May 14th, 1649

Something has happened. There was an attack.

It was small, just a meager group of insurgents. It's a miracle they managed to infiltrate the castle in the first place. The security in this castle really is abysmal. I'll have to change that when I'm king.

But what's extraordinarily disturbing is that the attack wasn't on ours—wasn't mine. The clothing the attackers were wearing was cheap, ordinary—it could have originated anywhere, but their weapons

I shouldn't have allowed myself to get so close—it was dangerous.

But I had to—I had to understand—and then I saw it, the small embellishment on the handle of a blade as it swung through the air in my direction.

My family crest.

I did not send the rebels.

But someone did—they could have hurt the princess—if she'd been injured—if she's died than this would all be over. She mustn't die—not yet. I must write to my advisors—surely they will know what to do—how to track this traitor down. What he is doing—what he almost did—is interfering with my plan.

Someone in this castle is working against my orders. Which is unacceptable. They must be dealt with.

I should suspect the princess—Annabeth—but I know she would never put her sister in harm's way. And even if I had my doubts, her frantic entrance after the attack was evidence enough of sincerity.

Her cheeks were flushed, her bottom lip swollen with worry, her gaze feverish. The sight was surprisingly pleasant—gratifying, even. It might have excited me, had the circumstances been different.

But they weren't. There had been an attack—though whether the true motivation was to kill or to instill fear in the kingdom is still unclear.

Rachel has spoken to me of envy—envying her sister for her intrepidity, for her ambition.

I had nodded, told her I understood—but I do not believe I truly knew what she meant until I saw it myself. I watched as they fought and Rachel cowered beneath her strength. Annabeth does not intend to hurt her sister but she must—if she wishes to achieve all that she desires, she will hurt Rachel.

I wonder if she knows.

She does not appear naive—and yet, there is something soft and delicate and wanting behind the cold gray of her eyes. It brings about such an odd feeling—a strange sort of chaos.

I have always been in control. I have always fought for control—for my family. That's why I was commissioned here—after all—for my family—because of family.

But the feeling she inspires, it's a powerful sort of anarchy—as if I have no control and yet the entire world at my disposal.

I don't understand it—I cannot begin to comprehend how I feel.

Which isn't a good thing—especially considering that she has been nothing but a distraction since I arrived at the castle.

I see the way her parents look at her. I know how Rachel has spoken of her—with envy, with fear. Even her own fiance disrespects her.

She is alone—whether she knows it or not. And if she is alone, how difficult would it be to gain her trust?

She would certainly be a formidable enemy—but as an ally? What couldn't I accomplish? Except—

I seem to forget my plans. When they come to fruition she will loathe me.

Unless—unless she already trusts me by then—but she won't—she doesn't—

God, she glares at me with such spite—it's as if I have already murdered her sister.

I wonder if she knowshow much she knows. What has she heard?

She contorts her features so expertly, making her expressions nearly impossible to read.

I could threaten her—force her to tell me—

No—she doesn't seem like the type to break. Besides she would hate me.

She already hates me.

Yes—

No—

I don't—

I find myself utterly perplexed.

She remains a distraction—a debilitating one at that, if my train of thought is any indication.

My plan would be simpler if I got rid of her—I should get rid of her—

Yes—

Fuck

No—

I hate her.

I absolutely loathe her—and what she's doing to me.

I must write to my advisors. I must inform them of the attack. They will want to hear it from me. I must determine where the attackers managed to procure their weapons.

I must—

Would it really be so bad to threaten her? She must know something—Rachel only tells me so much. I'm sure she knows more. The skin of her neck is smooth and delicate, if I just held a blade to it—

No—

Yes—

Fuck.

P.J.

...

Annabeth knew what she had to do the minute she'd left his room. She cleared her night, dismissing Luke's requests and focusing solely on the castle's new safety protocols. She waited patiently, knowing they were all expected at dinner later that evening.

Then, during those valuable minutes after Percy left to go seek out Rachel but before either of them had arrived in the dining hall—before anyone would question Annabeth's tardiness—she snuck into his room.

His guards put up little resistance. That was to be expected though—they were technically her guards, after all. She padded into the room quietly, careful not to disturb anything. Nothing had changed since her prior visit just a few hours ago.

Annabeth took a deep breath, scanning the room for his desk and inwardly rejoicing when she saw the same stack of parchment from earlier. She was not foolish. She knew that he had taken the letter and most likely disposed of any other traces of his writing, but—

Annabeth skimmed her fingertips over the parchment, praying for something—anything—and then she found it. There, right there, halfway across the paper there was a pattern of indentations. She gentle unfolded the parchment paper she had brought, placing it over the parchment. She bit her lip as she slowly skimmed a bar of charcoal over the top, hoping the imprints were deep enough to hold some memory of what he'd written.

Slowly but surely, words emerged. They were barely there and disjointed—but they were there.

With a shaky breath, Annabeth finished her reproduction and stepped back, making sure the parchment didn't have any dark residue. She slowly scanned the pressed paper, only able to make a few words out—

rebels—

princess

plan

The words sent a sharp stab of fear through Annabeth's chest. She pressed on, attempting to make out any words, but her concentration was suddenly broken by a strange tapping on the window.

She looked up sharply, her eyes widening in surprise as ice filled her veins. It was coming from outside but—but it was only a bird.

Annabeth sighed, pushing past her paranoia. She carefully folded the evidence she'd developed, hiding it in her bosom. She knew she'd already wasted more time than was intelligent, Luke would be waiting for her with questions.

Annabeth rushed back to her room, feeling the cool air wash over as she deftly moved through the castle hallways. She had just arrived back at her dormitory, a strangled sigh of relief escaping her when she noted the lack of her suitor outside, when she heard her name from somewhere behind her.

"Annabeth."

It was Luke.

"One second," she called, glancing in his direction. "Just forgot something."

He frowned but didn't otherwise object as she dashed back into her bedroom. She wiped down her fingers, clearing them of any leftover charcoal, and took the precious parchment out from within her dress. She slid in beneath her mattress, knowing even her mother wouldn't think to look there.

Taking a deep breath, she pulled her curls back behind her ears. She slipped on a bracelet, attempting to look somewhat put together. She should have readied herself earlier.

"Ready," she called to Luke through the door as she padded towards it, feigning a sweet smile.

"What did you forget?" he questioned as one of her guards opened the door for her.

"Just my bracelet," she explained, holding up her wrist.

He stared at it, a barely-there crinkle appearing between his brows.

"Oh."

"Mhm," she hummed, taking his arm and following their usual route down the hallway, the hidden vellum lingering in the back of her mind.

...

"I found something," Annabeth began to explain, contorting her face to keep her expression severe, not wanting to show any trace of haughtiness and told you so and see I was right all along.

"What?" Rachel questioned, eyeing her sister up and down, confused as to why the blonde had been so insistent on speaking to her after dinner.

"I was in Duke Jackson's room earlier," Annabeth told, careful not to call him by his Christian name even if she did so in her mind. "And I—"

"You were in his room?" Rachel repeated, leaning forward with a skeptical brow. "Why?"

"I heard a crash," Annabeth dismissed quickly with a half-hearted wave of her arms. "It's not important. I found something. He was writing something while I was there—a letter I think—"

"And?" Rachel interrupted, quickly growing bored, her jaw clicking into place

"Well, when he finished, I took the parchment that lay beneath it," Annabeth continued. "And I used imprints of his writing to decipher his writing—he writes with an especially strong hand, I've noticed."

"What importance does this have?" Rachel asked, staring at her sister, impatience simmering in her speech.

"His letter spoke of the rebel attack—moreover it said something of a plan," Annabeth expounded with wide glossy eyes. "Given the rebels came from Atlantis, the timing is incredibly suspicious. Don't you agree?"

"It's a little odd, yes," Rachel allowed.

"Well, do you believe we should suspend your engagement—just the ceremony—until we have had the opportunity to investigate further."

Rachel was silent, her tongue sliding visibly across her teeth.

"Does his duplicity not trouble you?" Annabeth demanded, taking a step forward.

"How do you know he was writing a letter?" Rachel countered, her voice cold.

"I—"

"Besides, perhaps he was simply recalling the events to someone back home—"

"Yes," Annabeth accepted with a roll of her eyes, "but—you should have seen the way he snatched the letter away when I tried to read it—"

"You tried to read it?" she Rachel scoffed incredulously.

"Of course."

"You have spoken ill of him for weeks," Rachel sighed, sounding tired. She turned to face the window, crossing her arms. It was dark outside, the stars just barely shining through the clouds. "And yet, he has been nothing but attentive and kind. He has given me no reason to doubt him—"

"This is a reason—besides, this different. This is no longer a matter of paranoia. He is a danger to you," Annabeth stressed, stepping forward to reach for her sister's elbow.

Her fingers had just barely brushed Rachel when the redhead turned savagely, snatching her limbs away as she faced her sister.

"Perhaps," Rachel ground out with unfamiliar spite. "You should worry less about my love life and focus more on your own."

Confusion filled the Annabeth's eyes as she stared questioningly at her sister.

"What do you mean?" she disputed, feeling taken aback. In all her years, through all their fights, Rachel had never spoken to her so venomously, had never looked upon her with the malice that shone in her eyes now.

"Luke came to speak with me," Rachel revealed matter of factly after a beat of tense silence.

Annabeth stilled. "Did he?" She asked, raising a brow.

Who the fuck did he think he was? Speaking to her sister without her—about her.

"He says you're distant," Rachel told, keeping a close on her Annabeth as her frustration rapidly bubbled to the surface. "He doubts your feelings."

"That's hardly my problem," Annabeth spat, unable to contain herself any longer. "He is a fool for believing there were ever amorous sentiments to begin with. It's an arranged marriage for god sake—practically a trade deal—"

"Regardless of your sentiments," Rachel cut her off. "You must put an end to his qualms—"

"Yes," Annabeth laughed hollowly, a mocking leer overtaking her features, "because his wounded ego is suddenly my most pressing concern—"

"Annabeth," Rachel gasped, staring at her sister in disbelief. "How can you speak so ill of your fiance? He will love you and you will love him—and you will bear his children—and care for his household—it is the way things are—the way they were intended—"

"My intention," Annabeth snapped, "is to protect my family. I am well aware of what is expected of me—my current concern does not lay with my bothered but rather with my sister who is about to enter into a dangerous marriage—"

"Well then put your concerns aside," Rachel commanded, raising her voice for the first time. "I trust him."

Annabeth was silent, her chest heaving against the bust of her dress, her cheek between her teeth as she attempted to douse the angry flame permeating through her entire body.

"Besides," Rachel added quietly, her eyes glued to the ground as she spoke. "I have reason to doubt your claims."

"What reasons?" Annabeth required skeptically, furrowing her brow.

"You have a vested interest in my political downfall—"

Annabeth could hardly contain her gasp, her breath catching uncomfortably in her throat.

"—Everyone knows it. If I were to fall, unmarried, you would become queen."

"How dare you—" Annabeth began, her throat so scratchy she could barely speak.

Everyone could have thought her formidable, faithless, threatening, and she would have survived—except Rachel—not Rachel.

"And that's what you've always wanted isn't it, Annabeth—to be queen!"

The blonde struggled to swallow, observing her sister, cataloging her every expression, and wondering if the compassionate girl she had grown up with had disappeared.

"You doubt my sincerity?" Annabeth asked in scarcely more than a whisper.

Rachel said nothing, her eyes still tracing the lines of the floor, as if trying to memorize the ground below them.

"You truly believe I would betray you?" Annabeth questioned faintly, her eyes stinging with unshed tears.

"Why wouldn't you?" Rachel shrugged, glancing up at her finally just to shrug. "We both know that women must do what is best for themselves in this world. Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player—that struts and frets his hour upon the stage," she quoted, sniffing as she drew herself up, fixing her posture.

Annabeth stood, momentarily stunned.

"You dare quote Macbeth to me?" she hissed, having found her voice again. "You think me a devious lady?"

"Annabeth—"

"Or what? A traitorous soldier—"

"Of course, not."

"Then what are you implying?"

"It's a play for god sake, I think you none of those fanciful characters but—" her gaze darkened, something guarded tucked into the shadows of her green irises. "But you know as well as I do that ambitious is dangerous—especially when a woman possesses it—"

"So you fault me for my ambition?" Annabeth attempted, pressing forward.

"No, I doubt you for it," Rachel said sharply. "I fear you because of it."

"You fear me?" Annabeth repeated, something ugly curdling in the pit of her stomach, threatening to boil over. "You fear your own sister? After everything we have gone through, everything we have fought for—you honestly believe I intend to do you harm?"

"These are troubling times," Rachel said sadly, slowly. "I don't know what to think anymore."

"I see," Annabeth said slowly, making no attempt to meet Rachel's lowered gaze. "Forgive me."

Annabeth could not escape the room quick enough, a harsh weight pushing down on her chest as she raced out of Rachel's bedroom. She rushed down the hallways, needing something—anything—to take her mind off of her fight.

She was right about him. She knew she was right. And yet—Percy had managed to earn her sister's trust.

Annabeth pressed her teeth together, her jaw going sore from the force of her bite. She shut her eyes, breathing in the cool air as she walked the familiar hallways. She had memorized the route, arriving in the library just a few minutes later.

Annabeth sighed in relief at the familiar smell of old parchment and wood, a familiar warmth lifting her. It was simpler with books. There was no gray area—only truths. She didn't like gray areas—never had. They were too confusing, too complicated. She liked knowing she was correct with absolute certainty.

Annabeth stepped into the great room, pushing her way to the back of the room to locate one of her favorite titles. She had just reached it when she heard something—it was just barely there—a whisper almost—no, voices.

Her heart raced, her eyes darting around the room. There was no one in sight.

"Stay away from her—"

Annabeth's ears perked up. The hushed murmurs sounded angry. Hidden in the shadow of an alcove, she couldn't see who was speaking.

"The notion becomes a bit difficult as she appears to seek me out at every turn—"

"Do you think yourself sly, Duke?" it was Luke's voice, she realized, low and venomous.

"Somewhat—" replied a somewhat sarcastic voice. Percy.

"You think me foolish then—"

"Hardly—"

"Did you think I would not notice the way you look at her—"

Annabeth inched closer, her heart pounding in her ears as she attempted to listen. She could just scarcely make out the two shadows dancing in the candle light.

"You think we haven't all noticed the way your eyes wander when she's around," Luke's voice scoffed.

Silence permeated the dim room. She breathed shallowed, pressing herself harder against the wall, the adrenaline from her fight with Rachel spurring her on.

"What exactly are you implying?" Percy's voice seethed.

"I am not implying anything. I am simply warning you, from one man to another, to stay away from my fiance—"

Annabeth felt her breath catch her throat, choking on the strangled gasp at the edge of her larynx.

"—lest you face the consequences," Luke finished.

"Terrified, I'm sure," Percy's voice returned, sounding annoyed.

She heard the patter of footsteps, watched the two figures part, one moving towards the door before—the clatter of the doors was her only indication that one of them had left. She thought she heard someone breathe raggedly but couldn't be sure

She should check—shouldn't she? It was the responsible thing to do, after all.

Annabeth stepped out from the shadows, her feet moving as quickly as her labored breathes. And then there he was, standing between a pair of bookshelves, half-hidden in the darkness. And he was staring—staring as if he'd known she'd been listening to the whole time. He looked bored—he looked stunned—he looked confused—she was confused—

"Is it true?" the words came tumbling from her lips before she'd even realized she'd said them.

Percy said nothing, simply watched her with guarded eyes.

"Do you follow me?" she clarified—there was nothing wrong with clarifying—"Do you seek me out?"

"Of course," he revealed.

Annabeth felt her heart stop, something noxious and lethal and unnervingly familiar pooling in her stomach—

"I do not trust you," Percy continued. "It is only natural that I maintain a close eye."

"Keep your friends close," Annabeth dismissing the sinking in her chest, "but your enemies closer."

Something adjacent to excitement flashed in his eyes—it was just a second, but she was sure she'd seen it.

"What concern is it to you?" he questioned, taking a step closer to her.

The heat in Annabeth's bosom flared.

"You're engaged to my sister," she replied quickly—too quickly. "Is that not enough of a reason?"

"Is could be," Percy granted, his lips curving into something wicked. "Are you sure there isn't another?"

Her stomach lurched.

He took another step.

She tried back away from him but was met with another bookshelf, suddenly finding herself feeling just as trapped as she'd felt on the balcony.

"I don't know what you mean," Annabeth denied—because there wasn't another reason—there wasn't.

Another step.

"Really?" he countered with a raised brow and an easy smile.

And she was silent because there was—there absolutely was—it was something deep inside her, something dangerous and dark nipping at her sanity, devouring her restraint.

Her corset was uncomfortably tight and her gown was scratchy against the top of her bare thigh and the bookshelf was digging into her shoulder blades and—and she was dizzy—she was so dizzy

"Because I think you're jealous." The words were sinful as they spilled from his lips—because they were sinful. It was sinful to be—to be—

She was hot—she was burning—she was melting.

"Jealous?" she managed faintly, as she resisted the urge to flutter her eyes shut and bask in whatever was rushing through her veins, consuming her from the inside out. "Of you?"

He grinned, the razor edge of his teeth just barely peeking out from his lips.

"Trust me," she breathed, trying and failing to regain her composure. "I can get my sister's attention quite easily."

He furrowed his brow for a second, his eyes narrowing imperceptively.

"No," he uttered, the syllables smooth and lewd on his tongue. "Not jealous of me, jealous of your sister."

Annabeth blinked, swallowed.

His eyes lingered on her mouth.

"Pardon?" she choked out.

"Do you like me?" he questioned as simply as if it were arithmetic.

Her heart had stopped beating—she was sure of it. The pounding in her ears must have been from something else because her heart had stopped beating—she had stopped breathing—she had stopped existing

"You're insane," Annabeth scoffed, pressing a hand to his chest to push him away—why wasn't she pushing him away

"Am I?" Percy leaned closer.

She could feel his words—visceral and vehement—against her skin. She tried to nod, but wasn't sure she still had control over her own body.

There was an undeniable heat growing in her abdomen, a tension twisting and curling in her stomach.

She felt sick.

"Because from what I recall," he continued. "You follow me everywhere, you always seem to be watching me—you even appeared in my bedroom yesterday—"

"I thought—"

"Yes, I remember," he chuckled, and the sound was gut-wrenching. "Thought you were saving me did you, princess?"

She wanted him to say her name—no she didn't—she didn't.

"But you also shot an arrow at me, or did you forget?" he tilted his head to the side, sending her a questioning gaze. "Just as I was about to kiss your precious sister."

She made a strangled noise.

"So I'll ask you again, Annabeth—"

Oh god. She was going to be sick. She was sure of it. There was something undeniable—unbearable—building in between her thighs—and she wished she was naive enough to feign ignorance, to pretend she didn't know what it was.

She pressed her thighs together, stifling a shudder at the friction.

"—do you like me?"

She opened her mouth to say something—anything—and watched his eyes, half-hidden by thick lashes, find her mouth again.

Annabeth licked her lips.

He exhaled sharply.

"This is quite improper," Annabeth attempted, pressure building in her every limb, freezing her in place.

"That isn't a no."

Something clattered—a book falling off the shelf behind her.

He stumbled backward. She lurched forward.

And just like that, in less than a second, the connection had been severed.

He stared at the ground, his eyes glazed over as if in a daze.

Annabeth swallowed harshly, allowing herself one ragged breath before shooting him a glare.

"No," she declared determinedly, her teeth tearing at her cheek.

"No?" he repeated, tipping his head just slightly so she was in his eyesight

"No," she contended, taking an angry step towards him. "I don't like you. You're arrogant and tyrannical and suspect—not to mention uncouth." —and my sister loves you lingered on the tip of her tongue, but she knew better, swallowing it back in denial. "I would never be remotely interested in someone like you."

She watched his throat pulse, his muscles strain—before fading into nonchalance no less than a second later.

"My mistake," he said, his voice harsh and guttural and violent—and Annabeth was sure she was going to faint. He drew away from her, leaving the library without another word, taking his heat with him.


a/n: haven't edited, so be kind. kinda living for some percabeth this quarantine so expect more sooooon.