I wasn’t crying, just felt… hollow. As if my heart had stopped beating and there was no more air in my lungs. He had already left but his mark was still on my skin, haunting me. A trail of his seed seeps out of my slit and trails down my bare thigh, the inside of my calf. A reminder of where he had been. The shower was still wet from when he had cleansed himself only an hour before, removing any traces of my perfume, my taste, my mark. I was the other woman. I was the one he fucked like a whore before going home and tucking his children into bed. Guilt, shame, and anger mixed together in my blood. I had been so effortlessly wrapped around his touch. His taste. His smell. I was the other woman. * “Stewart, why don’t you kiss me?” I tease, as we twirl around in circles. There is music in the background and incandescent lighting across the ballroom. My red dress flows with each movement, while his rough hands guide me around and around the dance floor. “I thought you’d never ask.”. But it was only ‘almost’ resigned. Every time she tried to quash the last tiny bit of pathetic hope that remained – the part that fostered silly daydreams of being rescued like a princess by a knight in shining armor – she’d catch his eye across the camp, and realise he’d clearly been watching her, his gaze dark and intent and unreadable, and the little shred of hope just wouldn’t die.She was somewhat ashamed at her inability to read him; she had been part of the Grand Game since she’d been a teenager, could fit in equally seamlessly with Empresses and servants alike, could negotiate conversations with masked Duchesses in her sleep without missing a single cue, but when it came to Nathaniel Howe, she hadn’t the slightest idea what he was thinking behind his polite smile.Nor could she bring herself to do more than she was; she was certainly never going to be able to approach an Arl in the army’s camp and ask him if he liked her, as though they were noble teens at a ball instead of.
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