It's odd, the things one recalls when they're watching someone die.
Annabeth thought of the boy she'd met all those years ago, the cook's son—bread boy, she'd called him because every day without fail, he would appear with a loaf of bread in hands. She would laugh, dismissing the loaf and dragging him away to play. And then one day, things had been different. One day, he didn't have bread, instead, he'd carried a blade. She remembered how he'd swung it through the air, his movements clumsy and unpracticed. She remembered what she'd done—nothing.
His blood had stained the tile. Her mother had refused to replace it. A reminder, she'd told her.
Annabeth thought of her family, of the people who had raised her, of all the questions she now had about them. She had never doubted them. They had always been her anchor, her certainty, her truth in a world of falsehood and distortion. How had they so easily become another mystery among a myriad of enigmas?
And lastly, Annabeth thought of her sister, of her kindness, and wondered what she would have done, wondered what she would think of Annabeth now, wondered if she had ever truly forgiven her for what happened years ago.
What had she told Percy? Sometimes even those closest to us cannot be trusted. Perhaps, Annabeth faintly concurred as she stared at the body before her, observing as his shallow breath sputtered before coming to a deafening halt. A pool of ruby red blood had formed around his abdomen, it reminded her of one of her gowns—royal red her seamstress had called it.
"Your highness," one of her guards broke her reverie with a concerned tone.
She raised her head, her gaze flickering over him. Jamison she remembered. Her most trusted guard. What he must think of her now.
"We have to get you to the safe room," he explained, breathing frantically. "He was not the only one."
Annabeth nodded mutely. She had figured as much. She reached forward—
"Princess!" her guard tried to object but she wasn't listening.
She wrapped her trembling fingers around the hilt of her dagger and wrenched the jagged silver from the lifeless body. She stood, her gaze lingering on her ruby stained fingers for a second before looking back at her guard who was watching her a stunned expression.
"Well," she remarked, holding the dagger to her chest. "What are we waiting for?"
He nodded, his posture stiffening as he led her out of the room and down the corridor, down a secret staircase and behind a trapdoor. Annabeth already knew the way. She hadn't needed his company, but something about the notion of being alone sent a shiver down her spine.
She glanced down at the discolored silver, wiping away some of the blood. She wasn't sure what she'd expected killing someone to feel like, but it wasn't this—numb.
"Annabeth," Luke greeted her breathlessly when she reached the safe room. Relief flooded his eyes as he rushed towards her. His sigh spilled down her spine as he pulled her into his embrace. She might have found the display annoying had the circumstances been different, but not today, not after that. She leaned into his touch, letting his familiar warmth soothe her restless mind.
"Rachel," she remembered, drawing away from him to search the room.
"She was across the castle when the attack occurred," Luke explained, dragging her attention back to him as he brushed away the curls obscuring her eyes. "She and the Duke were rushed to a different safe room."
Annabeth sighed in relief.
He smiled down at her, but then his features stilled. His eyes seemed to catch the speckling of blood along her chest for the first time, his brows knitting and his lips pressing into a deep frown.
"What?" Annabeth demanded suddenly, her fingers curling defensively.
"I can't believe your guards killed the rebels in front of you," he replied finally, his attention moving past her to glare at the guards behind her in disdain.
Annabeth was tempted to laugh.
Because they hadn't. She had killed him.
She wondered if she should tell him the truth. If she should tell him that the world had gone hazy as she'd plunged her blade into his stomach, that she'd reveled in the fear in his eyes when she turned it, that she felt nothing afterward.
She wondered if it would change how he saw her. Probably, she thought, after all, he'd always thought her a delicate little flower. So, no, maybe it was better he didn't know. Maybe it was better for him to think his fiance was the perfect princess he'd always imagined her.
But then, again, the news that she—the princess—had brutally murdered a man would run rampant through the castle, spreading like wildfire.
"They didn't," she said in the end, deeming the statement somewhere between a truth and a falsehood.
...
They were stuck in the saferoom for hours with nothing to do but worry. Annabeth shuddered at the horrid scenarios her mind had inevitably thought up.
It wasn't until dusk had given way to twilight that they were finally permitted to leave. Annabeth sprung from Luke's arms, throwing herself out the doors the second they parted.
"Take a lantern!" Luke tried to call after her, but she wasn't listening. She rushed down the different corridors towards her sister's. She could faintly hear her guards trailing behind her but ignored them, only slowing when reached resistance at Rachel's doors.
"Let me in," she demanded, eyeing the guards standing stiffly at either side of the doors.
"Her Highness requested she not be disturbed," one of them told her.
"Are you kidding me—" Annabeth cut herself off with a derisive snort, stepping forward to get the doors herself. "This is ridiculous."
The guards stepped to stop her, but seem to think twice before retreating, allowing her entrance.
"Rachel!" Annabeth gasped upon entry, rushing towards the wide-eyed redhead. She pulled her into a stiff embrace, before drawing back to inspect her. "Are you hurt?" Annabeth demanded with a deep frown. "I'm so sorry—I'm so sorry I wasn't here with you—"
"No," Rachel shook her head, her features softening even as her eyes appeared to glaze over. She looked dazed. "No, I'm not hurt."
"What happened?" Annabeth questioned desperately, holdings her sister's hands.
"Rebels," Rachel blinked, her eyes caught on red freckling that had stained Annabeth's bosom. "What's that?" she asked.
Annabeth swallowed thickly, observing as her sister dragged a delicate finger over her skin.
"Blood," she said finally.
"I figured," Rachel grimaced.
"Rachel," Annabeth pleaded. "Please tell me what happened."
Something about her imploring tone seemed to awaken the redhead.
"Sorry," Rachel shook her head. "It's still a blur. I was drawing and I heard a crash and when I looked up there were rebels in my room. They had knives—so many knives. I remember screaming and then I saw a blade, it was just the flash of silver but it coming for me—to kill me—and then Percy stepped in front of me."
"Percy?" Annabeth frowned.
"Yes," Rachel sniffed, snatching her hands back from Annabeth. "Percy saved my life. So what? Are you going to try to convince me it was part of some larger scheme?"
"No," Annabeth insisted but her features were still overcome with confusion. "No, I wasn't—I just—"
"I think I want to be alone," Rachel exhaled sharply, wrapping her arms around herself.
"Are you sure?" Annabeth requested, stepping closer.
"Yes," Rachel uttered softly, dipping her head.
"Okay," Annabeth agreed with a slight nod. With one last look at her sister, she turned on her heels, heading towards the doors.
"Annabeth," Rachel called to her before she could reach them.
"Yes?" she replied, her eyes widening hopefully.
"Where were you today?" Rachel questioned evenly, sadness glittering in her jade irises. "I asked you to come and see me but you never showed."
"I—I was riding," Annabeth stuttered, her heart faltering at the implication of her sister's words.
"Mh," Rachel hummed as she turned away from her to gaze out the window.
Annabeth swallowed noisily but said nothing else, leaving her sister to her thoughts.
...
Annabeth found herself lost in her thoughts as she wandered back to her room that night. She was doing that a lot lately, losing herself. Her contentious relationship with her parents was troubling enough, she wasn't sure she'd survive if her sister joined the party.
In the midst of her solicitudes, she'd lost track of time and space, her feet carrying her without much thought. She faintly registered that she was in an unknown part of the castle when a figure appeared in the darkness. She felt her fingers tense, curling around nothing. Her guards had insisted she leave her blade with them after the incident.
Her heart dropped into her stomach, dark tendrils of dread curling around her lungs as she registered how utterly defenseless she was.
The figure stepped forward. His face was half-hidden in the shadows, the moonlight reflecting off his unmistakably familiar eyes as they caught hers.
"Duke," she gasped in relief, the midnight air rushing into her lungs.
She found herself unsteady, breathless from lingering fear or his presence—she couldn't be sure.
She stepped forward, trying to see him better in the dark corridor. She wished she'd listened to Luke and brought a lantern to light the way. Perhaps it would have kept her from temptation.
"Your Highness," he returned quietly. His chest was heaving, his eyes shining, his lips parted in surprise, his arm—
His arm. Her heart faltered uncomfortably as her gaze caught on the bandage wrapped tightly around it, blood staining the white gauze. She struggled to swallow, attempting to draw moisture to her mouth. She dragged her eyes back to his, drowning in the tense silence.
"I read the book," she announced suddenly.
He arched a brow, peering down at her with a thoughtful expression.
"Did you?" he asked with an incline, taking another step.
It was so dark—too dark. She could just barely see the outline of his broad shoulders. Her eyes fell, found his lips, traced the tempting bow of his mouth, remembered how it had curled around her name, recalled his tongue coiling around treacherous words—you find me as captivating as I find you.
Her chest expanded, the air in her lungs swelling at the memory.
He found her captivating.
Annabeth exhaled shakily, her breath spilling into the decreasing space between them.
"Yes," she said simply, her fingers tensing at her sides as he got closer. She wanted to—she wanted to—she had no idea what she wanted, but there was a familiar heat coursing through her and a heavy beat of her heart was urging her forward, pushing her to find out.
The corridor was cold, the chill pricking at her skin. It was so dark. She could barely see, much less make out right from wrong.
"I'm afraid I'm not sure I understood its purpose," Annabeth revealed honestly, observing the visible planes of his face with undisguised curiosity.
"Oh," he sounded, regret shimmering in his eyes. "Pity."
She could scarcely discern disappointment tugging at the corner of his mouth, but she hated it nonetheless.
Then he moved, and she felt rather than saw him turn, the soft rustle of the wind against his shirt brushing her pebbled skin.
"Wait, Percy," she called suddenly, then flushed red. She dropped her chin, tracing the stones that decorated the corridor floor with her gaze as his movements stilled, his attentions returning to her.
When she looked up, she found herself unreasonably breathless. He was no longer hidden in the shroud of darkness, his features strong and questioning in the moonlight. She watched him swallow, the muscles in his throat straining.
His raven hair was messy across his forehead, disheveled and unkempt. His complexion was faded, and there were bags under his eyes. There was a fresh scrape across his cheek. She wondered how he'd gotten it, resisted the urge to reach out and brush her fingers across the injury. She bit her tongue, silencing any inquiries in regard to his well being.
"I wanted to thank you," she revealed finally, gazing up at him from beneath her lashes.
"Thank me?" he repeated.
She watched his feet shuffle, thought he might leave, thought she might deserve it after having treated him with so little respect, but then he didn't, instead, he stepped closer.
It was dark—so dark she might have mistaken him for something else. That was an ample excuse, wasn't it?
She inhaled, holding the cool air in her lungs and mustering the courage to meet his eyes.
Did she need an excuse?
"Rachel—um," she swallowed, licked her lips, hyperconscious of the ragged swell of her chest as he watched expectantly. "She told me what you did." She faltered, her confidence wavering, the cool air taming her blush. "If you hadn't been there—"
"It was nothing," he dismissed quickly, his gaze turning hard again.
"No," Annabeth interjected suddenly, firmly. "It wasn't."
His jaw tightened, and she thought she saw his features tremble, as if struggling to remain impassive.
"You saved her," Annabeth maintained, frowning deeply at him. Not sure he understood the gravity of his actions, of how entirely grateful she was, or how thoroughly she had misjudged him before. "You saved her life. That isn't nothing. That can never be nothing."
He was silent for a second.
"Were you hurt?" he asked.
"No," she shook her head, swallowing thickly as she remembered the dead man lying on her floor.
He sighed, seemingly in relief. And her stomach twisted at the thought.
She shut her eyes, praying for the clenching to disappear, pleading for the gods to bless her and take away these horrible violent desires. She felt his heated touch across her collarbones and snapped her eyes open, gasping at how close he was.
She should have stepped back. She should have left. She should have told him no, but it was dark. The night seemed to engulf her in a world of ambiguity, offering up excuses as if they were sweets to be devoured.
"What's this?" he asked.
He hadn't met her eyes, still brushing his fingers across the silky skin of her chest. His touch scorched her, leaving behind a trail of fire.
She didn't have to look to know what he was referring to. There, beneath the divot of her collarbone, was the same spattering of red—it had dried Bordeaux.
"Don't pretend you haven't heard," Annabeth said stiffly, hating the vulnerability in her words. Her body tensed as he drew closer still, as if she might fall apart the second she lost his touch.
"You're right," he admitted, his fingertips kissing the column of her neck once more before they were gone. He flicked his eyes upwards, catching on her mouth before rising to finally meet her eyes. "I did hear."
She laughed hollowly at that, taking a step away from him, stumbling back until her shoulderblades knocked into the cold stone wall behind her. She winced at the icy chill.
"Murder," she declared for him. "Why mince words?"
He tilted his head, narrowed his eyes in thought. Any other day, the look would have stopped her but not today, not tonight.
"I killed him," she scoffed, a horrible hollow aching in her chest. "Didn't I?"
Maybe this was for the better, she thought. Maybe he would stay away. Maybe he would think she was a monster like everyone else clearly did. Maybe then she'd be able to ignore the scorching feeling singeing her sensibilities, drawing her closer to temptation.
She was so caught up in her anxieties, she barely noticed when he took another step towards her, caging her in.
"Or do you have another word for it?" she uttered. She had stopped looking at him, remarkably uncomfortable with the stinging plaguing her eyes. Was she crying? God, how pathetic. Why was she crying? She'd done what she'd always known she would. She'd protected her family. She'd done what was needed.
"Evidence," he said then, jolting her from her thoughts. She hadn't been expecting an answer.
"Evidence of what?" she questioned, sliding her tongue across the raw edge of her teeth. They felt sharp and jagged in the night. "Of my bloodlust?" she laughed, her chin falling, her voice growing softer. "That I'm as violent and dangerous as everyone seems to think?"
Silence.
Again.
Of course, she thought. Of course, he would think the worst of her. Of course, he thought she was violent. Why wouldn't he? She threatened every day for god sake—
His fingers curled around her chin.
Her heart stopped.
His thumb stroked her jaw.
She stopped breathing.
Brushing, once, twice, before tilting her head upwards, prompting her to meet his eyes.
"No," he frowned, lowering his head to hers, like he wanted her to feel his words, like he wanted her to breathe him in, like he wanted her to believe him, like he wanted her as badly as she wanted him. "Evidence that you will protect those you love at all costs."
His nose slid across hers. His shallow breath spilled into hers. She parted her lips.
She could have cried. She could have killed him for making things so difficult. But instead, she tilted her head up, anticipating brimming in her chest, a dam waiting to burst.
And then his lips brushed hers, softly, tentatively—like he wasn't sure he was doing it right, like he thought she might push him away.
But she didn't—because it was dark, because she mistook him for someone else, because she was scared and confused, because this would be one time, because this would happen just once—no, none of those reasons. She knew perfectly well why she hadn't pulled away, because she wanted this—she wanted him.
And because there was this awful resounding ache in her chest, like she was missing something, like she was missing everything but all she needed was him. All she needed was more—
His hands found her waist, his fingertips hovering delicately over the seams of her dress. Her lips fell between his, soft like a pair of rose petals. He sighed heavily, like it was taking a great deal for him to restrain himself.
And suddenly she wanted to cry again, because her whole life everyone had treated her like a fragile little girl, as if she were made of glass. Her whole life, everyone had restrained themselves. Her mother, her father, Luke, even Rachel sought to protect her from the truth. She had never asked for it. She had never wanted it.
And that's why he'd intrigued her. Because he'd been different, he hadn't treated her like everyone else, he hadn't suffocated her in an endless stream of yes, your highness and of course, your highness. He'd been uncouth, coarse, improper—captivating.
That was why she wanted him, but this wasn't him.
"Please," she heard someone utter, then registered with a shock that the words had fallen from her lips. She felt him tense with surprise as she blushed furiously. His lips drew away from hers, but she kept her eyes shut, terrified that this dark fantasy might fall away if she opened them.
"Annabeth," he whispered and some unearthly power seemed to wrench them open to meet his, glittering with something she couldn't quite place, something captivating.
She wanted to close her eyes again, to ignore the way her abdomen clenched pleasantly at the sound, but she couldn't. She parted her lips, unsure of what to say. Did he expect her to explain what she'd been pleading for? Because honestly, she had no idea.
"I—" she began.
And then the dam broke. He surged forward, his lips crashing onto hers. She felt the sting of teeth before his tongue slipped between her lips.
His hands skated up her sides, clutching desperately to her waist as if she might disintegrate, turned to ash from the heat. And frankly, she wasn't convinced she wouldn't. Her fingers slipped across the planes of his face, brushing the bruises and scrapes, the scars and blemishes, as if to commit him to memory.
Oh, she thought faintly amidst the chaos. This is what she'd been pleading for.
She reached up, twining her arms around his neck to grasp at his hair, frantic to hold onto something. He shifted, pushing her back against the cool stone as he flattened his palm against the small of her back. She fell into him, her body folding perfectly into his.
And she was lost, again—but it was different this time, because she was lost in him. Lost in the way his mouth moved against her, lost in the swell of his chest, in the rhythm of his heart, in the feel of him.
She felt like she was drowning, but she had never known drowning could be so delightful.
She sensed her back arch against her will, her head falling back as he teased out a breathy gasp from her lips. His lips brushed her earlobe, a broken exhale grazing her skin. Then his mouth was on her neck, sucking deliriously, before stirring to nip at her collarbones. He was whispering, pressing words into her skin. She couldn't hear him, but could just scarcely make out the familiar curve of his lips against her—Annabeth, Annabeth, Annabeth.
She lazily registered her skirt was halfway up her thighs, but she couldn't find it in herself to care as his fingertips danced up the insides of her thighs. She was spinning, she was suffocating, she had forgotten how to breathe. The world crumbled around her as he reached her center, his fingers brushing the silk of her undergarments experimentally.
She let out a ragged sigh, her limbs shaking around him, threatening to collapse. She felt dizzy, out of control, and for someone who rarely feared others, she was suddenly petrified. She was terrified of what she might do, of what this might mean. God, she had killed someone today, and this was what scared her.
"Percy," she tried to protest but it came out a breathless sigh. She felt his fingers dig into her thighs, his teeth sunk magnificently into her skin, and it made everything so much worse—so much worse.
She reached out desperately, grabbing onto something—anything. Her fingers wrapped around his arm, faintly registering it was scratchy and abrasive before—
Percy hissed in pain, stumbling backward. She tumbled back to reality, her feet uneven on the ground even though she'd never left it. He gasped, gaping down at his arm.
Her chest heaved painfully as she stared at him, his arm was bleeding again, ruby red—royal red beginning to peek past the stark white of his bandage. His hair was mussed, his eyes glossy, his lips swollen, his cheeks flushed, but he wasn't looking at his wound anymore. He was looking at her, his eyes frantic, wild, desperate—fearful.
She gasped, the midnight air sank into her lungs, dousing her in ice.
"Oh god," she rasped, her heart on the brink of combustion. "What have we done?"
a/n: did i proof read this? no, definitely not.
am i forever grateful for ur lovely reviews? absolutely
is this chapter dedicated? ofc, dedicated to DeathBerryHime and PeanutButter
am i going crazy? duh
stay? safe bitches
