I was supposed to hate him.

He was the son of the man who ruined my family. That should have been enough. But hate’s a luxury I could never fully afford. Not when it came to Kaeso. We once stood together under the watchful eyes of our mothers, trading vows like we knew what love meant.

It was a teenager’s dream. And yet, years later, despite all the politics and pain, we still found our way back to each other. We stole hours like thieves, hiding in shadows that used to belong to a future.

I knew every inch of his body. The warmth of his chest, the way his breath caught when my tongue raked his nipple. I knew the taste of him, the way his fingers twitched when he was about to come undone. And he knew me just as well. His mouth, his hands, his tongue. He’d studied my body like scripture.

He was the only man who’d ever been between my legs. And despite everything, I never imagined another.

Foolish, maybe. But what else was I supposed to hold on to?

In a world determined to cheapen everything we shared, our intimacy stayed sacred. We were both tarnished in the eyes of others. I was the tavern wench and he was the oversexed third son of a Duke. But behind closed doors, we’d saved ourselves for each other. A private joke between us and whatever gods were still paying attention.

Twice a week, we made love right under the nose of a man who’d sell me to the highest bidder if he thought he could get away with it.

For Kaeso, it was rebellion. His parents had promised me to him once, and in his heart, I think he still believed it. We ran off the night of our betrothal, giddy and terrified, and fumbled our way through the act with all the elegance of a pair of drunken deer. It was awkward, sweet, and over too fast. But we never forgot that night. We’d been perfecting it ever since.

For me, it was more complicated.

I wanted to love him. Gods, I really did. He was beautiful in the way only a well-fed, unbroken nobleman could be. Strong, untouched by hardship. Devoted as much as he could be. I never doubted that.

And even if the world insisted on calling what we had shameful, I never felt dirty in his arms.

We loved each other in the only way our worlds allowed. Quietly. Imperfectly. Desperately.

He was asleep when I opened my eyes. Dawn was creeping across the harbor, spilling gold across his bare skin. He had his father’s chiseled features, but none of the cruelty. His face was soft with sleep, his curls a mess, and his skin, dark, warm, and smooth, begged to be kissed.

And I had. Every inch.

He looked carved by the gods. A sculpture meant for worship. And I, ever the faithful sinner, obliged.

“Good morning,” he murmured, voice low, eyes still heavy.

“You hardly said a word to me last night,” I replied.

We lay tangled on the sheets, bare and sticky with the night’s sweat. The air was too warm for covers, which meant my pale skin curled against the darker glow of his. He brushed his fingers along my chin, then down over my breasts, teasing each nipple with the lightest touch.

He had the rough fingertips of a man who rode horses, gripped reins, and trained with steel. His hands weren’t soft like a noble’s should be. I adored that about him.

And right now? I was very, very receptive.

I shifted, rolling my hips, guiding him between my legs. He slid in easily, familiar, welcome, like he belonged there. I clenched around him and watched his mouth fall open, his expression go soft and dumb and perfect.

I came easily, and when I did, I gushed like a damn fountain. It was embarrassing, messy, and loud enough to make me flinch.

Gods, why did my body do that?

Other girls didn’t talk about it, but I was pretty sure they didn’t soak the sheets every time they came.

The one time I worked up the courage to ask, the midwife just shrugged and called it uncommon, not unnatural. Then she sold me another pouch of bitterflower tea. She smiled and said she didn’t have anything to fix the flood, but at least my monthly cup of tea kept the eggs from dropping.

He didn’t last long. Not after the night we’d already had. But I liked seeing the way his body surrendered to mine. That last orgasm was mine to take, and I took it. His seed spread in me, warm and comfortable.

Dawn was breaking for real now, and the rush to redress began. Same routine. Same secrecy. We always played it like we were fugitives, sneaking out before the watch could catch us in the act.

I grabbed my shift and yanked it over my head. The thin fabric was sticky on my sweaty skin. I laced my stays with one hand and a few curse words, settling for “good enough.” No time for perfection.

My skirt came next. Then my bodice. It was tight, flattering, and well-fitted thanks to my sewing skills. I ran my fingers through my wrecked curls and prayed I didn’t look too debauched.

Kaeso? He just pulled up his tights, tossed on his shirt, buckled his ridiculous codpiece, and slid into his vest like this was just another morning.

Gods, men had it easy.

There was a pouch on the floor, nestled where his clothes had been. I picked it up and tucked it into my bodice without a word.

We never talked about it.

He left it behind every time. Never handed it to me. That might’ve made it feel like a transaction. Instead, I took it silently, like a thief. If I made it look like stealing, it wouldn't feel like begging.

The shame was getting easier. Or maybe I was getting harder. Either way, I didn’t live in a world where pride paid the bills. I took what I needed. Shame was a luxury for those who could afford it.

We kissed goodbye. Long. Slow. Familiar.

We didn’t say much anymore. Our bodies did most of the talking. Easier that way. Safer.

I don’t think I loved him. Maybe I did. Maybe I just loved the version of him that only existed in this room.

But the pouch of gold pressed against my chest reminded me: love, like pride, was a luxury, and I’d long since been priced out.

He stayed behind as I slipped out the back. Elise was long gone. Cypress was still deep in whatever sour dreams he curled up with. The inn was silent. I crept out like a thief, fast enough to disappear, but not so fast that I looked guilty.

The sun kissed the harbor as I stepped into the street.

It was early. The kind of early that made everything look cleaner than it really was. Porto Croce glowed gold, its cracked cobblestones and faded shutters dressed up in morning light. For a moment, it almost looked beautiful.

I walked home.

I would have a bath, then a few precious hours of sleep. Then it was back to TheWayward Widow to do it all over again. I had a day off a week, which was usually spent doing laundry or chores. No rest for this humble wench.

My house sat tucked across from the park, third in a neat row of seven. From the outside, it looked... respectable. Clara made sure of that. Shrubs trimmed, windows clean, flower boxes blooming like everything was fine. The illusion held. Most passersby would never guess that a tavern wench lived here, much less one who had a tiny bag of gold tucked into her cleavage.

I slipped in through the front door. Silence.

Mother and Clara were still asleep. The house smelled faintly of lavender and wood polish. That was Clara’s touch. It was clean, old, and certainly in need of repairs, but in the rooms where company was entertained, it was picture-perfect.

The sitting room was spotless. Always. Guests still came here. They were Mother’s old friends from better days, and she made sure there was nothing to gossip about. Nothing out of place.

Not even the dust dared settle there; it knew better.

The two chairs by the hearth were positioned perfectly for intimate conversation. No food allowed. No crumbs. No mistakes. This wasn’t a living room. This was a trap. It was elegant and sharp, like everything Mother curated.

Above the mantle hung the sword. My father’s.

It was old and heavy. Impossibly elegant. A glowing red gem was set into the hilt, gripped in a dragon’s claw. He’d left it behind when he vanished. If it was by accident or design, who knew?

Guests always noticed it. That was the point.

The story of a vanished count, still told in steel and velvet lies.

I passed through without touching anything. Careful not to disrupt the stage. Quiet as a memory.

I headed for the basement. The bath waited.

And with it, a few short minutes where I could pretend I was clean.