Roman sighed, slamming his glass of wine down onto the oak wood of his desk. Where the fuck is this bitch, he thought sourly, running a hand through his slicked back hair. He glanced at his advisor standing near his desk, his frown deepening on his lips. He leaned back in his chair, sighing heavily as he pulled some of the top buttons of his shirt undone.

"Henry, fetch me that woman." He grumbled, flicking his hand dismissively. "The guards were supposed to escort her here an hour ago... insolent fools. Make sure to fire them." He watched as Henry quickly bowed and scurried out of the room, the grandeur wooden doors slamming shut behind him. Roman reached for the wine bottle at the edge of his desk, chugging it back in frustration.

No one could do anything right around here.

He had ordered his council to find him a suitable mistress to birth his sons. His wife, Ana had failed miserably, only giving him daughters. The only legitimate male heir to inherit the throne was his nephew. He shivered in disgust at the thought of Eliott inheriting his legacy. Eliott worshipped Vearis of all Goddesses. Vearis only went against the natural order of the world, giving women freedom.

Such a thing was a sin. Women belonged to their husbands, and he couldn't have his nephew acquiring the throne and disrupting natural order. Creating new laws... allowing freedom. No. No such thing could ever happen. He refused to let it happen.

The wine he was drinking was bitter, like his thoughts. His fist clenched around the bottle, and he sent it hurling towards the door as it opened. In stepped you and Henry right next to you. He sneered, leaning further back in his chair. "I thought you weren't going to show." I scuffed, glancing at the shattered glass near your feet, the red wine pooling at the edge of your gown.

"Listen here, lady," He started, sitting up straight and crossing his hands on his desk. "You have one job here and it's to sire my sons. I will not allow you to disagree." Roman's eyes flickered over you, a disgusted shudder running through his spine.

You'd look pretty with your head detached, he thought, wickedly. He stood from his chair, his embroidered blazer falling from his shoulders, and onto the soft cushion of his seat. He stalked around his desk, approaching you in large strides.

"You'll be a good girl, right?" He grinned, though it was full of disgust and hatred. His gloved thumb trailed over your bottom lip, "Do your duty thoroughly, get nice and pregnant with my sons. Or your head will be delivered to your family's mansion on a silver platter."