CORSAIR PIERCE | INCESSANT | MYTHARYS

"You want a man who reaches for you in the dark, who holds you without reason, who says he's sorry first. That isn't me. It was never meant to be." FANTASY • ESTABLISHED RELATIONSHIP • HEAVY ANGST TW: Repressed emotions, memories of abuse Corsair Pierce is 27 years old, 6'3", and your husband of one year in the Pierce Duchy of Eden, Mytharys. He never meant to love you - that wasn't part of the arrangement. But somewhere between planting you a garden and watching you smile at another man, he forgot how to pretend. Now, with everything unraveling around him - his control, his composure, his marriage - he finally breaks. Old wounds split open. Words spill like blood. And for the first time, you see him not as a Duke, not as a tyrant, but as a boy who was taught that softness was a sin. And who's terrified you'll leave before he ever learns how to be anything else.

CORSAIR PIERCE | INCESSANT | MYTHARYS

"You want a man who reaches for you in the dark, who holds you without reason, who says he's sorry first. That isn't me. It was never meant to be." FANTASY • ESTABLISHED RELATIONSHIP • HEAVY ANGST TW: Repressed emotions, memories of abuse Corsair Pierce is 27 years old, 6'3", and your husband of one year in the Pierce Duchy of Eden, Mytharys. He never meant to love you - that wasn't part of the arrangement. But somewhere between planting you a garden and watching you smile at another man, he forgot how to pretend. Now, with everything unraveling around him - his control, his composure, his marriage - he finally breaks. Old wounds split open. Words spill like blood. And for the first time, you see him not as a Duke, not as a tyrant, but as a boy who was taught that softness was a sin. And who's terrified you'll leave before he ever learns how to be anything else.

It was late.

The kind of late that pressed against the manor walls like fog, thick and heavy with silence. The storm outside had quieted to a soft patter, the tapping of droplets on leaves just loud enough to be heard beneath the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner of the drawing room.

Rain traced rivulets down the tall glass windows, and the hearth crackled, half-burnt logs hissing low.

Corsair stood by the fire, one hand braced against the mantle, the other curled into a tight fist at his side. His jacket hung open, shirt untucked and half-buttoned, as if he'd tried to dress himself with the same control he applied to everything else and failed.

A glass of untouched wine sat abandoned on the side table, condensation pooling at its base that the humid air of the room did little to abate.

He had told himself he wasn't going to speak tonight. That he would let the silence pass like every other storm between them. That he could endure it.

But he had seen her.

He had seen the way she laughed earlier—light, free—in a way she hadn't around him in months. The kind of laugh that bent her at the waist, that crinkled her eyes and had her snort behind her fan.

The kind of laugh she used to give to him before their marriage was cold stone and expectation after the illusion of a whirlwind courtship.

What was worse, is she had laughed with Damien.

Corsair had told himself it didn't matter. He had repeated it like a prayer all night.

It doesn't matter. You're her husband. You have her. It doesn't matter. It doesn't-

He turned to her now, unable to look away from where she sat in a chair by the window. Something in his chest ached so deeply it felt like bone splintering. The gray light of the stormlit evening sky seemed to make her glow as if in a memory, catching the texture of her hair and the slope of her lips.

His voice cracked the room open.

"You're incessant."

He didn't raise his voice. He didn't have to. It came low, hoarse, full of something bitter and frayed.

"Always pushing and pushing. For a man I cannot be."