The Long Shot (4/6) [Balthier/Ashe; NC-17]
Title: The Long Shot (4/6)
Author: chaineddove
Fandom: Final Fantasy XII
Rating: NC-17 due to one scene in a later chapter, PG-13 otherwise
Genre: Romance
Pairing: Balthier/Ashe
Wordcount: 2,587
Disclaimer: I don't own FFXII (well, I do own a copy for my PS2...).
Authors' Notes: In this chapter, Larsa throws a party and attempts to meddle, Ashe does not explain herself, Balthier loses his temper, and everything pretty much goes as one would expect from there. Also, Al-Cid, Penelo, and Basch have cameos, and Fran steps on Vaan's foot, again.
”It’s a long shot, but I said why not,
If I say forget it, I know that I’ll regret it,
It’s a long shot just to beat these odds,
The chance is we won’t make it,
But I know if I don’t take it, there’s no chance,
'Cause you’re the best I got…”
-Kelly Clarkson, “Long Shot”
Chapter 4
“Right now there’s a war between the vanities,
But all I see is you and me,
The fight for you is all I’ve ever known…”
-OneRepublic, “Come Home”
***
He has not spent much time in Archades these last years, although he comes back, now and again, the way he imagines a criminal returns to the site of his perfect crime; it is always a little jarring to walk these streets as a relative stranger when he might well have been known by everyone, had he remained in his childhood home. He has no illusions over his own skills - if he had not rejected the path set for him, he imagines he would have done rather well. He has, after all, a certain affinity for politics, even if he bears no particular love for them.
Instead, when he returns here, he wanders the old city, trades favors, bargains with surly merchants and flirts with pretty girls in taverns, spends entirely too much money on the only decent tailoring available in Ivalice, and revels in his relative anonymity. Those few who would profit from his return are now gone; quite the contrary, he has a standing invitation to take advantage of the Emperor’s hospitality, though as a point of pride he rarely accepts. Fran prefers not to accompany him on his “escapades,” as she calls them, but she is here at his side now, and although viera have become more common in the Empire’s capital, she still gets her share of curious looks. Usually, she would make an appropriately pithy comment about her lack of love for the capital, but, perhaps out of respect for his tension, she keeps her silence.
He knows that the Dalmascan delegation has arrived. He watched her ships passing overhead the day before; the small navy she has carefully reassembled is comprised of particularly fine, sleek vessels - no real surprise, as she had consulted with him before having them built. The thought brings him equal parts discomfort and heartache; he only realizes now just how involved in her life he has been.
Today, Rozarrian ships are in the skies; he would know the ostentatious designs anywhere. People in the streets raise their eyes to stare, and he acknowledges that it must be an uncomfortable sight for them, as well - the presence of one’s lifelong enemy in the skies above is never reassuring. But of course, it is this that Larsa and his contemporaries seek to change: there are no enemies in the new Ivalice, or at least none who are willing to announce themselves as such. Dialogue has replaced warfare, and alliances are made around negotiating tables. It should bring relief - war is terrible for business, even when one’s business is piracy. But he is not inclined to be sensible about it. He cannot help looking in the direction of the palace district, wondering what is happening behind forbiddingly tall walls.
“We may go now, if you wish it,” Fran says, quietly.
“No,” he responds. He has not yet decided what he will do, when he is faced with her again. “We are not expected until tomorrow. It would be dreadfully uncouth of us to come uninvited.”
She does not mention the fact that they cannot be considered uninvited guests when they have, in fact, received invitations. “As you wish,” she says. “I will leave you for now, then. This place makes it difficult to breathe.”
“Go ahead,” he responds. He does not say it, but he agrees with her. In fact, given a better alternative, he would not be here at all, but it seems he has chosen to be responsible, and he cannot very well back out now that he is here. “I will catch up with you later.”
She sways away, and he, after a few more moments of intense wondering, heads in the opposite direction to get a drink, deciding it can never be too early for liquid courage.
***
He knows that he will see her, he suspects that it will be difficult to avoid her, and he is prepared to suffer through it for the span of a few hours if only to prove that he can, but it is still galling that she can stop his thoughts just by entering a room. She wears something shimmering and golden and deceptively simple, with hatefully familiar jewels winking at her throat. She enters on Marquis Ondore’s arm, and next to him she appears strangely small, nothing at all like the warrior queen she has proven herself to be.
“She looks thin,” murmurs Penelo, as Larsa steps forward to greet the Dalmascan queen; the girl seems to have little to do while the Emperor is occupied with his illustrious guests, and has predictably dragged Vaan over to say hello immediately upon spotting him and Fran through the crowd.
“She looks fine,” Vaan disagrees. “And would you look at that necklace? How much do you think that thing is worth?”
Al-Cid Margrace appears, trailed by his entourage; he wears a very pleased smile as he bows over her hand to kiss it. She smiles at him and says something indiscernible. “Half a kingdom,” Balthier says through his teeth. “And perhaps a fair share of dignity.”
“That’s pretty vague,” Vaan complains. “I was thinking more in terms of gold.”
“Why, do you intend to rob her of it?” Fran says with clear amusement.
“Vaan!” Penelo exclaims.
“I was just asking,” Vaan says defensively.
He lets them argue as he watches her take the Rozarrian’s arm and glide into the room. As though she can sense his scrutiny, her eyes meet his over the crowd, and for a moment, he holds her gaze. Her lips part as though she is about to speak, although it is improbable as he is not standing anywhere near enough to hear her. Penelo is right - her face is narrower than he is accustomed to, and there are shadows under her eyes, although they have been skillfully concealed with cosmetics - but with a jolt he realizes that she does not look unhappy. The corners of her mouth turn up in a smile as she looks at him, and he has to turn away.
“Might I propose you save all talk of larceny for another occasion?” he suggests to Vaan in the most lighthearted tone he can muster. “Certain parties may get the wrong impression.”
“I’m not the one who brought up…” Fran gives the boy one of her long, bland looks. He sputters into silence, which does mean, at least, that he has learned something.
“I can’t take you anywhere,” Penelo grumbles.
“On the contrary, I’m delighted you came.” The Emperor still looks to be more boy than man, especially when compared with the fully armored Judge in his shadow, but he and Vaan are about of a height, so it is clear that he has grown. He is resplendent in intricately embroidered robes of state, though these only serve to highlight his youthful face - but they are a deliberate choice, of course, over the armor that would have suited him better; he is certainly intending to draw a parallel to his father and not his brother with his choice of attire. At twelve, Larsa was not a stupid boy; at sixteen, he is someone to be reckoned with.
Basch, predictably, says nothing at all. Larsa’s smile, however, appears genuine as he greets them in turn with every bit of courtesy shown to visiting royalty and nobility. “Yours is a difficult invitation to turn down,” Balthier says when his turn comes. “One cannot discount the allure of the food alone.”
“And yet you visit so rarely.” The sweet smile never slips as the boy tells him, “I am particularly glad to see you; Vaan expressed some misgivings that you would choose not to join us.”
“And you have a big mouth,” Vaan grumbles. Fran steps on his foot, again, and he yelps.
“Think of where you are,” she tells him quietly.
Larsa only laughs.
“As you can see, Vaan was mistaken,” Balthier says with a nonchalant shrug. “He so often is these days.”
Vaan’s response is perfectly predictable, and he cannot help but be grateful for the diversion - the boy may be a perfect idiot on occasion, but he cannot deny that it is convenient sometimes. By the time the ensuing tantrum has been resolved, he has managed to slip away.
***
“It is rather unfortunate, isn’t it?”
He is leaning against the ballroom wall, torturing himself by watching the focus of his thoughts swirling around the floor in the arms of various gentlemen, when the Emperor finds him again. “What,” he quips, “the Rozarrian concept of formalwear? It is rather much, I agree.” He attempts to feign nonchalance, although he does not think it likely that this particular observer will be fooled.
As expected, Larsa gives him a look that very clearly tells him he will have to do better than that. “Hardly.”
“In that case, I have no idea what you mean,” he says; he knows there is an edge to his voice, just as he knows that boy or not, the Archadian Emperor isn’t someone to cross, but still he allows the warning to creep into his words.
Larsa does not seem perturbed. “Oh,” he says, “it is only that people forget so quickly what once was worth dying for. Although I like Lord Margrace well enough, his father is less… flexible. I do not relish having him for a neighbor, even by proxy. But then, I suppose, there are few alternatives.” He shrugs. “Which is why I say it is unfortunate.”
“The lady seems to have made her own choice,” Balthier responds. “If you really think so little of her ability to keep her kingdom in her own hands, perhaps you should have offered for her yourself.”
“The thought crossed my mind.” He cannot help an incredulous look at the boy, then; Larsa shrugs. “Briefly. It is no fit solution; Rozarria would take it poorly after all my talk of peace. It is regrettable that I have no living cousins, and there is no one in my cabinet who would be suitable.”
“She is a person, you know,” Balthier says quietly, coolly. “Not a bargaining chip.”
“She is both,” Larsa replies with a quiet callousness that reminds Balthier uncomfortably of just who he is speaking with. “But, as someone who can call her friend, I would have to say that a man who remembers that she is also a person would really have been best.” He gives Balthier a considering look.
“No,” Balthier cuts him off. “What you intend to say, I think, is that a man who is also Archadian would have been best.”
Larsa smiles, seemingly immune to his temper. “One does not preclude the other.”
“House Bunansa is no more,” he snaps. While they have been conversing, Ashe has quit the dance floor and is nowhere to be seen. He has a sudden urge to hit something. “Excuse me,” he says through gritted teeth. “I believe my presence is urgently required somewhere that is not here.”
***
He finds her at last at the edge of one of the side terraces, which is, fortunately, otherwise deserted - the night is cloudy and unwelcoming. She is having what appears to be a quiet and heated argument with a man in heavy armor, whose bulk shields her almost entirely from view, and he can only be grateful that her companion is Basch and not her suitor, else the desire to strike him would certainly end in an international incident.
“I need to talk to you.” Her eyes are almost perfectly round with shock as he inserts himself between them and grabs her wrist. He cannot be bothered to care that he is interrupting. “Now,” he adds, in case the request isn’t clear enough.
“I had hoped to…” She trails off, then nods. “Very well, now.”
“My lady…” The voice from inside the helmet is rich with warning.
“Go,” she tells Basch with an imperious wave of her hand. “Or do you not think I am safe in the company of a man who has saved my life a dozen times?”
It is clear that Basch recognizes that he is not faced with a rational man, but still he chooses to heed her order and steps back. “Think, before you do something foolish,” he says quietly.
“I have had quite enough of being told I am a fool,” Balthier tells him with a venomous glare. “You may all wish to come up with a better insult.”
“I believe,” Ashe interjects, “that he was referring to me. I, however, have also had quite enough. Did I, or did I not, tell you to go? We may speak later, I assure you.” When Basch has retreated, she turns her glare on him. “Your subtlety leaves me breathless, as always. But in truth, I was hoping we might speak, if not quite like this.”
“Should I apologize that this is inconvenient?” he snarls. “Frankly, I don’t care.” He releases her wrist, resisting the urge to drag her against him now that she is so close, with her lips stained pink and her eyes bright in the darkness. With a frenetic sort of energy, he begins to pace. “None of this is convenient. That is something we will both have to swallow. But you had best understand one thing: I have no desire to be made King of Dalmasca.”
Her eyes are hot enough to burn as she watches him pace, back and forth. “I do not believe anyone has attempted to wrestle a crown onto your head.”
His chuckle is entirely devoid of humor. “Oh, that is where you are wrong, Your Majesty, although I must express some relief that at least it is not your mad idea. Not that you are much better, selling yourself to that decorated dandy without so much as a by-your-leave -”
He catches her hand just a breath away from his face; she glares up at him and hisses, “If you are intending to make me angry, you have succeeded. How dare you presume to judge me as though you have any -”
He cuts her off with a kiss bruising in its intensity. She fights him, for a split second; he feels a dark and visceral pleasure when she groans against his mouth and yields, her nails tiny pinpricks of pain where she grips his shoulders. He knows his touch is rough, possessive, as he runs his hands over the flowing silk of her gown and her bare back, but she is urging him on now with a touch that is no gentler, her thigh wedged between his legs until he can barely breathe for wanting her. He understands, with the bit of rational thought that he still possesses, that he is a hairsbreadth away from taking her like a wild man on the terrace, with the threat of discovery any minute, and with great effort, he pushes himself away. Her eyes are clouded and her lips are swollen; before she can open them to speak, he tells her, “No more do I intend to be sent away like a toy you have grown bored with, Ashelia. Inconvenient or not, this is something you will have to live with.”
“That isn’t at all what I -”
“If you say one more word, I may murder you,” he threatens. The way he feels, the threat is not entirely empty. “We will fight about this. Later.” He places a hand against her lips, none too gently, before she can protest again. “It has always been your terms, hasn’t it? Not tonight.”
Chapter 5
Author: chaineddove
Fandom: Final Fantasy XII
Rating: NC-17 due to one scene in a later chapter, PG-13 otherwise
Genre: Romance
Pairing: Balthier/Ashe
Wordcount: 2,587
Disclaimer: I don't own FFXII (well, I do own a copy for my PS2...).
Authors' Notes: In this chapter, Larsa throws a party and attempts to meddle, Ashe does not explain herself, Balthier loses his temper, and everything pretty much goes as one would expect from there. Also, Al-Cid, Penelo, and Basch have cameos, and Fran steps on Vaan's foot, again.
”It’s a long shot, but I said why not,
If I say forget it, I know that I’ll regret it,
It’s a long shot just to beat these odds,
The chance is we won’t make it,
But I know if I don’t take it, there’s no chance,
'Cause you’re the best I got…”
-Kelly Clarkson, “Long Shot”
Chapter 4
“Right now there’s a war between the vanities,
But all I see is you and me,
The fight for you is all I’ve ever known…”
-OneRepublic, “Come Home”
***
He has not spent much time in Archades these last years, although he comes back, now and again, the way he imagines a criminal returns to the site of his perfect crime; it is always a little jarring to walk these streets as a relative stranger when he might well have been known by everyone, had he remained in his childhood home. He has no illusions over his own skills - if he had not rejected the path set for him, he imagines he would have done rather well. He has, after all, a certain affinity for politics, even if he bears no particular love for them.
Instead, when he returns here, he wanders the old city, trades favors, bargains with surly merchants and flirts with pretty girls in taverns, spends entirely too much money on the only decent tailoring available in Ivalice, and revels in his relative anonymity. Those few who would profit from his return are now gone; quite the contrary, he has a standing invitation to take advantage of the Emperor’s hospitality, though as a point of pride he rarely accepts. Fran prefers not to accompany him on his “escapades,” as she calls them, but she is here at his side now, and although viera have become more common in the Empire’s capital, she still gets her share of curious looks. Usually, she would make an appropriately pithy comment about her lack of love for the capital, but, perhaps out of respect for his tension, she keeps her silence.
He knows that the Dalmascan delegation has arrived. He watched her ships passing overhead the day before; the small navy she has carefully reassembled is comprised of particularly fine, sleek vessels - no real surprise, as she had consulted with him before having them built. The thought brings him equal parts discomfort and heartache; he only realizes now just how involved in her life he has been.
Today, Rozarrian ships are in the skies; he would know the ostentatious designs anywhere. People in the streets raise their eyes to stare, and he acknowledges that it must be an uncomfortable sight for them, as well - the presence of one’s lifelong enemy in the skies above is never reassuring. But of course, it is this that Larsa and his contemporaries seek to change: there are no enemies in the new Ivalice, or at least none who are willing to announce themselves as such. Dialogue has replaced warfare, and alliances are made around negotiating tables. It should bring relief - war is terrible for business, even when one’s business is piracy. But he is not inclined to be sensible about it. He cannot help looking in the direction of the palace district, wondering what is happening behind forbiddingly tall walls.
“We may go now, if you wish it,” Fran says, quietly.
“No,” he responds. He has not yet decided what he will do, when he is faced with her again. “We are not expected until tomorrow. It would be dreadfully uncouth of us to come uninvited.”
She does not mention the fact that they cannot be considered uninvited guests when they have, in fact, received invitations. “As you wish,” she says. “I will leave you for now, then. This place makes it difficult to breathe.”
“Go ahead,” he responds. He does not say it, but he agrees with her. In fact, given a better alternative, he would not be here at all, but it seems he has chosen to be responsible, and he cannot very well back out now that he is here. “I will catch up with you later.”
She sways away, and he, after a few more moments of intense wondering, heads in the opposite direction to get a drink, deciding it can never be too early for liquid courage.
***
He knows that he will see her, he suspects that it will be difficult to avoid her, and he is prepared to suffer through it for the span of a few hours if only to prove that he can, but it is still galling that she can stop his thoughts just by entering a room. She wears something shimmering and golden and deceptively simple, with hatefully familiar jewels winking at her throat. She enters on Marquis Ondore’s arm, and next to him she appears strangely small, nothing at all like the warrior queen she has proven herself to be.
“She looks thin,” murmurs Penelo, as Larsa steps forward to greet the Dalmascan queen; the girl seems to have little to do while the Emperor is occupied with his illustrious guests, and has predictably dragged Vaan over to say hello immediately upon spotting him and Fran through the crowd.
“She looks fine,” Vaan disagrees. “And would you look at that necklace? How much do you think that thing is worth?”
Al-Cid Margrace appears, trailed by his entourage; he wears a very pleased smile as he bows over her hand to kiss it. She smiles at him and says something indiscernible. “Half a kingdom,” Balthier says through his teeth. “And perhaps a fair share of dignity.”
“That’s pretty vague,” Vaan complains. “I was thinking more in terms of gold.”
“Why, do you intend to rob her of it?” Fran says with clear amusement.
“Vaan!” Penelo exclaims.
“I was just asking,” Vaan says defensively.
He lets them argue as he watches her take the Rozarrian’s arm and glide into the room. As though she can sense his scrutiny, her eyes meet his over the crowd, and for a moment, he holds her gaze. Her lips part as though she is about to speak, although it is improbable as he is not standing anywhere near enough to hear her. Penelo is right - her face is narrower than he is accustomed to, and there are shadows under her eyes, although they have been skillfully concealed with cosmetics - but with a jolt he realizes that she does not look unhappy. The corners of her mouth turn up in a smile as she looks at him, and he has to turn away.
“Might I propose you save all talk of larceny for another occasion?” he suggests to Vaan in the most lighthearted tone he can muster. “Certain parties may get the wrong impression.”
“I’m not the one who brought up…” Fran gives the boy one of her long, bland looks. He sputters into silence, which does mean, at least, that he has learned something.
“I can’t take you anywhere,” Penelo grumbles.
“On the contrary, I’m delighted you came.” The Emperor still looks to be more boy than man, especially when compared with the fully armored Judge in his shadow, but he and Vaan are about of a height, so it is clear that he has grown. He is resplendent in intricately embroidered robes of state, though these only serve to highlight his youthful face - but they are a deliberate choice, of course, over the armor that would have suited him better; he is certainly intending to draw a parallel to his father and not his brother with his choice of attire. At twelve, Larsa was not a stupid boy; at sixteen, he is someone to be reckoned with.
Basch, predictably, says nothing at all. Larsa’s smile, however, appears genuine as he greets them in turn with every bit of courtesy shown to visiting royalty and nobility. “Yours is a difficult invitation to turn down,” Balthier says when his turn comes. “One cannot discount the allure of the food alone.”
“And yet you visit so rarely.” The sweet smile never slips as the boy tells him, “I am particularly glad to see you; Vaan expressed some misgivings that you would choose not to join us.”
“And you have a big mouth,” Vaan grumbles. Fran steps on his foot, again, and he yelps.
“Think of where you are,” she tells him quietly.
Larsa only laughs.
“As you can see, Vaan was mistaken,” Balthier says with a nonchalant shrug. “He so often is these days.”
Vaan’s response is perfectly predictable, and he cannot help but be grateful for the diversion - the boy may be a perfect idiot on occasion, but he cannot deny that it is convenient sometimes. By the time the ensuing tantrum has been resolved, he has managed to slip away.
***
“It is rather unfortunate, isn’t it?”
He is leaning against the ballroom wall, torturing himself by watching the focus of his thoughts swirling around the floor in the arms of various gentlemen, when the Emperor finds him again. “What,” he quips, “the Rozarrian concept of formalwear? It is rather much, I agree.” He attempts to feign nonchalance, although he does not think it likely that this particular observer will be fooled.
As expected, Larsa gives him a look that very clearly tells him he will have to do better than that. “Hardly.”
“In that case, I have no idea what you mean,” he says; he knows there is an edge to his voice, just as he knows that boy or not, the Archadian Emperor isn’t someone to cross, but still he allows the warning to creep into his words.
Larsa does not seem perturbed. “Oh,” he says, “it is only that people forget so quickly what once was worth dying for. Although I like Lord Margrace well enough, his father is less… flexible. I do not relish having him for a neighbor, even by proxy. But then, I suppose, there are few alternatives.” He shrugs. “Which is why I say it is unfortunate.”
“The lady seems to have made her own choice,” Balthier responds. “If you really think so little of her ability to keep her kingdom in her own hands, perhaps you should have offered for her yourself.”
“The thought crossed my mind.” He cannot help an incredulous look at the boy, then; Larsa shrugs. “Briefly. It is no fit solution; Rozarria would take it poorly after all my talk of peace. It is regrettable that I have no living cousins, and there is no one in my cabinet who would be suitable.”
“She is a person, you know,” Balthier says quietly, coolly. “Not a bargaining chip.”
“She is both,” Larsa replies with a quiet callousness that reminds Balthier uncomfortably of just who he is speaking with. “But, as someone who can call her friend, I would have to say that a man who remembers that she is also a person would really have been best.” He gives Balthier a considering look.
“No,” Balthier cuts him off. “What you intend to say, I think, is that a man who is also Archadian would have been best.”
Larsa smiles, seemingly immune to his temper. “One does not preclude the other.”
“House Bunansa is no more,” he snaps. While they have been conversing, Ashe has quit the dance floor and is nowhere to be seen. He has a sudden urge to hit something. “Excuse me,” he says through gritted teeth. “I believe my presence is urgently required somewhere that is not here.”
***
He finds her at last at the edge of one of the side terraces, which is, fortunately, otherwise deserted - the night is cloudy and unwelcoming. She is having what appears to be a quiet and heated argument with a man in heavy armor, whose bulk shields her almost entirely from view, and he can only be grateful that her companion is Basch and not her suitor, else the desire to strike him would certainly end in an international incident.
“I need to talk to you.” Her eyes are almost perfectly round with shock as he inserts himself between them and grabs her wrist. He cannot be bothered to care that he is interrupting. “Now,” he adds, in case the request isn’t clear enough.
“I had hoped to…” She trails off, then nods. “Very well, now.”
“My lady…” The voice from inside the helmet is rich with warning.
“Go,” she tells Basch with an imperious wave of her hand. “Or do you not think I am safe in the company of a man who has saved my life a dozen times?”
It is clear that Basch recognizes that he is not faced with a rational man, but still he chooses to heed her order and steps back. “Think, before you do something foolish,” he says quietly.
“I have had quite enough of being told I am a fool,” Balthier tells him with a venomous glare. “You may all wish to come up with a better insult.”
“I believe,” Ashe interjects, “that he was referring to me. I, however, have also had quite enough. Did I, or did I not, tell you to go? We may speak later, I assure you.” When Basch has retreated, she turns her glare on him. “Your subtlety leaves me breathless, as always. But in truth, I was hoping we might speak, if not quite like this.”
“Should I apologize that this is inconvenient?” he snarls. “Frankly, I don’t care.” He releases her wrist, resisting the urge to drag her against him now that she is so close, with her lips stained pink and her eyes bright in the darkness. With a frenetic sort of energy, he begins to pace. “None of this is convenient. That is something we will both have to swallow. But you had best understand one thing: I have no desire to be made King of Dalmasca.”
Her eyes are hot enough to burn as she watches him pace, back and forth. “I do not believe anyone has attempted to wrestle a crown onto your head.”
His chuckle is entirely devoid of humor. “Oh, that is where you are wrong, Your Majesty, although I must express some relief that at least it is not your mad idea. Not that you are much better, selling yourself to that decorated dandy without so much as a by-your-leave -”
He catches her hand just a breath away from his face; she glares up at him and hisses, “If you are intending to make me angry, you have succeeded. How dare you presume to judge me as though you have any -”
He cuts her off with a kiss bruising in its intensity. She fights him, for a split second; he feels a dark and visceral pleasure when she groans against his mouth and yields, her nails tiny pinpricks of pain where she grips his shoulders. He knows his touch is rough, possessive, as he runs his hands over the flowing silk of her gown and her bare back, but she is urging him on now with a touch that is no gentler, her thigh wedged between his legs until he can barely breathe for wanting her. He understands, with the bit of rational thought that he still possesses, that he is a hairsbreadth away from taking her like a wild man on the terrace, with the threat of discovery any minute, and with great effort, he pushes himself away. Her eyes are clouded and her lips are swollen; before she can open them to speak, he tells her, “No more do I intend to be sent away like a toy you have grown bored with, Ashelia. Inconvenient or not, this is something you will have to live with.”
“That isn’t at all what I -”
“If you say one more word, I may murder you,” he threatens. The way he feels, the threat is not entirely empty. “We will fight about this. Later.” He places a hand against her lips, none too gently, before she can protest again. “It has always been your terms, hasn’t it? Not tonight.”
Chapter 5