Chapter 23: Do Not Sleep Where You Shit (His POV)
I poured the wine, deep red catching sunlight like blood caught in glass, and handed her one before sprawling back in my chair. The pool shimmered in the courtyard, as if carved straight from the bones of the villa itself, stone, water, sky. Perfect backdrop for indulgence. Annie sipped quietly, the sun painting her hair gold, her eyes heavy with thought as she read the newest Callista Wildfire book. I let myself watch her, lounging like I had all the time in the world. Because I did. Because I liked the view. A month. Just a month, and she had carved herself into my every thought. A month of banter and irritation and pretending I wasn't already addicted. She didn't know how soft she looked right then. Or maybe she did. Gods, she was beautiful when she wasn't trying. She smiled, barely, but real, before catching me watching.
I smirked, swirling my wine with mock gravity. "You know," I announced, "I invented wine."
The brow she arched could have cut glass.
"I did," I insisted, proud of my own nonsense. "Grapes used to just sit there being useless, and then I, visionary that I am, squeezed one and thought, you know what this needs? Time and mood swings. Voilà. Wine."
She snorted, then actually laughed. Bright, warm, echoing across the stone walls. My chest ached at the sound. I drank it in like sunlight. The bond hummed low between us. Her amusement brushing mine, twining together with something deeper. Neither of us named it. Both of us felt it.
"So, Annie mia," I drawled, sipping. "Your turn. Tell me a story. True or false, doesn't matter. But you have to be in it."
She sighed, setting her book down, leaning back with that guarded look I'd learned to recognize. Sunlight caught in her hair, and for a moment, she looked like she belonged here. Like we both did. "Fine," she said.
I perked up instantly. "Excellent."
Her voice softened, casual but sharp. "Once, there was a prince. Who fell in love with a lady of the night."
I gasped, delighted. "Oh gods, was this me?"
Her glare cut sharper than any blade. "Do you want the story or not?" I mimed zipping my mouth, grinning.
"This prince paid to see a beautiful woman. Not for the reason most men did. Not for sex," she said, her voice soft but bitter. "He paid for her time. For someone to listen, to hold him, to make him feel seen. She guided him gently. Held his secrets and his hand. He saw her every day. And eventually, he told himself it was love."
I tilt my head, my amusement draining. "Convinced it was something real, the prince went to her employer. And he made an offer, one no one could refuse. Obscene amounts of money. Gifts. Power. Things holy men would have sacrificed their gods to possess. The employer sold her. And for a while… it seemed like a fairy tale. She was brought to his palace, kept by his side. He said he wanted to marry her. But when he told his father, the king threatened to disown him. So the prince, brave, foolish man that he was, chose duty over love. He married a princess chosen for him."
My grin had long since vanished. This story did not sound like the sweet fairytale. "But he did not let the other woman go," Annie continued. "She was his. Bought. Owned. So he kept her. What had started as love turned into control. The kind touch became possessive. The sweet words became commands. Any intimacy they once shared turned cold and entitled. The princess, young, jealous, humiliated, could not stand the other woman's presence. She did not blame the prince, of course. She blamed the woman. And she made her pay. With insults. With cruelty. With fists. The woman begged the prince to see. But he did not care. As long as he got what he wanted, nothing else mattered."
Annie's voice dropped to a whisper. "One day, after the princess beat her so badly her own face was unrecognizable, she ran. The woman returned to the only place she had ever known. Back to her temple. Back to her gods." My hand twitched, barely resisting the urge to reach for her. But she raised a hand to stop me. "I'm not done." I sat back again, jaw tight.
"The prince came for what was his. Property. A word never meant to apply to a person. But that was what she was to him. So he made his demands, and her employer, devoted servant of the gods, delivered. They brought her out. Broken. Bleeding. And the prince ended her life… not with his own hands, of course. No. That would have been too merciful." Her voice trembled, but she did not stop. "He made her friends do it. The other women. Forced them to hold her down while he watched. Then tipped her employer for letting him indulge in one final show."
I couldn't breathe. "Annie—" I started, horrified.
But her eyes cut into me, sharp as truth. "And the moral of the story? Don't fall in love with your Johns. Don't care too deeply for your coworkers. Don't sleep where you shit."
I stared at her, gutted. Every word was a blade, but her voice was steady. Only her hands betrayed her, tight around her glass, trembling ever so slightly. I wanted to reach for her. To break the story's neck where it lived in her bones. But I couldn't, not when she stood, sipping the last of her wine like it had been nothing more than another tale told.
"Now," she said lightly, "I think I need another drink."
And she walked away, leaving me with nothing but the echo of her story burning in my chest.
The bond thrummed between us still, raw, furious, aching. All I could think was: gods, I would burn the world before I let her end that way again.
There was silence. I didn't know if I should be angry or devastated. The story she had told… somewhere along the way it had shifted, blurred between allegory and memory, between performance and truth. And I didn't dare ask which parts were real. She lifted her wine glass, steady as stone, and drank slow. "You asked for a story," she said calmly, setting it down with careful fingers. "So I told you one."
I exhaled through my teeth. "You always go straight for the emotional jugular, don't you?"
A smirk tugged at her mouth. "You love it."
And gods help me, I did. I loved... well, a lot of things, I would not be naming.
"Well," I drawled, swirling the red in my glass lazily, "Annie mia regina, you are officially the most depressing storyteller I've ever had the misfortune of falling for." Her look was flat. Utterly unimpressed. "Tell me something happy," I pressed, nudging her ankle under the table with mine. "Funny. Whimsical. Something without betrayal, dismemberment, or the cruelty of men, if you can manage it."
She sighed, long and theatrical, tilting her head back as if preparing for an opera. "Fine," she said at last, stretching her neck. And then… she smiled.
Not the sly smirk, not the guarded mask. This was different. Open. Innocent. Soft. "When I was six," she began, "my parents took me to the mountains. It was late summer, one of those perfect days when the sun warms your skin, but the breeze still smells like pine and melted snow."
My mind painted the scene instantly: a meadow, tall pines crowding the edges, the air bright and golden. I saw her, smaller, barefoot, curls wild, laughing as she darted through the grass. "We had this horrible picnic blanket," she laughed, "red and white checkered, frayed at the corners. My dad made peanut butter sandwiches, and he burned them. Don't ask how. He burned peanut butter sandwiches."
I chuckled with her, imagining the father, bearded, maybe, holding a smoking pan, baffled. The mother waving a paperback at bees, insisting, They're more afraid of you! while clearly not believing it. "My mom was obsessed with keeping things neat. She kept brushing crumbs off the blanket even as the wind brought in more. But when I giggled at her, she laughed too. It was… beautiful."
She smiled again, distant, glowing as if she were seeing it right there in front of her. "They let me chase butterflies. I had these little purple shoes I refused to wear, so I ran barefoot until my feet were stained green. My mom braided flowers into my hair. Tiny blue ones. I don't remember the name. Just that I felt… beautiful."
My chest ached. Gods, I could see her. A small girl crowned in flowers, twirling until she toppled into the blanket, breathless with joy. Cherished. Seen. "And then," she said softly, "they held my hands and we watched the sunset. The sky turned gold and violet, and my dad said, Remember this forever. This is what real love looks like. And I did. I remembered." She was radiant. Her smile was real. Her eyes sparkled. Her whole body relaxed, as though that memory lived in her bones. Until—
I reached for her. Not with my hand. With the bond. And I felt… nothing.
No echo of joy. No warmth. Just a hollow ache, a silence where love should have lived. My heart plummeted. It wasn't real. The story was beautiful. But it was a lie. Instead of calling her out, instead of demanding the truth, I sat there stunned, still holding her hand. Because if she had to invent happiness… if she had to fabricate a moment where she was cherished just to know what it felt like, then I would let her keep it. I squeezed her fingers gently and whispered, "Sounds like they loved you very much."
Her smile faltered, just slightly. But she didn't correct me. And I didn't press. I only watched her cradle a memory that never was and swore, in the pit of my soul, that I would give her better ones. Ones that didn't need to be invented. Ones that were real. Ones with me.