her hair damp with steam, her hands raw from lye. Not this beautiful creature wrapped in silk, painted in colours chosen by imperial whim. He might not have seen her then, not truly. 

The emperor had, for some reason. That was the difference. And she belonged to the emperor now.

The reminder burned like iron pressed against her skin.

So when he said softly, “If you would allow me, I should be honoured to walk you to the country fair this evening,” she forced her lips into the shape of refusal.

“I cannot,” she whispered, each word tasting like ash.

For the briefest moment, disappointment flickered in his eyes. Then, as swiftly as a veil drawn, it was gone, replaced by an easy smile, the courteous mask of a prince well-schooled in disguising pain. “Of course,” he said gently. “I would not press what is unwelcome, my lady.”

She gave him a reluctant, pained smile. Her gaze betrayed her, drifting to the scarf tangled high in the branches overhead. He followed it, his eyes brightening with mischief. “Ah. So that is what holds your attention.”

Before she could protest, he was already striding back towards the tree, agile as any huntsman. He scaled it with the kind of grace no courtly tutor could teach, snatched the scarf free, and descended in a flourish that made her pulse stutter. He was so tall. So very tall.

He held it out. She grasped one end, meaning to snatch it quickly away, but his fingers lingered. Just as she tugged, he pulled lightly back, forcing her eyes to his.

“At least,” he murmured, voice low and coaxing, “grant me your name.”

Her throat tightened. To give it was foolish. To withhold it impossible.

“Penelope,” she said at last, soft and rueful.

His lips shaped it immediately, as though testing a rare jewel. “Penelope…”

But she had already turned, clutching the scarf to her chest as though it might shield her, hurrying away from temptation, from him, from herself.

Behind her, his whisper lingered in the air like a vow.

“Penelope.”

 

That night Penelope found herself to be extremely distracted when the emperor cane to her chamber. Naturally he noticed the difference at once. He had a predator’s instinct for the smallest shifts in her behaviour, and tonight Penelope was slower to melt for him, her eyes unfocused, her sighs, when he kissed her, faintly delayed. His irritation crackled like a storm beneath his skin. He seized her wrist and pinned it hard above her head.

“Do not test my patience,” he growled, mouth hot against her throat, as he pushed into her with his usual commanding force.

The emperor had always known the ways her body yielded best, and tonight, with that faint resistance in her, he shifted her with a firm grip, bending her forward until her cheek pressed to the silken pillow. He lifted her hips, arranging her as one might a cherished possession rather than a partner, and slid into her from behind with a guttural sound of satisfaction.

Penelope gasped, eyes fluttering shut as her body accepted him. It was easier like this—when she didn’t have to meet his piercing gaze, when her face was hidden and her mind could drift. And drift it did.

She pictured the lanterns of the country fair, the laughter and music in the warm night air, and Prince Colin’s hand steady at the small of her back as he drew her into a dance. His smile—so gentle, so achingly tender—made her heart pound, and in her imagination, it was Colin who leaned close, Colin who pressed behind her, his breath ragged with desire as he claimed her in the shadows of the fairground.

Her lips parted on a soft moan, and her body began to move eagerly, rocking back against the emperor’s deep thrusts. 

“Oh… yes–yes! Harder–please…” she moaned loudly for good measure.

He grunted in approval, mistaking her growing fervour as his triumph. His pace quickened, driving into her with raw power, while she trembled beneath him, chasing a release painted not in his colours but in Colin’s.

When her body shuddered and gave way, it was not the emperor’s name that trembled unspoken on her lips, but the forbidden one she dared not voice: Colin.

When at last the emperor spent himself, he collapsed heavily against her back, drawing a sharp breath before rolling to his side. He pulled her with him out of habit, draping her across his chest as if she were a favoured ornament. His eyes fluttered closed almost immediately, content in his own satisfaction.

Penelope lay still, her cheek pressed to the warmth of his skin, her body damp with the exertion he’d demanded of it. She kept her breathing slow, even, lest he open his eyes and notice the distance in hers.

But her mind was far away—far from the perfumed chamber, far from the emperor’s possessive arms. She was back beneath strings of paper lanterns, hearing the faint trill of fiddles and pipes, feeling Colin’s hand curl around hers as he spun her lightly across the fairground. His laughter rang in her ears, his blue eyes shone only for her, and when he drew her against him in the shadows, it was with a hunger both tender and thrilling.

Her body still hummed from the emperor’s claiming, yet it was Colin’s imagined embrace that made her pulse quicken, Colin’s phantom lips she longed for. She closed her eyes tightly, guilt flickering at the edges of her thoughts, and whispered to herself in silence: No, you belong here. You belong to the emperor. Do not think about his son.

And yet, as sleep finally crept over her, the last image she clung to was not the emperor’s face but Colin’s, tilting towards hers with that rueful, unforgettable smile.

The next morning, Penelope carried her basket through the shaded path leading from the women’s quarters towards the inner garden. She had meant only to slip away for a few quiet moments, the weight of last night’s thoughts still pressing heavily on her.

But fate—or mischief—placed Colin directly in her path. He leaned against the low stone wall, sunlight catching the hints of gold in his chestnut brown hair, making him look less like a prince and more like some demigod who had no right to look so good at all.

His eyes lit when they found hers. “There you are,” he said, his voice low, as though this meeting had been by design. “I was wondering if I’d see those clear blue eyes again.”

Her breath hitched. She knew better than to linger, better than to allow this warmth that threatened to bloom in her chest at his flirtations. The emperor would not forgive it. She lowered her gaze, murmuring, “Your Highness mistakes me. They are nothing remarkable.”

But Colin tilted his head, studying her in that disarming way of his. “Nothing remarkable? They’re the very shade of sky just before the day grows too hot. Gentle. Unassuming. But once you’ve seen them—impossible to forget. And…they also might or might not have infiltrated my dreams!”

Heat rushed to her cheeks. Her lips parted, desperate to form some careful, cold rebuke, yet nothing came. And in the silence, she betrayed herself with the smallest of smiles.

“There,” he said softly, as though the smile was a prize. “Much better. You should smile more often.”

She drew in a shaky breath. “You are too kind, my lord. But such words are wasted on me.”

“Never wasted,” he said, and though the flirtation still lingered, his tone shifted, more genuine. “Tell me—how do you spend your days here? What keeps you company in a place like this?”

Penelope hesitated, fingers tightening on her basket’s handle. Truth slipped out before caution could bar the way. “Books,” she admitted, almost in a whisper. “They take me places I cannot go. They… keep me alive.”

His smile softened, boyish wonder flickering in his eyes. “Books,” he echoed, as though the word itself was delightful. “Then we are alike, you and I. My tutors despaired of me, but not a soul could keep me from my stories. Tales of heroes, adventures, faraway lands… They were my truest companions.”

Her heart gave a traitorous leap. To hear him speak so, to feel the invisible thread tug tighter between them—dangerous, foolish, impossible.

Still, for one suspended moment, she let herself meet his gaze full on. “Then perhaps,” she said, her voice very soft, “we truly are not so different.”

Colin shifted, no longer lounging so carelessly but turning to face her fully, arms folded as he leaned one shoulder against the stone wall. His gaze—steady, warm, unnervingly intent—never left hers.

He seemed to consider her words and then formed a question,“Tell me then, which is your favourite tale? The one you return to, no matter how many times you’ve read it?”

She blinked at him, caught off guard by the question. So few cared to ask her such things—what she thought, what she loved. She was prized for her body, not her mind. And yet this prince, who should have seen only her silks and jewels, looked at her as though waiting for her answer was the most important thing in the world.

She wet her lips nervously. “I… I think of an old romance. A story of a woman who thought herself unworthy of love, but was chosen by a man who loved her not for her beauty but for her heart.”

His mouth curved, not in amusement but in something gentler, something dangerously tender. “Then it is not only adventure you read for. You believe in love, too.”

She faltered, panic and longing warring in her chest. Careful, Penelope, a voice in her mind whispered. The emperor’s shadow is everywhere. And yet—Colin’s eyes were so blue, so searching, and for once she wanted to be honest.

“Its true,” she admitted, barely above a whisper. “I did. Once.”

Colin tilted his head, considering her. “And now?”

Her pulse thundered in her ears. She could not tell him of gilded cages and the emperor’s relentless passion. She could not speak of the dreams she’d buried beneath layers of silk. But something in his expression—open, earnest, hungry not for her body but for her truth—unlocked her.

“Now,” she said carefully, “I am learning to live without such hopes.”

For the first time, he frowned, as though the idea pained him. He stepped closer, just a little, lowering his voice. “Then let me be bold, Penelope—” he lingered on her name as though tasting it, “—and say that any man who robbed you of hope did the world a disservice. You deserve more than survival. You deserve joy.”

Her throat constricted. He wasn’t teasing her now, wasn’t flirting with careless charm. He meant it. He sought not just her smile or her touch, but the heart she had long hidden away.

The danger of it was immense. Her body trembled with the knowledge. Yet for that brief, stolen moment in the garden, Penelope let herself bask in the reckless sweetness of his words and in the terrifying, undeniable pull between them.

The garden air grew heavier with each unspoken thought, each shared breath. Colin had edged a step closer, close enough that Penelope could catch the faint scent of spice and leather clinging to him. He looked at her as though she were the only soul alive.

And then—

“My lady.”

The voice, clipped and cool, shattered the fragile stillness. Penelope jerked, nearly dropping her basket. Rae stood at the archway, her posture rigid with propriety. Her sharp eyes darted from Penelope's to the prince and back again.

Colin’s jaw tightened at the interruption almost imperceptibly, but he recovered swiftly. He straightened, bowing his head slightly toward her, all casual charm restored. “Forgive me, Penelope, for keeping you from your… duties.”

Rae stepped forward, placing herself between them without any subtlety. Penelope’s cheeks burned with panic, with longing, with loss.

Colin lingered just a moment longer, his gaze holding hers. His smile softened, almost private now. “I shall hope, then, that you will tell me more of your stories another time. They suit you.”

And with that, he turned on his heel, retreating with a prince’s grace, though not without a final glance over his shoulder. His eyes caught hers, steady, promising, before he disappeared down the path.

Only once he was gone did Penelope dare draw a full breath. Rae’s presence loomed beside her, silent, watchful. She felt the weight of her own foolishness pressing hard upon her chest—but beneath it, buried yet pulsing, the echo of Colin’s words throbbed like a secret flame: You deserve joy.

Penelope’s heart thudded painfully as she turned to Rae, clutching her scarf against her chest as if it might shield her from the weight of what had just transpired.

“Please, Rae,” she whispered, her voice trembling with both urgency and shame. “Keep this meeting between us.”

Her maid’s dark eyes softened, though her mouth pressed into a thin, disapproving line. Rae had been with her since the day she was brought trembling and unprepared into the emperor’s chambers; she had seen Penelope’s tears, her laughter, her slow transformation into the emperor’s favoured concubine. In those seven months, their bond had grown into something stronger than mistress and servant.

“My lady…” Rae’s tone held warning, but beneath it, loyalty thrummed. “Do you understand the danger of what you ask? If the emperor even suspected—”

“I do,” Penelope cut her off, gripping Rae’s hand with desperate fingers. “I do. But he only spoke kindly. That is all. I swear it. It was harmless.”

Rae searched her face for a long moment, then exhaled, squeezing Penelope’s hand in return. “Kind words from the wrong man can be more dangerous than cruel ones, my lady.” Her voice dropped lower, conspiratorial. “But I will keep your secret. For now.”

Relief flooded Penelope’s chest, though it was tinged with unease. She nodded, unable to say more, for even speaking Colin’s name felt like conjuring fire.

Rae adjusted the scarf around her shoulders, her fingers lingering a moment longer than necessary, her eyes sharp. “Guard your heart, your ladyship. Because I cannot protect you from yourself.”

At first, Rae was nothing but firm.

“The emperor is not a man to forgive disloyalty,” she whispered one night while helping Penelope out of her gown. “Not even in thought. Especially not in thought.”

Penelope had flushed scarlet and sworn she meant nothing by the prince’s kindness, yet Rae had caught the light in her mistress’s eyes — a light she had not seen before, not even after the emperor’s many visits. That light frightened her more than anything.

But days passed, and Colin returned. Not brazenly, not foolishly. He never sought Penelope openly in the halls of the palace — instead he left small signs for Rae to deliver: a folded scrap of verse slipped into her hand when no one watched, a flower plucked from the garden and pressed between pages of a book, a casual enquiry as to Penelope’s favourite authors. Always through Rae, never directly.

And Rae, though she scolded herself for it, began to carry these messages. At first reluctantly, with muttered warnings and sharp glares. But she could not deny what she saw each time Penelope unfolded a note or traced her fingers over a petal: her mistress glowed. She bloomed as though sunlight had finally reached the hidden corners of her soul.

Rae’s heart softened against her will. “You are reckless,” she whispered one evening as Penelope clutched Colin’s latest token, a ribbon he claimed matched the shade of her eyes. “But… you are also happy. Happier than I have ever seen you.”

For the first time, Penelope did not deny it.

And Rae, despite her every instinct screaming caution, resolved that she would help her mistress protect this fragile, dangerous joy — even if it meant guarding more than one secret.

It was Rae’s idea, though Penelope would never have dared to say so aloud.

“If he wishes to see you, my lady, then it must be somewhere safe,” the maid murmured one evening while braiding Penelope’s hair. “The emperor’s eyes are everywhere. But if I were to keep watch, perhaps…” She trailed off, biting her lip.

Penelope’s heart pounded. “Rae—no, I cannot ask this of you.”

“You did not ask,” Rae replied softly, hands steady though her voice shook. “But I have eyes. I see how you wither when he is gone, and how you bloom when he is near. If a few stolen moments bring you life, then I will make it possible.”

And so, on a dusky evening heavy with the scent of jasmine, Rae led her through a lesser-known passage that wound around the concubines’ gardens. There, beneath a stone pavilion half-hidden by trailing wisteria, Prince Colin was waiting.

He stood as she approached, every inch the courteous nobleman, though his eyes betrayed something gentler, something searching.

“I feared you would not come,” he said, smiling — not with triumph, but with relief.

Penelope folded her hands to still their trembling. “I should not have.”

“Yet you did.” His gaze softened, and when she offered no reply, he inclined his head. “Relax. I am not here to coerce you into anything. Let us only talk. Nothing more, I promise. I feel less lonely when I talk to you.”

And they did talk. Of books — she confessed her fondness for tales of faraway kingdoms, and he admitted to carrying a battered volume of poetry in his saddlebag wherever he rode. Of music — she told him of the lullabies her mother once hummed, and he confessed that he did not know how that feels, as his mother died in childbirth and there was no one to sing lullabies to him. He described the mournful strains of flutes played by shepherd boys in Bloomsbury’s hills. The conversation flowed with surprising ease, unburdened by courtly masks.

Yet beneath it all lingered a current neither dared name. He watched her lips when she smiled; she felt the air shift each time he leaned just a fraction closer. He longed to kiss her, she knew it — her body hummed with the knowledge — but he seemed to sense, instinctively, that she could not return such a gesture. Not yet. Perhaps not ever.

When Rae appeared at the edge of the pavilion, giving a discreet cough, Penelope rose reluctantly. Colin caught her hand for the briefest moment, bowing over it as though she were indeed the court lady he still believed her to be.

“Until next time,” he whispered.

And there was a next time. And another. Rae, ever watchful, arranged these quiet meetings, shooing away servants, timing Penelope’s absences so they went unnoticed. She became the invisible thread that bound them together, their sole protector in a world that would never permit such friendship.

For Penelope, the emperor’s nightly visits became something she endured. But these stolen hours with Colin — his laughter, his kindness, his thoughtful questions — they became the reason she rose in the mornings. In the secret corners of the palace, hidden behind Rae’s careful hand, she discovered the one thing that made her existence worthwhile: the dangerous sweetness of being seen, not as the emperor’s favourite, but simply as Penelope.

 

Notes:

Thoughts?

Chapter 4: Rejection

Summary:

Penelope rejects Colin's advances, despite their growing attraction. Will Edmund find out what's happening in his palace?

Penelope had grown used to Edmund’s visits, to the rhythm of his hunger and the rough claiming that followed. Her body responded because it had been trained to it, because he demanded it, but her heart remained untouched, a locked chamber he had never once thought to open.

She realised, with a jolt of honesty, that she had never loved him. Not in the way women whispered of love in kitchens and courtyards. She had feared him, respected him, even delighted in his attention when he showered her with luxuries and favours. But emotional attachment? No. That was not what bound her to the emperor’s bed. 

And yet, all it had taken was one glance into a pair of impossibly blue eyes, one smile from the Duke of Bloomsbury, to unravel the defences she hadn’t even known she’d built.

Colin.

The thought of him made her pulse race in a way Edmund’s touch never had. With the emperor, she gave her body because she must. With Colin, her heart had leapt before she could stop it. The dangerous truth pulsed through her like a secret flame: she had never belonged to the Emperor, not really. For the first time in her life, she *belonged* to someone, and it was to the man who could never be hers. And it would destroy her utterly if anyone ever discovered it.

The more her heart became his, the more anxiety mounted in her mind. No, she couldn't risk Colin's life along with her by continuing this madness. He called it friendship but did he know how he looked at her. With softness, tenderness, entirely inappropriate for a mere friend! She had to end this before temptation stroked and they did something they both would regret. And so she sent a note through Rae for him to meet her one last time on the patio near the east gate of the palace. 

She walked fast through the gardens that shimmered with the soft light of early evening. 

Her scarf had slipped, her coppery hair catching the last of the sun. She clutched it against her chest, her heart pounding. 

Colin was there, leaning against the carved balustrade, the soft light gilding his profile. At the sound of her footfall he turned, and the moment his gaze met hers, Penelope felt stripped bare.

“Penelope.” Her name was a sigh on his lips, tender and reverent, as if saying it gave him relief. 

She froze, clutching her scarf more tightly. If he knew. If he guessed who she really was... Would those eyes still soften for her? Would his lips still form her name so gently, if he knew she was nothing more than the Emperor’s chosen concubine…his father’s whore?

He crossed the pavilion toward her slowly, as though afraid she might vanish if he moved too quickly. He stopped close enough that she could smell the faint leather and cedarwood on his clothes, close enough that her pulse stuttered.

“You should not…” Her voice faltered, her throat dry. “You should not look at me so.”

“How else should I look at you?” he asked softly, his lips tugging into a rueful smile. His eyes roamed her face. Her flushed cheeks, the trembling line of her mouth. “Do you know what it does to me, to see your beautiful face, to know that you exist behind these palace walls and yet I cannot reach you whenever I can? That I have to wait for your note to even get to see your beauty–”

She turned her face away, struggling to breathe steadily. Her heart leapt wildly at his sweet words, but fear pressed harder still. He didn’t know. He couldn’t know. If he discovered the truth, the shame of it might break her… or worse, it might change the warmth in his eyes into disgust.

“Colin…” She whispered his name before she could stop herself, and he startled slightly, as if hearing her lips shape it was a gift. “We shouldn't… this is a bad idea.”

He moved a step closer. His hand lifted, hesitated, then brushed her loosened scarf back into place, his knuckles grazing her temple. The touch was feather-light, but it sent shivers all the way to her toes.

“And why is that so?” He whispered in that deep gravely voice of his. 

Her lips parted. His eyes dropped to them. He lingered, hungry, aching… and she knew, with absolute certainty, that he longed to kiss her. And she longed to let him.

But she couldn’t. She mustn’t.

“I cannot,” she blurted, retreating a step. Her hands folded tight against her body as though to hold herself together. “My body… it belongs to another.”

Colin’s face shadowed, his jaw tightening. “Anthony.” His voice was thick with bitterness. “It must be him. I’ve heard the rumours, that he keeps a mistress, that he’s lost his sense for her. Do you love him?”

Her heart hammered, panicked, but she didn’t correct him. She couldn’t. “It does not matter who I belong to or whether I love him or not. What matters is his power. His jealousy. If he even suspected I'm meeting you…” She broke off, trembling. “He would destroy you.”

“Then let him try.” His voice surged with passion, fierce and tender all at once. He caught her wrist gently, holding her hand as though it were something precious. “Penelope, you are not meant to live caged. If you are happy with your current situation, I'll let you be but if you have even an ounce of doubt… Let me take you away. Away from this palace, this life. To the continent, across seas, wherever you wish. I can give you freedom. I can give you joy.”

Her eyes burned. Oh, how she wanted to believe him. But the truth lay heavy between them. She thought of the emperor… of his possessive grip, of the way he marked her night after night, of the shadow his power cast. Would Colin still be willing, if he knew she had already been claimed, used, owned by his father?

Tears slipped down her cheeks. “No… you don’t understand. He would kill you.”

“And I would risk it,” Colin whispered, his thumb brushing over her hand. “For you, I would risk it all.”

Her body swayed toward him, traitorous. She wanted his kiss, his arms, the salvation he promised. He took one final step towards her, raising his free hand towards her cheek, as if to cup her face. But terror clawed at her throat, forcing her back. 

“No… no! I can't… I can't, Colin. I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry…”

With a sob, she tore her hand from his and fled the pavilion, her scarf falling from her shoulder like a streak of yellow flame.

Colin stood rooted to the marble floor, his breath ragged, his heart in pieces. He whispered her name into the gathering night, “Penelope,” as though if he repeated it often enough, she would return to him. Desolate, he kneeled in front of her scarf that was lying on the marbled floor of the patio and picked it up, winding it around his wrist. Sniffing it, smelling her on it, and letting out a frustrated groan.

“Trust me, Pen. I will fight the world for you if it comes to that. Just have faith in me… please.” he whispered, still looking at the direction she fled, as a lone tear escaped from his eyes and rolled down his cheek.

The corridors of the palace were hushed, the twilight hour casting long shadows across the painted walls. Penelope moved like a ghost through them, her lips still burning with the kiss that never happened.

Colin’s voice haunted her with every step: *I would risk it all. For you.*

Her body ached with yearning, but terror pressed down harder still. By the time she reached her chambers, her tears had dried but her eyes were raw from weeping. She pushed the doors closed behind her, leaning back against them, willing her pulse to steady.

A low voice cut through the silence.

“You’re late.”

Her head jerked up. The Emperor was already there, seated in her chair by the fire as though he had been waiting for a while. She frowned. He was there earlier than his normal visiting hours. But who was she to question him? Her sole purpose was to be at his beck and call every second of every day.

His figure filled the room with menace. Even in repose, power dripped from him: the tilt of his chin, the hand curled lazily around a goblet of wine.

Penelope froze, her breath caught in her throat. Had he seen her with the prince? Had he guessed that her heart didn't belong to her anymore?

“Where have you been?” Edmund’s voice was calm, too calm. “You were not here when I came.”

Penelope opened her mouth but found no words. Her throat was dry as ash.

“My lord,” Rae’s voice cut in quickly from the shadows. She stepped forward from behind Penelope. “Her ladyship was with me in the gardens. The dusk air helps her relax and puts her in a good mood. Forgive us for losing track of the hour, your Majesty. But we did not expect you to be here for another hour.”

Penelope flinched inwardly at Rae's bold move to call him out on his early-ness. She didn't show any sign of it outwardly though.

Edmund’s eyes slid from Penelope to Rae. The silence stretched, taut and dangerous. He rose slowly, pacing toward them, his goblet dangling from two fingers. “Is that so?”

“Yes, sire,” Rae said steadily, though Penelope could see the flicker of nerves in her maid’s eyes.

Edmund studied them both for a long moment, suspicion simmering behind his dark gaze. At last, he hummed low in his throat, dismissive, as though the matter was beneath him. “See that it does not happen again. I expect you to be prepared for me when I arrive. I want to see you in the nightly couture of yours, not these hideous day dresses that hide all of you.”

Relief crashed through Penelope so forcefully her knees nearly buckled. 

But it was short-lived. As soon as she began to walk towards her dress closet to change and mercifully, have a few moment's reprieve to gather her thoughts and composure, he set the goblet down and reached for her, cupping her jaw with a hand that was rough, possessive, unyielding. “You look despondent," he murmured, his thumb dragging across her cheek. “Your eyes betray you. Who has stolen your thoughts?”

Panic spiked through her veins. She forced her lips into a soft curve, forced her gaze downward. “No one, sire. Only you.”

For a moment, he searched her face, as though sniffing for deceit. Then his mouth twisted into a sharp smile. “Good.”

He pulled her flush against him, his mouth crashing down on hers with a ferocity that left her gasping. His kiss was conquest, not reverence; where Colin’s almost-kiss, his touch on her wrist had been a prayer, Edmund’s was plunder.

Before she realised what was happening, her dress slipped down to the floor as he pushed her back toward the bed. 

“Please… I could get changed first…” she almost begged, but the emperor just chuckled in amusement. 

“For me to take those scraps off your body? No need. I have been far too patient today, waiting for you. Now I want you naked, below me.”

As he pressed her down, Penelope shut her eyes. She let her mind drift elsewhere, to the pavilion, to the scent of roses in the air, to Colin’s eyes lit with yearning, to the way he had said ‘Penelope’ like her name was salvation.

Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes as Edmund’s solid form covered hers. Her lips formed silent words, not the cries he wanted but the name she could never utter aloud.

‘Colin.’

Edmund did not waste time with caresses. His hunger was too sharp, too accustomed to being fed without delay. And this night, he had already been held up for a long time. He stripped her shift with urgency, baring her breasts with a rough tug, and bent to seize one between his teeth. Penelope gasped, the sting sharp, but he only growled in satisfaction, sucking harder until her nipple ached.

His hands were everywhere at once. Gripping her hips, dragging her up, spreading her thighs with ruthless insistence. She whimpered, and his voice came like a growl against her skin.

“You whimper as though you don’t crave it. You always do.”

Her body responded with months of training. Her sex got wetter for the impending breech. Her breathing turned ragged and she bit her lip, waiting for the inevitable. She gasped when his hard length pressed against her, partly in shock and partly due to the earlier melancholy returning to her in full force.

“Look at you,” he rasped, misjudging her reaction to building pleasure, pressing himself hard against her, grinding until she arched beneath him. “Soft… needy. Mine.”

He shoved into her with a single, brutal thrust that made her cry out, clutching at the sheets. He didn’t pause, didn’t give her time to adjust, but set a punishing rhythm, each stroke hard enough to jar her bones.

Penelope’s hands clutched at him, nails digging into his shoulders, not out of passion but to steady herself. He mistook it for eagerness, groaning into her throat as he pistoned harder.

“Tell me once again,” he demanded, his breath hot in her ear. “Say who you belong to.”

Her lips trembled. She forced the words out, tasting salt and iron on her tongue.

“You, sire.”

The admission drew a feral sound from him. He shifted her, dragging her hips higher, forcing her knees apart until the stretch burned. The new angle let him drive deeper, and her moans filled the chamber whether she wished them to or not.

He clutched her wrists, pinning them above her head, his mouth crashing down again and again biting, consuming, leaving her marked. There was nothing gentle, nothing tender; only possession, raw and absolute.

And yet… beneath the bruising thrusts, beneath the stifling weight, her mind drifted. She pictured another man’s gaze… Soft, blue, longing. She imagined what it would be like if Colin took her this way, not as an emperor claiming tribute but as a man offering his heart and soul.

Her body shuddered instantly at the thought of Colin's body joining hers in such an intimate way. She began convulsing with a strong orgasm and Edmund groaned low, burying himself to the hilt, spilling his seed deep inside her with a snarl. He collapsed heavy against her, panting into her hair, muttering words of ownership — “mine, mine, always mine.”

Penelope lay beneath him, limp, her body wrung out. Her eyes stared into the canopy above, but her thoughts were far away, at the garden pavilion, at the echo of Colin’s voice.

If only he knew who she truly belonged to.

She couldn't succumb to sleep even after the emperor had slumped into slumber beside her. His arm was thrown heavily across her waist, his body half sprawled over hers, pressing her down into the mattress. Each shallow breath she took reminded her of the weight crushing her chest, of the cage that even his sleep could not release her from. She longed to shove him away, to slip from beneath his body, run barefoot across the silent courtyards and into Colin’s waiting arms. But she knew what that would mean. Not just hers but probably his death too.

So she lay still, her eyes burning with unshed tears until they spilled quietly into her hair. Each tear carried a silent cry: for the freedom she could never taste, for the love she had only just found but already knew she must surrender.

She told herself over and over that she must never see Colin again. Not by accident, not with Rae’s help, not even in passing. Every look, every stolen word had drawn him deeper into her hell, and it was her selfishness, her greed to have some human connection that had entangled them with each other so intricately. She could not bear the thought of him being consumed by the fire that she had lit. Better she alone bore the weight and blame of this heartbreak. Better she locked her heart away and pretended it had never been his.

Still, her mind wandered to the impossible picture: herself as Colin’s wife, her days filled with gentle laughter and shared words, her nights warmed by his tender touch. Him, making love to her, first gently, then passion giving way, taking hold of their bodies so deliciously that it was impossible to let go of each other. She dreamed of a modest house. Not too grand like this palace. She imagined his solid form dressed in simple garbs, her in plain dresses. Him, a worksman, not as a duke of anywhere. Her, a respectable young woman, not a royal plaything. Together, they would create a simple, loving family. Two, perhaps three children. A life that should have been hers, had fate been kinder. A life she would never have.

Her throat ached as she pressed her lips together, swallowing sobs so as not to wake the man who would destroy them both if he ever guessed what kind of thoughts ran in her mind.

‘This is my life now,’’ she told herself fiercely, though her heart resisted the words. ‘And to save the man I pove, I will do anything. Even if it means I must kill what is left of my own soul.’

Colin had risen early the next day, though he barely had slept the earlier night. His mind was still caught on her face from last evening, the way her eyes had shone with unshed tears even as she pulled away, the tremble in her voice when she had told him no. He could not shake the image, nor the hollow echo of her footsteps as she fled.

All day he lingered in the gardens and courtyards, walking the paths where she had appeared before, wandering to their secret meeting spots, pausing beneath the tree where he had met her for the first time. Every sound of footstep, every glimpse of colour in the distance sent his heart racing. Yet she did not come.

*Penelope…*

He thought of their first meeting, how startled she had been when her scarf set his horse off, making him fall, how apologetic she was, how her cheeks had flushed as she stammered her name. From that moment, she had been his sun. The bright point of his days, the reason for his restless smiles and quicker steps.

But he had seen the sadness too, she tried to hide it well…the loneliness that clung to her like a shadow. It was not just attraction that drew him back to her again and again; it was the knowledge that she was suffering. Despite the silks and jewels she wore, he knew she was not happy. She carried her misery in her eyes. And he could not bear it.

He had guessed long ago that she was no mere court lady. Perhaps a mistress, bound to some powerful official, held in gilded captivity. He had tried, at first, to restrain himself, to keep his distance. Better to be her friend than risk her ruin. Better to listen to her speak of books, to share small, secret smiles, than to press her into anything she did not wish.

But yesterday, his control had failed him. She was beautiful, in an innocent, unassuming way. Her pretty face and her ripe womanly figure would have been enough to draw attention of any hot-blooded man towards her. But that was not what made Colin lose his mind. It was her sadness, her loneliness that had struck something raw in him. He had wanted to kiss her, to promise her she was not alone. To assure her that if she happened to choose him, he would never let her feel this melancholy. But she had run.

Now, panic gnawed at him. Had he destroyed what fragile trust lay between them? Had he frightened her away forever?

He sank onto a stone ledge by the fountain, elbows on his knees, dragging both hands through his hair. A low, anguished sound escaped his throat. He had always been alone in the world, even with his father’s favour. Bastard-born, with no name for his mother, no place that fully claimed him, only a face that bore resemblance entirely to his father. Not even a trace of his mother's existence had seeped into his being. Nobody ever talked to him about her. He didn't know her name, didn't even know whether she was a lowborn whore, or a noble woman. The emperor, considering he was an illegitimate child, had been too kind and loving to him since childhood. Sometimes even preferring his company over prince Anthony and prince Benedict's. A fact that irked the empress a great deal. Which is why she had made the emperor send him away. First, by whining and grumbling about it incessantly, then, outright making an attempt on his life through an unnamed assassin, prompting the Emperor to send him away. He had worn loneliness like armour after that. No one was to be trusted, if he wanted to keep his head. 

That was the lesson the emperor had imparted on him.

But never had the loneliness cut as deep as now. Not after knowing what it felt like to have a friend, a lovely person who saw him as a person. Not as a man who bore too much of his father's genes to be a simple courtier and too illegitimate to be considered as a royal. He had seen genuine kindness in her smile, and felt her eyes seek his, not to gain favour, but to make a connection. And now, to let that go…

He looked up at the sky, the soft blue of twilight spreading wide above the palace. The same blue as her eyes, the very colour that haunted him. His throat tightened, and in a whisper that broke halfway through, he pleaded to the fading light:

“Pen… please… come back to me. Even if only to talk. Please.”

The breeze stirred the branches, but no answer came. Only the echo of his own yearning, swallowed by the vast, indifferent sky.

For three days, Colin searched high and low. He walked the gardens until his boots wore thin, prowled the colonnades, lingered by fountains and shaded alcoves where she had once lingered. He even drifted to the edges of the women’s quarters, though he knew he should not. Nothing. Not a glimpse of her.

By the end of the third day, desperation hollowed him. He had not eaten, had barely slept. That evening, he turned instead to whisky sharp, burning, endless. He drank until the fire dulled his ache, then drank more when it returned.

For a week he shut himself inside his chambers, curtains drawn against the world. Servants left food outside, untouched. Bottles gathered like fallen soldiers around him. His once-bright eyes dulled, and his laughter which was always quick, always charming was silenced.

It was in this ruin that Edmund found him a week later. The emperor’s knock was not a request but a command, his presence filling the doorway like a storm. Colin, dishevelled and half-drunk, scrambled to rise. The sight of his father’s gaze, sharp and assessing, struck more shame into him than anything ever had.

“Colin,” Edmund said, voice deceptively calm. “What the devil is this I hear? That my favourite son rots in his chamber like some lovelorn schoolboy? Explain yourself. Who is this cunt who dares to scorn my son?”

“Father, please…” He said indignantly, “Do not speak of her like that.” 

“Colin,” Edmubd said, his voice low, gentler now. “Please tell me, child…?”

At the endearment, Colin’s composure shattered. He fell to his knees before his father, burying his face in his hands as sobs wracked his chest. “I have failed, Father,” he choked. “I’ve failed in love. I thought… I thought I had found someone who could make this hollow life worth living. But she won’t have me. Or—no—she can’t.” His voice cracked. “She is bound to another, and it’s killing me to think she’s miserable with him, but too frightened to break free.”

Edmund’s brows knit together. He laid a heavy hand on Colin’s shoulder, but his tone sharpened. “Do you know who she belongs to?”

Colin shook his head, tears still streaking his face. “No.”

“Do you know anything about her family?” Edmund pressed, his voice quieter now.

“No.”

Well, which of the foolish, giggling court ladies had broken his boy so devastatingly then? 

 “Do you know anything about her at all?” Edmund asked, a bit frustrated now at the lack of the information.

Colin lifted his head, eyes red, lips trembling. “Only her name. Penelope.”

For the briefest moment, the world stilled. Edmund’s jaw clenched, a muscle ticking in his cheek. Fury surged in him, hot and choking. But he swallowed it down, locking it behind the mask of a ruler.

“And tell me,” he asked, his tone deceptively mild, “has she lain with you?”

Colin’s eyes widened in hurt at the question. “No, Father. Never. I’d not dishonour her.”

Relief flickered through Edmund, sharp as a blade easing from flesh. Still, his pulse hammered. He smoothed a hand down his beard, careful not to betray too much.

“Will you find her for me, Father? She has become a dearest friend. And it displeases me a great deal that I have spoiled that sacred bond by bringing love in the mix. I need to talk to her. Make her see…” Colin’s plea was raw, aching. He clutched at Edmund’s sleeve like a drowning man. “Please. Please…and I'm almost sure… I have a feeling she loves me too. She’s only too frightened of the monster who keeps her in that gilded cage.”

Edmund’s eyes, dark and unreadable, held his son’s. The word ‘monster’ tasted bitter in his mouth. He straightened slowly, pulling his authority about him like a cloak.

“I will make no promises,” he said curtly. “But I will do what I can.”

He turned then, lest Colin see the storm rising in him and exited the chamber hastily with a whirlwind of emotions in his mind.

Notes:

What do you think Edmund's reaction will be?

Chapter 5: Laceration

Summary:

Edmund plays dirty, Penelope resigns to her fate to protect Colin's life, but Colin resolves to take the situation in his hands.

The moment Edmund stepped out of Colin’s chamber and the heavy door sealed behind him, his stride quickened. He cut through the corridor like a blade unsheathed, attendants scrambling to bow out of his way. He dismissed them all with a flick of his hand. He needed no witnesses to the storm that roared within.

Penelope.

The name scraped against his mind like flint to steel. His son’s tears, his pleading words…”she’s too frightened of the monster who keeps her in that gilded cage”...had struck with a precision Colin could never have intended. Edmund’s teeth ground together as the realisation settled.

Colin’s beloved was no court lady, no distant noble’s mistress. She was his concubine. His chosen one. His sweetest indulgence, his finest treasure, the one he had picked from soot stained hearth, wrapped in silk and gold, kept separate from the rest because she belonged to him alone.

His Penelope.

And Colin, his favourite son, had set his heart upon the same girl.

Possessiveness burned hot in his chest, an inferno licking at his veins. He could still feel her curvaceous body beneath his hands, the way she surrendered to him every night, the way her soft mouth gasped when he fucked her. How dare fate be so cruel as to turn his most prized concubine into the object of his son’s desire?

For a moment, Edmund’s vision swam red. He wanted to storm into Penelope’s chambers, to pin her beneath him, or spank her, to remind her who she belonged to, whose seed filled her, whose touch claimed her night after night.

But he forced his jaw to relax, forcing the rage back into its cage. He was emperor. He could not act rashly.

He pressed a palm flat against the cold stone of the corridor, closing his eyes. The thought of Colin, his darling boy, the one son he had always truly loved, longing after her, pining, pleading to be given what was his, cut deeper than he wished to admit.

But  Penelope would not leave him. She could not.

No concubine left the emperor’s embrace alive.

His lips curled into a grim line. He would not give her up. Not to Colin. Not to anyone.

And perhaps, he thought darkly, it was time to remind Penelope of exactly what it meant to be his.

That night, Edmund entered Penelope’s chambers without the usual storm of authority. He came quietly, almost gently, closing the door behind him as if he meant to shield her from the world rather than imprison her in it.

She sat waiting by the low couch, golden silk spilling about her like poured light, her eyes lowered. When he reached her, he did not touch her at once, only lowered himself beside her. His voice, when it came, was soft…softer than she had ever heard it.

“Do you know, Penelope,” he murmured, eyes on the dancing flame of the oil lamp, “that I was once a green boy, untried by life, dreaming of big things like love and justice?”

Her gaze flickered up, startled at the intimacy in his tone. He smiled faintly. “It is true. I was nineteen when I wed Violet. She was seventeen. Beautiful. Charming. I fancied myself in love with her, or rather, I liked her well enough…liked the mask she chose to wear for me.”

He paused, memories flickering across his face like shadows. “The following year, we had a son. Anthony, my crown prince. Then came Benedict not long after. For a time, I thought myself blessed. A wife, sons, a family worthy of a crown prince.” His jaw tightened. “But when the boys began to grow, I saw Violet clearly for the first time. Cunning. Ruthless. Power-hungry. She did not love me or the country. She loved only the throne I would gain one day.”

He leaned forward, his tone deepening. “And then, when Benedict was still at his mother’s breast, Violet’s twin sister came to court. Lily. Sweet Lily. She was everything Violet wasn't. Soft, gentle, kind, empathetic. Everything I had ever longed for in a wife.” His hands curled against her knees, pulling them apart as he settled between Penelope's legs. “She was the opposite of Violet in every way. And I… I loved her. From the moment she entered the palace, I knew what had been stolen from me.”

Penelope’s breath caught when his fingers ran through her quim, though she stayed still, silently listening to his tale.

Edmund’s lips twisted. “Do you know, little dove, that Lily was meant to be mine? Promised to me. But Violet, always scheming, always coveting the things she wasn't given, learned of it. She manipulated her sister into rejecting the match by telling Lily that she had fallen for me. Lily, ever the self sacrificing one, rejected my suit. And Violet then presented herself as my saviour to spare both her father and mine from the embarrassment Lily had caused. By the time the truth reached me, it was too late. I was wed, with two sons Violet bore for me. I felt betrayed. Bound to the wrong twin.”

He laughed once, low and bitter, as he began pumping his fingers in and out of Penelope's cunt, still continuing the story, even as Penelope heard it distractedly, writhing under his ministrations. “So I snapped. I took back what was mine, consequences be damned. I loved Lily. She was my true empress in all but name.”

At last, he turned to her, eyes gleaming in the lamplight. His free hand rose, brushing lightly over her cheek, deceptively tender. “You know right, Penelope? What does it means to be chosen by me? When I set my heart on someone, I do not let go. Not for thrones. Not for blood. Not for anyone.”

Penelope nodded, breathlessly, helplessly as he began pinching and rolling her clit between his fingers, bringing her on the brink of a release.

Edmund’s eyes softened with a glow she had rarely seen in him. “Anyway… so I built a palace in Bloomsbury, one to rival this very seat of power. I kept Lily there. My jewel. My solace. Our love-nest.” His voice lowered, wistful, almost boyish in its yearning. “We burnt hot in passion, but more than that, we truly held each other’s hearts. I had never known happiness until then. And when she came to me one spring morning and told me she carried my child… ah, Penelope, I thought myself the most blessed man alive. My love for her had taken flesh. It brought us even closer.”

He leaned back, gaze fixed far away, as if lost in the echo of those days. “I pampered her, cared for her, treasured every moment. I would read to her when she tired, walk with her in the gardens, hold her in the long nights when she fretted. I would have razed kingdoms to keep her safe.”

Penelope, frozen where she sat, almost believed this softer man before her, almost, almost empathised with him, until his tone broke, roughened.

“And yet, despite all my love, despite every care, she did not survive.” His fist clenched on his knee. “Childbirth stole her from me. She died… while giving life to a beautiful boy.”

He looked back at Penelope then, eyes glistening, voice trembling with grief and pride intermingled. “Do you know what I named my boy? Colin.”

The name struck like a knife. Penelope flinched, her breath catching sharply.

Edmund saw it. His gaze sharpened. “Ah. You recognise the name.” His voice was low, probing. “Do you know Prince Colin? Have you ever met him?”

Penelope, heart thundering, forced herself to shake her head. “No,” she whispered, “never.”

His eyes narrowed. Silence stretched, taut as a drawn bowstring. Then, suddenly, his face twisted, and his hand shot out, gripping her jaw with bruising force.

“Then how,” Edmund hissed, voice dripping with fury, “how did you make him fall in love with you, you lying whore?”

His breath burned hot against her cheek, grief and jealousy tangled into something monstrous. The tenderness was gone, ripped away to reveal the raging possessiveness beneath.

Penelope’s throat worked as she tried to summon words past his grip. “Your Majesty…please,” she whispered, her voice trembling but careful, always careful, “I have not betrayed you. I have never lain with anyone but you.”

Edmund’s fingers dug harder into her chin, his face inches from hers. “And yet Colin fancies himself in love with you. What do you have to say about that, hm? What womanly Wiles have you used on him, huh? Did you suck his cock? Let him fuck your hand? Tell me?” His voice was quiet, almost gentle in its menace. “Do you expect me to believe that my sweet boy, raised outside my walls, who knows nothing of the courtly intrigue has conjured affection from thin air? That he, who knows nothing of the happenings in the inner palace, has fastened himself to you without reason?”

Her eyes filled, though she dared not let tears fall. “I gave him no reason, Sire. It was a simple innocent friendship.” she said quickly, urgently. “Perhaps he mistakes kindness for more than it is. I have not encouraged him. I swear it.”

He released her jaw only to pace, his hands clasped tightly behind his back. “You have made a mistake,” he said coldly, though his voice trembled with rage beneath the words. “A grievous mistake, getting entangled with Colin like that.”

Penelope clasped her hands in her lap, knuckles white. “I never meant it to go this far…”

“You listen to me.” He whirled back on her, his face fierce. “I loved Lily with all that I am. And I love my son just as fiercely. Do you understand what you have done? You have placed yourself between father and son. You have planted poison in what little bond we share. You have set us on a path to war. And for that, Penelope…” He leaned down until his breath ghosted across her ear, “…I will never forgive you.”

She bit back a sob, forcing her voice low and steady. “If he believes himself in love with me, I cannot help that. But I would never betray you, Sire.”

His eyes bored into hers, searching for any crack, any sign of deceit. “Pray for your own sake that those words are true,” Edmund murmured, his voice low and dangerous, “otherwise you don’t know what I will do…”

Before she could draw another breath, he was upon her, forcing her back against the bed, pinning her wrists above her head with one powerful hand and tying them with a silk rope he had conjured from the bedside table. His mouth pressed hard and punishing against her throat, not kisses but marks of possession.

He thrust into her roughly, with no patience, no tenderness. His pace was relentless, brutal, as though he sought to pound every shred of Colin’s memory from her flesh.

“You’ve driven me mad, Penelope,” he growled against her ear, his teeth scraping the delicate skin, as she struggled against the bonds tying her wrists. “Mad enough that for the first time in my life, I wanted to throttle my own darling boy. Do you hear me?”

Her eyes flew wide, fear striking her like ice. “No…no, please,” she gasped, writhing beneath him, though he mistook her struggles for eagerness. “He is innocent, my sire…he doesn’t know who I am. Please, I beg you…don’t hurt him.”

Edmund suddenly realised with a jolt that Colin's love wasn't as unrequited as she made it out to be. Her defending his son, who he as it is wouldn’t have hurt in a million years… it sent him in a rage. She loved him. She loved him enough to beg for his life. 

His grip on her hips tightened, his pounding growing harsher. “Then make sure he stays innocent,” he snarled. “Make sure he never again looks at you with longing in his eyes. You will convince him, Penelope. Convince him that you are happy, content, worshipping at my feet, licking my cock and serving me with your cunt. You will make him believe that it is my body that makes yours sing.”

She whimpered, but nodded frantically, her tears sliding into her hair. “Yes, yes. I will. I’ll do it. Just don’t harm him.”

“Good girl,” he hissed, his lips dragging over her ear as he took her harder still. “You’ll make him believe you’re mine alone. That you’re enamoured, bound, lost to me.” His laugh was low, guttural. “Because you are, aren't you?”

“Yes. Only you.” She closed her eyes, letting the falsity of her words wash over her. And in the hollow of her chest, she made a vow, that no matter the cost to herself, Colin would never suffer for her sins.

The next night, Edmund summoned Colin with a sly gleam in his eye. “You’ve been downcast long enough, my boy,” he said as they walked the torchlit corridor together. “I intend to cheer your spirits. Tonight, I will show you my most prized treasure.”

Colin followed reluctantly, his jaw tight, his thoughts still drowning in Penelope. He had little interest in his father’s treasures when he had lost his own.

When they entered the chamber, Colin’s gaze caught immediately on the room itself, the soft hues, the silks draped across the bed, the faint scent of lavender and rose. Feminine touches everywhere. He stiffened.

“Whose chambers are these?” Colin asked sharply, though dread already churned in his gut. “For god's sake, I told you to find the girl I love and you take me to a whore—”

Edmund’s lips curved in a smug smile. “Hush you! Do you think whores live in such luxury? This chamber belongs to my favourite concubine.”

Colin’s expression hardened. He turned on his heel at once. “I’m not interested in your concubines. You know that's the only thing I dislike about you.”

But Edmund chuckled low. “At least see this one. You might be tempted. I don’t share, you know that, Colin. But for you… I’ll make an exception just this once. She's exquisitely beautiful.”

Colin was about to spit out a retort when a soft, tremulous voice floated from the inner chamber:

“My emperor… you came…”

Colin’s heart seized. His breath caught painfully in his chest. That voice. He would know it anywhere. Slowly, dreading, praying, denying, he turned.

And there she was. Penelope.

His father’s “treasure.” A concubine. His Penelope.

“Come, darling,” Edmund’s voice was thick with triumph. “Greet my son properly.”

Colin stood rooted to the spot in shock, his mouth open, fists clenching at his sides, almost hyperventilating at the sight of her in a gossamer gown with scraps for underthings. She looked different. Beautified, in a sacrificial way.

Penelope’s face was pale, her eyes shining with unshed tears, but she moved obediently toward the emperor. She stopped walking once she was by his father's side and looked at him through her thick lashes, summoning a coquettish smile while curtsying, “Glad to make your acquaintance, Lord Bloomsbury.” 

“Darling, you look too tempting tonight.” Edmund murmured, leaning against her ear,  pulled her into his arms and kissed her in a slow, lingering, possessive way. 

Colin thought his chest might split apart at the sight.

Edmund broke the kiss after a few moments, only to smirk at Colin. “See? Worthy of temptation, is she not?”

Penelope’s mind screamed, but she did what she must. She let Edmund kiss her again, let his hands roam her body, and, heart shattering, she forced herself to respond with fervour. She moaned softly, kissed him back as though she were eager, threading her fingers through his hair, her body pliant in his grasp.

Colin’s vision blurred. His nails dug into his palms until blood pricked his skin. To see her degraded so, to see her participate in said degradation, enthusiastically, no less…was a torment he had never known. Shock and sorrow twisted through him like blades.

Edmund pressed Penelope down onto the bed, making a show of her, parading her pleasure as though to brand her before his son’s eyes. “Do you want to join, Colin? She belongs to me, and I would never share her with anyone else. But for my dearest son I could make an exception.”

Colin could not bear another moment. 

“Absolutely not.” He spat and turned on his heals. With anguish breaking him from within, he spun on his heel and stormed from the chamber, his father’s laughter and Penelope’s throaty moans trailing after him like knives in the dark.

The heavy doors had barely shut behind Colin when Penelope shoved Edmund back while summoning all her might in her trembling hands, her chest heaving. Her silks were in disarray, her hair clinging to her damp temples, her lips still swollen from his brutal kiss.

“Happy now?” she choked, her voice raw, trembling with fury and grief. “I broke your son’s heart. Just as you wanted.”

Edmund’s eyes narrowed, the shadow of satisfaction glinting cold and cruel. He smoothed his robe as though nothing at all were amiss, his tone almost casual.

“He will be fine. He will get over you. Now that he has seen how eagerly you suck my tongue, how sweetly you moan for me, he’ll put his foolish infatuation to rest.”

He stepped forward, intent on embracing her again, but Penelope recoiled, skittering back a pace, her arms wrapping around herself. “Don’t,” she whispered.

His jaw tightened instantly, that familiar thundercloud gathering. “Don’t?” His voice was a dangerous rumble. “You deny me? You ungrateful wench. I plucked you from your miserable kitchen life, draped you in silk, put you in a bed meant for queens. And this is how you repay me?”

Before she could answer, he seized her forcefully and hurled her down upon the bed. She gasped at the sudden impact, her hair spilling across the pillows. Edmund loomed above her, his weight a prison, his fury hot against her skin.

Tears pricked her eyes, spilling as she pressed her palms against his chest. Her voice broke as she begged, “Please… please, leave me alone. At least for tonight. Tomorrow I will find a way to become your whore, but today, please…”

The words hung between them, raw and trembling. For the first time in months, Penelope’s spirit showed teeth against his power.

Edmund’s breath came harsh and ragged above her, his hand braced beside her head. His eyes bore into hers, torn between desire and rage.

For a breathless moment his hand hovered in the air, fingers curled into a fist, his eyes burning with the kind of fury that could break her bones.

But then, his jaw clenched, his nostrils flared, and with a growl he shoved himself off the bed.

Penelope sat trembling, her thin night-robe slipping from her shoulder, her hair tangled, eyes glistening with tears. She fully expected him to strike, to mount her forcefully and take what he wanted, to do something, anything, but instead Edmund spun on his heel and left.

The door slammed so hard behind him the walls rattled.

She sat frozen, clutching the sheets to her chest, her own tears spilling silently down. For the first time, he had left her untouched, and yet she had never felt more cornered, more afraid of what would come when he returned the next night.

 

Edmund stalked down the corridors that seemed too narrow for his rage. She had denied him today. For the first time. For whom? His own son.

Monster.

The word wouldn’t leave him. His son’s voice haunted him, as if Colin had spat a truth he believed with his whole heart.

The monster who trapped her in a gilded cage.

His jaw ached from grinding. How dare Colin, his own son...his blood, his favourite...see him as less than the man who had given him everything, the man who had raised him up, cherished him, even above the legitimate heirs. And yet… the word had lodged inside Edmund like a thorn. Monster.

He slammed a palm against a marble column, hard enough that the sound echoed. A servant scurried away in terror. Edmund didn’t care.

Yes, he had wanted to strike Penelope. To punish her insolence. To remind her what she owed him for plucking her from the dirt and setting her in silks. But striking her now, brutalising her further...it would only confirm Colin’s belief. It would make him the monster in truth.

And he would not allow that.

No. He would go softer with her. Not weaker, never that, but gentler. After all, what had Colin given her? a few sweet words. Nothing else. They hadn't even lain together.

He could give her the world. All the luxuries in the world, all kinds of pleasures. And yes, if she wanted softness, sweetness, he'd give her that too. He would coax her into compliance, into tenderness. He would make her fall so deeply under his spell that when Colin looked upon her again, he would see a willing jewel, not a caged bird, a woman in love with the emperor. Completely devoted to him.

Let his son choke on his words then. Let Colin see that Penelope adored the emperor. That she chose him, every night, every touch.

And he knew she would choose him. She believed it, thought that he might turn his wrath upon Colin, if she didn't comply. In truth, he could no more harm his boy than cut out his own heart. Colin was his pride, his flesh, his legacy, the fruit of his and Lily's love.

But if fear of Colin's wellbeing kept this fragile bird docile, if terror bound Penelope to his side, then so be it. Fear was a leash, and she wore it well. One day she would come to understand that his dominion was not cruelty but love, love fierce enough to make even lies and shadows serve his cause. Until then, let her call him monster. So long as she stayed. So long as she never strayed back to Colin.

His lips curled, half in bitterness, half in resolve.

He would prove Colin wrong. He would prove himself right. He would win Penelope’s heart. And by keeping her, by binding her closer than ever, he would keep Colin from ever daring to hope to win her heart again.

 

Penelope tossed and turned in her bed, she could still see the look in his blue eyes as they turned glassy, disbelief bleeding into devastation. The emperor had wanted her to crush Colin’s hopes, and she had obeyed, but the taste of the emperor’s mouth still lingered like ash on her tongue. She hadn’t just crushed Colin's hopes, she had crushed his soul.

Her heart felt torn in two. One half bound by fear, the other half straining toward the man who had looked at her not as a jewel in a gilded cage, but as a woman. She wished she could tear her own lips away, rip her own hands from the scene, anything to erase what he had seen. But she couldn’t. She had broken him. She had delivered devastation into his chest with her own unwilling mouth.

And yet, she told herself, what choice had she? If she had faltered, if she had shown even a shred of resistance, Colin would not have walked out of that chamber alive. She had spared him with her degradation, even as she damned herself to lifelong servitude.

Lying back on the silken bed, tears pricking her lashes, Penelope clutched at her chest as though she could hold the fragments of his shattered heart inside her own body. Forgive me, she whispered in the silence. I will bear his brutality to keep you safe. I will wear these chains if it means your throat is never touched by them.

But no prayer could soften the knowledge that she had become the instrument of Colin’s ruin.

Colin stumbled blindly through the corridors, his heart pounding so violently it hurt. He burst into the cool night air of the courtyard, dragging in a breath as though he had been drowning. His hands shook. His throat burned.

He had bared his heart, dreamed of eloping, and offered her freedom. And still, she lay with his father. Not just lay with him. Responded to him. Enthusiastically.

Colin staggered toward his chambers, his steps uneven. He poured whisky into a glass with unsteady hands, then another, then another, but nothing dulled the vision of her in silk beneath Edmund. Nothing erased the sound of her voice, moaning for the emperor.

By dawn he sat slumped against the wall, the bottle empty at his side. His eyes were bloodshot, his cheeks wet.

For the first time in his life, Colin hated his father. But worse, he hated himself. For being weak. For falling in love. For believing he had any right to her at all.

“Penelope…” he whispered brokenly into the silence, the name cracking as it left his lips. “Why did you let me love you?”

The only answer was the hollow echo of his own despair.

She had kissed his father back. She had wanted his touch.

That realisation kept hammering inside his skull, though another voice whispered that it was a mirage. That her eyes, when they met his for that one stolen instant, had pleaded with him, begged him to understand.

He pressed a fist to his mouth to smother the sound that tore from him, half sob, half curse. He had never felt so powerless. He wanted to rage, to smash something, to drag her away from this wretched place and burn the palace to the ground.

For the millionth time that night, he wondered whether her mother was a prisoner to his father's whims too. nobody ever spoke of her, and Colin had assumed that was because she was some lowborn lady. but that didn't make much sense given how much affection his father usually held for him. But now he began doubting everything, from his father's tender words to all the kindness he had shown him despite being a bastard-born.

He had known his father’s ways, of course. Who didn’t? The emperor’s carnal appetites were the stuff of whispered legend. Concubines were gathered from every corner of the empire, eager mothers training, parading their daughters through the court. Those girls, noble-blooded, wanted to vie for the Emperor's attention, albeit with the promise of jewels and status. Colin had always turned his face from his father's indiscretions, believing, or perhaps forcing himself to believe, that they came to his father's arms willingly. That whatever else his father was, he did not keep prisoners in his bed.

But Penelope’s face haunted him. Not her beauty alone, though she was the very breath of it, but the hollowness that flickered behind her eyes. He had seen her laugh with him, truly laugh, her voice as light as bells. Last night, that brightness was gone. What looked like passion in his father’s arms had rung false in Colin’s heart. It was mimicry, a mask worn by a soul desperate to survive.

His father had thought to humiliate him. To crush the budding thing between him and Penelope. Instead, he had only confirmed Colin’s deepest dread.

Penelope was not there by choice.

He paced his chamber, fists clenching and unclenching. Did she love him? Perhaps not. Perhaps she never would. But that mattered less than the truth that burned in his veins: she was not free. She was not willing.

And whether she returned his heart or trampled it underfoot, he could not turn away. Not now. Not after seeing her gilded prison with his own eyes.

He whispered her name, tasting it like a vow. Penelope.

He loved her. He longed for her, mind, body and soul. And yet, he would never keep her bound to her if she wasn't willing.

He decided that he would find a way to reach her. He would look into her eyes, unguarded and unmasked, and ask her the question no one dared ask: Are you happy here? Or do you wish to be free from your cage?

And if she confessed even a flicker of longing for escape, by the gods, he would tear down every wall of the palace to give it to her.

 

 

Notes:

So, what are we feeling about this situation?