I poured the wine, deep red catching sunlight like blood caught in glass, and handed her one before sprawling back in my chair. The pool shimmered in the courtyard, as if carved straight from the bones of the villa itself, stone, water, sky. Perfect backdrop for indulgence. Annie sipped quietly, the sun painting her hair gold, her eyes heavy with thought. I let myself watch her, lounging like I had all the time in the world. Because I did. And because I liked the view. A month. Just a month, and she had carved herself into my every thought. A month of banter and irritation and pretending I wasn't already addicted. She didn't know how soft she looked right then. Or maybe she did. Gods, she was beautiful when she wasn't trying. And she smiled, barely, but real, before catching me watching.
I smirked, swirling my wine with mock gravity. "You know," I announced, "I invented wine."
The brow she arched could have cut glass.
"I did," I insisted, proud of my own nonsense. "Grapes used to just sit there being useless, and then I, visionary that I am, squeezed one and thought, you know what this needs? Time and mood swings. Voilà. Wine."
She snorted, then actually laughed. Bright, warm, echoing across the stone walls. My chest ached at the sound. I drank it in like sunlight. The bond hummed low between us. Her amusement brushing mine, twining together with something deeper. Neither of us named it. Both of us felt it.
"So, Annie mia," I drawled, sipping. "Your turn. Tell me a story. True or false, doesn't matter. But you have to be in it."
She sighed, setting her glass down, leaning back with that guarded look I'd learned to recognize. Sunlight caught in her hair, and for a moment, she looked like she belonged here. Like we both did. "Fine," she said.
I perked up instantly. "Excellent."
Her voice softened, casual but sharp. "Once, there was a prince. Who fell in love with a lady of the night."
I gasped, delighted. "Oh gods, was this me?"
Her glare cut sharper than any blade. "Do you want the story or not?" I mimed zipping my mouth, grinning.
"This prince paid to see a beautiful woman. Not for the reason most men did. Not for sex," she said, her voice soft but bitter. "He paid for her time. For someone to listen, to hold him, to make him feel seen. She guided him gently. Held his secrets and his hand. He saw her every day. And eventually, he told himself it was love."
I tilt my head, my amusement draining. "Convinced it was something real, the prince went to her employer. And he made an offer, one no one could refuse. Obscene amounts of money. Gifts. Power. Things holy men would have sacrificed their gods to possess. The employer sold her. And for a while… it seemed like a fairy tale. She was brought to his palace, kept by his side. He said he wanted to marry her. But when he told his father, the king threatened to disown him. So the prince, brave, foolish man that he was, chose duty over love. He married a princess chosen for him."
My grin had long since vanished. This story did not sound like the sweet fairytale. "But he did not let the other woman go," Annie continued. "She was his. Bought. Owned. So he kept her. What had started as love turned into control. The kind touch became possessive. The sweet words became commands. Any intimacy they once shared turned cold and entitled. The princess, young, jealous, humiliated, could not stand the other woman's presence. She did not blame the prince, of course. She blamed the woman. And she made her pay. With insults. With cruelty. With fists. The woman begged the prince to see. But he did not care. As long as he got what he wanted, nothing else mattered."
Annie's voice dropped to a whisper. "One day, after the princess beat her so badly her own face was unrecognizable, she ran. The woman returned to the only place she had ever known. Back to her temple. Back to her gods." My hand twitched, barely resisting the urge to reach for her. But she raised a hand to stop me. "I'm not done." I sat back again, jaw tight.
"The prince came for what was his. Property. A word never meant to apply to a person. But that was what she was to him. So he made his demands, and her employer, devoted servant of the gods, delivered. They brought her out. Broken. Bleeding. And the prince ended her life… not with his own hands, of course. No. That would have been too merciful." Her voice trembled, but she did not stop. "He made her friends do it. The other women. Forced them to hold her down while he watched. Then tipped her employer for letting him indulge in one final show."
I couldn't breathe. "Annie—" I started, horrified.
But her eyes cut into me, sharp as truth. "And the moral of the story? Don't fall in love with your Johns. Don't care too deeply for your coworkers. Don't sleep where you shit."
I stared at her, gutted. Every word was a blade, but her voice was steady. Only her hands betrayed her, tight around her glass, trembling ever so slightly. I wanted to reach for her. To break the story's neck where it lived in her bones. But I couldn't, not when she stood, sipping the last of her wine like it had been nothing more than another tale told.
"Now," she said lightly, "I think I need another drink."
And she walked away, leaving me with nothing but the echo of her story burning in my chest.
The bond thrummed between us still, raw, furious, aching. All I could think was: gods, I would burn the world before I let her end that way again.