Real Boy by Lola Blanc
Tom rolls over, opening his eyes to see light flowing through the sheer curtains. He's familiar enough with this room and those large windows to tell that it is still very early. Yet Cassandra's already sitting at the table underneath them, replying to business letters.
He stays still and just observes her for what feels like an hour, making little notes in his mind. The way the light illuminates the golden stands in her hair. The sound of the quill scratching across the parchment as she writes with her customary quickness. The little pucker of her lips when she's thinking about something.
When he finally grows bored of going unnoticed, he sighs and turns onto his back once again, calling out, "Come back to bed."
Anybody else would take it as a demand. Would run to fulfill his wishes. She laughs. All of the response she needs to tell him she is not going to obey him, especially in her own house.
A few more minutes pass before she finally speaks, "Well, aren't you going to get up?"
"No, I am not," he answers stubbornly. "Come here."
"As you must know, today is a very busy day," she sighs, though he can tell the exasperation in her tone is feigned. When he still does not budge, she finally stands and walks toward the bed. She stares down at him with an eyebrow raised, "We don't have time - "
He wraps a hand around her leg, using it to pull her onto his lap and then flip her under him, pressing kisses against her flesh once she can no longer escape.
"There's that interview about the charity with The Wizard's Voice today."
"So?"
"Will you be attending?"
"Naturally. I am the director, after all."
"Shouldn't you go and get ready then?"
"Plenty of time for that."
"Don't you have that meeting with Nott and his father today as well?"
"Yes, after the interview. You do remember that you need to be at the casino to supervise the delivery during that time?"
"Naturally. I am the owner, after all," she throws back at him.
He chuckles before saying, "My dress robes are already there, so once I am done I will drop in to change and then we can head to the house together."
"I have to swing by the house this morning to make sure the preparations start on time - which is also why this is not going to happen right now - so I was going to drop my things off and then get ready there."
"I will just - "
"Isn't it better if you make a grand entrance? It will look better in the photos. Anyway I am sure you don't want to sit through…"
His jaw tightens as he tunes out the end of her sentence. What she really means is it will look better in the photos if it does not look like they are hosting a party together. It will look better in the photos if he arrives as just another guest, albeit an important one, rather than standing by her side as she greets everyone else arriving.
She's right and he knows it. Their association is best kept off the pages of the Prophet for the both of them, and it would be impossible to do so if there's not a single picture from the event without him in it. Still, he'd ensured there would be an empty place next to her tonight and he wants to fill it.
He bites down hard on the base of her neck, sucking until she yelps and he pulls away to reveal a bruise already forming.
"Fine," he says, finally climbing off the bed and pulling on the robe he'd slung over the armchair he usually reads in the previous night. "I will arrive about half an hour after the party begins. But I will be sitting next to you at dinner, Cassandra, so don't even try to change the arrangements."
"Looks like I'm getting predictable," she replies, rising to fix her appearance. She picks her wand up off the desk and tries to heal the mark he left. A second later, she turns to him and complains, "It won't come off, Tom."
"No, it won't," he mumbles back while fixing his hair in the mirror.
"What - undo it, whatever spell you used," she demands. "Take it off, Tom. I don't have any new gowns with necklines that will cover it."
"Can't," he responds with a shrug of his shoulder. When she glares at him, he adds. "Calm down, Cass. I'm sure you'll found some way to hide it."
After all, she always finds some way to hide the other things she's ashamed of. Like him.
Tom is still in a bad mood when he stumbles upon something that sends him spiraling.
It is a letter. Not one he happens to intercept with the charmed quill he had given her. One that he reads in the center of Witch's Weekly after seeing the cover of the magazine on a newsstand in Diagon Alley on his way back from the casino that afternoon to check that the shipment had made it in without any issues. She had already been gone, so he'd decided to pick up a new, nicer pair of dress robes at Twilfitt and Tattings and head home to change.
Nobody had warned him about this piece, and he could guess why from the splashy cover photos of Cain and Cassandra along with the headline "WEDDING ON THE WAY?: An insider opens up about the relationship between high society's it boy and the controversial widow." This issue will no doubt be the year's best selling, earning enough profit to make earning his ire worthwhile.
Reading the article, Tom is half sure Cain himself is the alluded to "insider." There is simply too much information featured for it to have come from a source outside of the Rosier family, or at least extremely close to both them and the ministry. After all, public pressure is a strong motivator, and that entire brood seems to very much want Cassandra to be motivated into changing her mind about the subject of this article, part of which reads:
Race to the Altair?
Rumor has it that the heir to the Rosier line has already obtained an heirloom ring from his family's Gringotts vault. An engagement is sure to come before the end of the year, but will we be hearing wedding bells as well as Christmas bells this holiday season? Scheduled transfers of assets - including the family manor - already submitted to the ministry's tax department for prior assessment and approval certainly indicate big plans are in the works to finalize his status as the new head of the family by then.
Of course, added to that family fortune if such a union were to happen would be the considerable fortune of Ms. Malecrit herself, a legal name change formalized earlier this year, which may in itself indicate that a union was already in the works just months after the two were first publicly spotted together. Public records show Ms. Malecrit has grown the shipping business left to her by her late husband and used its profits to diversify into a number of industries, both as an investor and as an owner.
Among Ms. Malecrit's inherited properties include not one but four country houses, which are currently being renovated into charity homes per her most recent philanthropic endeavor - perhaps signaling a planned shift in the couple's dynamic as they move toward a more traditional balance of responsibilities. If Ms. Malecrit were to divest herself of her business responsibilities in favor of being a philanthropist and homemaker like other ladies of her status, the dividends could easily make for the largest wizarding foundation in the world.
Certainly, the future of the couple seems full of rosy possibilities. But could such a match perhaps upset the young rose's future, given that it is widely speculated he is being groomed for a head of department role soon and planning an eventual run for minister? Ms. Malecrit remains a controversial figure in Britain, which may polarize both purebloods and muggleborns alike.
However, with mounting evidence coming to light regarding the ministry's extensive (some may say overly so) and wholly unfruitful investigation of her for her husband's death, Ms. Malecrit is beginning to cut a sympathetic figure with growing swaths of wizarding society. Furthermore, with such evidence coming to light, it is becoming clear her late husband is less worthy of sympathy himself. After suffering a childhood of poverty and abandonment, Ms. Malecrit was nevertheless able to excel in school and had a bright future ahead of her before she was wooed by this man of wealth and power at the tender age of 15, under whose hands she endured years of isolation from her follow witches and wizards.
Forced to live in the muggle world, Ms. Malecrit spent her married years carefully studying any books she could get her hands on, primarily teaching herself philosophy and business. Her former husband did not allow her to leave the house alone - it is rumored he also confiscated her wand after any public outings - let alone maintain contact with her parents and friends. It is suspected that he subjected Ms. Malecrit to various kinds of abuse, as leaked ministry documents revealed investigators collected reports from several private physicians who had repeatedly treated her for injuries ranging from broken bones to miscarriages during this period. Despite this, it seems from her grief in her interviews with the ministry that she did love her late husband and mourn his premature loss.
Alone in the world, persecuted by the very institutions meant to protect us, Ms. Malecrit was then run out of the country by vicious public sentiment which, we are sorry to say, we played no small part in fomenting. Reports indicate that it was only recently Ms. Malecrit felt safe re-entering wizarding society, at which point she and Mr. Rosier were able to reestablish their connection as childhood friends as detailed below. It appears their love blossomed quickly after this and has remained flourishing, as a recent letter from Ms. Malecrit to Mr. Rosier indicates.
Darling,
Spring is coming to France again, or at least the early signs of it. The first irises have bloomed in the window boxes overnight, and I wish you were here with me this morning to see them. There is something I like about these early flowers, the ones that challenge the rain and the snow and the wind. So tenacious, so confident. Like you.
Speaking of spring in France, we must pick a weekend to spend in Paris soon. I wonder if our favorite bookstore is still there, tucked around the corner from the flat. Or if that serene little park we found is still so well-hidden and so infrequently visited as to continue to serve as our personal picnic grounds. Paris with you again would be the most divine thing I have ever experienced, so please promise me you will take some time off for it. I promise I will.
I am going to Rome today to settle a dispute about a port, and Madrid tomorrow to attend a meeting about a cross-cultural training institute I agreed to invest it. But I will be back in London Friday as usual, and cannot wait to see you. I have a present for you I purchased in Romania last week that has finally arrived. Raw dragonhide gloves, specially fitted. Perhaps you can take me flying out at the manor to test them?
I love you with a love that is more than love,
Cass
Love. The word itself makes Tom feel sick on a normal day. Seeing it in her handwriting is different. Worse. He remembers how confidently Cain had said it. She loves me. Ask her. And how sure he'd been that he didn't need to. Well, here's the answer and he does not like it.
He recognizes the line, though he wishes he didn't and he is almost certain Cain would not have. It is from a poem some all-too-romantic school teacher had insisted the entire class memorize for a valentine's day celebration when he was still attending muggle schools. A muggle poem about lovers who had loved since they were children, and whose love even death could not take away. Not even devils like him could take away.
He will show Cain what the devil can do. He needs to move faster.
Tom decides to ignore her request and show up early. What's the harm, really, if he just floos in using the fireplace in the office on the second floor and sneaks down?
As he is walking down the back staircase, he hears voices around the corner from the landing. Tom recognizes them but not enough to pin down until he realizes what they are talking about. Cygnus Black and Druella Rosier. No doubt she's told them he hasn't arrived yet, which is why they are so comfortable discussing this here, in a back corner far from the party.
"Did you talk to her?"
"Yes, though how smoothly it went is up for debate. I'm fairly sure she figured out what I was up to as she turned quite cold all of a sudden. Well, at least it seems like she didn't see the story yet. I don't know what mother was thinking with that, other than perhaps to embarrass her."
"Are you sure he shouldn't come tonight? I mean, wouldn't it be better if - "
"No, it's better for him if he doesn't too. Having to see… I don't know how long he can continue to stand it, to be honest. Some time away might calm him down."
"I just feel guilty that he's doing this for my safety."
"Don't. If anything, it's her that should feel guilty. But of course, she doesn't even know it. Her entire life, she's turned a blind eye to anything she doesn't want to see."
"Come on Dru, you know it's not like she has any choice in the matter. That's the only reason she gets within 100 meters of him."
"I know, it's just…" Druella says before sighing. "Let's just hope she says yes, yeah?"
"Don't worry, I'm sure she will," he answers, voice starting to fade away.
"Great, now if only you could convince him."
"Every girl's been raised to want a happy ending, right? The poor girl is magically granted whatever she was missing all along, meets the kind and charming prince, and they have a grand wedding and rule the kingdom happily ever after - the end. That's just how it goes, and it's not exactly like anyone would describe Riddle as a prince."
From the very moment the dinner service ends, Tom means to summon her and prove them wrong. However, he's pulled aside by Karkaroff before he reaches her. By the time Karkaroff finishes updating him about the search for the diadem, Cassandra's already been pulled to the dance floor by Nott. Tom considers punishing him but then remembers it is a matter of pureblood tradition - a hostess must dance the first dance, and without her usual date at her side and with Tom unavailable, Nott had probably thought he was doing them both a favor.
Of course, that proves rather problematic as now everyone else wants their turn to curry favor, with her and with him. To turn down everybody else's dances would show a level of favoritism he cannot risk. It is the polite thing to do to grant them this little chance to try to get closer to him, so he does.
It feels like half the night has passed by the time she finally takes a break. He hurries to intercept her path to the bar, grabbing her arm to pull her to him. From just a simple look up at him, Tom can tell she knows what he wants, so she lets him lead them away to the closest private location, the bathroom.
As soon as the door closes, he begins trying to achieve his objectives. Within minutes, he's got her pushed up against the counter, the top of her dress torn, her hair tangled in his hand so he can make her watch him playing with her in the mirror, other hand wandering along her skin, teasing her. Her hips grind back against him, silently begging.
He clicks his tongue and whispers in her ear, "If you want something, you're going to have to let me know what, my little harpy."
She finally opens her mouth, voice clearly restrained as says, "I hate you."
He nearly laughs. He knows what that really means. He hisses, "Really, is that so? Then why don't you scream? Someone might come help."
"You're such a prick," she replies.
He presses a kiss against the back of her neck and moves his fingers downward where he knows he will get a reaction. He smirks as she cries out, "That's it, my little harpy, let's let everyone know they don't stand a chance at fucking you better than I do."
"Fuck, Tom…," she sighs. "This is not the time to play your games."
"I disagree. It's exactly the time to show them all that only my hands belong on you, as it seems both you and them need a reminder of our relationship. Say it, my little harpy," he orders, looking up to catch her eye. She turns her head and he kisses her as he plunges a finger inside of her. Her body arches up in response, a whimper escaping her.
"I want you," she whispers.
"Louder," he demands.
"They'll hear," she protests.
"Haven't I already made it clear I want them to?" he teases. He wants everybody to know exactly how much she loves it when he touches her, when he fucks her, when he has her. He wants everybody to know she is his.
"Didn't you promise to keep my secrets if I kept yours?" she fires back.
"The fact that we're fucking is hardly a secret by now, my little harpy," he says. He does not share the fact he heard from Macnair that the bartenders at the casino have already taken bets on their favorite position. She doesn't need to know that.
"And whose fault is that?" she retorts, though he can tell her annoyance is feigned.
He decides to change the subject before it becomes real, "Kings and queens do not trouble themselves with the squeals of the rats running around their palace, Cassandra."
"Last I checked, you weren't offering me a throne," she quips.
"My little harpy, I would offer you anything you wish for," he whispers, pulling her impossibly closer. He means it. He'd cut out his own heart if she wanted it, and that terrifies him. But it also excites him. Has he ever wanted anything more than this, more than her?
"And would that offer also be a lie, my scheming snake?"
Merlin, he nearly does at the way those sweet words drip from her lips. Nearly drops to his knees and reaches for his wand to show her he means his words. Actually, screw his wand. He'd tear it out with his bare hands if he needed to, if that would be enough for her to believe him. But no, he cannot do that. He cannot show her how desperate he is. She will not like that. Does not like that, otherwise she would have fallen for Cain by now. He needs to remain calm. Cool. In control.
He pulls away from her, hands landing on the edge of the counter. He taunts, "I'm sure there's plenty of women out there who would be more than happy to let people know if I fucked them, Cass."
She laughs, turning around to face him, a smile on her face that is enough to send a crack through his chest as she climbs atop the counter. He shivers as her fingers brush his skin when she starts to unbutton his shirt. His eyes travel down to her legs as they part. He steps forward, hands gripping the soft, silky flesh of her thighs, pushing her dress up them and out of the way.
She says playfully, "Too bad you want to fuck me, not them."
He knows she must know how false his response is. After all, he's practically in a trance, his fingers wandering up and down her legs, his lips traversing her neck and shoulder, barely lifting for him to say, "I could change my mind, Cass."
He hears the echo of her laugh in his ear and then feelings her hand slide down to his belt. He pulls away from her with a guttural noise as her hand skims him, fingers dancing delicately along his cock as she removes it from his pants. When her hand surrounds him, his hips instinctively press forward, seeking her out. He would be a liar if he didn't admit this is still the second best thing he's ever felt. The first being another part of her, of course.
He looks down at her, face turned up toward him, and nearly lets out a smile. She nearly smiles back. If he lets this go on any longer, he's going to finish before he has a chance to accomplish what he pulled her in here for.
Her voice suddenly surprises him, a whisper bringing him back to reality, "Will you?"
He looks down at her, surveying her expression for a second before deciding how to respond, "Are you jealous, or am I just imagining it?"
"Imagining it," she replies emotionlessly. If he didn't know she was such a good liar, she'd have him convinced.
Still, the fact that she still won't admit it irks him into responding, "Did I imagine how you looked at me when I was dancing with them then? How would you feel if I took one of them home? Fawley? Or Snyde perhaps?"
She glares at him, pouting slightly at being found out. She hates when he points the truth out to her, after all. He stares back wordlessly, not letting her escape it this time. When she tries to escape physically instead, his immediate instinct is to hold on harder - and to cut her more cruelly with the truth in retaliation.
"Has it ever occurred to you that is perhaps how I feel when I see you with him? Perhaps why I feel the need to make it clear to him and everyone else that, while I may be generous enough to share a portion of your time, it is I that you belong to?"
As soon as he finishes saying it, he knows it was a mistake. That she never likes it when he mentions Cain and points out the depravity of what they are doing. What she is doing. No, she'd rather be a saint driven by him to immorality than a wicked woman indulging her own desires in him.
"Merlin, how delusional can you get?" she scoffs, moving to fix her dress. "I don't belong to you, and I am certainly not jealous of any girl who wants to. Go ahead and fuck them in the middle of the ballroom for all I care."
He takes her wrists, moving her hands away, knowing he cannot let her leave. Will not let her leave things like this. Knowing this is just an act to hide her own guilt and insecurity.
"My little harpy, I can see through you," he says, leaning forward so she can see how serious he is as he whispers his next words. "None of them could hold a candle to you. To who you are meant to be. Who you will be with me."
Her eyebrows crumple in surprise. No, confusion, he realizes a second later. She's no longer angry. She knows what he means. She just can't accept it. She's fighting against it, against what they are and what they feel.
He returns to kissing down her neck, wanting to make her feel everything. It's pouring out of him now in the messy way his body moves against hers, looking for any way to get closer, any way to make her understand. Frenzied and borderline savage. Leaving marks on every inch of flesh he can reach. Tearing aside any fabric in his way. He pushes her panties aside as his mouth closes around her breast, nearly drawing blood as he bites down. She purrs out his name. He pulls back to admire her reaction and catch his breath. Her eyes are closed, head thrown back against the mirror, skin flushed and quivering, lips parted as she gasps and moans.
Yes, this is what she feels for him. Want. Desire. Hunger. Endless and intense and insatiable. Better and more than she has for anyone else. Than she does for Cain. Than he could ever make her feel. This - this desperation, this longing - is only for him. And he won't let her hide that anymore.
"Can you seriously say anyone else, even him, can compare to me?" he hisses as he slips his fingers inside of her. Her hips move against them, pleading for her, and he is patient, giving it to her as he waits for an answer that does not come. He won't let her get off that easily. He pulls back and orders, "Look at me."
She opens her eyes, a flash of anger showing for a second before being overcome by lust again. He kisses her hard, hand holding her chin in place. His other hand strokes tenderly along her side. He waits until she has calmed a bit, enough to think rationally at least, to speak again.
"I am tired of competing when there is no competition, Cassandra," he declares, his other hand slipping to her side as well to hold her as softly as he says his next words. "Our souls are the same and your soul is mine as mine is yours."
"It's not," she says. The certainty in her voice is not what sets him off. It is the fact that her eyes are still soft that does it. That she is still looking at him like she wants to say yes, while refusing to with her words. Tom knows exactly why she won't give in.
He kisses her again, careful to keep any anger out of his voice. This is not about his feelings. He knows this isn't even really about hers. This is about her suppressing her wants in favor of someone else's. Her suppressing who she is in order to fit some perfect ideal that will never be enough to satisfy her. He had promised to set her free and he will.
"I could send him away. Like this but forever," he hisses. "Maybe then you wouldn't feel the need to satisfy his every wish just to pay him back for whatever he did for you when you were children. Maybe then you would not be afraid to admit you are mine."
Her gaze sharpens into a glare and her voice into a dagger, "Is that a threat, My Lord?"
The first time she'd used the phrase, it had made him euphoric. It had made him feel like he belonged to her too to hear her refer to him as her anything. Ever since then, she has only used it when she has to in front of others or when she wants to put distance between them. When she wants to put on an act, to play into their roles. When she wants to destroy the us in his head and make it very clear that, at the bottom of it all, she is not here for him at all - just for who he is. What he can do for her if she cooperates. What he can do to them if she refuses.
How long does she have to pretend he is the villain? When will she admit she really wanted this - wants this - as well?
He keeps his voice calm as he answers, not wanting to set her off any further, "No. Just an offer to set you free, Cassandra."
"Free?" she scoffs. "If being your property forever is what you call freedom, I'll pass."
"Not my property, Cassandra. My partner," he tries, tone growing desperate.
"Your pretty little songbird stuck in a gilded cage."
"As I've said before, I don't want to put you in a cage, my little harpy."
"Everybody wants to put the things they think they own in cages in some form or another so that they can control them."
"You are not a thing to me, Cassandra."
"Then why do you think you own me?" she bites back. She looks away from him, adding with a hiss, "Everybody's a thing to a man like you."
He realizes the answer to his question as he looks at the hatred in her eyes. Never.
How stupid is he, trying to rescue someone who doesn't want it?
Black's voice comes back to his head, mocking him: It's not exactly like anyone would describe Riddle as a prince.
He tries to shake it out of his head but it keeps knocking at the sides, shouting words like happy ending and not you and wedding and happily ever after and end. Transforming to a cacophony of voices screaming at him definitely not you. No, never you. You're just a ruthless dictator and a heartless monster and a horrible little boy. You don't deserve her. You don't deserve anyone to lo -
He finally pushes it down when he feels her hand push against his chest. For a second, he thinks she's trying to push him away and nearly grabs at it, at her, to prevent it. Then he looks back at her eyes and sees something there he's never seen her look at him with before. Concern. How odd. So it had been a mask and he'd missed it. So she does not hate him.
Still, she does not want him, a fact which makes every ounce of blood in him boil.
"You're one to talk. You're using me as well, aren't you?" he retorts. Now that the floodgates are open he can't hold back. "And you blame me for wanting to kill him as if I am some kind of machine that could feel otherwise. Yet it has never struck you that he would have already done the same to me if he could, has it?"
She remains stubbornly stoic as she answers, "That's not the same."
The magazine pages flash in front of his vision. Reports indicate that it was only recently Ms. Malecrit felt safe re-entering wizarding society, at which point she and Mr. Rosier were able to reestablish their connection as childhood friends as detailed below. It appears their love blossomed quickly after this and has remained flourishing.
This isn't fair. Tom was the one to have her invited to that party, he should have been the one standing by her side at it. He should have been the one she had gotten closer to. The one who she had placed her trust in. Had a connection with, a relationship with. A real one, not this. It's not fair, and he's not going to let her keep thinking it is.
"Why not?" he fires out. "Because he got you first?"
"Because you started both those things."
"So I should have known what I was getting into, is that your point?" he challenges.
She falls silent, mouth shutting, not having anything to say for once. He does not break her gaze, waiting. When she turns her head to look away, he impulsively leans forward to whisper in her ear, "My little harpy, if I had known what you would do to me, I wouldn't have ever spoken to you."
He means this. He's never believed he's actually crazy but she makes him into it. Makes him act irrationally and ruins all his plans and yet he is still here, still clinging to her as if everything will crumble to pieces without her at his side. Makes him want nothing more than to feel her against him at all hours and hear her say his name.
His head falls to her shoulder, nose nuzzling into her neck. His hand moves to cradle the small of her back, pushing her chest against his. He does not speak again and is grateful when she does not either, the only noise in the room for a minute or so their breathing.
Finally, she gets scared. He knows she is scared because she says something she clearly does not believe in a tone clearly meant to anger him, "Just because your words are pretty, that does not make them true."
He nearly laughs at how transparent she is. Instead, he kisses her shoulder while saying, "Then I will have to communicate my message in other ways."
"That silver tongue of yours might be enough to convince any of them, but you should know it won't work on me this time," she warns. He ignores her reprimand, knowing it is untrue. Knowing that with his head between her legs he can get her to agree to anything. He wants to remind her of why that is.
He sinks down her body, lips skimming slowly down the surface until he is on his knees. He pulls her hips forward, tongue lashing against her until his name is falling out of her throat like a chant. Just on the cusp for the second time already tonight, but he still refuses to let her go over it without asking.
"Say it, my little harpy," he reminds her.
"I want you, Tom," she moans.
"My title. Louder," he orders. He can tell she is about to refuse again so he slides a few fingers into her, finding that spot inside of her which makes her clench. She's shaking by the time he starts to pull them out, a warning.
She gives in, crying out, "I want you, My Lord."
He knows she'll justify it as a reflex, blame it on her body acting before waiting for her mind to catch up. He doesn't care. It doesn't matter what she thinks, or even what he'd prefer her to call him. It matters what they hear.
"Good girl," he praises as he pushes them back into her. "So perfect. Come for me."
She loses control at his words, her orgasm crash over her as he watches with admiring eyes. Fuck, she's pretty when she comes for him. He presses kisses up her skin until he reaches her mouth again. One kiss and she opens her eyes to look into his again.
He strokes her hair while whispering, "I am going to make you the loveliest crown, Cassandra. One that looks as good as you taste."
She laughs and then says, "Well we can't have you doing all the work, can we?"
She slips out from under him, pushing him back as she climbs down and falls to her knees. As soon as he feels her tongue lick it, he throws his head back, so hard it almost hurts, holding back a groan. Fuck, this is good. This is her wanting him - not just saying she does, but showing she does. The feeling of her mouth enveloping him is all he can focus on at that instant. His hands tangle in her hair.
Normally he would push, he would demand, he would control. But not with her. Every single second is such delicious waiting that he doesn't even believe in the concept of time anymore. Time is too fast. Or too slow. He doesn't know. He doesn't know anything. Just this and her and being absorbed by it. He manages to look down to admire what is happening finally, and almost finishes right at that second because her hands are against his hips to help control her movements, and he can see his mark facing up toward him. She teases him, strings him along for a minute more, before taking him fully and then pulling off. She sticks out her tongue to lick his head softly and that's it.
He pulls her up and kisses her before he can loss control, turning her around so he can bend her over the counter. He slips into her, taking the time to feel every little movement, to make her feel every little movement. She's still so worked up that she pulses around him eagerly, coming again nearly immediately. The hand not pushing her hips back toward his slides up and along the trail of marks he left on her chest.
"You will not be spelling these away, Cass," he orders. He sees her look up at him in the mirror and already knows what objection she will make. He kisses her before preempting any argument by saying, "Is it really such a loss? I fuck you better anyway, don't I? Admit it."
"You fuck me better," she whispers back, lips brushing against his.
"So tell me to send him away," he says with a smirk.
"You're ridiculous," she replies, turning away from him as he expected.
Regardless, he's not going to give up. After everything that happened today, he can't imagine himself not killing Cain the second he sees him touch her again. Not if he knows the current situation is going to continue, possibly forever.
No, not forever, he remembers. It could possibly get worse.
The poor girl is magically granted whatever she was missing all along, meets the kind and charming prince, and they have a grand wedding and rule the kingdom happily ever after.
He has to take her away from Cain before Cain can take her away from him.
An engagement is sure to come before the end of the year, but will we be hearing wedding bells as well as Christmas bells this holiday season?
Why had he let Cain trick him into that stupid fucking bet?
"You know you want to," he whispers in her ear.
"You're trying to make me want to," she responds.
"What if I never did this again unless you did?" he retorts.
"You really think you're that good?" she teases.
"I know I'm that good. Your begging earlier made it quite obvious." he teases back.
"Things would be boring then, wouldn't they?" she says with a small laugh. "You would have already won. Would you let me go, My Lord?"
He stops moving, fingers digging into her hip as he growls, "What did you say?"
She's smiling playfully at him through the mirror as she answers, "If I let you win, will you let me leave without repercussion?"
Leave. It's the only word he really comprehends. It's like all the air leaves the room for a second. He grits his teeth and asks, "What's the meaning of you bringing that up again, Cassandra?"
"It means exactly what I said. You told me if I wanted him, I had to stay with you. That was the deal we originally made. So if I don't want him anymore - if I let you send him away - I don't have to stay, anymore, right?
He feels like the room is closing in on him. He tries to keep it from showing in his tone, "There is no deal anymore, Cass. You made a choice to stay with me."
"So can I make a choice to change my mind?"
"Stop," he hisses, feeling his self control quickly slipping away.
"You said you could earlier. So why can't I?" she asks with a smile.
You know it's not like she has any choice in the matter. That's the only reason she gets within 100 meters of him.
Control gone. His hand shoots out to close around her neck, pulling her against him with just enough force to keep her from moving but not enough to cause any pain unless she does.
"You want to provoke me into being the monster you so desperately want to believe I am again? Fine," he growls. "Do not mistake my kindness and the special leniency I grant you for an inability or an unwillingness to do whatever is needed to keep you here. We have plans, goals, a mission to carry out. Think about leaving again and I will avada him on the spot, then use that amortentia which you have so skillfully brewed to make sure you retain your loyalty to me. If you think there's anything that can make me let go, you are underestimating me. Understand?"
"Perfectly," she answers flatly, as if they are discussing the weather.
He kisses her, trying to convey that he's not doing this because he wants to trap her but because he's so afraid of losing her. His tone has returned to normal by the time he pulls away, "I could do anything - but I will not, because I know I do not need to. I know you want this too, my little harpy, whether or not you will admit it to yourself and despite this little charade which you insist on keeping up with him."
"It's not a charade. He is - " she starts. Tom won't have any of that today. Or ever again.
"If he was anything more than an obligation to you, you wouldn't be doing this," he chides. "And don't repeat your empty decelerations of love again. We both know they're a lie when you get this wet for me. When you always have. You belong to me, not him. Everyone can see that. You just refuse to."
His thumb lifts to push at her chin, turning her head back toward the mirror. His other hand slips down to stroke her as he speeds up his movements again.
"Look, my little harpy. See how much you are enjoying this," he orders. When she does not, he repeats, "Look or I'm going to open the door so they can watch me finish fucking you."
"You are truly the worst person I have ever met," she snarls as she obeys.
"That's what you like about me, isn't it, Cass? If it wasn't, if you really wanted to leave, why would you have already come on my cock twice?" he mocks, smirking. "Why would you still be here, when we both know you are more than capable of fighting your way out? You do not want to leave me, and you will not say so again. You are mine now and forever, my little harpy. Mine. Say it."
He does mean forever. He already has the object picked out.
"I'm yours, My Lord," she whimpers.
"You know that's not what I want," he chides as he pads a thumb over her nipple.
"I'm yours, Tom," she repeats as she shivers and pulses around him.
"Good girl, Cass," he praises. "Now again until you mean it."
He holds out until she's repeated it nearly a dozen times and he can't hold back any longer. Two more pumps and he spills into her, groaning. He stays inside of her as he takes her chin in his fingers, pulling her face to his so he can kiss her. He can almost hear the relieved sigh escaping her when he steps back to let her go afterward. She fixes her hair and outfit in the mirror while he does the same before stepping around him to leave.
When she is at the door, she calls back, "If you understood what love was, you would know which words were actually empty and which weren't, Tom."
The door closes behind her again before he can stop her and make her regret her words.
I love you with a love that is more than love.
The mirror shatters from the force of the anger radiating out from him, spilling down in large chunks and covering the countertop. What the fuck had just happened?
He had had her. He had seen it in her eyes. And then he'd had to push her, and she'd had to say that, and he'd just snapped. Fuck, what had he said? Avada. Amortentia. He looks down and sees the blood under his nails, remembers how he'd dug them into her hip. Fucking fuck fuck. Not this again.
Five months of work wasted because now she remembers who he really is. The worst part was he'd known she was testing him and fallen for it anyway.
No, the worst part is that she does love him.
He stares down at the shards of glass and thinks about which one would be best to stab Cain with. How he would love to watch him bleed out, to show her the consequences of her disobedience. To confirm all her worst fears.
Instead, he takes a few deep breaths and gathers himself before spelling the mirror fixed and walking out. Walking past her and continuing his business. From the looks everyone is giving them, he can tell he has already accomplished what he set out to do tonight. It's better if they both cool off for now. When the party ends, she will still be here.
At least that is what he thinks until he notices she's spent a whole bloody hour talking to Rowle. And she's smiling at him. What the fuck are they talking about that's making her smile like that at him? Laughing too. It's indecent. Unacceptable. He storms up to her side, grabbing her wrist and pulling her hand back just as she's reaching out to touch his arm.
He shoots a look at Rowle before facing her and saying, in the most even tone he can manage, "Cass -
"What's wrong, Tom?" she says politely, a mischievous smile on her face hiding what he knows is hostility in her voice. "Were you not fully satisfied by our previous interaction?"
Leaning right into it then, isn't she? She must know that, despite his threats, he won't take the risk of arguing with her here. It won't look good for him if he does, especially after that. People will think him weak if he cannot even reign her in.
"I was very satisfied, but I am still hoping for a dance as well," Tom just answers, smiling back at her. "Shall we?"
"Perhaps later? I need to finish making the rounds - "
"They can wait, Cassandra. Come," he commands. He does not miss the slight roll of her eyes. He steps forward, guiding her hand through the crook of his arm and leading them to the floor. A new song starts just for him, a waltz like that first time they danced.
He waits until the music picks up, for discretions sake, to whisper in her ear, "My little harpy, perhaps I got a bit… carried away. Your words were far too blithe, and mine were far too severe. I apologize."
The words are hard to say but he knows he has to get them out. That they have to move on. That what had happened back there needs to be just a bad moment, not another indication of his bad personality.
She looks away from him, a mix between a sob and a laugh leaving her mouth, "You apologize? First, to accept that, I would have to believe you really mean it, and I don't. Second, even if you did feel bad about it, even if you did want to take your words back, they were true, weren't they?"
"I do mean it, my little harpy, so let us move on. Once this mood of yours passes, I think you'll find our interactions will be as enjoyable for you as they always were."
She pulls away from him slightly. He knows it is so that she can see his expression when she hurts him by saying, "And if it doesn't pass?"
"It will," he says resolutely. He knows when she is just trying to cut him and when she means what she says. This is the former, he is sure of it.
"You may be able to command me to dance, but you cannot command the way I feel."
"It is not a command - simply an observation, Cass. I know you. Whatever has turned your mood sour will leave your mind by the time I lay you down in bed tonight, my little harpy."
"If you really think you can fuck me into forgiving you, then you're delusional."
"You've forgiven me for doing more based on less before," he points out. The truth is enough to make her fall silent, out of arguments to parade behind. He moves in closer to her, lips almost touching hers as he whispers, "I want you to want to stay, Cass. But if you won't decide for yourself, then I will incentivize you to."
The closest thing to a real apology he can manage. An admission that she is right. A softening of his rhetoric. He is sorry for what he said, but he is not sorry for the feeling behind it. For the impulse to keep her. For the will to do whatever is needed to have that. He thinks this is what it is to want someone, to feel for them. He thinks she must know that. She must feel the same. If not for him, at least he knows she does for Cain. She cannot fault him for being human when she is too. For being fallible and weak for her the way she is for him.
She just fakes a smile and waits for the song to end before saying, "Thank you for making that clear, Tom. Enjoy your night."
She moves to step away from him. He pulls her back, all his self-control focused on not squeezing too hard as he warns, "This isn't funny, Cassandra."
"Oh, it's not meant to be," she responds with that sickening smile still on her face. "I'm serious. Thank you, and thank you for what you said earlier. See, I'd almost deluded myself into believing those beautiful words of yours, but you were kind enough to bring me back to reality. I'm just another one of them. Just another one of your toy soldiers. The only thing that's special about me is that I haven't been around as long, so I haven't outgrown my usefulness or gotten boring yet. Here's hoping I will someday, but until then I don't really have a choice, do I?"
What complete and utter bullshit. If she believes that, she really has deluded herself. Blinded herself to the truth. He's always known she's good at covering it up with other people, that she's reluctant to admit it even to him - but he's never seen her entirely and actually convince herself of something that is so plainly untrue.
He knows he is losing control of his facade. That he should end this conversation for now before it falls completely. Yet he is almost begging as he argues, "Cassandra, I have never - "
"I am not interested in hearing any more lies, Tom," she chides, cold gaze showing no signs of melting. "At the very least, however, do grant me a choice about whether I have to welcome you into my home tonight. After all, I have already granted you your share for the week, haven't I?"
They both know she's granted him more than that. His stays have been nearly uninterrupted, her bed more familiar to him than his own has been, for weeks now.
"This is not the place to talk about this, Cassandra."
"Why not? You made sure they all knew about it, didn't you?"
"You're upset. We will talk again once you've called down," he says to hide the fact that he is the one who is upset.
"I'm not upset. Just tired. I'm afraid I won't be very much fun until I get some rest anyway, so please do me the favor of finding someone else to entertain you tonight."
"That's really what you want me to do?" he grits out, incredulous. It can't be, not with the way she looked at him while mentioning those other witches earlier.
"Why wouldn't it be, My Lord?" she says with a smile.
"Why do you have to be so difficult, Cass?" he snarls.
"Am I? Luckily for you, as you pointed out earlier, there's plenty of women here who would be more than happy to agree to anything you say. Is it really so outrageous to ask that you spend one night with as many of them as you wish instead of with me?"
His grip tightens around her waist. He's about to apparate out of here with her. To where he isn't sure yet. Somewhere they can be alone. Somewhere she can be his forever.
But doing that would just prove her point, wouldn't it? Just make her hate him more.
He puts back on his facade and replies calmly, "Your request is noted."
Once the dance is finished, he lets her go.
He is not sure how many girls he fucks that night. Tries to fuck, more like it. It is a haze of firewhisky and dark rooms and the unsatisfying whimpers of girls who aren't her. Tonight, he is particularly vicious in his tastes.
He pulls their hair so hard they scream as he pushes their faces down into whatever surface they are bent over. He does not kiss them, because he does not want to lose the taste he already has on his tongue. He does not smell them, because balled up in his other hand is the lace panties he ripped off of her earlier tonight, and whenever he forgets her scent he lifts them up to take it in. Hell, at one point he is pretty sure he nearly chokes one of them unconscious when she tries to call his name. There is only one person he cares to hear his name from.
Then when all of that is still not enough to get him up, he sends them on their way and downs another drink before making his way back to the ballroom to try to find one who is close enough. To try again to fulfill her wish to find someone else to occupy his bed, always in vain.
In the end, he stumbles up to the third floor guest room alone, not even bothering to strip before collapsing into the bed. His hand runs over the sheets, recognizing them as the same ones she has on her bed. He brushes his cheek against them, feeling the fabric ripple under his skin.
For a second, just one second, he wishes he hadn't made those horcruxes so he could just jump out of the window.
This is why love is weakness.