Dominick felt the difference in the way Erika looked at him, even if she denied it.

She handled him as though every touch left a bruise, if she touched him at all.

She thought he was weak.

He hated it.

Dominick tried, with little success, to insist that he wasn't breakable, that her care was unneeded, that she could treat him as she always had; but of course, she denied she was treating him differently, so how could she change?

She lay beside him, limbs drawn in tight, as though she were trying to make herself smaller. She'd declined sex for the last few nights—and he did not begrudge her that, of course—but he did consider it further proof that she now thought he was fragile.

Fragile, when just days ago she'd had him tied to a chair and begging for mercy.

He should never have told her.

He lay looking at her back, taut as a bow string. He wanted to touch her, but he knew she would shy away. He'd thought that telling her about Marisol would lighten his burden, but his heart had never felt heavier.

"I know you're awake, Erika. I can hear you not breathing."

"If I'm not breathing then there's nothing to hear," she said coolly, curling tighter inward.

They lay in frigid silence for a long moment.

"Don't you love me anymore?" he asked, and his voice cracked.

All at once Erika relaxed and rolled over, catching his face between her hands as a tear slipped down his cheek. "Of course I love you. How can you even ask me that?"

"You've been different," he said yet again, wiping away the annoying errant tear, but this time her face crumpled and she sat up, putting her face in her hands. He followed, a hand cautiously on her back.

"I'm so sorry," she whispered. "But I don't know what to do."

"What do you mean?"

She slipped out from under his hand and out of bed, crossing to her dressing table and picking up a handkerchief to dab at her eyes.

"Erika?"

"I don't know what to do," she said again, her head bowed and her back to him. "Because I am so angry, Dominick." She turned around, her eyes full of tears. "I'm angry all the time, at everything. I'm angry at this country, for being your home, and at your people for disrespecting me and acting like I don't deserve to be here. And I am so, so, so angry at myself, for giving up on my dream because it was too hard. I barely made it two years, after dreaming about it for twenty. I gave up and came crawling back to you, and for some reason you still loved me. And I betrayed you, and I'll never forgive myself for it, and even as I say that I'm making it all about me, who's never been through anything like you have—"

"Erika—" he began, but she held up her hand.

"Do you remember what you said, that first day we spent together? Two years ago, when you thought I was Anneliese. 'There's something in your eyes. You're honest, no pretenses. I like that.' You said that to me, and I was lying to you even then. All I've ever done is lie to you, and hurt you—"

"Nonsense!" Dominick said angrily, getting out of bed.

Erika turned her back on him. "I don't think you're weak, Dominick. You're the strongest man I know. I'm weak. I gave up on my dream, and relied on lies to win your heart. I'm awful, and you shouldn't ever forgive me."

He put his hands on her shoulders and she stiffened. "What do you want me to say? Do you want me to tell you to leave? Do you want to share a prison cell with Marisol? Would that make you happy?"

"People are supposed to be punished when they do bad things," Erika said quietly. Her heart was beating so strongly it hurt.

"You haven't done anything that you haven't already apologized for a thousand times." His hands slid to her waist and he spun her around to face him. "I'm never going to send you away. It was horrible enough the first time, watching you ride off, knowing you could die, or meet someone else, and I'd never see you again. Til death do us part, remember?" He took her hand and kissed it.

"Why... Why do you forgive me, and n-not Marisol?" she asked, looking away but peeking out of the corner of her eye for some sign of stress, but the only indication was his tightened grip on her hand.

Dominick raised his eyebrows and laughed. "Because you haven't tried to kill me." He kissed her hand again and released her. "But we really ought to do something about that anger. I could teach you to fence, if you like. I find it's aggressive enough to keep me balanced."

Erika laughed. "I may take up sewing again, in my spare time—if I ever have any spare time."

"Your life is nothing but spare time at the moment," Dominick teased.

"Oh, but you should hear Bertram talk about how full my schedule is going to be once the shock wears off. Makes me want to run off every time he brings it up."

"I'll run with you." He grinned, then beckoned her back to bed. "Come on, we ought to be under the blankets when the fire goes out. It's going to be a cold night."

Dominick seemed to fall asleep almost immediately, but Erika lay with her head on his chest, listening to his slow breaths and the steady beat of his heart. She thought she had never heard anything so strong and solid.

"I'm sorry," she murmured, and startled when Dominick muttered back "Nonsense."


3 Years Ago

"And who is that?" Dominick whispered, nudging Bertram and nodding to the woman that had just entered the hall. She was not especially unlike any other lady he'd seen today—her skin perhaps two shades darker, he thought—but she drew his eye in a way no one else had. Perhaps it was her hair; it hung down her back instead of coiled into braids or curls on top of her head. He'd had a fondness for long hair as long as he could remember.

"Marisol Talvez. No proper title, but her mother is quite wealthy indeed." Bertram took a sip of wine. "She was only invited to keep her mother from throwing a tantrum and not paying her taxes. I would strongly advise you not to speak to her any more than necessary. I would not doubt that she's inherited her mother's temper."

"Yes, yes," Dominick said vaguely, waving his hand and craning his neck to see her. She hovered near the edge of the hall, away from everyone else, smiling nervously but looking out-of-place. She seemed far too bright, or perhaps everyone around her was simply dull.

Dominick stood up and Bertram tutted, but he was ignored as Dominick skirted around the crowd to where she stood. She stepped out of the way, thinking he was going to walk past her, and then looked around in confusion when he paused and asked, "Would you like to dance?"

Marisol nodded, a blush rising in her cheeks.

He didn't take his eyes off of hers the whole time.

When the song ended, he bowed and kissed her hand, and then walked into the crowd and chose another lady at random, for the sake of appearances, and then another, and another, another. He didn't know their names, nor did he care. He was quite sure he was going to marry Marisol, whether Bertram liked her or not.

The next day, when all the ladies had gone home, Dominick wrote Marisol a letter and asked her to come back, in secret.

In five days, he had his answer: Marisol appeared on his doorstep in the dead of night, and he had a room dressed for her and she settled quietly into the palace.

He wrote her poetry, and read it to her while she sat in front of the fire and blushed.

Her caress was softer than rose petals.

Her slaps stung like salt.

"I'm very sorry," she would say, very calmly, after she'd finished screaming, the flush fading from her cheeks. "I don't know what came over me. The moment wasn't right, and I panicked. I'm so sorry, dear. Please forgive me. I only want what's best for us, darling. I love you so much. Don't you love me?"

He would say, "Yes, dear. Of course, dear. I love you, too."

He wasn't sure how he'd fallen into the routine.

The tablecloth was white, and Marisol wouldn't sit down. She stared and said, "It's wrong. It has to be red. This day is only perfect if the tablecloth is red."

"The tablecloth is fine, dear—" he tried to say, but she slapped him. He tasted blood.

"It's not fine! It has to be perfect! It has to be red!" she screamed, red rising in her face, and she tore the white cloth from the table, shattering crystal and denting silver. "It's wrong! You have to fix it!"

And he said, "Yes, dear. Of course, dear. I love you."

And she said, "I don't know what came over me. The moment wasn't right, and I panicked. I'm so sorry, dear. Please forgive me. I only want what's best for us, darling. I love you so much. Don't you love me?"

And it continued.

Very slowly, it occurred to him that this could not be love. It could not be love if he was hiding bruises from Sebastian, pretending they were the results of heavy petting. It could not be love if he was dodging Bertram in the corridors, lest he be asked, "Are you going to marry her?" It could not be love if he dreaded every moment he spent with her.

It could not be love if he was afraid.

He had never thought of himself as weak before. He was weak to let this happen, he told himself. He was weak, and now he had to fix it by himself, so that he could be redeemed. No one would ever have to know. He would wait for the right time, and end it, and everything would be as it was.

After far too long, or not long enough, the moment came.

Marisol asked, "When are we getting married?"

Dominick said, "We aren't."

She laughed, and said she must not have heard him correctly. He told her that she had, and that she must leave the palace, and never return. If she ever spoke of this to anyone, she would be imprisoned for treason.

She stared at him, her mouth slightly open, her lips like roses, and he thought, for a moment, that he must be wrong, someone so beautiful could not be so cruel—

She screamed, "You can't do this to me!" and her face was so pretty and red.

Her hands were around his neck, and her skin was like silk and her nails were like glass and she was so beautiful, surely she didn't mean to hurt him?

He couldn't breathe, but that was fine, because if he died then no one would know he was weak—or would they, because he'd been killed?—

She was saying something that made her mouth very round—"And Oliver! You always loved him more than me!"—and he began to fight back, Oliver wasn't a part of this, Oliver wasn't weak and helpless and dying on the floor of his bedroom, he was too weak to fight her off—

And he screamed, "SEBASTIAN!" with his last, gasping, dying breath, he was asking for help, he was so weak, but he couldn't let Oliver pay for his mistake—

Sebastian burst through the door and in one motion pulled Marisol off and threw her across the room, where she landed in a heap and did not get up. He bellowed "BALDO! WILLIHARD!" into the corridor as he crouched beside his king, keeping one eye on Marisol's still form.

"Dominick?" Sebastian bent and put one ear to his chest, sighing with relief when he heard a heartbeat and a breath. "Take the girl to the dungeon. Do not speak to anyone. Do not leave her," he commanded as the two guards entered the room; they nodded and picked her up between them, shuffling out the door.

Dominick knocked Sebastian's hand away and pushed himself up slowly. His head spun and his throat ached so badly he wanted to tear it out, but he tried to stay as stoic as his bodyguard.

"You... threw her... like she was nothing," he managed, massaging his neck. He thought he could feel bruises blooming under his fingertips, and he thought of roses and laughed, and then he could not stop laughing, thinking of roses and salt and tablecloths and madness and how he was so stupidly weak—

"Milord, please!" Sebastian said wildly, his eyes wide.

The laughter faded as quickly as it had come.

"Don't... call me that," Dominick snapped. "It's not your place."

He tried to get up, but he was too weak to stand.

Sebastian offered his hand, but he didn't take it.

"Please bring me paper and a quill," he said, with as much kingly dignity as he could muster, sitting on his bedroom floor with new bruises on his throat. "I need to write to my cousins, about arrangements for... our guest."

Sebastian nodded and went to the desk.

"And Sebastian?"

"Yes, milord?" he asked, his back turned as he rummaged around for ink.

"Don't tell anyone," Dominick said softly, trying to keep the plea out of his voice.

Kings didn't beg. Kings weren't weak.

"I wouldn't dream of it, milord."


2 Years Ago

Her name was Anneliese. He'd said her name a thousand times, tasting its weight, and tacking on his surname: Anneliese Von Brandt.

It didn't sound right, but that was just pedantic.

She had long blonde hair, and he imagined it splayed on her pillow, catching in the morning light. It would shine like the gold her country so desperately needed.

It wouldn't be so bad, waking up next to gold instead of chocolate.

He wasn't weak for settling, he was strong for moving on, for helping a kingdom in need.

He entered Aurelia in plain clothes that felt like armor. He was anonymous. No one knew or cared who he was. He could see the princess before she saw him.

She ran away.

He stayed in his room and told himself that she was stronger than him for running before things could go sour.

She came back.

He heard her sing, and fell in love.

She was quiet, and thoughtful, and he loved her more than anything. He felt so strong standing beside her.

She wasn't the princess.

He was too weak to tell the difference.

He decided he didn't care.

He loved her.

He didn't even know her name.

He put on armor and felt invisible.

The real princess was safe and sound, and he learned his love's name: Erika.

He thought that Erika Von Brandt sounded wonderful.

Her debt was paid, and she left. She did not say she would be back.

She took all of his strength with her.

He went back to Dulcinea with empty hands and a full heart.


4 Months Ago

Erika came back.

He felt so strong.

He would have married her that day, if Bertram would have allowed it.

He touched her at every opportunity, her hand, her waist, her hair. Very rarely she would let him steal a kiss that would leave her weak in the knees, as though he was leeching her strength away, but it seemed she had plenty to spare.

She smiled but never blushed.

He wondered what he would have to do to see red in her cheeks.


2 Months Ago

Erika Von Brandt.

He couldn't believe he'd ever lived without her.

He couldn't believe he'd ever felt weak.

He loved her more than he could ever say.

He tried to tell her with stumbling words and fumbling fingers, but he wasn't sure she understood.

He saw her blush.


1 Week Ago

"How am I supposed to be in charge of the palace if no one in it respects me?"

"Their respect doesn't matter. You hold their lives in your hands, and if they don't realize that, they can find new employment. They'll come around."

"You sound like Bertram," Erika sighed, and he blinked.

"Don't ever tell him that, he'll never let me live it down," Dominick laughed, and she smiled wanly. Everyone he'd seen had been polite, but that didn't say anything about how they behaved when she was alone. "But I promise you, this palace is your domain. You can give anyone an order and expect it to be followed—I'll back you up if I have to, but that shouldn't be necessary."

Erika raised an eyebrow. "Really? I can give anyone orders?" She had a devilish look, but he couldn't imagine what she was thinking of. "Including the cook?"

"Especially the cook."

"What about Sebastian?"

"If you need to," he said curiously. What could she possibly need him to do? Dominick hardly felt weak anymore, but Sebastian was nonetheless a comforting presence. "I swear, anyone in the palace."

"Even you?"

He met her gaze and his heart stopped. "What would you have me do, milady?"

"Only a thousand things," she said carelessly, going to a drawer and rummaging around inside. What did she keep there? He couldn't remember.

"You have but to name them, milady." He hadn't been so excited since their wedding night.

Erika pulled three scarves from the drawer, smiling. "Take off your clothes and sit in that chair," she said, pointing, and he nearly tore his shirt in his hurry.

"How long have you been thinking about this?" he asked in an undertone as she bound his hands to the arms of the chair.

"Weeks," she grinned, and put the third scarf around his eyes as a blindfold.

He couldn't see, and he couldn't imagine what she could be doing that would feel like that, or what would make her moan like that and yet it wasn't enough and she seemed to know it.

"Erika—"

"Did you want something?" she asked innocently, which almost made him laugh, because his face was nearly in between her breasts, as far as he could tell.

Before he could say anything else, she buried him in a kiss and she was doing something tantalizing that he couldn't put his finger on—was she even using her fingers?

"Erika! M-milady!"

"What is it, dear?"

"Please—"

Apparently kings begged.

"Please what, dear?"

"Please untie my hands!"

"Oh!" She began fumbling with the silken knots. "I'm sorry, I didn't reali—"

But both of his hands were free and ripped the blindfold off and kissed her as soon as he could see her and he couldn't even make it to the bed; they tumbled to the floor and Dominick saw what it was she'd been doing and couldn't believe his eyes. She blushed and he did his best to return her efforts and within minutes they were both gasping and grinning on the cold stone and Dominick couldn't believe he'd scraped his knee having sex. He thought that might make even Sebastian laugh.

"If the queen rules the king, then what good is he?" Erika teased when she had her breath back.

"I don't know, milady. Perhaps he is there to keep her strong."

"Oh, that's nonsense. Everyone knows that queens are stronger." She stuck out her tongue and kissed his nose, then pulled her nightgown back on. "We've got to be up early, come on, let's get into bed proper."

"Yes, milady," he said, half-heartedly getting into his shirt and trousers again.

"And stop calling me that! People will talk."

For a brief second, Dominick wondered if they would think him weak.

"I don't care," he said, climbing into bed. "They can say whatever they like."

Erika frowned. "As your queen, I command you to stop."

"Yes, milady," he said with a wink, and she threw a pillow at him.