Chapter Text
Hermione
Nov 15,2008
——-
His arm is draped over my waist like a shackle. Possessive. Heavy. Insultingly casual.
The air is warm with the scent of him—ash, spice, something bitter that clings to my skin long after he’s pulled away. I lie still, spine stiff against the silk sheets, eyes fixed on the ornate ceiling above. The chandelier doesn’t move, but it feels like it’s watching. Everything in this place feels like it’s watching.
His fingers drift over my bare hip—slow, habitual. Not tender. Never tender. Just practiced. Like muscle memory. Like claiming territory he knows no one else dares approach.
I let him touch me. Again.
My stomach knots, but I don’t flinch.
It wasn’t rough. Wasn’t cold. It was calculated. Performed. Another war he waged with his body and won, like always. And I hate—hate—that I’ve stopped pretending I don’t like it. That I’ve grown used to the way his mouth drags across my skin. The way his voice curls into my bones when he tells me to cum for him.
It’s not love. It never will be.
But there is something obscene in the silence between us. Something intimate in the aftermath. Not closeness—no, he doesn’t give that. Just an echo of possession that stains everything it touches. I know he’s awake. Tom doesn’t sleep easily. Especially not beside me.
The years have changed us.
He used to stalk my every breath. That first year, the ring he forced onto my finger—flawless emerald cut into black obsidian—burned when I crossed the manor’s boundary. It seared when I reached for a wand, when I spoke too sharply, when I stayed silent too long. No chains. Just control, cut and polished to fit my hand. A cursed ring that pulsed when he drew near. That glowed when I obeyed.
It still hums. Possessive. Watchful. Pleased.
He thinks I’ve bent.
Maybe I have.
I breathe through my nose. Slowly. Controlled. Eyes on the ceiling’s golden vines. I don’t let myself remember the things that mattered. Harry’s eyes. Ron’s laugh. Ginny’s hand gripping mine the night before the final battle—smoke behind us, hope ahead.
Now I lie here. Under him. Wearing a ring carved from the bones of a war he won.
His breath ghosts against the back of my neck. Calm. Close. Intentional.
Then his lips press to the dip where my shoulder meets my throat.
A kiss. Soft. Deliberate.
Mocking.
Another follows. Higher. Then one behind my ear—slow enough to insult me with the illusion of reverence.
But I’ve learned better.
“Again?” he murmurs. “You never do keep your word.”
His kisses don’t stop.
My body tenses, but I don’t pull away. He continues his slow climb up my neck, planting them like brands—lazy, smug, practiced. Like he expects compliance. Like he’s owed it.
“You think that was a weakness?” I ask, voice clipped.
He hums, mouth dragging just beneath my jaw.
“I think that was you being a good and needy wife.”
I feel the smile on his lips when he kisses the base of my throat. The silk bunches beneath my fingers.
“I didn’t fight you,” I snap. “That’s not the same as wanting you.”
“With you it’s the same.” He says it into my skin. A kiss. Another. Each one more restrained than the last, cruel in their confidence.
His hand curls over my hip—firm. Not forceful. Just unyielding. A signal.
I scoff.
My throat tightens. But I keep my voice cool.
“I don’t stop you because I know how the tantrum ends.”
His chest shifts with a low laugh behind me. His lips find the back of my neck again.
“I wonder,” he muses, “do you give in because you’re tired—or because, deep down, you like the way I fuck you?”
My breath hitches, but I don’t flinch. I let the silence stretch. Let it speak for me.
He thinks he’s clever. He always does. Always pushing, always prodding, certain that he’s in control just because I don’t scream at him anymore. But he’s not asking because he doesn’t know. He’s asking to hear me admit it. To see if I’ll crumble a little more. If I’ll confirm what we both already understand—that I do like it. That I hate myself for it. That he’s the one who ruined me, rewired me, and still I ache when he’s not inside me.
But I won’t give him that. Not tonight.
So I give him something else.
He kisses just behind my ear again. I let him.
“I’m not yours,” I say flatly.
He laughs.
Low. Cruel. Amused.
“You keep saying that,” he murmurs, brushing his mouth along my jawline, “as if words have ever made you less mine.”
Another kiss to my throat. Another, lower. Slower.
“Regardless of how you feel about it. You are my fucking wife.”
A kiss to the corner of my mouth.
“And you sure fucking act like it. You just took me so well Darling, don’t ruin it with your lies. It was cute five years ago but it’s lost its appeal.”
I exhale sharply, but he doesn’t stop.
“You wear my ring. You sleep in my bed. You open your legs for me and for me only.”
His hand slides up, cupping my jaw—controlled, anchoring. Just enough to hold me in place.
“And then you lie here, flushed and trembling in my sheets after I just fucked you—pretending it meant nothing. Pretending you’re not fucking mine.”
He leans in.
“Say it again,” he whispers. “Say you’re not mine.”
I glare at him. My body stays still. My silence dares him.
He waits.
Then he kisses me.
It’s not brief. It’s not sweet.
It’s deep. Dominant. A warning.
His mouth devours mine—slow and punishing. Like he’s forcing me to taste the truth he already believes. His hand tilts my jaw just enough. His tongue slides over mine in a rhythm I know too well.
I hate how he kisses, no man who’s done what he’s done should kiss this good.
I hate how my body reacts.
And I hate myself for kissing him back before.
Tonight, I don’t.
But I don’t push him away either.
When he pulls back, he’s unreadable. Studying me like a weapon that’s lost its edge but still looks good hanging on the wall.
Then he moves.
He doesn’t return to his side. Doesn’t roll away.
He climbs on top of me.
Heavy. Cold. Certain.
His leg locks around mine. His head drops to my shoulder. His arm tightens like a clasp.
It isn’t closeness. It isn’t safety.
It’s control.
It’s punishment.
“ I can sleep on you like this because you are mine.”
His voice is low against my skin.
“You’ll join me for breakfast. We have guests coming.”
My jaw clenches.
“Fine,” I bite. “I’ll play Lady Riddle for your monsters.”
A sound of satisfaction—barely a breath.
“You don’t play her. You are her.”
He doesn’t move.
The chandelier doesn’t flicker, but the shadows feel heavier.
Then, quiet—like a curse—
“You looked beautiful tonight.”
It digs somewhere deep.
I don’t respond.
He falls asleep on top of me.
The weight of him doesn’t lift.
And the ring still hums.
—-
Nov 16, 2008
When I wake, he’s still on top of me.
His weight is draped over my whole body like a second skin—warm, solid, inescapable. One leg hooked between mine, one arm slung low over my hips. His face is pressed against my shoulder, breath slow and steady where it hits the back of my neck.
I’m caged.
Pinned beneath silk sheets and power and his suffocating, possessive presence.
My body aches. My throat is dry. There’s a soreness between my legs that makes everything feel heavier, like shame is stitched into my muscles.
I shift beneath him.
He doesn’t move.
“Tom,” I mutter.
Nothing.
I feel the edge of his ring brushing my side where his hand rests, cold and silent. The mark of him. The tether.
“Get off.”
Still nothing.
I grit my teeth and push my elbows against the mattress, arching my back slightly.
“Tom.”
A low sound rumbles from his chest—a half-awake exhale, like I’m no more annoying than a stray breeze. He nuzzles closer. His arm tightens. His thigh presses down harder between mine.
My jaw clenches.
“Tom,” I say, sharper now. “Get. Off.”
Then, in the most maddening tone imaginable—sleep-rough and lazy, like we’re newlyweds on holiday instead of this twisted excuse for a marriage—
“Good morning, sunshine.”
I freeze.
I swear to Merlin.
“I’m not your blanket,” I snap, struggling beneath him. “Get off me.”
His lips graze the side of my neck again, barely awake. The same place he kissed me last night.
“ I know, you’re way better than a blanket.”
But he doesn’t move.
I go rigid, breath catching in my throat.
“I swear to Merlin—”
“What?” he murmurs, voice rough, eyes still closed. “You’ll hex me? Call The Daily prophet? Cry?”
He says it like a lullaby. Like the idea of my defiance is amusing at best.
I try to roll, but his full weight bears down across my back. He hums.
“Stop talking. You’re ruining our morning.”
“You’re crushing me.”
“I’m not.”
“You’re disgusting.”
“Mm.”
He shifts slightly—just enough to press a slow, deliberate kiss behind my ear.
“You always say the meanest things after you cum.”
I go still. Ice floods my veins.
He knows exactly what he’s doing. Exactly how to keep me quiet. How to twist the night before into something I can’t untangle from my own shame.
“Get. Off. Me.”
Finally, after a long beat, he exhales.
Then, with the same infuriating laziness, he lifts himself just enough for me to crawl out from beneath him. The second I’m free, I sit up and pull the sheet around me like armor, back turned, throat tight.
He lies back, one arm behind his head, completely unbothered.
I don’t look at him. I can feel his eyes on me as I slide off the bed.
“Wear the green dress,” he says, already stretching. “The one with the open back.”
“I’m not dressing for you.”
“You’re not fucking dressing for anyone else.”
I clench the sheet tighter.
I walk away. Not because I won, not because I have the last word. Just because I know if I stay, I’ll say something I can’t take back—and I’m not ready for what that would cost.
The bathroom door closes behind me. I drop the sheet and step in front of the mirror.
My hair’s a mess. My skin flushed from heat, not arousal. My eyes look darker than I remember. Heavy.
I brace both hands on the counter and stare at myself like I’m trying to find the girl who existed before all this.
She’s gone.
Steam builds around the edges of the glass as I turn away and step into the shower. I crank the water hotter than I should, let it sting as it runs down my back.
I tell myself this is the last time.
I tell myself that every time.
This was the last time.
I let it happen. I let him touch me. I let him kiss me, fuck me, fall asleep on top of me like I was something he earned. And I hate that I know exactly how it happened. I hate that I’ve memorized the weight of him.
The door opens.
I feel it before I hear it. That shift in the air. The way the steam reacts to him. Like even the heat knows better than to get in his way.
He steps inside.
I don’t look at him. I don’t move.
We’ve done this before.
The water’s still hot. Still mine. But the space isn’t.
It hasn’t been for years.
He’s close now—close enough to feel his presence against my skin. Still not touching. Still pretending he’s here for himself.
Then his voice cuts through the silence, low and smooth and familiar.
“Will you let me have you in here too?”
The words slide down my spine like ice.
He doesn’t say please. He doesn’t beg. He just asks, like it’s routine.
Because it is.
Because after the rare times we do this—when I let him in—he always tries again the next morning.
Sometimes I say yes.
Sometimes I don’t say anything at all.
But this time, I say it.
“No.”
Silence.
I expect him to laugh. To insult me. To twist the refusal into another manipulation.
But all he says is:
“Shame.”
And then—his mouth is on my neck.
Soft. Slow. Measured.
He kisses just beneath my ear, lips warm from the water. He doesn’t press. Doesn’t ask again. Just leaves the kiss there like a brand. A quiet punishment. A reminder that he could.
That he always could.
My jaw tightens. I don’t move away. I just exhale, sharp and slow.
His hand brushes my waist. Light. Lingering. Not possessive—just present. Like he’s keeping track of me without needing to say it out loud. Like his proximity is the only warning I’ll get.
I stare straight ahead at the tiles, the heat curling around us like a second skin.
And then—
“You made a mess of my hair,” I say, dry and flat.
There’s a pause. Then—
He laughs.
Low. Surprised. A little too pleased.
“I Did, Didn’t I?”
His voice is soft, mock-innocent. But there’s satisfaction coiled behind it.
I nod once, eyes still fixed ahead. “Wash it.”
Another pause.
I feel him watching me. Measuring. Like he’s trying to decide if this is a trap or a treat.
Then the water shifts, and he moves.
The bottle lifts behind me. And when his hands touch my hair—slow, gentle, familiar—it’s not a favor.
It’s an offering.
He rubs the shampoo into my scalp with practiced ease, fingers working through the tangles he put there. The pressure is perfect—just firm enough to make my shoulders drop, just slow enough to feel deliberate. Like he’s reminding me he knows every inch of me, even the ones I pretend he doesn’t.
And he does.
Of course he does.
“You’re quiet,” he murmurs after a moment.
“So are you.”
Another beat of silence passes. Only the sound of water. The slow drag of his hands. The weight of everything we’re not saying.
Then he leans in, voice low against my ear.
“I like you like this.”
I almost laugh.
Of course he does.
Because this is the game. His hands in my hair. My silence was mistaken for submission. Me letting him play the part of something softer, knowing exactly what he is underneath.
I don’t say anything.
I don’t need to.
Because here, the silence speaks for us both.
When he rinses the conditioner from my hair, his touch lingers a second too long. A thumb trailing behind my ear. A palm down the back of my neck.
Not affection.
Possession.
I step out without a word.
I don’t bother rushing.
The faster I move, the more obvious it feels—like I’m trying to outrun what just happened. Like there’s something to be ashamed of.
And I won’t give him the satisfaction of that.
I dry off, methodically. Then reach for the green dress folded across the velvet chaise. It’s always this one, after nights like last. Fitted silk. Backless. Just sheer enough to leave little to the imagination and tight enough to make walking feel like performance.
I smooth it down my hips, adjusting the hem. It hits mid-thigh. It rides up when I sit. He knows that. I hate that I care that he likes that.
But I wear it anyway.
At the vanity, I spritz my perfume—two sharp bursts at my throat, one on each wrist. Jasmine, laced with something darker. It clings to the heat of my skin, a scent that’s always meant me, but now feels like it means us.
Gold hoops. A thin chain. My wedding ring. A collection of things that make me look polished. Composed. Willing.
The necklace glints faintly in the light. The ring hums, warm with his magic.
Last are the heels. Four-inch stilettos, delicate enough to seem effortless, painful enough to remind me of where I stand. Strappy. Nude. They make my calves burn after a few hours, but they make me look the part.
And I’ve learned that’s what keeps me safe—looking the part.
When I return to the bedroom, he’s exactly where I knew he’d be. Sitting at the edge of the bed. Sleeves rolled to his wrist, shirt half-done, ankles crossed like he hasn’t decided whether to ruin my morning or let me pretend it’s mine.
His wrists are bare.
He doesn’t look at me.
Just holds them out, wordless.
Like always.
I say nothing.
I cross the room, pick up the cufflinks—onyx and emerald—and begin to fasten them. I’ve done this more times than I can count. The act of slipping one through the slit in his sleeve. Pressing the catch closed. Smoothing the fabric.
It should be nothing.
It isn’t.
I adjust the second one, fingers brushing his wrist—and that’s when his arms snake around my thighs and he pulls me between his knees.
Effortless. Sharp.
I don’t stumble this time.
I glare down at him, hands planted on his shoulders.
“Let go,” I say.
He doesn’t.
His grip is relaxed. Familiar. His palms settle on the backs of my thighs like I’m something he owns.
He tilts his head back to look at me. There’s no warmth in his eyes—just calculation, and something worse. Something almost amused.
“Don’t be shy,” he says, voice low. “You’re already dressed like a reward.”
My fingers twitch.
“For you?” I scoff. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
But his hands glide higher, slow, deliberate, brushing just beneath the hem of the dress. I freeze.
“You wore the dress,” he says, like it’s proof. “The heels. The necklace. You look so good, baby”.
“I put it on so your ego doesn’t get hurt and i end up locked in this room again.”
His smile sharpens. He loves this—when I fight. When I give him something to twist.
“Mm,” he hums. “And I'm sure that’s why you are here, Between my legs.”
“ you won’t let go.”
I try to step back to prove my point. He doesn’t let me.
Instead, he leans forward and presses a kiss to the inside of my thigh.
It’s slow. Cold. Deliberate.
He’s not trying to seduce me.
He’s reminding me.
Of last night.
Of the fact that I let him.
Of the fact that I always let him.
I yank away before he can do it again, stepping out of his grip and fixing my dress like it’ll protect me.
He adjusts his cufflinks calmly, like I didn’t just flinch from his mouth on my skin.
I turn to the mirror, reapply my lipstick. I don’t need to. But it gives my hands something to do.
“Who’s at breakfast?” I ask, voice stiff.
“The Bulgarian Minister.”
The words twist something in my gut. I inhale sharply, eyes still fixed on my reflection.
Beneath my breath, I murmur, “That prick, hit on me last time.”
It’s not for him. Just a bitter note to myself.
But he hears it.
And he stops moving.
I see it in the mirror before I feel it in the air—his whole body stilling, the temperature of the room dropping with the sudden, quiet rage he never bothers to hide from me.
“What did he say?”
His voice is low. Controlled. But wrong.
I’ve heard him angry. I’ve seen him furious.
This isn’t that.
This is cold.
Dead.
And it makes my spine go stiff.
I hesitate, then answer, quietly. “He asked if I was happy. Said if you couldn’t make me scream, he’d be happy to try.”
The silence after is suffocating.
Then: “When the fuck did he say that?”
He’s already walking toward me. Each step is slow, exact, coiled with restraint. The kind of restraint that doesn’t last long.
I don’t look at him. “Last December.”
He stops. Then laughs.
Not the kind of laugh that means anything good.
“Eleven months ago,” he repeats. “And you’re just now letting me know?”
I don’t answer.
“You let him speak to you like that under my fucking roof. You let me stand beside him after he disrespected both of us. Shake his small disgusting fucking hand. While he imagined fucking my wife.”
His voice is rising, soft but deadly, every word sharper than the last.
“I didn’t want a scene,” I say, breath catching.
“No,” he hisses. “You wanted to humiliate me quietly.”
He’s in front of me now.
And I can’t move fast enough.
He grabs me by the throat—not tight, but firm. Familiar. Controlling. His other hand slams into the wall beside my head.
“You kept that filth to yourself,” he growls. “You let him look at you like he had any right, and you said nothing, Not one fucking word. Were you protecting him, Hermione? Or just waiting to see what you could get away with?”
I don’t speak.
I can’t.
He leans in, his mouth brushing my ear.
“You forget what I do to people who betray me.”
His grip tightens, just for a moment. Not enough to hurt.
Enough to remind me.
I squeeze my eyes shut.
There’s a stillness in him that’s worse than shouting. Worse than fury. It’s the kind of stillness that means something is already being done.
“I’ll have his tongue cut out,” he says calmly. “And mounted on his country’s crest to display.”
My stomach drops.
He pulls back slightly, just enough to look at me—his eyes pitch-black and unblinking.
“And when I finally appoint a new Minister,” he adds, voice thoughtful, like it’s a business detail, “I’ll send him your perfume. So he understands what isn’t his.”
My pulse pounds behind my eyes.
It’s not a threat.
It’s a sentence.
And the worst part?
He’ll do it.
And a part of me sort of likes that.
He straightens, releasing me, brushing the fabric of my dress like it somehow offends him.
I barely stay upright.
“I gave you freedom,” he says. “Let you walk this manor without consequence. Let you see your friends. Speak when you please. And this is what I get?”
His voice drops.
“Maybe it’s time you remembered how things used to be.”
I freeze.
His eyes flick to the ring on my hand, pulsing faintly with his magic.
“I’ll bind the wards again. Seal the wing. Lock the doors. If I can’t trust you out there—” he gestures toward the manor, toward the world, “—then you’ll stay where I’m the only one you’ll be around.”
My breath sticks in my throat.
Not from fear.
From rage.
From shame.
From the horrifying awareness that I don’t even know if he means it… or if he’s already done it.
He walks to the door, fixing his cuffs, his expression smooth again. Unbothered. Like he didn’t just vow to maim a man and cage his wife in the same breath.
Then, just before he steps out—
“Don’t come to breakfast.”
And he’s gone.
—-
The wing is silent.
Locked. Again.
I can feel it in the air—how the magic coils around the doors like a leash. Like a warning. I haven’t tried to leave. I haven’t even tried to open a window. Not because I’m scared. But because I know it would please him to catch me trying.
He left after threatening to cage me like an animal.
No room for me to argue. No explanation. Just the steady, pulsing hum of my wedding ring and the slow ache between my thighs.
It’s nearly midnight.
I’ve been alone all day. And now I’m cold. Angry. And too proud to be either.
But I still dressed for him.
Not in lace. Not in lingerie.
A nightgown. Thin, silver, barely opaque. Cut low in the front, low in the back. It slides against my skin like water and feels like temptation.
And maybe that’s what it is.
A peace offering.
When the door opens, I sit taller.
He walks in like a storm.
There’s blood smeared across his jaw. His neck. His chest. A streak dried into his collarbone like someone had reached for him as they died.
He doesn’t look at me.
Doesn’t say a word.
Just shrugs off his cloak, walks into the bathroom, and closes the door.
The water turns on.
I stay still.
The smell of blood lingers in the air, curling over the scent of my perfume. Jasmine and iron.
It’s grotesque.
It’s intoxicating.
He really did it.
He killed someone.
Again.
And part of me…
Part of me burns for it.
When he returns, he’s clean. Bare. His boxers sit low on his hips, towel over his shoulder, hair damp. His eyes sweep the room, then settle on me.
This time, he doesn’t pretend not to see me.
He sees everything.
And he smirks.
It’s not warm. It’s not amused.
It’s satisfaction.
He gets into bed without a word, sitting against the headboard like a king on a throne. Legs wide. Arms relaxed. Waiting.
“On my lap.”
Not a request.
A command.
And I obey.
I climb onto him slowly, deliberate, settling across his thighs. My hands rest on his chest. His heart beats steady beneath my palm.
He doesn’t touch me.
Not yet.
But I can feel the heat of his hands hovering near my thighs like a threat.
“You’re still wet,” I say softly, fingers ghosting over his shoulder.
“Didn’t want to keep you waiting,” he replies. “I thought you might have something to say for yourself by now.”
I tilt my head.
“I do.”
He raises an eyebrow.
I lean in.
And kiss him.
Not tentative. Not shy.
Confident. Deep. Like I know exactly what I’m doing—and who I’m doing it to.
I kiss his mouth, slow and warm. Then his jaw. The corner of his lips. Then lower—over his collarbone, down the center of his chest. I feel him harden beneath me.
His hands finally rise, gripping my thighs. Not gently. Not cruelly. Just tight. Possessive.
I nuzzle against his neck. My lips brush his ear.
“Let me apologize.”
He hums darkly, almost amused.
“You think this is an apology?”
My nails drag gently down his chest.
“I didn’t say how.”
His laugh is sharp. Cruel.
Then—crack.
His palm lands hard on my arse. Deliberate. Loud in the silence. Not violence. A message.
I flinch. But not from pain.
From the way it thrills through me.
He grabs my jaw next, yanking my face up to his.
“You don’t get to crawl into my lap in silk and expect forgiveness,” he snarls. “You don’t smile at me like this and think I’ll forget how long you made me wait last time and how easily you’ll give in this time.”
His cock is pressed against me, thick and hot and furious.
“And you don’t get to act like a fucking prize when you’re the one who fucked up.”
I blink, breath catching. My lips are still parted.
But I don’t back down.
“I like you like this,” I whisper.
His eyes narrow. His grip tightens.
“Like what?”
“Angry. Possessive. Mine.”
He stares at me like he’s trying to decide whether to destroy me or fuck me until I forget my own name.
Then his hand slides up my thigh. His thumb brushes the hem of my nightgown.
“You think this gets you back in my good graces?”
I smile. Soft. Sharp.
“No. But I thought it might help you remember what it feels like to have me there.”
He growls—an actual growl—and pulls me closer, grinding my hips against him.
I gasp.
But before I can say another word, he shoves me off him—hard enough that I hit the mattress with a thud.
I scramble upright, breath uneven. He doesn’t look at me.
He stretches. Settles back. Arms behind his head. His cock still straining beneath his boxers.
And then, like it means nothing:
“Get in the fucking bed and stop acting like a whore.”
I don’t move.
Not right away.
Because I know what he’s doing.
I know this game.
I know him.
“I saw what you did,” I say quietly. “The blood. You killed him.”
He doesn’t respond.
“I liked it,” I admit. “That you’d do that for me.”
His eyes slide to mine.
“You think that was for you?” he says, voice dry. “It was for me. Because no one talks about fucking my wife and lives.”
My chest tightens.
But I don’t shrink.
He’s still angry. Still vibrating with it, like the rage is skin-deep and waiting to bleed.
And yet… he’s here. In our bed. Watching me. Waiting.
His arms are braced against the headboard like he’s debating whether to leave again or punish me with silence.
“When will you appoint the new minister?,” I say, " To try to relax him.
He doesn’t bother hiding the smirk that curls at the corner of his mouth.
“I already have.”
I nod slowly.
Not in fear.
Not in awe.
In understanding.
Of what he is.
And what I still have to get away with.
His eyes flick toward the door, like he’s considering standing.
Leaving again.
I don’t let him.
“Come here, Tom,” I say softly.
He blinks.
He doesn’t move. But the tension in his frame shifts. Coils.
“I’m not a fucking dog, you don't get to command me.” he mutters.
I tilt my head.
“No,” I say, voice like velvet. “But you are my husband.”
That gets him.
He narrows his eyes.
“You think you can—”
But I reach for him before he finishes the sentence.
Slow. Steady. Intentional.
My fingers wrap around his wrist. I don’t yank. I guide.
Down. Beneath the silk hem of the nightgown I haven’t bothered adjusting. I slide his hand between my legs until his palm meets bare skin.
No knickers.
He freezes.
My breath hitches, but I hold his gaze.
“Just cuddle with your wife,” I whisper.
A beat.
Two.
His eyes darken.
But he follows.
Without a word, he sinks into the bed beside me, arm still between my thighs, leg sliding between mine like he’s anchoring himself. His face buries into my hair, his mouth at my neck.
He doesn’t speak.
He just holds me.
His hand stays right where I placed it—cupping my cunt like a claim. His palm is warm, fingers twitching slightly against me, but he doesn’t move further.
He just breathes.
Then his voice slices through the dark.
“You only dress like this when you fuck up.”
It’s not soft.
It’s quiet, deadly, laced with resentment that simmers just under the surface.
My pulse flutters. But I stay still.
“You think I don’t notice?” he goes on. “You ignore me for weeks, walk through this manor like I don’t exist, do everything to avoid being with me until you can’t anymore, and then you fuck up and keep something to yourself now you’re in silk lace with no fucking knickers—like that makes up for it.”
His hand flexes. Just once. A warning.
“I’m not stupid, Hermione.”
“I never said you were.”
He laughs—sharp and bitter.
“No, you just act like I’ll forgive you after you humiliated me just because you let me touch you.”
He shifts, rolling onto his side. His arm wraps around my waist, dragging me tighter to him until I’m nearly gasping.
“You’re mine,” he growls. “You forget that sometimes. You forget it the moment you think I’m not enrolled to know things.You forget it when you don’t tell me things. When you walk around like my name on your ring doesn’t mean everything.”
He presses a kiss beneath my ear. Hard. Possessive.
“You look like a fucking gift tonight. But not for me. Not because you want to. Not until you thought you needed to.”
I breathe slow and deep, fighting the heat building low in my stomach.
“I'm dressed like this for you. and you're letting it go to waste. ” I murmured.
His hand moves lower. Cupping me with more pressure this time. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to remind me.
“I shouldn’t have to,” he says. “You should always look like this for me.”
Another kiss. Lower this time. My shoulder. My throat.
“You belong to me,” he says, voice like a vow. “Your cunt. Your mouth. Your anger. Your fucking Tantrums. All of it. Mine.”
“I know,” I breathe.
“No,” he snaps. “You don’t. If you did, you’d tell me when men say things to you that make you uncomfortable . You’d come to me when you needed something. You’d wear this for me because you missed me. Not because you’re scared of being trapped in our wing.”
I say nothing.
Because he’s not wrong.
His nose brushes my cheek. His breath is hot against my skin.
“I won’t forgive you in the morning,” he whispers. “Not for this.”
He will.
He always does.
His fingers trace down again, slow and punishing.
“I’m not soft, Hermione.”
I press closer, curling into him like I belong there.
“I know.”
He stays still for a moment longer—dangerous and quiet—before his arm curls fully around me, dragging me into the curve of his body, tucking me beneath his chin like he never plans to let go.
“I should’ve fucked you bloody the moment you told me what he said.”
“You still can,” I murmur.
He growls again—quiet, low, satisfied.
And finally, he kisses my hair.
Possessive.
Final.
“You’re never leaving me,” he breathes. “Not even in your fucking mind.”
And I believe him.