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Chapter Text

She doesn't know what to do next when she pushes the tip of her dagger under his jaw, nipping him, drawing blood from his skin and a shocked gasp from his lips.

"Were you spying on me, nephew?" she asks, her tone sharp and cruel on purpose. She has never liked him. She has many reasons not to like him.

"I didn't know you were here," he breathes, swallowing carefully not to feel the bite of the blade again. "You shouldn't be here… it's late… it's improper."

She scoffs. It has been difficult to think of propriety lately when one's being sold to the first man willing to take her. Her hold on the dagger tightens.

"It's just as late for me as it is for you, sweet nephew." Her tone is mocking; he deserves all of it.

"Your education," he says, slowly, "must be sorely lacking if you, even for a moment, believe that to be true."

What does he know of her lacking education, of the things she has had to learn the hard way?

"Does the Queen know you've escaped from your chambers?" he asks. He hisses as the tip of the dagger digs deeper into his skin; a sweet melody to her ears. "Does she know of the things you read when left alone?"

The book she has been reading is still laying open on the table. She didn't think to hide it when she heard someone enter the library, and she had barely enough time to hide herself.

She watched in horror as the intruder walked straight to the book she had carelessly left behind, and a shocked gasp escaped her lips when she recognised the man to be her nephew. Not many would be able to understand High Valyrian, but she knew he could.

The words he was reading were the same ones that made her thighs squeeze together just moments ago, and her mortification grew even deeper as the seconds ticked by, and his fingers were tracing the words on the paper.

She didn't have a plan when she dashed from between the shelves, dagger unsheathed and pressed to his neck a moment later. She only knew that she couldn't let him read further, couldn't let him discover the things she intended to learn.

Her palm starts to sweat at the thought, and her grip around the hilt slips.

He notices her attention faltering, so he spins around to grab her wrist, and with a few steps he backs her against a bookshelf. He reaches for her other hand before she can fight back against him, and pins them above her head. There's no easy escape from his grip.

His looks down at her intently, his burning gaze leaving no part of her untouched.

"Does she know," he asks quietly, his voice a whisper against her ear, "that her dutiful daughter is reading about how to take pleasure for herself?"

His hands are dry, warm—large. His palms press against the soft skin of her wrists. She has to twist her neck to look up at him.

He might think that he has the upper hand, towering over her lank body, but she has had to fight off Aegon far too many times to know where to kick. He has nothing on her.

"I know how to take pleasure," she says defiantly. It sounds almost like a truth.

Small pleasures—touches, kisses, moments between sisters under the cover of night. Those she knows well. Those the Queen, of course, knows nothing of. Those won't be enough when her time comes.

"I highly doubt that," he says. It's not the disbelief that cuts her the deepest but the pity behind it. "What are you doing here, aunt? A blushing bride like you should not be out after dark."

She will remain a bride for another fortnight but she won't be blushing… not if she has any say in the matter. Her wedding day—her wedding night—is not for another two weeks, but she will not go there ignorant like the Queen would have her be.

She needs to know what to expect, how much it will hurt, how long she will have to endure, and how hard she will have to hold back her tears. She will not let anyone see her tears.

Aegon has offered—pleaded, threatened—to take her maidenhead, and she cursed at him. She would never allow him, not when she knows what he has done to their sister. Her tears are still as fresh in her memory as the night she kissed them away from her cheeks.

"Let me go, or I'll scream," she spits at him.

"No, you won't. Not if you still wish to be wed."

She doesn't wish it any more than cattle wish to be slaughtered.

"Let me go, or I'll kill you."

There, a sudden shift in his eyes. He knows she means it. She hates him. His grip on her loosens for a second, and she takes her chances. She spins them a half turn, and pushes his back against the same bookshelf.

She renews the grip on her dagger, and presses it under his chin. She's not being careful, and she draws blood again. His fingers wrap around her wrist to steady her, but he's not afraid. His eyes are on her, blazing.

He is foolishly bold, or maybe just boldly foolish.

"What do you want? Do you even know it yourself?" he asks. His gaze is unwavering, and it undoes her. "If you do, ask for it. Demand it. Claim it." He moves her hand, and the tip of the dagger sinks deeper. "Is it my blood you need to pay the debt? Take it."

It's not his blood she needs.

"It took you long enough to be willing to pay."

"I am a man grown now… Ready to pay my own debts."

He might be ready now, but the time of payment had long passed. There might have never been a time at all. There could never be a time to repay a life.

She had never had full possession of her own, but even that little she did had been stolen at the moment when he had cut her face open with his knife. Children they were, and ruined she became.

She is a princess now who's lost her beauty; a daughter who's lost her prospects; a woman who's lost her eye.

She is nothing but damaged and worthless; pitied and overlooked; passed on to the first lord who would still take her as she is.

No, he might never be able to give her back the life he'd stolen but he could give her a life she tries to carve for herself in the now.

What she needs is knowledge, experience, and guidance. What she needs is a man willing to teach her everything… do everything she is desperate to learn.

He's a bad enough man to debase himself. He's a good enough man not to debase her.

"I'll have you repay me, then," she declares, boldly. "Wait for me in the corridor where the Myrish tapestries hang… in two hours, wait for me there."

She expects him to object, to ask questions, to discourage her.

"I'll be there," he says instead.

He keeps his word, and waits for her in the middle of the corridor. He's still fully dressed, and all she's wearing is her nightgown and a cloak against the chill of the night.

When she slides the wooden panel open, and beckons him to follow, he obeys wordlessly.

She can feel his eyes on her body—the small curves of her breasts and her bottom barely concealed under the silk of her nightdress—as they climb the stairs of the secret passage up and up to her chambers.

He doesn't see her dagger before it flies to his throat the moment they enter her room. His eyes are eerily calm.

"I will ruin you if you utter a single word about this," she tells him. Her dagger kisses into his neck again.

"It would ruin you, too," he warns her in turn.

"There's nothing left of me to ruin," she bites back harshly. "You're not here to make threats, sweet nephew. You're here to do as I tell you tonight."

"I'll be yours, aunt, to do as you please," he says, yielding to her, "when you tell me what you want. Do you know what you want?"

"I want you to take off your clothes."

"No," he replies calmly, confidently.

"You said—"

"That's just a means to an end. That's not what you want."

"How would you know what I want?" she spits at him. His self-assured expression begins to boil her blood.

"Because I've been watching you—"

"Watching me?"

"—waiting for you to have something that you desperately want. Something that you desperately need." He waits a moment for her to interject, but she remains quiet. She's too stunned and tongue-tied to speak. "I've been waiting for that time to come, so when it does, I can be the one giving it to you. You see," he continues in a low voice, "I have always been mindful of my debts. Tell me what you truly want, and I'll pay it to you with everything I have."

His eyes are on her, suddenly setting her soul on fire, burning, devouring.

"I want to know…"

"What do you want to know?"

"I need to know what awaits me on my wedding night… to know what will happen. I need to be prepared."

She doesn't tell him about the tears.

"I don't know what will happen," he says then, reaching around her dagger to her cloak, undoing the clasp, and making it slowly slip from her shoulders. "But I can show you what it can be." He takes her by the wrist, and pulls the dagger from his throat. A moment later it falls to the floor with a heavy clunk. "What it should be." He slides his hand down to the curve of her hip. "What you deserve it to be."

She sighs without wanting to. His palm is warm, and fits perfectly to her body. His hand slips further to her ass, grabs her, fingers digging into her flesh, and he lifts her up as if she weighs nothing. Her legs wrap around his waist on instinct.

"Tell me what you want," he repeats, and it almost sounds like he's pleading.

There's danger to his movements, a volatility that will surely lead to more than just her ruin, but she cannot stop herself from melting into his touch.

"I want you to show me everything it can be," she moans.

He pulls her closer. The heat that is pooling between her legs aches.

"I'll show you everything there is," he replies in a low and urgent voice.

He walks with her to her bed, then climbs on top of it, lowering her to her back. Her legs fall open, and he nestles between them. His hands next to her head are supporting him above her, and that little weight he allows to press on her is delicious.

He leans lower. He means to kiss her, she thinks, but it doesn't feel right. Even though she knows that she wants it, too, somehow she feels like she's losing control.

"You can't take my maidenhead," she says suddenly, her hands gripping at his shoulders to keep him at arm's length.

He is silent for a long moment. Then he smiles—knowingly, wickedly.

"I'll think of something."

"I still want you to take off your clothes."

"No." He takes one of her hands, and pulls it to his lips to breathe a kiss to her palm. "What do you truly want?"

She wants to not be afraid.

"I want to see your body…" she yields quietly. To touch it. To taste it. To learn it.

He kisses her palm again, then climbs off her, and takes a few steps away from the bed.

She has to push herself up onto her elbows to not lose sight of him. The absence of his warmth and his weight slices through her.

He starts with his waistcoat, works at the buttons at a slow and agitating pace. The garment falls to the floor with little sound. He kicks down his boots next; they each land with a thud. She watches as his fingers move to the front, to the lacing of his breeches, and he sets out to work on it: loosening, untying, pulling. Every motion sends shivers down her spine, conjures goosebumps on her skin, all the while he watches her, his gaze never wandering away.

When he stops, standing tall and handsome in his remaining shirt and smallclothes, it takes her a moment to focus her thoughts back on the task.

"Take it all off," she commands him, her mouth dry.

He pulls the shirt over his head with one swift motion, then his hands halt at the waist of his underclothes just for a moment. He lifts his gaze back onto her, firm and unhesitating, before he pushes them down his thighs until the garment falls to his ankles.

Her breath catches. Her nipples are hard, and the place between her legs is wet with unfamiliar need.

His skin is darker than hers, and it begs to be touched. There are soft strands of dark hair on his chest, and a more prominent line on his stomach which leads her gaze downwards. The muscles on his stomach flex involuntarily as he feels her eye on him, but he doesn't pose for her. She likes the lack of pretence, she likes the raw honesty.

There's a thatch of dark and thick hair at the apex of his thighs. She takes in the sight of him—of his cock hanging softly between his legs. It would fit so nicely in her hand; the thought comes to her suddenly.

It doesn't look like it could hurt her, like it could cause pain, like it would rip her apart—it's nothing like when Aegon tried to force himself on her.

She longs to touch it, to feel it under her fingertips—to kiss it, even. She sits up fully, and moves to the edge of the bed. He immediately steps closer, stopping in front of her.

"I'm all yours," he says, his voice heavy with anticipation.

She hesitantly places her hand on his hip, slides it up his side. His skin is so warm, so smooth, so full of life. She leans in, and breathes a kiss on that bone that juts out at his hips. He lets out a moan, and his cock twitches and swells in reply.

"Let me touch you," he pleads.

"Not yet," she says, denying him. She licks across his abdomen just below his navel. His muscles flex again under her tongue. He tastes equal amounts salty and the warmth of the sun.

Two can play at this game, she thinks. Two can tease and torment each other. She inhales the scent of his skin; it's intoxicating. She should have pushed the tip of her dagger to his throat sooner. She should have invited him into her bed sooner. She should have let him ravish her sooner.

"What happens next?" she asks him instead. She lifts her gaze to look at his face, to try to read his inscrutable expression. His eyes are burning; those twin flames are consuming her.

He slides his hand up the side of her face, fingers lacing into her hair.

"Next," he says softly, his thumb moving forward to brush against her parted lips, "you get to be cherished."

He sinks to the ground, and kneels between her legs. His hands move under her thighs, and he pulls her closer, spreads her legs wider. She's one solid ache, nothing she has ever felt before, and he hasn't even really touched her yet. He slips his hands lower, reaching under the hem of her nightgown to touch the skin at her ankles.

When he looks back up at her face, she shivers under his gaze. No one has ever looked at her with a desire as great as his; no one has coveted her the way he seems to. It's almost as if he needs her more than she needs him.

"You've promised to show me everything." Her voice is so faint, for a moment she thinks he hasn't heard her, but the desire in his eyes flames up at her words.

"Tell me you want this," he says. "Tell me you want me…"

When she doesn't answer, she thinks she sees a sliver of pain flash across his face. As if he truly needs her to say those words. That look, that flaming violent need twists her insides. She decides that there's no harm in granting him this small thing.

"I want you."

His hands slide up her legs, pushing her nightgown above her knees and then a little further. His palms are on top of her thighs, and he bends down to place a kiss on their inside. She feels the tip of his tongue dart out as he tastes her skin.

He's so close to seeing her—all of her—and for a fleeting, hesitant, traitorous moment she's afraid that he might not like what he finds.

His hands move around her thighs, to the curve of her ass, and he pulls her towards him. The motion makes her fall to her back. He slips his hands back to her thighs, so that he can hook his thumbs over the hem of her nightgown. He licks a kiss to both her thighs again before he pushes the garment up with a painfully slow pace. She can feel every inch traversed by his fingertips as he slides his hands to her waist.

He's silent for a long moment, and she can feel the mortification sink inside her. She tries to close her legs and push him away, but his grip on her is firm.

"Is it that awful—?"

Instead of replying he grunts, low and guttural, and buries his face into the juncture of her thighs. His nose nestles against her as he inhales deeply. His fingers dig into the flesh of her ass to pull her closer against his face.

"You're beautiful," he murmurs. "If only I had known my aunt had such a sweet treasure between her legs…"

A shocked gasp escapes her lips, and she doesn't know which word undoes her more.

He lifts his head away from her core, and moves to rest it on her left thigh just as he brings his left hand to touch her. A solitary finger drags along her achingly wet folds a few times. On the fourth ascent his finger finds the bud at the top of her entrance, and circles around it slowly, leisurely.

"I am a ruined man," he mumbles reverently before he puts his lips where his finger has just been, sucking the bud into his mouth.

She can feel the vibrations in her core as he growls against her.

His lips still pressed firmly on her, he grabs the thigh he has used as his pillow just moments ago, pulls her even closer, then throws her leg over his shoulder. His arm wraps around it, and the warmth of his palm presses against her inner thigh. He pushes on her other leg, and she opens for him like a blooming flower, with dewdrops of desire slicking her entrance.

Just when she feels like she can no longer bear him sucking on her like that, he eases his torment, and licks straight across her folds, savouring her taste with an audible moan.

The feeling is beyond her comprehension. She has touched herself before, secretly in her baths or under the cover of night, but this feels different. She has never thought a man would touch a woman like this. It feels too good to be something that would happen between husband and wife.

It feels like the most terrible lie.

She fists his hair, and pulls hard, trying to get him away before he makes her fall over the edge of something dangerous.

"Stop!" she moans, even though she wants nothing more than his tongue to keep licking and tasting her. She has never thought that a mouth could make her feel so divine that she could barely think around the pleasure of it.

He obeys immediately. He pulls his lips off her, but the hotness of his breath just mere inches away is just as tantalising against her wetness.

"You don't like it?" he asks, alarmed.

"That's not—it's not—" Her thoughts are all muddled. Why did she tell him to stop? He was making her feel so good. She arches her back to press her sopping core to his mouth again, but he pushes her back onto the bed.

"Tell me, aunt. Why did you make me stop?"

"You promised," she sighs, finally forcing her thoughts back into order, "that you would help me prepare for my wedding night but this—this is not—this would never—"

She pushes herself back onto her elbows to be able to look down at his face again, trying to figure out what he might be thinking. His mouth, glistening with her arousal, hovers over her.

"Why are you doing this, nephew, when this would never—"

"Because—" he begins then stops as if he's fighting with himself not to say something irredeemable. When he continues, his voice is heavy with untold desire. "Because I would gladly die here, right between your legs," he says ardently. "Because even if you didn't push a dagger to my throat… Because when you think about someone day and night—and I have thought about you so many times, my beautiful and clever and fierce aunt—you can't help but imagine some things. You can't help but wish and yearn for them. Thing like this, and so much more."

She only waits a moment before she says, "Then do. All those things you imagined and wished for." The way he looks at her banishes all rational thought from her mind, and nothing but her need for his touch remains. "Don't stop again. Kiss me, and keep kissing me there… please, nephew."

He looks straight at her when he puts his mouth back on her again. "Like this?"

"Yes, this and…"

"And this?" he asks again, dragging his tongue over her folds, dipping deep between them. Her enthusiastic yes is drowned by her cry of pleasure.

He lifts her other leg over his shoulder, as if he is truly intent on letting her crush him between her thighs, and digs his fingers in the soft flesh of her hips, guiding her against his lips.

"So delicious, fucking delectable." He seems to have grown bold by her sudden plea, and mumbles all the obscene words he must have kept to himself before.

His tongue drags over her, finding again and again her most sensitive spot, circling around it, licking at it relentlessly, and sucking it into his mouth.

She's far too lost in the feeling of him to be able to say anything, but when he spits on her, his saliva mixing with her own abundant wetness, then licks at her again like that, she cannot help the genuine cry of pleasure ripping from her throat. After that he learns quickly, and does it again and again until her cunt is drenched, and she cannot tell where she ends and his tongue begins.

Her breath starts to come in gasps as she gets closer and closer to that something he works hard at giving her. Her thighs squeeze together, and even though she's trying to be careful not to crush him, she can barely help herself. With her legs around his neck she can rock herself against his mouth, chasing that great something together with him.

When it happens, it comes upon her without warning, and the first waves of her fervent moans escape untamed before she remembers to slam her hand over her mouth. Her body goes rigid as her orgasm takes over, but he still continues pressing his tongue over and into her, and she keeps on moaning through her hand with him groaning against her in unison, the vibrations pushing her even further.

It takes a long while for her to come back to herself. Her hand has found its way back into his curls, and she's brushing his hair with her fingers absentmindedly. He's splayed on top of her, her legs still wrapped around his neck, his head resting on her belly.

"To think that I could have had these moans as my lullaby," he muses, fingers caressing the soft skin of her thighs.

"Would that have been enough? Even if I could never have given you my maidenhead?"

"I would die happily between your legs with your taste on my lips, aunt. If I could I would eat your sweet cunt from sunrise 'til sunset." He lifts his head, and looks up at her. "Gods, I almost came just by having tasted you."

With his mouth being so diligent between her legs she almost forgot the reason she has let him into her bed.

"How would you—how does a man—" she asks hesitantly, trying to find a delicate way to put what she is burning to know.

Although she has seen men—unwanted as they were—and has read vague descriptions about the act, she still has no idea how the bedding works.

He shifts between her legs, and gently lifts them from his shoulders. Using the back of her thighs he pushes her further onto the bed. As if he's unable to help himself, he places a soft kiss between her folds once more before he pushes himself up from the floor, and climbs on top of the bed—and her.

His legs rest on each side of her waist as he looks down at her. His cock is neither small nor soft anymore.

She gasps at the sight of him. "You're so—big. How would that—?"

"I promise I'm not that big," he says in protest, even though a smile plays at the corner of his mouth. "And if your groom is man enough, then he would have you just as wet as you are now before he tries anything. And then… then it wouldn't hurt at all." He falls silent for a moment before he adds quietly, "I wish I could make sure that you are never getting hurt ever again."

She looks up at him; his face is so serious as if he truly means every word. It breaks her heart a little.

He hovers over her for long seconds while his gaze rakes over her entire body, setting her on fire even more so than his mouth has done. It's too much to bear, too intense, too fragile—she shuts her eye, trying to fight the weakness that's coming upon her.

"Can I kiss you?" he asks, and she can feel him lean closer, stopping mere inches away from her lips. And she wants him. Gods help her, she wants to feel his lips and her own taste on them. She wants him in a way that terrifies her.

She shakes her head, her eye still closed. "No."

A long, torturous moment stretches between them before she feels his thumb brush over her bottom lip. "No, not here?"

"No," she repeats, but her lips part in the wake of his touch on their own.

His breath, hot and wet, caresses her jawline. "Can I kiss you here?"

"No," she says again, weaker.

His body shift above her, his hair tickling the skin of her neck, as he leans down to one of her clavicles. "And here? Can I kiss you here, aunt?"

What will he do if she keeps denying him? Will he continue, going lower and lower until he reaches her cunt? Will he kiss her again there until she is pushed over the edge once more?

"No." The word is nothing but a whisper, and she knows: the next time he asks, she won't have the power to deny him again.

She feels a finger dip between her clavicles; it brushes along her skin all the way to the top of her nightgown. Then his palm slides to her breast over the silky material. He squeezes her lightly, coaxing her nipple to harden even by such a gentle touch.

"How about here?" His thumb flicks over her nipple to leave no doubt about his intent. "Can I kiss you here?"

She knows she has lost even before she utters that most traitorous single word. "Yes…"

He doesn't waste a second before he leans down and wraps his lips around her nipple through her nightgown. His tongue grazes over the peak before he sucks her nipple into the warmth of his mouth. When he lets go, a soft whimper breaks from her throat only for it to shift into a wanton moan when he takes her other nipple between his lips.

Both his thumbs slip under the thin straps of her nightgown, and he pulls them down over her shoulders, but stops just shy of exposing her chest.

"Let me see you, aunt," he sighs. "Let me see your breasts, please…"

She opens her eye to look at him again, and what she sees undoes her fully. The bright and vicious passion in his gaze breaks the very last of her defences.

She reaches up and unties the bows of her straps, then pushes the garment down towards her waist. Her nipples harden fully as they come in contact with the cool night air.

His hands cover her bare breasts in an instant, fondling her flesh with reverent motions. He leans down again, and takes her into his mouth once more, the direct contact eliciting a deep moan from the both of them.

"Can I touch you?" she whispers, wanting to return to the original lesson for the night, but also wanting—desperately—to study and cherish his body like he has done hers.

"If you touch me now," he murmurs, his lips continuing to explore the swells of her breasts, "I cannot make any promises that I won't come."

"What if I want you to?"

"Then touch me… Gods, touch me now!" He pushes himself up until he's face to face with her again. "Do you truly want to?"

"Yes," she whispers, and cups his face. There's no other reason left why she shouldn't give herself over to his corruption fully. "Kiss me, nephew."

"What was that?"

"Kiss me," she repeats, and pulls him down until there's barely an inch between them. "Kiss me, kiss me, kiss me."

His lips are just as full of warmth as the rest of him. He kisses her slowly, tentatively at first, but soon they both grow impatient, having been aching and yearning foolishly for the taste of the other. His tongue licks into her at the same time when their hips meet by accident, and she feels him against her naked skin for the very first time.

She breaks their kiss to look down between their bodies, at his cock pressing against her belly. It is hard and red; the skin looks taut and dry except for the small pearls of wetness at the tip.

"Touch me," he whimpers, and rolls his hips again. "Have me in any way you want…"

"Show me how," she says, her voice heavy with desire.

He descends on her lips once more, and takes her in a rough kiss. Even if it will bruise, she doesn't want him to stop, but soon he pulls away and sits up above her, his knees pressing to her waist on both sides.

He takes her hand and guides her to himself, stopping just shy of touching his hard member. She reaches for him, her fingers brushing against the underside of his cock, and he takes a sharp inhale.

"Just like that, aunt."

She follows the thickest vein all the way to the base with her fingertips, sinks her fingers into the coarse, curly hair there, then moves a little lower to cup his balls. She watches with awe as his hips buck forward.

She moves her hand back to his shaft, throbbing heat radiating off the smooth skin.

"And this should fit inside—me?" she asks, unsure.

"Are you afraid that it can't?"

She nods.

"I can show you how it would feel to have something inside you. It would be nothing compared to how a cock would feel, but you can learn the sensation."

"My maidenhead—" she begins anxiously, but he gently cuts her off.

"I've promised that I won't take it."

She nods again, and turns her attention back to his erection. She tries to circle her fingers around him, but he's almost too thick for them to reach all the way around. She tightens her grip and moves her hand towards the base, doing so intuitively, and he moans so loud that they both freeze in fear that they have been heard.

They both listen for sounds coming from the outside, but the night remains calm and quiet.

"Please, don't stop," he whispers after a moment. "Keep that up, and you'll make me finish just with a few strokes."

"Like this?" she asks, and moves her hand back towards the tip then down to the base again.

"Yes… exactly like this."

She strokes him slowly a few times before she slips her thumb over to his slit, and with the downwards stroke she smears the wetness over his length. He has the presence of mind to slap his hand over his mouth before he moans again.

"Don't stop…" he begs with a strained voice. "Gods, you're going to make me come." He spreads his legs a little wider to angle his hips downwards. "Stroke me like that again, I'm so close."

She does so, moves her hand up and down in a slow rhythm, feels the pulse of blood in his cock under her fingertips, feels the moment when the bucking of his hips stops and he goes still.

Then he comes, and the first ropes of his hot white fluid land on her breasts with the rest pulsing onto her hand. She keeps stroking him until there's nothing left to coax from him, and he goes a little softer in her hand.

He falls forward in exhausted bliss, but at the last moment catches himself on his hands, hovering over her body, his eyes closed shut. His breathing is ragged, short inhales and exhales replace each other in a chaotic rhythm.

She reaches up with the hand that is not covered with his spend to caress his face. "You were beautiful."

He opens his eyes, and looks at her bewildered. "It is you who were—who are beautiful."

"Kiss me."

He does so without a beat of hesitation. He leans down, and takes her lips with his. This time it feels more than just the exploration of senses, lips brushing against each other, tongues meeting, breaths exchanged. She can almost taste his soul in that kiss.

When they break away for air, he touches his forehead to hers.

"Let me clean you up," he whispers.

He looks around the room for the basin, and when he finds it, he goes to fetch it together with a washcloth. He brings everything back to her bed, and begins to gently wipe away her arousal from between her legs and his from her hand and breasts.

She looks at him, raptured and overcome. He has been the bane of her life ever since that night when he robbed her of her eye and yet—and yet he is the only one who can unchain her.

"I'm ready," she whisper, hoping he will understand what she means.

He nods, and places the basin down at the foot of the bed, then climbs back next to her.

"I must prepare you, make you wet again," he says matter-of-factly, but she catches him smirking before he manages to hide it.

He lies down next to her in the opposite direction, with his face at level with her thighs. He grabs her hips, and pulls her body on top of his so that her thighs cradle his head as she hovers above his face.

"Like this?" she asks, blushing.

"Hmm," he hums, already busy kissing the inside of her thighs. "Sink a little lower for me."

She does so, but he is not satisfied. He reaches between and around her thighs, wrapping his arms around them, grabbing her hips like that, and applies a gentle pressure to push her closer.

"Give me your sweet cunt," he orders. A moan slips past her lips, and she lets her legs spread wider, sinking all the way down to his mouth. He laps at her with the flat of his tongue. "That's it, aunt, just like that."

He begins his slow work on her, kissing and licking around her entrance, sucking the sensitive skin into his mouth, and caressing it with his tongue in the wet warmth.

Whenever her arousal starts to gather between her folds, he dives in, slips his tongue into her slit, and drinks her up eagerly. He makes her feel so divine that she cannot help but whine each time his mouth meets her cunt.

After a while he stops licking her, and instead presses his firm tongue straight against her sensitive bud, and starts moving her by her hips back and forth, the pressure inside her building rapidly. When he picks up some pace, the motion makes her fall forward and onto her hands next to his waist.

Her eye finds his cock instantly, swelled and pink with need, twitching against his stomach. His balls look more relaxed but she can see them pull tighter as his cock gets harder.

His arousal is leaking from the tip, dotting the taut skin of his stomach with creamy pearls. All she has to do is lower herself down onto her elbows, and let her tongue dart forward to taste him.

When she does so, he growls into her core.

"What—what are you doing?"

"Having a taste for myself." She leans forward again, and kisses into the spot under the flared base of his cockhead. It twitches against her lips. "I wonder how it would feel to take you into my mouth."

She couldn't take him far, but she could lick around his head, lap up those pearls, suck him into the warmth between her lips. When he doesn't respond, she grows anxious.

"Do you not want me to?"

"Do I not—fuck, how could I not?"

She cannot help herself but smile and lean forward again, kissing the side of his cock, and sucking slightly on the soft and warm skin.

"Then why won't you let me?" she asks as she releases his hardness from under her lips.

"Because if you put your mouth around me, I'm done for," he says, heaving.

"Then stop teasing me, nephew, because the more you leave me aching, the more you make me want to do this," she says, and despite his warnings she leans down and wraps her lips around his tip, sucking it in ever so slightly.

His grip on her hips tightens, fingers digging into her flesh with a force that will surely leave a mark, and his own hips buck forward, driving his cock deeper into her mouth. His thickness gives her lips a delicious stretch, and the taste of his arousal spreads on her tongue.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs over and over again, his hands caressing her thighs and back in a soothing gesture. "I didn't mean to do th—"

On a whim she sucks him deeper into her mouth, and the words stuck in his throat, choked by a deep growl that he can't hold back. She feels the urgent pulsing in his cock, keeps him inside for a long moment then slowly releases him with a wet sound.

"You've promised to teach me, nephew. So stop leaving me wanting, because I've just learned that I like having you in my mouth."

Her sentence is barely finished when he pulls her back onto his lips and presses his tongue deeply into her, adding a generous amount of his spit to her own abundant wetness.

"The most wicked mouth—but the sweetest cunt," he murmurs between licks.

Her scheme has made him mad with need, and she can barely hold herself up on her hands as he dives deeper and fiercer into her. She lets him indulge himself a little longer, his tongue feeling far too perfect in her cunt, but soon a different kind of need starts to grow inside her.

She's just about to make right on her threat, and suck him into her mouth again, when she feels him shift under her as he unwraps his right arm around her thigh and pulls it back from below her. He puts his hand, firm and warm, on the curve of her ass and squeezes a little, feeling the shape of her under his palm.

From there he drags his thumb along her wetness, teasing her slit, then switches to his middle finger, stroking her between her folds back and forth with that single digit.

"Tell me if it hurts… I'm going to push a finger in you now."

She has barely enough time to comprehend his words before she feels the stretch as her slit opens up to the finger pushing into her. She gasps, and her body jolts. Not because of any pain but because of the novelty of the sensation, but he stops regardless.

"Does it hurt?"

"No," she heaves. "It's—Gods, it's—" She doesn't have the words for it but she likes it. Very much so. "Move it," she begs.

"Like this?" he asks wishfully.

He pulls out, maybe a knuckle's length remaining, then pushes back in slowly until his entire finger is inside her. He then repeats it, pulling out, pushing in, finding a comfortable and slow rhythm until she's used to the feeling of something caressing her inner walls.

The stretch is wonderful, and the squelching sound his finger makes in her drives her to her limit.

"Please, don't stop," is the only thing she is capable enough to say.

'No, never,' he sighs, mesmerised.

They continue like this, but after a while she realises that it's no longer him moving his finger inside her, but her own body chasing the feeling, pulling and pushing herself off and onto the digit. She has never thought to come to a point where she would pleasure herself on a man's finger, but she doesn't intend to stop.

"Are you ready for a second finger?" he asks, making her blush even though she already feels herself depraved.

"Yes," she moans, and his index finger joins his middle, slipping in easily into her tight hole.

"You're taking them so hungrily," he muses, his voice hoarse and needy.

"It feels so good," she confesses.

"Does it?" he asks, and she can hear the smirk in his voice.

She knows that he's going to do something to her that will make her want to scream, and she doesn't have to wait long for it. He slyly bends his fingers inside her, and presses down on a spot near her entrance. She has to bury her face into his stomach to muffle the cry that rips from her throat.

"Does this feel good, too?"

She doesn't have the strength to form words for a reply, so she does the only thing she can think of as retaliation. She lifts her head from his stomach and without prelude wraps her lips back around his cockhead, sucking him deep, deeper than before, into her mouth.

She delights in the growl he gives her, and she doesn't relent. She gathers some spit in her mouth to ease the way, and starts moving along his length as much as she can, letting his tip slide all the way back to her throat. His thickness stretches her lips, but she likes the feel of it.

A stray thought, utterly inconvenient, enters her mind, and she imagines this stretch of her lips between her legs, his cock parting her folds and slipping into her, pushing until his hips are flush against hers, until his beautiful thick bush of hair touches hers, dark against her silver. She moans around him at the thought, and his hips jerk upwards.

"I need you in a new position before you make me come in your mouth…" he whimpers. "Please, I can't take it much longer."

She releases him with a wet pop. His length is glistening with her saliva.

"What new position?"

"Something that might be more likely when your husband—when—for your first time."

She lets him pull his fingers from her while she tries hard to ignore the pain his words have stirred inside her. She doesn't want to think about husbands and weddings and duty, not now, not with him in her bed.

"Lie on your back," he guides her.

She climbs off him, and lies down next to him, her shoulder, arm, hip touching his. She feels the warmth of him. The scent of their sweat and arousal fills the air.

For a fleeting moment his fingers are seeking hers, they are brushing against each other with tenderness instead of lust, an intimate and brittle moment shared between people who know all too well that they cannot have more than this.

He turns towards her, presses his body to hers, and breathes a soft kiss onto her shoulder closest to him. Then he pushes himself up onto his hands and knees, and the moment breaks.

He climbs on top of her, and parts her legs with his knees.

There's a sombre shift in the air around them, the weight of their circumstance pushing down on them anew.

"I think," he says in a suddenly distant, flat tone, "your husband will most likely lie with you like this, with him on top." He positions himself above her but makes certain that their hips don't touch. "Maybe with your legs pushed up and apart."

"Like this?" she asks and spreads herself for him, reaching below her knees to pull and keep her thighs apart.

"Yes…" he says breathily, his eyes fixed on her centre still glistening with her arousal. He gulps hard.

"And then…?" she wonders softly.

He shifts above her, moving to his left, putting his weight on his leg and placing his hand on the back of her thigh, replacing hers under her knee.

His other hand hovers over her wetness a moment before he slowly drags his fingers through her folds then pushes two inside. She gasps, the feeling of having him inside her overwriting every thought in her head.

She looks up at his face; his reverent expression shatters something inside her.

"He would—" he begins, as his fingers keep pumping into her, "he—you would feel it from an angle like this."

"Yes…?" she asks, sighing. With one of her hands unoccupied, she starts to caress her breasts, then lower the soft flesh of her belly, until she reaches between her legs and joins him in giving herself pleasure. She rubs her middle finger over her most sensitive spot, already tender and aching from his attentions.

"Fuck," he groans, watching her touch herself. "I want to—Gods, I wish I could do this with you properly… I wish I could just lie between your legs, and bury my cock inside you… I wish… I wish I could make lo—"

"Don't say anything, please," she cuts him off, begging. What use would it be to admit that this means more to her, too, than a simple lesson in marital duties. That she wishes he could sink into her and make love to her the way he clearly wants to. "We have here and now, just us, nothing else matters."

Nothing else is possible.

His pumping fingers halt for a moment as he looks into her eye.

"What do you want?" he asks, the familiar question rekindling the rapturous feeling.

"Come here," she whispers. Her hand rubbing herself stops and wraps around his wrist, pulling him out and then on top of her. He falls back between her legs, his cock brushing accidentally against her soaked folds, and they both gasp.

"We shouldn't—" he starts.

"Do you trust me?" He nods. "Then kiss me."

He presses his lips on hers, tongue seeking entry into her mouth, licking into her when it's given. One of her hands finds purchase in his hair, lacing her fingers through his silken locks, while the other sneaks between their bodies.

She finds his cock pressed into her stomach, wraps her fingers around it, and gives it a few strokes, spreads his arousal from the tip along his length. Then she shifts and wriggles and tilts her hips until she has dragged his hardness to her own wet centre, his cockhead pressing to the apex of her slit, right against her sensitive spot. Then she starts rocking against him.

He exhales into her mouth, her lips capturing his moans pouring out ceaselessly. His cock glides easily between her folds, picking up the moisture of her soaked cunt.

There's silence in the room except for their heaving breaths. Their hips meet again and again in a volatile dance, pressing against each other, wet sounds filling the gaps between their groans.

She hears the moment, the small change in the rhythm of his breathing, and she knows that he's close. She grabs his side, the firm flesh of his ass, and presses herself up against him, their bodies creating a tight channel for his cock to slide home. She's close too, the feel of his hardness rubbing against her has her on the edge.

"Come for me, nephew," she sighs into his mouth, the wanton words no longer foreign on her tongue. Her grip in his hair tightens. "That is what I want… you, here, giving yourself to me."

"Come with me…" he pleads desperately.

"I am… I'm coming," she cries into their kiss.

And she does. Her body tries to go rigid, her orgasm seizing her, but she fights through it, keeps pressing herself up and to him, the friction of his cock against her throbbing core is equal amounts pleasure and pain.

He follows her, giving himself to her wholly and without reservations. His moans reverberate through her body, and he spills himself into the tight space between them. She feels every pulse of his cock, every drop of his cum, it smears on her skin as he keeps moving on top of her.

They collapse into each other, his head falling next to hers, and he buries his face into the crook of her neck. Her hand finds its way to his broad shoulder, to the flat of his back, his skin slick with sweat. The sweet musk of sex fills the air.

She listens to the sound of his breathing as it slowly calms down, hot air caressing the skin of her neck.

A hollow, painful ache fills her soul… what an inconvenient, silly feeling to have.

She's had nothing to lose, nothing of her to get ruined… then he came and created something out of her nothingness by simply wanting her, needing her like no one has ever wanted or needed her before. And now he has truly and irrevocably ruined her.

A sigh breaks from her lips. "You've paid your debt to me, nephew. You're free of me now."

He moves, lifts his head to look at her but she turns away. She cannot bear to see his face.

"'Free of you?" he asks tentatively.

"You cannot do anything more for me… you should leave."

"Leave…?" he asks. His lack of comprehension begins to irritate her.

"Yes, leave. Go."

"Let me clean you up first—"

"I can take care of that," she cuts him off.

She wants to be left alone before he can see her tears, before he can see the weakness that he has created in her, before he can ruin her further by making her beg him to stay.

He places a chaste kiss on her shoulder, his lips barely brushing against her skin, then his weight leaves her. She feels the lack of his warmth around her. She listens to the sound of him dressing. She listens to the silence that follows, fills the room, hangs above them. She refuses to look at him.

He walks to the wooden panel which hides the secret passage to her chambers, opens it with a creak. He lingers, she can feel his eyes on her.

"I'll never be free of you, aunt. And I don't want to be. You're a part of me, whether you allow it or not."

He leaves.

She lets the first of her tears fall.

Chapter Text

"Let's get them to bed," Aegon bellows, and slams his cup on the table. The wine spills to the white tablecloth, its deep red colour seeping to every direction. "You should hope, Ser, that my sister does not have teeth between her legs because she does bite."

There are a few laughs around the table, men deep in their cups encouraging the young prince and his crude jokes.

She doesn't laugh with them.

Nor does the Queen, but she would never disagree with her first-born, not in public. Maybe, once Aegon will have sobered up, she will scold him, tell him off for bringing shame onto their family, onto his mother—but not his sister. Never the sister.

She is not the Queen's responsibility anymore.

Unfeeling hands grab her, and pull her from the table and through the crowd; her wedding party is cheering as she is lifted up to someone's shoulder and carried out the hall. The men follow, their eyes hungry for the spectacle.

From the corner of her eye she sees the women escorting her husband through another door; his steps are unsteady, his movements faltering. She will have a drunkard claim her maidenhead.

"Isn't she heavy? Let's strip her of her gown," someone shouts.

She has hoped to keep her cloak, her gown a little longer; the chill of the night, even within the walls of the keep, bites.

The man carrying her drops her roughly to her feet, and they are on her. Her cloak is untied and removed from her shoulders, thrown down to the floor; she hopes that someone has the mind to pick it back up, to fold it neatly, to take care of it. That cloak is and now forever will be the insignia of her life.

Next, the lacing on the back of her dress is pulled apart, the delicate work of her sweet sister undone in seconds.

"Let me do it," Aegon barks, and stumbles in front of her. "She's my sister, it should be me who's undressing her."

He looks at her, his vision is unfocused. He lifts his hands to grab the front of her dress, and he yanks it down with one ungraceful motion. She stands in her smallclothes and the ruins of her dress hanging from her waist, eyes of the men feasting on her body.

Daeron steps forward, and stands between her and Aegon.

"Let us hope her husband will be more gentle with her," he says to the crowd, jesting, "or we will hear his screams instead of her moans."

They all laugh. That might have sounded cruel to others, but she looks at her younger brother, and speaks her gratitude without words.

"Let's get her to bed before she freezes," another man roars, "I can see her nipples pointing."

She's pulled by her hand again, up the steps of the keep. She has to grab and keep the remains of her gown from falling and making her trip as they drag her towards the newlywed's chambers—a token of the King's generosity.

They see her struggling and stop again, two men lifting her by the waist and another pulling her dress down her legs.

A man whistles, another applauds.

"Redwyne will be a lucky man."

"Only if he can tame her."

"Not anyone can break in a dragon."

"Those hips are made for breeding."

"Don't worry, princess, I am certain he will be gentle while he takes you."

Their japes mean nothing to her, she barely even hears them.

They pull her again. Somewhere along the process she has lost a slipper, and the floor feels hard and cold.

They arrive at the door of their chambers for the night, the men like wolves circle around her.

"That's enough, you sons of whores," Aegon says, his words slurring as he cuts through the crowd. "You have feasted your eyes on my sister's tits long enough. It's her own family who should escort her to bed now."

"Aegon…" comes the warning from their youngest brother.

"Don't spoil the fun, Daeron." Aegon rips the door open and shoves her inside. "Come, little brother. And the both of you too. Let yourselves be good nephews, and give away your aunt properly."

The room is dimly lit; only a few candles provide some light. The door is slammed behind them, and the disgruntled noise of the men dies down.

Her husband is not there yet.

"Come, Jace, help me with her underskirt."

She looks back over her shoulder, and her gaze meets his. She has tried not to think about him, not to seek him out in the crowd.

He has her cloak; he holds it folded over his arm like a shield.

Her other nephew steps closer, and gives her an encouraging smile.

"Ser Gylford is a good man, he will be gentle to you."

She returns a feeble imitation of a smile.

"Don't just stand there, Luke, untie that thing on her."

Her hands close into fists as he nears her. He puts her cloak on the end of the bed, and steps behind her.

His fingers brush against her shoulders as he pulls on the ties of her chemise; the garment falls to her waist, and the cool night air brushes against her bare chest.

"Everything will be alright," he whispers into her ear, just as the door to the room bursts open again.

The lively chatter of women flows in, and they enter with her husband. He is almost entirely naked; his entourage has left nothing but his undergarment on him, but now even that gets removed.

Gylford Redwyne can barely stand on his own feet. The women escort him to the bed, and he falls on top of it almost lifelessly.

Her underskirt finally gets untied, and it falls. Rough hands pull her chemise down over the curve of her bottom, and it joins the rest of her clothes on the floor. She is completely naked now.

A hand grabs her elbow, and pulls her backwards.

"Don't worry, sister," Aegon whispers, "I made certain I can have the first night." His breath stinks of wine, the skin of his palm feels clammy. Her blood curdles in her veins. "I will come back to claim what is mine."

He pushes her forward to the bed, and she stumbles. Her eye is wide with terror, cold sweat runs down her back.

"Here's your bride, Ser. Take good care of her for me," Aegon sneers. The women chuckle at his remark; they all have a secret understanding of what awaits her although her husband is all but passed out. Daeron at long last drags their brother away.

She feels a hand reaching below her elbow to help her stand straight again. She recognises his touch in a heartbeat.

Panic chokes her. She grabs onto his hand, her nails scratching him by accident. His hold around her arm tightens; his eyes are full of worry.

She cannot stay, she cannot wait here for Aegon to make good on his threat. She has to think, but all her thoughts have abandoned her.

Her chambers—the chambers of her now dead girlhood—are not that far, she remembers. If only she could make it there, hide there until—

"Your debt—" she stammers, still unsure what to say, what to ask. She has told him it was paid; it's no use. "I need you to—"

"What are you doing, Luke? Put her to bed already, her husband is waiting," Aegon roars from the door before Daeron manages to get him out at last.

She pulls her arm from his hand, the absence of his touch agonising, and steps to the bed. She climbs under the cover next to her husband. Her mother-in-law wishes them good luck, and ushers everyone out of the room.

They are alone. She is trembling and afraid while her husband is mumbling inebriated.

"My wife—" he says, words slurring, reaching towards her under the cover. He falls asleep mid-sentence.

That cannot be only the wine, she realises in an instant; her husband has been drugged. He lies next to her motionless, his face buried between the pillows.

She can still hear the cheers of the party outside, although they are getting more and more distant.

How long until Aegon thinks it's safe for him to return? How long until she can slip away unseen?

She climbs out, and runs to the chest at the foot of the bed; the maids must have prepared some clothes for after the act. She finds clean undergarments, a linen nightshirt, a silk dressing gown.

She opens the other chest next to hers, and sorts through her husband's belongings. She grabs his breeches, far too long and far too big for her frame, but she can work with that.

She dresses hastily, pulling on her undergarments first and her husband's breeches on top; she ties it on her waist with the belt of her dressing gown and folds up the legs. She puts on the nightshirt last and steps into a pair of slippers which have been placed under the bed.

She looks around for a cloak but there's only her bridal one, still lying at the end of the bed. She leaves it.

She steps to the door and listens. There's only silence, the wedding party has since retreated to the hall to celebrate into the morning.

She slowly pushes down the handle, and peeks out into the corridor. There's no one around, no one she can see. She slips out.

She hesitates. Her old rooms are to the right, but that's also where the wedding reception is held; if Aegon were to return now, he would catch her, drag her to bed, force himself on her—

She turns left, and runs to hide in a small alcove. She can wait him out there; she will hear him, his careless and drunk steps, and once he's in the room, she can run past him undetected.

It doesn't take long until she hears footsteps approaching. Although she knows that she's less in danger where she's hiding, it still terrifies her how little Aegon has waited to claim her.

She holds back her breath and listens closely. She can hear him stumble to the door, hear his drunken boasts, hear the creak of the hinges. When the door shuts behind him, she starts to run, her silken slippers making little noise on the stone floor.

She rounds the corner, and doesn't look back, doesn't slow down, not until she reaches her old chambers, and closes the door behind her. She turns the key and locks herself in.

She backs away all the way to the bed, and collapses on top of it. She tries hard to even out her breathing.

She's not sure why she has asked him to come. She's not even sure if he will. There's so many ways he could have misunderstood her, so many reasons why he would decide to ignore her.

When her heart settles down to its stable rhythm, she stands and walks to the wooden panel, pulls it open. A cool draft from the secret passage rushes past her.

He is there, waiting.

He's sitting on one of the steps, but stands as soon as he hears her. He takes a hesitant step up and towards her. His eyes are fearful.

"What happen—" he tries to ask.

She flies down the few steps of stairs and crashes into him, and he catches her without a second thought, his arms wrapping tightly around her body. She buries her face into his chest, breathes in his scent.

They stand there for a long time, his arms strong and safe around her, his heartbeat steady and comforting.

He has taken so much from her. He has given her so much more.

He waits for her to break the embrace, to unwrap herself from his arms. When she does so, he reaches up and wipes away the tears from her eyes—from her lilac and her sapphire one under the patch, too.

The Gods, cruel as they are, have made certain that she would always be crying with two eyes.

"What happened?" he asks again. His palm cradling her face is warm against her skin.

"Aegon…" she tries to say, but her shaking breaks up the word. She takes a deep breath. "I think he has poisoned Ser Gylford, drugged him. He's lying unconscious. Aegon has promised he would come back for me."

A shadow crosses his eyes.

"I have fled before it…" she says. She wants him to know that she's safe, that nothing has happened.

"Thank the Gods," he sighs. He looks at her with relief. He looks at her with a desperate and depthless longing.

"I wasn't sure if you understood… if you would come…"

"I'll always come for you, aunt."

She turns her head and kisses into his palm, and he lets out a soft sigh. She's missed this, the taste, the smell, the warmth of him.

She takes his hand and leads him up the stairs, up to her chambers.

"Stay with me for a little while," she asks him. "I don't want to be alone while I wait."

He nods, and lets her walk them to the bed, sits beside her, pulls her into his arm. She lays her head on his shoulder.

"We'll leave for the Arbor in a few days," she says, trying to pass the time with conversation.

"I know."

"I wanted to ride on Vhagar but mother said that I mustn't. That it is not fit for a lady to ride on a beast."

"And will you, aunt? Will you do what she's told you?"

She smiles softly. "No."

"I knew you wouldn't."

A long but comfortable silence settles on them. She listens to his heartbeat, to the steady rhythm of it.

"I don't know when I'll be back in the capital. It might be years…" She's not certain why she has said that, or even why it has come to her mind in the first place. The thought of leaving has grown on her, but the thought of not returning, mayhaps never, is suddenly choking her.

He doesn't respond right away. "I know," he says then. Simple, solemn.

"Nephew…"

"Hmm?"

She lifts her head from his shoulder, and turns to face him. "Kiss me."

He looks at her for a moment that feels like eternity, but then he lifts his free hand and cups her face, runs his thumb along her lower lip. Then he leans down, and presses his mouth to hers.

It's like they have never stopped kissing a fortnight ago, his lips moulding to hers by memory. She sighs into the kiss. She has almost forgotten how warm he tastes.

She lifts a hand to his face, feels the soft wisps of hair on his chin under her fingertips.

"Nephew…" she whispers again. He kisses her jaw, her neck, the soft skin under her ear, her lips again. "I want it with you."

"What do you want?"

"My wedding night. I ought to have a wedding night. I want it to be with you. If only for tonight, if only for here and now, but I want you to be as if my husband."

"Aunt…" he breathes into her mouth.

"We have played at it already," she says, biting gently into his lower lip. "I want you fully. I want to feel you again. I want to touch you again. I want to watch you arrive at the gates of pleasure. I want you to take my hand, and bring me there with you."

His lips crash into hers as his answer, and his kiss hurts just a little, just enough to make her burn.

She is going to give herself to him like she was always meant to do. How could she do anything else when it is him who has made her feel wanted, made her feel needed—made her feel for the very first time desired, cherished, worthy.

"I will do it slowly and gently," he promises. "The way you deserve to be made love to."

Love. Is this what love feels like?

"Yes."

He stands and pulls her up with him. He places another kiss on her lips before his hands slip to her waist then under her shirt.

"I am going to kiss every inch of you."

"Yes," she sighs again.

His hands traverse to her back, up to her shoulder blades then back down to her hips, his fingers dipping below the waistband of her breeches. His touch is how all Seven Heavens must feel like.

He hooks his fingers to the hem of her shirt and lifts it up, pulls it over her head. For the second time that night she stands before him with her chest bare.

"You've already done this tonight, nephew."

His expression darkens. "That whole affair was a disgrace. I don't know why we still keep doing it."

"I hardly remember it…"

"That's—" he murmurs then places a soft kiss to her cheek, "that shouldn't be the solution, you trying to forget it."

"You can do it right this time," she says. "You can touch me this time." She takes his hands and places them to the mounds of her breast. He squeezes lightly around them.

"There's not a moment when I don't want to tell you how beautiful you are."

She pushes herself up to her tiptoes, and takes his lips between hers.

"You're wearing too many clothes, nephew," she declares once she breaks from the kiss.

"You can help me with that," he says, teasing, and leans down to capture her lips again.

Her hands and fingers set to work, untying and unbuckling the clasps of his waistcoat and pushing it down from his back. She tugs at his shirt, and it comes loose from his trousers. Her hands slide below the fabric, her fingers grazing the skin of his back.

She feels daring, and slips her hands below his waistband, down around the curve of his hips, and squeezes. She captures his lips just in time to drink up his moan that escapes them.

He replies in kind, reaching for her makeshift belt around the stolen breeches, and undoing it with one swift motion. The garment falls to the floor immediately.

He quickly yanks his shirt off and tosses it to the floor before one of his hands seizes her waist and pulls her closer while the other slides into her undergarment, straight to the place between her legs. His fingers find her wet and aching.

"I have barely touched you," he gasps. Has he not learned yet what he is capable of doing to her?

He pulls his hand free, and lifts it to his mouth to taste her arousal.

"Help me," she pleads, struggling with the lacing of his trousers. Her fingers are far too eager to touch him.

"Let me," he breathes, and takes over from her trembling hands. He undoes the front in seconds, and pushes his trousers down his legs.

His cock has already hardened halfway, standing proudly in the thick bush of hair that surrounds its base. Her hand wraps around him without hesitation, stroking him a few times, feeling him get firmer under her touch.

"One day," he growls, "I will let you—no, beg you to stroke me to completion, but that won't be today."

He steps to her, and reaches under her ass, lifting her from her feet. With a few sure steps they're at the bed, and he throws her on top, climbs after her in an instant.

He hooks his fingers into the waist of her underwear, and pulls it down her thighs, all the way down her legs. There's no hesitation when he pushes her knees apart, and spreads her legs wide open.

"Yes," he sighs. "Just as pretty as I have remembered."

He drags his middle finger between her folds once, twice, and she feels her cheeks blush.

He moves his hands over her thighs, and gently strokes the skin on their inside, fingertips barely touching her, then leans forward and kisses into her belly.

"I have wanted to kiss you so badly," he murmurs, and kisses her again below her navel, "kiss you here," over her right hip bone, "and here," and the left.

He climbs on top of her, and starts trailing upwards, kissing a path on her skin up to her chest.

"These too," he sighs, "such perfect breasts."

They are not, she wants to protest. She knows that she looks nothing like her sisters, both full and lush and soft where she is sharp and bony. The argument dies on her lips the moment he kisses the underside to one of her breasts.

He takes one of her nipples into his mouth, and sucks on it gently. She can feel the tip of his tongue circle around it. A finger repeats the same motion on her other nipple, stroking around its rosy area, making it perk up under his fingertip.

His hard cock brushes against her skin, his arousal leaves wet marks all over her thighs where it touches her.

Her fingers grab into his hair, and she pulls him up for a searing kiss. While he's distracted with her lips, she sneaks her legs around his waist and pulls him to her, pressing his hardness right against her entrance.

He growls into her mouth.

"Take me," she begs.

"Not yet…" he protests, and kisses her again.

"You've promised," she mewls, wanting—needing—him to fill her up.

"You're not wet enough…"

"Then make me."

He's nothing but an animal when after hearing that he cannot help but buck his hips forward, pressing even more closely to her. "You are going to undo me…" he breathes against her lips.

"Kiss me between my legs the way you did here a fortnight ago."

"Yes," he sighs, "yes, yes…" He kisses her again, roughly, fervently. "Sit on my face," he moans, "I want your cunt dripping into my mouth."

She groans. Does he not know how easily he can take her apart with his words, make all of her inhibitions disappear?

He rolls onto his back, and she climbs on top of him without delay, her hands resting on the wall above the headboard. He pulls her down by her thighs, wraps his arms around them from below and licks hard into her once with the flat of his tongue. His nose nestles into the silver hair at the juncture of her thighs.

He doesn't rush it, despite how desperate she feels for his touch. He kisses her folds over and over again, soft like a prayer, and licks her again only when her sighs shift into begging.

By the Gods' mercy, he yields to her pleas soon enough, and sucks her bud between his lips, savours it, circles around and flicks his tongue against it in the warmth of his mouth. She reaches down with one hand to lace her fingers into his curls, to grip his hair and guide his head by it.

He lets her writhe against him, her arousal spreading on his chin, then he stills her hips with the flat of his palms. Before she can complain he pushes his firmed up tongue into her, fucking her on it, tasting her on the inside with audible moans.

She cries out with pleasure. "Am I wet enough for you yet, nephew?"

"No," he whines, "not nearly enough."

She knows he is lying, and he knows it, too.

"Then put a finger in me…" His movements falter, and he growls as he pushes his tongue even deeper into her. "Be a dutiful nephew, and put your finger in me."

"You won't let me have my fill, will you, aunt?"

"No," she says, gasping, "because I want to be the one filled with you."

"There, then," he groans, and unwraps his arms from her thighs, "have me."

He pushes his middle finger right in; it slips into her easily.

"Yes," she moans, scraping the wall with her fingers. "More, give me more."

He has never denied her anything before, and he doesn't start now; he pushes into her with his index finger too, her cunt sucking in his digits greedily.

He bends his fingers inside her, presses against her in that delicious way that makes her want to scream, while the heel of his hand rubs against the apex of her slit.

He's becoming too much to handle, and at the same time not nearly enough.

"Gods, yes, just like that," she groans, legs shaking, but she does not—cannot—stop riding him.

"So perfect, soaking my fingers like that," he sighs. "Do you still want more?"

"Yes— no—" she moans between the waves of her hips moving against him. "Please… let me have you… I'm ready…"

"Yes, you are," he agrees breathlessly.

He pulls out and grabs her thighs with his hands; her arousal on his fingers leaves a wet trail on her skin. He helps her slide down on him, her body trembling and weak from his attentions.

When she tries to climb off him to lie on her back, he stops her firmly, fingers digging into her flesh, and pulls her back.

"You've said that a husband would—"

"Forget what I said."

He draws her closer until his cock is once more at her entrance, his cockhead pressing against her, twitching into her slit. She kneels above him, legs pressed to his hips on each side, hovering, in anticipation.

His gaze rakes over her—her legs, her belly, her breasts—and it finally settles on her face. His hold on her hips firms up. It takes her a moment to realise what he's looking at.

There's rush of embarrassment, and then a sharp stab of indignation. If he thinks he can look at her, judge her for her missing—no, stolen—eye, then he should think better of it.

"Are you trying to assess your handiwork, nephew?"

He shakes his head. "No. I'm trying to look at you. All of you."

His right hand slides to her belly, the warmth of his palm flush against her skin. Then he moves it up—all too slowly—to her breasts, to her neck, to the side of her face.

"Will you take it off?" His thumb brushes against the strap of her eyepatch. It makes her shiver in his arm.

"Why?"

"I've already told you. I wish to see all of you."

She shouldn't feel any reservations about removing her eyepatch, especially in front of him. If anyone, it should be him being forced to see the gruesome scar slashed across her face—his very own mark on her. But she still feels her hand trembling as she reaches up to slide the silken eyepatch away.

When it's done, she looks back at him, expecting to see him recoil at the sight.

"There," she says in brazen defiance. "Satisfied?"

He's speechless for a moment, his gazed fixed on her, his hand hovering at her cheek before he cups her face, his thumb touching the bottom of the scar line. He doesn't move except for his thumb slowly trailing up to her eye socket—with her sapphire in place.

"I won't be," he whispers. "Not until I get what I want."

"And what is that, nephew?" she asks, her voice trembling despite herself. She shouldn't feel her soul be set on fire just by being under his unrelenting gaze.

Then the air rushes out of her lungs when all of a sudden he lets go of her face, and sneaks his arm around her waist instead. He's holding her firmly in place while he pushes himself up by his other arm into a sitting position. Then he yanks her closer, her chest pressed against his, her legs wrapping around his hips to find balance.

She is sitting directly on top of him, his erection a hard and strong presence against her still wet cunt.

"I want to make love to you," he replies at last, his eyes burning with promise.

"Wouldn't one need to be in love to do that?" she asks. She can feel his breath hot against her lips.

"Yes," he says simply. "But I need to be honest, too."

"Honest about what?"

"About this," he says, and raises his fingers to touch her scar once more.

"What about it?" she asks. The resentment she used to feel not that long ago about that cursed night returns with a bite. "Are you going to finally apologise for it? Here? Now?"

He's silent for a moment, his expression focused, hard. "For the eye, yes," he says then. "I never intended this." The touch of his thumb feels scorching over her scar. He inhales deeply. "But I won't apologise for standing up for my brother."

There's dead silence; their ragged breathing is the only thing that can be heard.

"What are you saying?" she asks, her voice sharp, angry. "That you would do it again?"

"Yes."

"Bastard." The insult slips past her lips without a thought.

Then she hits him, aimlessly striking wherever she can reach him. He catches her hand and holds her firmly. She squirms and wriggles, struggling to get free but all that does is remind her of how ready she is for him, her wet cunt grinding against his cock.

"Yes," he says again, and she has no idea what he's agreeing to. "I would do it again. Stop you when you're being cruel. Side with you when you're being kind. Be with you always."

For a long moment she can do nothing but stare at him. She can feel her heartbeat hammer restlessly against her ribcage.

"I've never been afforded the luxury of being kind." He pulls the hand he caught to his lips, and breathes a soft kiss onto her palm. "I hate you," she spits at him.

"That is alright. Hate me if you must. Be cruel to me if you must."

She must. She feels it in her soul, the crushing waves of anger, of hurt, of rejection, of scorn. She hates him. Hates him. Hates him.

Because if not hate, what else can it be?

"I hate you," she says, her lips almost at his. She cannot remember when has she leaned closer. "I hate you."

He pulls away before their lips can touch.

"Do you want me?" he asks.

"I hate you," she whispers back. Repeating it like a prayer, her mouth only a breath away from his. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. "I want you."

Her nails sink into his shoulder as she pulls him closer, their lips colliding in a violent kiss. She can feel the metallic taste of blood, unsure of who has bitten into whom.

Words don't leave a mark but they hurt just the same, and her scars extend well beyond the visible. Her mother's disregard, her father's mocking, her brother's attacks—why should they weigh less than a scar across her face.

Those arms which had sliced her open are now around her, hands splayed across her back, pushing her up against him. He had hurt her like no other yet he is the only one who has promised never again.

"I hate you."

"Hate me. Hate me until I'm sick of it."

"Tell me what to do," she moans.

"Whatever feels good," he whispers against her lips.

She grinds herself against him. "Do I… do I just push it in?"

"Don't rush it," he says, and kisses her again. "Guide it to your entrance, and feel the tip, then try to sink down on it as much as you want."

"Like… like this?" She reaches between them and angles him towards her, his cock throbbing with a dry heat in her hand. She feels her folds part around the tip, and she pushes her hips down, letting him slide in.

She gasps, and her lips fall open.

He watches her reverently, palms on her thighs, caressing her gently, and he lets her have all the control.

She sinks lower, letting his cock stretch her further.

"Is this good?"

"Is it good for you? Because for me… for me it's heaven," he sighs. "Try moving a little."

She pushes herself up and then lets herself sink back down, his cock sliding into her a bit deeper every time, giving her a delicious stretch with every new inch.

"You've lied…" she sighs.

"Have I?"

"You're—big."

He smirks. "Am I? But I can't be, look how well you're taking me, aunt, almost to the hilt."

She looks down to where their bodies are joined because that can't be right. Her wetness glistens along his length as she pulls up and she reaches to touch the base of his cock. His muscles flex as she brushes her fingertips against his skin. She lets herself sink all the way down until she's pressed against him, her ass flush against his thighs.

"It's—ah, it's—" She tilts her hips, and somehow it's possible to feel him even deeper. "Gods—"

"Fucking perfect," he breathes, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of her thighs.

She starts rocking her hips back and forth in a slow rhythm, and her delicate moans fill the room.

"I thought that I was prepared… I thought that I knew…" Each of her sentences is emphasised by a roll of her hips, taking him deep again and again.

"Does it feel good?"

"It feels so full…"

"But do you like it?" he asks insistently.

"Yes," she sighs. She pushes him back down onto the bed, and places her hands next to his head; the slightly new angle rips a lengthy moan from her lips. "Ah—yes, Gods—"

His hands slide to the curve of her ass, and they squeeze her, pulling her still deeper onto him. He starts to move her a little, and their pace picks up.

"I can't—I can't take it much longer," she moans. Her rhythm falters, becomes more erratic, but she doesn't stop riding him.

There's no sound but that of flesh against flesh as the back of her thighs slaps against him in harmony with the wet squelching of her cunt as she takes him into her again and again.

"Yes, you can," he groans. "Take it, take my cock, take it all, just like that."

She leans down to kiss him to drown the wild moan that tries to escape from her lips. She feels herself almost there at the cusp of immense pleasure.

"I am so close," she cries into his mouth, and starts moving faster on top of him, chasing her release shamelessly.

His grip on her ass tightens.

She suddenly goes still, and her orgasm rips through her body like wildfire—it seizes her body, clamps her cunt around his hardness, and she cannot move, cannot feel anything except the all-consuming pleasure of it.

His hands on her ass grab her hard, and he starts moving her again, his cock keeps fucking into her, her cunt tighter and more sensitive than ever. She buries her face into his shoulder as her moans rip from her throat ceaselessly with every thrust he gives her.

His grunts are low and urgent, she can feel their vibrations through his chest. With one last hard thrust that hits her deep, he pulls her off at the last moment, and angles his cock so that the warm ropes of his cum spill on her inner thighs and between their bodies.

He grabs the back of her neck, and crashes his lips to hers violently, the force of his orgasm flowing into the kiss. His fingers tangle into her hair as he tries to pull her closer even though they are already melted into each other.

It takes a long time before they break the kiss to gasp for air. She collapses next to him onto the bed, and he immediately turns to pull her back into his arms, the mess they have made already forgotten and inconsequential.

She inhales the scent of him, her nose pressed to the nook of his neck, while he slowly caresses her back with his hand.

There's a peaceful calmness around them as they both try to come off their high in the other's embrace. There's so much warmth and affection—and love and yearning, still—in the way he holds her.

The weight—the beauty—of what they have just done settles on her, and she cannot stop herself from breaking into a smile. She hides her face into his chest.

His hand moves to her head to stroke her hair. "Are you happy?" he whispers.

She lifts her head to look at his face, the face that has haunted her nightmares, the face that will stay with her in her dreams.

"Are you?" he asks again.

He refuses to leave things unspoken, he's raw and unapologetic in that way, unrelenting like the sea crashing its waves on the shore.

She reaches up to trace a finger over the line of his eyebrow, the shape of his cheekbone, sweeps away a stray lock of hair stuck to his sweaty forehead then leans in, and kisses him softly.

"You make me happy."

He captures her lips again, and she can feel him smiling wide. He covers her with kisses, short, playful, loving. She melts into his arms, his warmth enwrapping her.

Her thighs are sticky with his cum.

"Why have you pulled out?" she asks after a while, the question gnawing at her since she came back to her senses. For whatever reason, she wanted him to spill inside her, wanted him to get lost inside her at the moment of his release.

She knows that they had to be careful before, in order to keep her maidenhead. And they were, her moon's blood the week after was proof to that. But now—he already claimed hers the moment she took him inside her.

"I thought you wouldn't want to risk it," he says, looking a little confused.

"Risk what?" she asks, her cheeks reddening fast with embarrassment.

He pushes himself up onto his elbow, and looks at her seriously. "Has your mother not talked to you about this? Has she not told you? Or Helaena?" She shakes her head, unsure what he's referring to. "Do you not know how you can become with child?"

His words reach her far too slowly, but once she grasps his meaning her face blooms red with fire, and she turns away from him, unable to face him.

She hasn't imagined that lying with him and conceiving could be separate things; when she made up her mind, she did so thinking that if the Gods will it then she would carry his child.

She's mortified by how little she has been told about what happens between husband and wife.

"Don't hide from me, please," he whispers, his hand reaching out to her tentatively. He moves closer, puts his hand to her waist, and pulls her back to him, hugging her from behind. "I'm sorry," he mumbles to the back of her neck, "I promise I was being careful." He breathes a kiss to her shoulder. "I made sure that you were safe."

"I am not worried about that," she says softly, "I just… I feel foolish for not knowing."

"No, no, don't be, please," he whispers, kissing into her shoulder after each word. "Nothing bad has happened, I promise…"

"Nephew," she says, and lays her hand over his on her waist, then slowly but resolutely slides it lower and lower to the juncture of her thighs. "Take me again. I want to feel you inside me… and this time don't pull out."

"Aunt…" he sighs, his fingers already hard at work, sliding between her folds, caressing her. "I—"

"I know what I'm asking. I want it. I want you."

One of his fingers pushes into her and she gasps. She might never get used to how heavenly it feels.

"You know what I am—you've said it yourself."

She sighs and throws her head back, his lips descending on her exposed neck a moment later. His finger keeps pumping steadily into her.

"Yes, I know—you're mine. And I want you."

"That's not what I meant…"

There's a stubbornness in her—a stubbornness to find out whether her mother would try to explain her sin away the same way she has done for Aegon, the same sin for which she condemns her oldest sister. If this is how freedom tastes like, she understands why Rhaenyra has done what they accuse her of.

But there's also desire, wild and burning, to be one with him again, to be ruined by him, to take him as he is—everything he is.

"You're my husband tonight. You're the husband I chose, the husband I want. Nothing else matters."

She can feel his hardening cock press against her backside; he's just as affected as she feels herself. He's young and lean and beautiful and so full of life, and she wants him to fuck her again.

She strains to get her hand behind herself. Her palm slides around his erection, hot need pulsing under his skin. He moans into her ear, his breath caressing the nape of her neck.

"I want you in me, nephew, hard and fast."

"Yes," he moans again.

He pulls his finger from her, and moves his hand to the curve of her bottom, kneading her soft flesh. Then he shifts closer, and pushes her leg away with his knee, exposing her wet centre from behind.

She lets go of his hard cock, her hand gripping the silk of her bed sheet in anticipation. He aligns himself, his cockhead nudging at her entrance.

"We're mad for this," he says, and plunges into her.

He bottoms out completely, his hips flush against her backside. He wraps an arm around her waist, then starts thrusting, his grunts filling her ear.

He sets a wicked pace, his cock pressing into her roughly, her wet core squelching around him, her arousal soaking her thighs.

Her hand finds his on her waist again, their fingers lacing together.

All her thoughts escape her, but she's vaguely aware of the incoherent string of words spilling from her lips.

"Yes, yes," she chants to the beat of his thrusts. "You feel so good, nephew. Yes, fuck—"

He licks into her neck. "When did you get such a foul mouth, aunt? Is it because of my cock in you? Fucking your sweet cunt like this?" She cries out in pleasure, her face pressing into the mattress to muffle the sound. "Gods, I prayed to hear you like this. Every breath, every gasp, every moan, every sound from that pretty mouth of yours. I wish I could make you scream when you'll come around me."

At that he slows, and starts rocking his hips against her in an agonising rhythm. Everything blurs. She can feel the scent of his sweat and hers, their skin slick against each other.

"You said…" she starts, but finds her mouth dry. "Wait," she tries again, freeing her hand from his, and placing it on top of his hip. "You said…"

He stops, his hardness buried deep inside her. "What did I say?"

"You said…" she tries a third time, shifting and rolling to her back, making him slip out. "Come here," she says, and pulls him back on top of her, legs wrapping around his hips. "You said that my husband would lie with me like this. Take me from an angle like this."

She rolls her hips up, his wet cock sliding over her belly.

He cups her face, and leans down to kiss her, his tongue slipping into her mouth, and all her thoughts are replaced with the man weighing down on her. When they break apart, gasping for air, he touches his forehead to hers.

"Tell me you want me," he begs, his hips rutting against her.

"Fuck me already," she mewls. "I want you so badly. Please, nephew, I'm yours. Yours alone."

He sinks into her, his eyes fluttering shut at the feeling of her around him. She takes his mouth again, their kiss matching the melody of their lazy love-making.

"You can still change your mind," he whispers against her lips. "I can pull out, if you want."

"Don't you dare…"

One of her hands slips to the nape of his neck, the other to the expanse of his back. Nothing has ever felt this good—this right—as her nephew moving inside her.

"I've never been more selfish in my life than I am at this very moment."

"Why do you say that?"

"Because all I want to do, all I will ever want to do, is fuck you like this."

He opens his eyes again, and his fiery gaze is almost enough to make her fall apart. He kisses her deeply, then slides his hands to her thighs wrapped around him, then to her knees to press her legs further up to her chest. He braces himself on the back of her thighs, slides his legs up, his knees cradling her hips, and his thrusts become deeper.

She feels the urgency in his movements, in her own ragged breathing. They're both at the cusp of release, their hips meeting with the immense need to become one.

When she tips over, her lips open to a cry of pleasure, and he descends on her to devour her moans. He keeps thrusting into her, guiding her through her orgasm, his hips slamming against her ass, his cock seeking the tight grip of her spent cunt.

He's deep inside her when he comes not long after, the hot pulses of his seed filling her. She clenches around him without meaning to; the sensation, the very knowledge of what he's giving her is pushing her to near madness. He doesn't stop moving, keeps pumping into her even as his cum leaks around his cock.

With a last, sloppy kiss, he pushes himself away and sits back down on his heels, his gaze fixing on the point they're joined together. His thrusts slow; they become unhurried and lazy. His hands from the back of her thighs shift to grab around her hips, and her legs fall to the bed, exhausted.

He watches her, pulling her onto his now softening cock, careful not to slip out.

"What are you doing?" she asks, her voice hoarse from her orgasm.

He chuckles softly before answering. "Committing you to memory. The sight of you. The feel of you."

Her hand slides to her belly unconsciously, to the place where his seed sits warmly inside her. A deep satisfaction spreads through her at the thought of having let him ravish her so fully and irreversibly.

Through her hazed mind she feels when he eventually slips out of her. He slumps next to her on the bed, arm instinctively encircling her waist and pulling her back into his embrace. There's an urge to sink deeper into this bliss, to not let the world touch them, to forget their circumstance and what comes after.

"Don't let me fall asleep," she whispers. Dawn is still a few hours away, but she cannot let herself drift off, not even momentarily.

He shifts behind her, pushing himself up against the headboard, then pulls her between his legs. Her head falls back onto his chest; his arms once more wrap around her waist. He begins caressing the soft skin of her belly and breasts, but this time his touch feels soothing instead of setting her aflame.

"How are you feeling?" he asks.

"Good. Sated. Happy."

His lips are soft on her neck. He hums when he kisses into her nape, and his arms pull tighter around her.

They sit there in silence for a long while, caressing each other, feeling the warmth flood from one body to the other.

"What are you thinking?" she asks. She's playing with the fingers of his right hand. Long, slender, delicate. They are going to become callused with age, hardened by the sword.

"That your husband will treat you well."

The sudden shift in conversation startles her. As disgraceful as it is of her, she has not once thought of the husband lying in her abandoned marital bed. But the illusion has shattered, and reality again forms itself around them.

"It never could have been you," she says out loud, the thought rushing to the surface all of a sudden. "I heard the tales of your mother putting forth the idea of engaging my sister to your brother. I heard my mother had put an end to that immediately. But if they were wed… I would have taken Helaena's place as Aegon's wife. For me, it never could have been you."

She's not sure why her thoughts have wandered there. Why a wish that never before arose in her is now laid out, plainly and undeniably.

"You wouldn't have accepted me. Not after Driftmark," he says, and the cruel truth of that hollows her out.

She lifts his hand to her lips, and kisses him tenderly.

"I'll think of you when I'm with him," she confesses.

"No," he says firmly. "Don't do that to yourself. Don't deprive yourself of the chance of a happy life. Of being cherished, understood, supported. Of being loved."

"Nephew," she says, and turns around to face him. She straddles him, and the desire rises in her in an instant.

She's not wet enough, and he's only half hard. She aligns herself, and he sinks into her, and it hurts just a little for the both of them.

But she needs the pain, needs the burn deep inside her, and perhaps so does he. She rides him with the rage she feels tearing her apart. She leans down to kiss him, bites into his lower lip. His hands dig into the flesh of her hips; his touch is rough and bruising.

"What are you doing?" he asks.

"Committing you to memory," she pants. "The shape of you. The taste of you." There's a violence to their love-making. To their last time. "Let me remember you."