TO THE REVEREND MOTHER MOHIAM:

I hope you enjoyed your visit to Giedi Prime as much as I did. I hope you weren't inconvenienced by the weather. The rain is not uncommon here, and volcanic activity brews to the north. Stay dry.

Princess Irulan

Not once but twice.

Twice, she had successfully used the Voice. Irulan turned away from the interface and thanked the guards who had taken her to it.

"We'd best get back," she said more to herself than to them, turning off the screen, and the small room darkened, florescent light casting pale circles on the black linoleum. Her message had been received. Shortly, she would get a summons from her father, assuming the Reverend Mother really did intend to keep her alive. Now all she had to do was to return to her room before she was missed. If he tried to kill her now, his guards would interrupt them with a message from the Emperor himself. She took a shaky breath. The difficult part was done. When they returned to her quarters, she would command them to forget. Assuming they made it back before he noticed her absence. Would he return to her so quickly? How long would her orders bar him from her quarters? She walked to the heavy steel door to find it bolted shut.

"OPEN IT," she barked to the guards, and they tried, but it was locked. They began kicking the door, throwing their bodies against it as if they could bust through the metal with their flesh and bones. "STOP" she commanded before they could bloody themselves.

"You're trespassing," crackled Feyd-Rautha's voice from over the intercom. It was almost sing-song, the way he addressed her. It was as if he was having fun with all of it, and of course he was: in her haste to flee, she'd forgotten all about the surveillance monitors. Of course he'd been watching. He was always watching.

"Am I?" Fear was a double-edged sword, it seemed, capable of focusing her to great feats yet simultaneously clouding her judgement. Fear is the mindkiller, she thought to herself, understanding the phrase perhaps for the very first time. How often had she repeated these words to herself like a mantra without ever fully absorbing their message? Fear had driven her from her quarters in search of rescue with no more than the clothes on her back. She had indeed thought to herself, What do I really have besides the clothes on my back? Fear had made her stupid.

"What could be so important to communicate that you would sentence two of my guards to death?"

Her breath stopped. "My lord?"

"My lord?" mused Feyd. "I like those words out of your mouth." A moment of silence. And then the intercom crackled again: "Which one will you kill first?"

"They were following orders. I'm the one you should be punishing."

"You are. Which one will you kill first?"

"I can't."

"You could command them to fight to the death, and they would."

"I have no desire for such a thing."

"Then which handmaiden shall I execute?"

"You wouldn't," she said as her heart lurched in her throat, because she knew that he would.

"What'll it be, my darling? The guards or one of your pretty pets?"

"You're sick," she breathed, and the room swam around her.

"Don't be coy. You knew what you were doing when you enlisted their help."

"I didn't think – "

"But you did – you only thought you'd be gone by the time I got around to it, didn't you? Don't pretend to care about the shedding of blood: you just prefer it out of view. Now don't be a hypocrite. Kill. Or I'll carve your pet a brand-new smile."

"I'm weaponless."

"They're not."

She looked at the two men who were both staring dutifully at the floor. "How do you expect me to overtake them?" She wiped her tears – they would do her no good.

"They'll hand you their blades if you command it. Even without a demonstration of your… skill."

"You don't want to watch?" she said, adjusting her tone to that of Margot's.

"I'm watching right now."

"From the safety of a separate room."

She heard a scream over the intercom – a girl's voice – and hot tears rolled down her cheeks.

"Wait!" cried Irulan. "Please don't hurt her!" And she collapsed onto the ground, hugging her knees. "I'll do it. Please don't hurt her!" and she stood, crying softly to herself, but there was no answer. How could she have been so stupid? How could she have been so selfish? He was absolutely right about her – she hadn't thought, but she had, hadn't she? She just hadn't cared.

Then the door opened and Feyd-Rautha strolled leisurely into the room, a cone of silence buzzing above him.

"What were you doing in here?" he asked, as casually as if he was asking her what she was eating for breakfast. "Calling for a heighliner?"

"Did you kill her?"

"Who?"

"I heard a scream."

Feyd-Rautha smiled. He looked so completely alien to her – how could she have ever thought him ordinary?

"Tell me," she begged.

"Tell me," he said, "whom you contacted and what you wrote?"

"I was just thanking Reverend Mother Mohiam for her visit."

"Tell one more lie and I'll cut out your tongue."

"No, you won't," said Irulan, flattening her tone, though the tears still flowed freely down her cheeks. "Not if you want my father's allegiance."

"I'll take the throne for myself without your help."

"No, you won't. You'd need connections you don't have – money you don't have – not yet – not after your brother's stint on Arrakis."

Feyd grabbed a blade from his belt and slashed one of the guards' throats in frustration. He let out a guttural roar as he drew the blade back and then plunged it into the second guard, cutting him from groin to sternum as the guts fell out, black in the darkness of the low-lit room, and he bared his teeth, stepping toward her. She took a step back despite herself. "After all I've done," he spit out, eyes narrowing, "turning the palace upside down and you still wish to leave." The guards bled out on the floor. Quiet. Forgettable. Like footnotes, she thought to herself and grimaced. They'd receive no formal procession. Not like her. They'd throw Floracaelum petals on her casket. They'd paint over her bruises and guests would weep over her dead form, posed as if in slumber.

"Are you going to kill me this time?" she asked softly. "I did wonder. When it was coming." So be it, she thought to herself. So be it.

"I came to find you in your room," he rasped, a grin spreading across his pale face like a black sickle moon. "But you were here."

"You came back with protection," she said, letting her gaze shift to the drone that hovered beside him.

His smiled faltered for a moment before stretching itself back into place. "You must want me to kill you. Talking like that."

"Do you care what I want?"

"No"

"I didn't think so," said Irulan, closing her eyes, waiting for the white-hot plunge of his knife.

"Look at me," he barked, lunging toward her, and he hit her in the face so hard that she fell to the ground.

When she opened her eyes, he was standing above her. He crouched down to her level, grabbing her by the hair, so he could press their foreheads together. "I want to see your eyes," he rasped. "When I end you." His eyes were wild, pupils dilated, as he stared her down. She smelled blood. Hers? The guards'? His face was terrible. Beautiful.

Later, she would tell herself that she'd done it to survive. She couldn't possibly have wanted him – couldn't possibly have wanted to do what she did – what they did – next to the still-warm bodies of the men who'd died because she'd willed it – who had died without a choice, because she'd commanded it – had commanded them to disobey their orders – to walk willingly to their deaths. She couldn't possibly have wanted him – not like that – not ever. But whatever it was – the fear – the familiarity – the dark black eyes and the memories of his full lower lip between her teeth – her hands flew to his face, and she kissed him desperately, feeling heat flood through her at the moment of contact. This is enough, she thought to herself before she stopped thinking entirely, This is enough.

Later, she would tell herself it was improbable that a man like that could be momentarily taken with her, but he kissed her back hard. She bit his bottom lip, and he groaned into her mouth. He yanked her skirts up around her thighs and she lifted her hips to give him access. And it must have been – it must have been because of how sensitive she still was from their earlier encounter – it must have just been the lingering arousal from when he'd been kind to her. Otherwise, why would she have moaned when he undid his trousers, and she felt him press against her entrance – his cock like a weapon – like a battering ram – poised to spear her – why would her eyes roll back in her skull when he forced his way inside her – was it forcing if it sank in with no resistance – and why would her hips lift to meet his again and again and again – why would the fullness – oh –

"Who would have thought," he breathed hot against her ear, "that the Emperor's daughter fucks like a whore," and she shuddered in his arms. He captured the lobe in his teeth and pulled.

She involuntarily clenched down on him when she should have slapped him in the face. She should slap him in the face – could still slap him in the face –

His entire body tensed when her palm smacked his cheek, and she could feel him stiffen inside her, emptying himself as he pressed ground against her hips. And Margot's words came floating into her mind – he longs to be hurt – so it wasn't just her own pain he loved – he'd come faster than he ever had before. He pressed himself deeper inside her as he continued to pulse, and she shivered at the pleasure of it. Why had no one told her? Why had no one bothered to tell her that making love could feel like this? Making love. She frowned. No, what they were doing was certainly not making love. What they were doing was –

She could feel him start to soften inside her, and she waited for him to get off of her, doing her best to ignore the part of herself that still craved friction. She could feel his heat through his clothes – how she wanted the touch of his naked skin, his muscled arms surrounding her, his broad chest crushing her. "Are you quite finished?" she asked.

"I haven't decided," he rasped, rocking his hips back into hers, and despite his softening, it was enough to make her groan. His hand came to her cheek, cupping her chin, and he looked at her – his eyes unexpectedly soft.

"I did think," she began and then frowned. "I was certain you were going to kill me."

"You hid your skill in the slave pit."

"I – " she thought about lying but there was that look in his eyes again. The murderous rage had once again been replaced by curiosity. It did something to her, that look. Gods help her: it was like he saw through her to her innermost privacy. Those eyes penetrated her more deeply than his cock. "No. I didn't know I could do that." It was as close as she felt comfortable describing her use of the Voice. And she knew it was ironic, considering he was buried inside of her. It was almost funny – the contradiction of it all.

It must have shown in her expression, because he said: "You're smiling."

She frowned.

And he laughed. She didn't think she'd ever heard him laugh – but it was a pleasant sound – he almost seemed human.

And then she looked at the guards who lay dead not ten feet away from them.

"You're unhappy," he rasped.

"I thought you didn't care about that."

He didn't answer, but he tasted her neck, and as he did so, she felt him twitch within her. He was hardening again.

"What do you want?" she breathed. "Tell me, and I'll try my best."

Instead of answering, he kissed her. She opened her mouth to take a breath and felt his tongue against hers, and she groaned. He withdrew most of the way then and pushed back inside of her, making her gasp. She felt him harden with each re-entry, felt the fullness, the pressure, the pleasure return. Should she let herself get pregnant? Her Reverend Mother had told her to wait, but there was something so indescribably arousing about knowing that with each thrust, he was massaging his seed into her womb – the implications of it all – of letting him fill her with his child – of him claiming her in that way – of his child – their child, growing in her womb – growing up in the world. She shivered.

He pulled out and flipped her onto her belly before spearing her once more.

"Not a pet, you say," he rasped, establishing a slow but forceful rhythm, and she twitched in his arms, feeling the now familiar tension start to build in her core. He brought a hand down to where they were joined. "But you like to be stroked."

She gasped as he rubbed her flesh in slow circles, the gentleness of his fingers contrasting with the force of his thrusts. It was a delicious, agonizing sweetness. She had to bite her own hand to stop herself from crying out.

"You're a pet if I say you are," he grunted. "I feed you. I bathe you. I fuck you – I fuck you well," and she clenched down hard on his length, but he continued undeterred – steel cutting through butter – he bit the back of her neck before breathing in her ear, "I will break you. And you'll enjoy it." She struggled then and she felt him freeze behind her until he understood she only meant to flip him onto his back. He relented, and she felt cool air on her sex and the hot wetness of his seed as it leaked down her thigh before she lifted her hips and sank onto his thick length, eliciting a groan from both of them. She watched his eyes close before opening again to take her in – his beautiful eyes – his whole face – bewitched –

"All this talk," she said, feeling Margot rise within her despite herself. The feeling was intoxicating – she couldn't abandon it – not yet. "I think you're the one who wants to be broken." He clenched his jaw. "After all," she breathed, "here you are on your back."

His eyes gleamed, and then he flipped them, thrusting into her savagely enough to make her scream. "That's right," he rasped against her ear. "You'll play Baroness when I allow it. But deep down, we both know what you are – we both know what you want."

She tried to shove him off of her, and he pinned her hands above her head, taking her leisurely as if to demonstrate just how in vain her efforts were. The feeling of his overwhelming strength – gods help her – it did something to her. He shifted his angle, rocking against the sensitive flesh of her exterior as he plundered her depths. She closed her eyes.

"I told you to look at me."

She did. The pressure mounted and she had to shake her head back and forth as if that could somehow stop the rising wave that threatened to flatten her.

And then the door flung open. Feyd whipped his head around to look at the intruder, but the servant had already disappeared. And as easily as he overpowered her, he jumped off her, tucking his still-hard length into his trousers, and stalked out the door.

She lay breathless, shaking. The room came back to her – dark and sterile – the blood – a surgeon's mess – a torturer's. The tightness of her sex still plagued her, along with a feeling of excruciating emptiness. Her eyes drifted to the bodies on the floor beside her, and felt a shudder of revulsion – not at the dead but at herself – for not caring they were dead – for only caring when her husband would return to the chamber and finish what he started – oh, he was breaking her. That much was sure. Her hand drifted between her legs before she could stop herself. She bit her lip.

The door opened again, and he was staring at her with what seemed like both anger and awe. "Your father sends for you," he rasped.

"Is everything alright?" she asked as earnestly as she could.

"Your sister is gravely ill."

"Which one?"

"He didn't say." They both knew it was a lie.

"Then I must go," she said, suddenly wishing she hadn't initiated emergency protocol. What could have happened if she had waited for him in her bedchamber? Would it have played out as it had? Or did he only spare her because she'd surprised him with her resourcefulness? She could have asked him if he were still fucking her, but now that he stood on the other side of the room, it was as if a wide abyss had crumbled down between them.

"It would seem so."

There was no need to ask if he'd be accompanying her. His time away in preparation for their wedding had already set him behind. No, he was to stay here on Giedi Prime. "Do you… um. We were interrupted. We could…"

"I have pets to take your place," he rasped, and he may as well spit in her face.

"Of course," she said, standing up and doing her best to flatten her expression – doing her best not to cry. "My handmaidens will accompany me. And they are to receive medical care before our departure if you've something to them."

"Very well," he rasped, "but the dressmaker stays."

"The dressmaker?" she asked, his mention of Vesryn throwing her off. "Of course. He's not mine alone, is he?"

"No, he's not," said Feyd.

"You won't hurt him, will you?"

He smiled at her.

"I'm sure I won't be long."

His smile widened, and in the darkness, he looked like a madman. He was a madman.

"Alright then," she said. "Unless there was anything else you wanted to – "

"No."

"Right," she said, and walked past him, wondering if he might grab her when she did.

"I've been kind," he said as she reached the door, "And off you go. What will you find? Upon your return?" She turned to look at him and his hooded eyes gleamed as they had after he finished Paul Atredies. "I wonder." He smirked as he had at the Fremen girl as his eyes raked once more over her body with a detachment that made Irulan's face turn pale: there was no tenderness there. She opened her mouth to speak, but he beat her to it, raising his brow: "Off you go."