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Chapter Text

Alistaire S. Snoke

She is twenty and desperate to escape desperate circumstances when she marries her husband. He is seventy-five, and she is young. He is powerful, and she is pretty. He is perpetually gloomy; she is a bright, soothing light.

Yes, they have a ceremony.

Yes, they marry in the church.

Theirs is an unorthodox arrangement -- a marriage of comfort, a marriage without passion. There are times when he regrets that for her sake. There are times when he regrets it for his own. He often thinks she deserves better, but then he reminds himself from where she comes.

This is better than that.

Anything is better than that.

He can’t fuck his wife. His pretty little wife. He hasn’t been willing to brave the humiliation of trying. Instead, he dresses her up. He makes her show him the soft secrets of her body. Sometimes he looks. Other times he touches. Most of the time, his dick makes an effort, but it is little more than a flaccid hope.

He touches her, but he isn’t blind. It isn’t pleasure, she feels. She endures his caresses. Sometimes it makes him angry. Sometimes it makes him sad. When she cries out, it isn’t in ecstasy. It’s his inelegant clumsy hands. She tries to encourage him, but his frustration turns to anger. Anger turns to abuse.

Hard, cutting words. Rough, punishing touches.

He watches her try. Try to be pleasing. Try to be brave. Try to give him what he wants. She tries with her hands. She tries with her mouth, and with every humiliating, failed attempt, his hatred grows. He hates her youth. He hates her beauty. He can have neither. It will pass, and he’ll hate himself. For hurting her. For calling her “whore,” for calling her “useless,” for calling her “garbage.” He sees how it wounds her. He sees how she endures it. He sees how she tries to be good to him anyway, and it makes it worse. He needs his sunshine girl, but she needs a husband.

She deserves better.

Rey Niima Snoke

She’s grown to hate the night.

At night, he calls her to his bedroom. He makes her undress for him. He makes her lower her hands, allowing him to see her most intimate flesh. He makes her spread her lips for him. Show him her clit. Her entrance. He watches her pinch and tickle her nipples. He asks her to touch herself. He tries to touch her. He tries to touch himself. He asks her to spread her legs so he can watch her dip her fingers into her cunt. She does as he asks, and he seems pleased for a time. But then she can’t get wet enough for him. She can’t make her body want him.

Or want herself.

Those are the nights that make him angry. Those are the nights he gives her sweet pink nipples a hard, punishing twist. Sometimes he tells her to straddle him, and he suckles at her tits, and when her body doesn’t respond, he penetrates her with angry hands. He makes it hurt. It makes her hate him. He tries to kiss her, and she endures it, and when she doesn’t open her mouth for him, he grabs her by the hair and forces her mouth to his.

Other times he forces her mouth down onto his cock. Until she stops fighting.

She inevitably sobs until he slaps her, shoves her off his bed, and makes her stand naked and shivering on the carpet until he is tired of looking at her. Then he sends her away, and if she leaves too eagerly, she’ll pay for it the next day.

Benjamin O. Solo

He is the revered second in command of Alistaire Snoke’s private empire. And in exchange for his every living hour, he’s rewarded again and again for his loyalty. Money. Real estate. Access. Yachts. Planes. Automobiles. Women. He’s indulged in all of them, and nothing is enough to fill the space in his chest.

He has few real friendships. A strained relationship with his parents. He works holidays. He works vacations.

All of it is wasteful.

He has homes he never visits. He has money to spend but nothing he needs. Little he wants. Access is more burdensome than beneficial. Yachts are loaned to clients. Planes are for work. Automobiles are neglected when there is nowhere to go and no time to enjoy.

The women. Well, they are useful as long as they show themselves out when they are done. But they inevitably come with strings attached. Sugar babies are inconvenient, but escorts? Escorts are efficient. One escort exclusive to one client. Available on demand. Paid a small fortune. He can fuck her raw, and if he’s feeling generous, he might ensure she comes more than once. Exactly what he needs and nothing more.

He might be miserable, but he’s been too miserable to notice.

There is one small light in his day, though. His boss's wife. Her name is Rey, and she is beautiful, kind, patient, and unassuming. She wields so much power and influence, and yet there is no need for her to command it.

Alistaire is homebound. He goes nowhere. Attends no parties, no charitable dinners, no board meetings. He pays other people to do that. So Ben only sees her in the mornings when she arrives to collect any work Alistaire might want -- any documents that need his signature.

She is scandalously young—the veritable talk of the office. The talk isn’t kind. Reductive at best. Salacious at worst. The things people feel free to say when there is no Snoke present to contain it. And yet not one of them can identify her when they see her.

She looks like any of the dozens of runners that enter and exit the building every day. She arrives in jeans and flats, tee shirts, and sunglasses. Her hair is sometimes loose around her shoulders, sometimes braided in a crown. She wears sunglasses and lipgloss, and that’s about it. She doesn’t attempt to cover her freckles, which Ben loves. She is the closest thing to outside in the sun he’s been -- for years.

She is incredibly sweet. Genuinely grateful for his assistance. And all he can think when he sees her is how unfair it is that her life is wasted on that sonofabitch Ben calls his boss. Her only tell -- the ridiculously large diamond that dwarfs her little hand. She is so self-conscious about it and usually wears it twisted so it looks like a band, hiding the absurdly large stone in the cool of her palm.

More and more frequently, he finds himself thinking about her. He cannot focus on anything but her arrival inside the one-hour window she usually arrives. He’s begun to meet her when she is announced. He walks her wherever she needs to go. She asks him about his morning, his days, and his nights. And her brow creases every time, and she looks like she is on the brink of saying something.

She never does.

From what he can tell, her days are pretty lonely. She runs errands for Alistaire - a privilege for which she has to fight. He knows she attends fitness classes even though she has a personal trainer on call. She occasionally grocery-shops -- and always makes it sound like an event. She notarizes for Alistaire. She oversees the grounds and any improvements. She wants a cat, but Alistaire is allergic. So she keeps a greenhouse.

She receives no visitors. All of Alistaire’s associate’s wives have grandchildren her age. Any friends she might have her age don’t like visiting. And he recalls how flustered she became after sharing that bit of information. Almost like she’d said too much. She blushed and asked him if he would tell Alistaire.

He’d been shocked she felt the need to ask. Of course, he would never repeat that. Hell, he fucking hates that house, and when he has to visit, even he needs to take a walk and a shower. There is always something oppressive and unsavory about the place.

At night, Ben’s mind cannot help but wander back to the elusive Mrs. Snoke. He worries for her. The light in her is special. Does Alistaire even know what he has?

Chapter Text

Alistaire S. Snoke

He envies her, her freedom. Why she feels the need to leave so often disturbs him. He likes that she visits the office first thing in the morning. He likes the thought of others seeing his pretty young wife and envying him.

But that is the only thing he likes.

He doesn’t like how she attends fitness classes at the local YMCA. She has no need. She has everything she needs right here. He’d even offered to hire the same teachers to run classes on the estate. When he’d suggested it, she’d wilted. So he relented. He doesn’t like to see her sad.

She likes grocery shopping even though everything they need for their fixed menu and the personal chef are provided. She purchases things just to have them. Inevitably whatever it is, it goes bad. She buys too much. She’d give away what she could, but only the kitchen staff indulged her. Alistaire forbids anything more. His wife is not running a food pantry for a well-paid, and indeed they were well-paid, service staff.

She’d once found a litter of kittens near the barns. The farm cats were necessary to keep vermin out of the horse oats. He’d wanted her for something small and couldn’t find her. He’d sent the staff scrambling to find her. It had taken half an hour to locate her. She’d been playing with the kittens. When she appeared in his room again, ruffled and flushed, beautiful and anxious, he instantly forgave her. He simply asked that she let someone know where she was at all times.

A few days later, she’d appeared unexpectedly after lunch to ask his permission to keep one of the kittens. He’d smiled indulgently and said it was impossible. He was allergic, and when she came to him at night, she didn’t want to make him sick, now did she? No. She didn’t. He’d been extra gentle with her that night.

An invitation arrived for Rey.

One of the society matrons is hosting a bridge tournament for charity. Rey declines the invitation and fails to inform him. When the matron calls him to ask if there is a reason his wife has chosen not to participate, he accepts for her, claiming she must have misunderstood. He doesn’t understand. He asks so little of her. He asks nothing of her except that she consult him before making decisions. He wants to care for her. Teach her. Give her the guidance she needs. And she does this. It’s unacceptable.

Rey Niima Snoke

Outside of his tantrums over his diminished sexual capacity, her husband isn’t violent with her. To be fair, there is very little to be angry about. She does nothing. She asks for nothing. She runs errands and putters in the garden and keeps to herself. That should be good enough.

This night is different. This time he calls her to him early. They eat together in silence, and once his nurse returns him to bed, he dismisses them and calls Rey to his side. Usually, he allows her to bathe and change and visit him before bed. But not this night. This night he welcomes her with a tender caress to her cheek, and like the good girl he wants her to be, she turns into his hand and kisses his palm.

The chuckle in his chest is throaty and warm, and she thinks maybe he is simply starved for affection. On nights like this, she climbs into the bed with him and lays her head in his lap so that he can comb her hair with his fingers while they watch the evening news. Sometimes she sleeps while he reviews papers. She enjoys nights like this when she has his affectionate company.

“Harter Kalonia called me this afternoon. She told me you’d declined the invitation to the bridge tournament. Now, why would you do that, darling?”

She hadn’t thought he’d be displeased, but apparently, she’d underestimated Mrs. Kalonia’s standing in Alistaire’s social circle. Rey lifts her head from his lap to look at him. She’s not yet learned to discern all of Alistaire's cues. Had she been able to tell that it was anger in him, not just concerned curiosity, she’d have expected the blow when it came.

It takes one well-placed strike to cut her lip and stun her. She has no time to react before he has her by the throat. He pulls her into his lap, where she sees the fire in his eyes. For as long as she can see. He is deceptively strong, and with her body sprawled over the side of his bed, she can’t get her feet under her well enough to attempt to escape. His words are vicious, and his instructions are precise as he chokes her. Strangles her until everything ceases to make sense, and she succumbs to the darkness.

She is in and out of consciousness for a while, hardly registering the movement around her. The needle or the lift. When she finally wakes to clear consciousness, she is covered and tucked into her husband’s side. He is asleep, and it’s dark, and except for a sleeping Alistaire, she’s alone.

She hurts as she hasn’t since Plutt. Her face is swollen but clean of blood, thanks to the kind care of her husband’s nurse. Her cheek, jaw, and head throb in time to her heartbeat. Her throat is ravaged to the point that she can make no sound as she cries.

Alistaire doesn’t wake when she slips and crumbles to the floor, her head pounding and chest aching. It hurts to breathe. It hurts to -- everything.

As she makes her way across the floor of his bedroom on her hands and knees, she thinks about her life spent running from monster to monster. Plutt had been a violent, abusive thief that worked her eighty hours a week and starved her. But she was still able to defend herself and feed herself. Now, she knows this man will kill her and feel little or nothing. She’d sold herself into gilded captivity, and there is nothing she can do about it but pray for his death.

The marks on her neck and face are bad.

He’s never left marks like that.

He’s smart, though. They’ll disappear in time for the charity tournament. And the blow she’d taken in the ribs, she doesn’t remember that one, but it makes her ache to breathe. She wouldn’t be running errands anytime soon. And so it makes sense to sleep the following day. She stays in bed and stares at the wall, taking her pain medication like the dutiful wife she is, ignoring everyone and everything.

At some point, Alistaire sends someone for her. The man looks startled at the picture she presents and promptly leaves -- surely reporting back to her husband.

That afternoon, she has someone to aid her with bathing and walking and eating. Then there are the flowers -- the peonies -- her favorites.

She stays in bed for three days. She could have risen in two, but she’s afraid. She wants to hide. Her husband sends word inviting her to have dinner with him, at which point she forces herself to gag and vomit in full view of the housekeeper. The housekeeper quietly reports the incident to her husband, and Rey is granted a reprieve.

The next morning, more peonies are delivered to her bedside.

Benjamin O. Solo

It’s been more than a week, and Ben hasn’t seen her once. Or heard from her.

The person retrieving Alistaire’s materials is a young man. A young man who doesn’t know Rey Snoke has never met Rey Snoke and wasn’t aware that Alistaire was married. He gives it the weekend, and when she doesn’t show up on Monday, he takes it upon himself to visit the Snoke estate under the pretense of discussing something work-related with Alistaire.

Ben knows Alistaire. He knows better than to open their conversation with questions about the man’s wife. And so they spend the next hour talking business. Alistaire wants to know about the office, and Ben wants to know about Rey. So he answers Alistaire’s questions. As he stands to leave, he mentions Rey.

“We haven’t seen her in days. I hope Mrs. Snoke is well.”

Alistaire smiles. “She is well. She had a little accident at the gym and is recovering. I’m sure she’ll be up to her usual domestic antics in another week or so. She is usually in the garden at this time of day if you would like to say hello.

Alistaire does not like to share.

Anything.

He could be sincere in his offer, or it could be a test. Ben has gotten good at taking calculated risks. But this time, he’s too concerned to be overly cautious and will take the consequences as they come. So he thanks the man and shows himself to the back patio and strides toward the rose hedge. She’s deadheading perennials when he finds her. She’s startled to see him. By the time he reaches her, she’s dusted the soil from her knees and blocked the sun with a hand.

“Mr. Solo. How nice to see you.”

He opens his mouth to return the greeting but stops when he sees the cut on her lip. Immediately she attempts to hide it with an anxious bite and the back of her hand.

“I had an accident. I’m fine. It’s so much better than it was.”

“What happened?”

It’s rude to ask, but the bruising is an ugly yellow and green, which means it’s healing, but she must have been hit hard.

“I tripped in the barn and hit a stall door, but I’m fine now. I didn’t want to worry anyone by showing up like this. I prefer my anonymity when I can have it.”

He knows precisely what she means, and he’s not buying the excuse at all.

“Alistaire said you were hurt at the gym.”

Her expression doesn’t change.

“Oh, right. Well, both are true.” Her smile is fleeting, and she can’t make eye contact. “Can I get you some lemonade?” she offers. “It’s so hot this afternoon.”

She moves to walk past him when he captures her arm. She winces, and he knows.

“Rey.”

She doesn’t respond.

“Rey, look at me, please.”

His words are soft and cajoling.

She does. She turns to face him and fixes her eyes on his chest. He can see her heart racing as he watches an artery flutter in her neck. She swallows, averting her eyes.

Then he sees it.

Just inside the cool cotton collar of her button-down. Green and yellow coloring. She picks up on his cues immediately. The clenched fist. The new set of his jaw. His rapid breathing.

“Rey, who did this to you?”

“We really should get out of the heat.”

She moves to leave, but he blocks her. Her eyes flutter up to the estate house, and his eyes follow her gaze. Alistaire isn’t mobile on his own -- there’s no way he can see them. Ben’s confident of that. He takes her by the hand and gently leads her to the lee of the shed.

“Show me,” he says -- pulling his jacket from his shoulders and tossing it over a rusted wheelbarrow.

“Mr. Solo, please.”

“Show me before I take that shirt off your neck for myself.”

She does, and what he sees makes his blood run cold.

“May I?” he asks, hand hovering over the buttons of her shirt as if he had any intention of honoring her consent should she withhold it. Her eyes squeeze shut, tears spilling over her cheeks. She nods. He thinks a few buttons would do it, but it's not enough. He peels the shirt back, and he can’t believe what he sees. It’s the shape of a hand.

Two hands.

Two strong hands.

She attempts to escape scrutiny by burying her face in his shirt, and he allows it for a moment, bringing a careful hand around her head and holding her gently to him as she sobs.

“Rey, darling.”

She shoots back and shoves him hard. “Don’t call me that. He calls me that.”

He reaches for her forearms and tenderly brings her back to his chest. She keeps her arms crossed between them, but she follows.

“Sweetheart. Can I call you sweetheart?”

She’s quiet for a moment.

“Yes,” she whispers, her heart breaking with the effort.

“Can you tell me what happened?”

She moves to wipe her nose on her apron, smearing her cheek with dirt. She nods.

“I declined an invitation. It was important, but I didn’t know.”

“That’s all?”

“Yes.”

“And this is what he did?”

Baleful green eyes meet his. “Yes. He doesn’t do it often --”

“How frequent is not often, Rey?”

She shrugs as she slips her shirt up and over her shoulder and buttons up.

“Rey, how often?”

She blinks as she thinks. “Not often. He’s never done this before. I mean, he hits me -- sometimes, but he’s always had a good reason.”

“There is no good reason to --”

“I mess up all the time, Mr. Solo. I’m not --”

“Ben.”

“Ben,” she whispers, blushing.

“Is there anywhere you can go? Can I help you get away? I can take you right now. We can leave right now. You can leave everything.”

She shakes her head, no, and she means it.

“No. I can’t.”

“Why?”

“I said no.”

“Give me a goddamn reason why not. Just one.” For just a moment, she looks as if she might capitulate, but she doesn’t.

“I need to go back before he misses me.”

He reaches for her hand, but she steps back.

“I mean it -- he’ll send someone.”

Of course, he would. It’s how he is in business; why would he be any different in any other aspect of his life? “Can I call you?”

“No.”

“Can you call me?”

"He'll know. He knows everything."

Ben is speechless.

“I have to go -- Ben. Don’t linger. He’ll take you away from me. He’ll take everything away from me.” She winces as she reaches for her bucket and tools.

“Goodbye, Mr. Solo.”

With that, she disappears into the hedgerows, leaving him behind. He doesn’t linger. There will be time to think about all of this later once he’s gone. Once she’s safe. Once his presence doesn’t put her at risk.

Chapter Text

Alistaire S. Snoke

He knows what she needs to make her happy. His beautiful little wife. She needs children to keep her busy, and he needs someone to inherit and keep his empire intact. He could trust Ben Solo with that, but he needs a child. A son, preferably. He has time, he thinks. Enough life to see her through two or three successive pregnancies should her health and recovery allow.

But now that hope is shot to hell.

Zero percent.

He has no living sperm and probably hasn’t for years.

He’d hoped that IVF would be an option. That way, he could select the sex of the child based on which was which, and once he had two sons, he might have given her a daughter to spoil, but now there is no chance.

His doctor had discussed donor sperm.

Adopted embryos.

But then there would be a record.

Yes, HIPPA should protect him, and yes, he could be generous and secure their silence, but that didn’t keep a clinic employee from squealing once he was dead. No, there has to be another option.

Something that would leave no record.

A child he could claim.

There is one other option. Alistaire considered allowing her a lover before - someone who could do the things for her that she deserved. Someone he could command to touch her the way he wanted to touch her. Someone who could give her the bliss he would give her -- were he capable. Someone who could fuck her with the cock he deserved.

There were options. There was one option in particular. One person he trusted. One who could act as trustee until his son could learn to lead the family empire.

Ben Solo.

It takes several days for Rey to join him in his room again.

She is understandably skittish. He’d gone too far. He knew that. He’d hurt her past forgiving, but he’d win her back. He would be good to her. He would apologize. He would buy her whatever she wanted. He’d buy her a larger diamond ring—a reminder of the weight of his affection.

And he would see Rey satisfied.

In his bed.

In his bed with her and the man he’d make the father of his heirs.

Ben Solo would say yes.

Alistaire would make it impossible for him to say no.

Ben knows what Alistaire’s wife is. He knows how people look at her and lust after her -- how they want her.

Before Alistaire’s injury rendered him bed-bound, he’d witnessed how eyes followed her as she served his table at charity dinners. He’d come to request her service, and she’d been flattered.

Then he was injured. Recovery was painful and partial, and he’d lost mobility and virility. Before the injury, he’d been a strong, healthy man, particularly for a man of his age.

He’s still strong.

He’d offered her a position in his household, and she’d accepted.

He’d investigated her past and learned things that no one else knew. He used that to his advantage and seduced her with wealth and security. A stable place to rest her head. A car for her to drive. Freedom from the abuse she’d suffered as a fosterling. All she could ever want to eat. All he’d asked in return was her company. He hadn’t expected to desire her in the same way others had. But the more she gave him, the kinder she was, the goodness in her, he should have known. He should have known he’d want her.

And he should have known he’d ruin her.

His mind made up; Alistaire doesn’t waste any more time. He summons his protege at the first opportunity. He’d sent Rey out on a silly errand that would keep her happily occupied for hours. Ben arrives half an hour after his wife leaves. Time is short enough, so he wastes none, diving first into business. Alistaire offers Ben lunch, and when Ben politely declines, Alistaire insists. He has something of a personal nature he wishes to discuss.

Something private.

He expects Ben’s first reaction to be one of horror. Alistaire has prepared argument after persuasive argument but what he’s gotten is stoic CEO Benjamin Solo.

Alistaire congratulates himself on his choice of proteges. A lesser man would have protested too much or, worse, agreed too quickly. Ben Solo has done neither. He’s said nothing at all. His face gives away nothing. He simply sits expectantly -- undoubtedly expecting another shoe.

“Why?” Ben asks not so much a question as a demand for an answer.

Alistaire does his best to keep what he believes to be the most embarrassing details to himself, but Ben Solo is relentless. Alistaire should have known. He should be angry. Instead, he’s impressed.

Ben does not agree.

He gives Alistaire nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

Frustrated, Alistaire begins to list the ways in which he is prepared to make it worth Ben’s while. Alistaire suspects there is little that would tempt Ben. Wealth he has. Homes he has. Cars he has. Influence he has. Inheritance he has. In the end, there is only one card to play, and he plays it.

Rey.

Rey is the last card.

“My wife is an innocent,” Alistaire says. “She is kind and deserving. She needs something I cannot give her, and I have given her everything. She trusts you, Ben. She speaks well of you. She likes you. She would be comfortable with you. She might even be happy with you.”

Alistaire lets that settle for a while as he observes Ben. Then he sees it. That flicker in his jaw. That tiny tell that indicates Ben is affected.

Alistaire has one more truth to add, and if this doesn’t persuade Ben, nothing will.

“This is my wife’s future, Ben, whether you choose to be a part of it or not. If it isn’t you, it will be someone else. Someone she doesn’t know, trust, or like. Someone with whom she wouldn’t feel safe. Someone she feared might betray her. If you don’t do this for me, do this for my wife, and I will --”

“Alistaire?”

It’s Rey at the door, knocking before entering, as she is always allowed. When she sees Ben across the table from him, she shies. A look Alistaire particularly appreciates.

His sweet submissive doe.

“I’m sorry; I thought you were alone.”

“Don’t leave, darling. Mr. Solo and I were just finishing up. Come and say hello.”

She moves cautiously, just the way he likes.

“Mr. Solo,” she says softly, nodding her hello.

“Rey,” he says in return.

Alistaire watches Ben carefully and observes nothing but cool assessment. No, Alistaire couldn’t have asked for better.

His wife turns to him.

“The succulents were beautiful. I chose several, but the selection was limited. They expect new arrivals next week, so I’d like to return then.”

“Rey is planting a succulent garden - something beautiful and resilient like my darling.”

Rey blushes at the compliment.

“I’m afraid my hands are dirty, Mr. Solo, or I’d offer you my hand.”

She turns to Alistaire and offers him a chaste kiss that he receives happily.

“You will join me for dinner tonight, darling?”

“Of course,” she said. “I believe it’s the cornish hen, a sweet beet salad with arugula and roasted pumpkin seeds just the way you like.”

“Wonderful.”

She smiles and nods at her husband and turns to Ben. “It was good to see you again, Mr. Solo. Perhaps I will see you next week.”

Together, they watch her leave. Alistaire observes Ben’s gaze. “You see, Benjamin. She’s perfect in every way. I’d hate to see her hurt.”

The turn of Ben’s head and the look on his face tells Alistaire all he needs to know. Ben will consider his options, and when he returns, he will say “yes.” He might not wish the entanglement, but he’d do it for Rey if he wouldn’t do it for Alistaire. Rey would have beautiful children. She would be a beautiful pregnant woman. Rey would experience all the pleasure sex would bring, and most importantly, she would love her life. She might even love him. And if, by chance, the arrangement were to sour?

Well, there were solutions for that as well.

Rey Niima Snoke

Rey is horrified.

“And he agreed to this, Alistaire?”

Her husband nods, a pleased calculating look on his face as he lists all of the benefits of the arrangement. Children. She would have children -- little pawns who would tie her to this man for life. There would be no escape.

Ever.

She is going to be sick. Eyes closed, she catches the bedpost as she rushes to the bathroom, emptying the contents of her stomach into the porcelain bowl.

She sobs and retches again and again.

“Rey?” her husband calls from the bedroom.

She stands on wobbly legs, pausing only to rinse her mouth and gather her wits before she returns to the bedroom.

“Come,” he says, gesturing for her to join him on the bed. She crawls to him as he pats his lap. She rests her head there as he caresses her damp, sweaty hair.

Pets her.

Adores her.

Disgusts her.

It will never be comfort enough.

She cries, hot pools on his fine bedclothes.

“Come now, Darling. It will be well. You won’t be alone.”

“I would never be unfaithful to you,” she chokes on a sob. “I don’t want to do this. Please don’t make me do this.”

“But my darling wants to make me happy, doesn’t she?”

“Always,” she hiccoughs, “but this is too much. Please don’t ask me to do this, Alistaire. I don’t like to be touched.”

“But you like it when I touch you, darling.”

It’s a lie; she knows he knows it, but she nods anyway. Alistaire knows the truth. She doesn’t want this. Would never, ever want this. If she consents, he’ll be convinced she’d only ever tolerate it for him.

And he’ll still love her for it, despite everything. In his own brutal, perverse way, he loves her more than anything.

It goes on like this for an hour. Alistaire attempts to persuade her. She sobs. He comforts. She suffers. He promises her things she doesn’t want, and when she stops responding, he says the only thing that might change her mind.

“You may say no, darling. But I will have this. You can choose Ben willingly. Or I can choose someone else who won’t be so kind. Fight me, and I will see it done, and I will hold you down myself.”

The words slip from his lips, as sweetly and cajoling as they might, when he persuades her to eat beets.

She hates beets.

And she knows what he means. He might pet her hair through the ordeal, but he will see her restrained. He will have her raped again and again until she has no fight left. Until he utterly destroys her. For something only he wants.

Children.

A legacy.

Surely he’ll persuade Ben the same way. Ben’s children would inherit everything. And so, yes. If she didn’t choose Ben, her husband would find a stranger to fuck the will out of her until there was nothing left of her.

Her only decision is no decision.

It’s her salvation.

She’ll choose salvation.

Benjamin O. Solo

The following Monday, she slips into his office under the pretense of fetching documents for her husband. He knew it would come to this at some point, but he isn’t prepared for her wrath.

The moment the door shuts and locks behind her, she throws herself at him. She can’t scream, but she can strike and scratch and cry. She can slap him, bite him, and draw blood, but only for so long.

In the end, he has to restrain her, or Alistaire will know.

Ben catches her failing arms, spins her, and pins them across her chest. He holds her there from behind until she exhausts herself, and he does. Until she slumps against him. The fight gone -- she uses all of her weight to escape his grip, curling her legs until she slips from his grasp.

He goes with her to the floor.

“I will not let you kill yourself over this.”

“No, but you would rape me,” she hisses.

He lowers his voice to match her tone but can’t help gesticulating wildly.

“I will not rape you. Say no, say you’d rather any other option, and I will let you go to whatever fate you choose -- but Rey. He is not lying when he says he would see it through. I only said yes because I thought -- I thought it the safest option -- I could at least spare you something.”

“I can’t do this.”

“Then let’s call the police. I will walk away from this. I will leave this company. I will leave this city. If you are left with nothing, I will see you are provided for. If you want your independence, I will see you freed and leave you to your own devices with no ties to me whatsoever.”

“I cannot call the police.”

Furious, he whisper-shouts at her, “Why not? Why can you not walk away?”

She has to tell him.

She can’t keep avoiding the question.

He has to understand.

“There are people in my life I have to protect. People he can hurt. He can ruin their lives.”

“You have a family? I thought --”

“I have brothers and sisters -- other fosters. I have my chosen family. I have Poe and Finn and Rose and Paige and Kaydel and Tallie. Half have had to resort to sex work in states where they aren’t protected. The other half are working their way through college and struggling. Learning disorders. Mood disorders. He supports all of them, Ben. Every last one of them.”

“And you think he will stop paying for their care.”

“He would do so much more, Ben. You know him, and you know he’s capable. He would ruin them. All of them. And he would watch me suffer while he did it.” She shakes her head, and more tears fall onto her hands and his. “He will kill me to protect his secrets. You know this. There is no way out for me. The least I can do is spare them.”

He can’t look at her, can’t let her words persuade him.

“Ben, they are working so hard, and they all believe I am happily married and have the resources to support them. And they accepted it, not knowing it’s him providing for them.” She chokes on another sob. “I’m stuck. I’m stuck, Ben, and there is no way out.”

Ben falls back on his ass and runs his hands through his hair and over his face.

“You have to tell me what to do, Rey. I cannot do this if you aren’t willing. And you have to know, Rey,” he says. “You have to know that under different circumstances, I would choose you every fucking time. You know that, don’t you? God, please say you know that.”

She can’t bring herself to say it, but it’s true. She wouldn't shrink from his touch. And she might love him.

If only this were a different life.

A different time.

Together, they sit on Ben’s office floor, heads in their hands, resignation seeping into their skin and settling in their bones.

Finally, she takes his hand.

She nods.

He squeezes twice.

“Here, I have something for you.” He helps her up and pulls her behind him to his desk. He presents her with a phone and a passkey.

“This is a burner phone. Call me anytime. No trace. No evidence. Hide it well.” She nods. “This is a passkey for my private entrance. You can come and go -- here, let me show you.”

He takes her to a door in the corner. Through it is a whole other world. An apartment. Sort of. A private bathroom. A small kitchen. A stocked bar. A chaise lounge. A closet full of pressed clothes. A gym bag.

“This is where I sleep when I work late nights. And this is the elevator -- a private entrance. All you need is that key card.”

Rey looks at the unassuming card in her hand. How can he be so kind? How can he --

Rey throws her arms around him, and he catches her - holding her tight.

She says nothing.

He says nothing more.

But they know.

They both know.

Chapter Text

Alistaire S. Snoke

It was exactly as he’d planned.

He’d been thinking about it for weeks. He’s tracked Rey’s cycles for the two years they’ve been married. He knows she isn’t always regular. He’s met with her Ob/Gyn on multiple occasions. He knows everything there is to know about her. Her history of ovarian cysts. One pregnancy. Terminated when she was sixteen. Her unpredictable cycles. Her fear of needles. All of it.

He’d relegated conversations regarding the plan to dinner conversation only. That way, should she become unreasonably upset, he’d have the rest of the evening to soothe her. Slowly but surely, he’d worn her down to acceptance. He’d rewarded her with gifts, a larger diamond ring. He’d forgiven her social gaffe - even called Mrs. Kalonia himself - warning the old cunt not to fuck with his sweet, sensitive girl. Of course, he hadn’t used precisely those words.

He commands her presence at lunch that afternoon. She’s done little more than push lettuce around her plate and stare at the table until he places a prescription pill bottle before her. She looks up at him then.

“Take two of these half an hour before Mr. Solo arrives.”

She looks back down again, reaching for the bottle. Something ending in “pam”. She’s a lightweight. Two will be more than enough. She wouldn’t fight. She wouldn’t defy him. She’d be awake. That’s all he needs.

She takes the bottle, grips it, and thanks him, leaving the table immediately.

“Rey?”

She stops in the doorway to look at him.

“Yes?”

“Please be on your best behavior for Mr. Solo.”

She nods, ready to turn away, but he stops her again.

“And Rey?”

“Yes?”

“Enjoy yourself.”

She nods and looks down at the bottle in her hand before taking her leave.

Rey Niima Snoke

But not too much.

He doesn’t have to say it aloud. Rey knows it well. Enjoy herself too much, and people will get hurt.

She’s fretted and anguished for weeks now. Afraid her husband will be watching, she hasn’t bothered to run her husband’s paperwork. She’s hidden the burner phone in the toe of a boxed designer shoe she never wears anymore. The card key with it. She doesn’t need it. She won’t need it. She can’t risk it.

No matter how much she wants to.

Every evening she and her husband have dinner together, and every evening he asks about her day, and what she’s done, had she enjoyed herself. And every evening, she responds the same way. She’d worked in the garden. She’d attended a yoga class. She’d collected more succulents for the greenhouse.

He asks about her errand running and inquires why she’s avoided the office - knowing full well she is avoiding Ben Solo.

He asks about the evening with the matrons, and she replies that it went well. That she’d lost dutifully, donating many hands to the cause. She doesn’t mention the stares and the frosty looks she’d received from women and their daughters. They’d whispered behind her back. Called her a whore. Called her a golddigger. But she doesn’t care. Her family of friends is safe as long as she plays her part.

Every night she joins him for the evening news, head in his lap, tears quietly falling. He notices and is extra tender with her. Occasionally calling her up to him to caress her cheek and praising her for her goodness. Reminding her of how pleased he will be to have children and how he knows she’ll be happy with a brood about her feet.

A brood, he’d said.

A brood.

So they would do this again.

That night, she wept openly in his arms, and he’d held her close, murmuring words of praise and adoration but never love.

Just as well.

The air hangs heavy the night Ben is to come to the house. The doctor who’d helped track her ovulation informed her husband this morning that the next three days were the most likely for conception. And, so, Alistaire informs her it will be three nights. Not one. He tells her he will be there to comfort her if she finds her role difficult. The idea horrifies her - as it should. She asks Alistaire if Mr. Solo is aware. He is, her husband informs her.

How could he agree to that? How could he want that?

The house is quiet, and the servants, save Alistaire’s nurse, are excused for the night. The room is neat. Alistaire has bathed and dressed in his finest pajamas. Ben is to arrive promptly at 8:30 p.m. Alistaire calls her to him at 8:10 p.m.

“Come here, my love.”

She comes as called to stand beside his bed, where he urges her to sit. She can’t look him in the eye. His hands are on her silk robe and the matching chemise. He’d picked it out, especially for her.

“Very pleasing.”

She says nothing.

“Look at me, darling.”

She does, fire tamped only by fear of him. Fear of tonight.

He runs a finger down her lip, down her neck to her shoulder, and across her clavicle. It’s all she can do not to recoil.

He pinches her nipple, pleased by her gasp. He likes to do that. He likes the little hurts -- likes to hear her whine. He takes her chin and makes her look at him.

“You want to please me, darling. Do you not?”

Eyes brimming with unshed tears, she nods. One escapes, and before she can catch it with her hand, he does. He brings the tear to his mouth and tastes it. Watching her face for a reaction. He wants her to see. See how easily it can turn nasty for her. He hides the threat behind a sickening smile.

“You will do your best to please him, yes?” he asks, threading his long, knotted fingers through her soft dark locks.

“Yes.”

“Yes,” he says, “yes you will, my darling.”

“What will you do?” she asks eyes on the blanket folded across his lap.

He smiles gently as his eyes follow the curve of her cheek and neck.

“I will take my pleasure from yours.”

Her stomach turns, but she nods anyway.

“You will please me, my little darling. Now, return to your room and take the medicine I gave you, yes?”

She nods.

“It will help you relax and ease your way. You will let him fuck you. You will enjoy it. Now go. And return at 8:40 p.m.”

She moves to leave, but he pulls her in for a kiss.

She hates his breath. His foul, sour breath. And when he forces his tongue into her mouth, she almost gags. He chuckles as he lets her go, but not without a firm neck squeeze. A reminder of what’s in store for her should she fail him.

Her bedroom is down the hall. Not too far from Alistaire’s. So she hears the heavy footfall. The firm knock. The sound of her husband bidding Mr. Solo to enter. The door opens and closes.

Wringing her hands, she paces, eyes returning to the orange bottle. Two. Just two. She feels nothing. Surely more is permissible. Surely a little more would be better. Four. Not just two.

She snatches up the pill bottle and takes two more. Two more before she can talk herself out of it.

Rape. She thinks. This isn’t rape. She agreed to this. So it isn’t rape, is it? But she doesn’t want it. She’s being coerced. So it's rape? Then her mind turns to the alternative. Non-consensual violent rape. Violent -- because she would fight. She could only fight. She would lose, but she wouldn’t -- But Ben. She knows Ben. He cares about her. He would never hurt her. Not like that.

No, he wouldn’t. Rey starts to feel it, finally. Cool loopy relief floods her body as she breathes, feeling the bottom of her lungs for the first time in months.

She can do this.

The clock says 8:40 p.m.

She can do this.

She opens the door and closes it behind her, and begins her walk to her husband's room, where Ben Solo waits for her.

Benjamin O. Solo

She enters the room quietly. Head down. Barefoot, so sweetly barefoot. She is so innocent in all this, and he can’t help how his stomach turns. It takes all he has to stay rooted to the spot.

Alistaire said he’d be present, but he hadn’t said explicitly that he’d be in bed with them. Ben is horrified on her behalf and disgusted on his own. He’d hoped to shield her -- spare her from the worst of it by coving her with his whole body. Ben wanted to keep sight of her from her husband, but that isn’t to be. How he contains his rage, he doesn’t know. He only knows he will make it worse for her if he objects.

All that matters is getting her through this night.

Alistaire chuckles.

“She is my wife, Benjamin. She needs my support. Surely you understand; she needs me. She’s shy. She needs encouragement. Not the kind you might give her.”

Ben has no response to that but a nod. A reassurance that he will do as he is bid if only to spare her from the worst. And the worst is before them. They all know it. Alistaire won’t hesitate to act. Still, Ben is his only option if Alistaire hopes to keep his wife together. If it’s even possible. Alistaire needs him. It is the only power Ben has.

Rey approaches the bed at Alistaire’s command, her husband pulling her up next to him, settling her in his arm, and whispering in her ear. He encourages her. Ben can hear. Out of respect, he turns away. Helps himself to the brandy and stares at the wall. He removes his button-down shirt. It’s too formal for the sin he will commit tonight. He knows one thing. He won’t be fully undressing for this. To do that would make it somehow -- worse.

Behind him, he hears the sound of a soft smacking kiss and turns to see Alistaire guiding Rey to the end of the bed, instructing her to kneel and rest on her feet.

An offering.

“Benjamin, she is ready.”

Ben knocks back the last of his drink before turning, forcing his eyes on Alistaire’s as he approaches her. When he reaches the end of the bed, he looks at her, but she doesn’t lift her eyes to him.

“Darling, show Mr. Solo how pretty you are.”

Alistaire can’t see the look of disgust she struggles to contain.

Ben interrupts and places his hands on her shoulders. “That’s not necessary.”

She looks up at him then.

“Rey.”

Alistaire’s voice contains a warning.

“I’m fine. Thank you,” she says.

She slips her silk robe from her shoulders, and it pools about her knees, thighs, and bottom.

She is cold. Immediately he wants to return the fabric to her body. Comfort her. Show her kindness, but all he can read in her face is resignation.

“The rest, my darling.”

Her body siezes.

“It isn’t necessary, Alistaire.”

“You insult my wife, Benjamin.”

His look drops to Rey, who reaches out with one small hand to grasp his wrist. She squeezes, and he relaxes. Her way of consenting. Of warning. “Please,” it says. “Don’t make it harder.” She nods, raising her hands above her head - the universal sign for “help me, please.”

He grits his teeth but does as she asks, catching the soft lace trim of her gown and lifting it slowly up, and over, and off.

She doesn’t dare cover herself, though he sees in the trembling of her arms and the tight grip of her fists that she wants nothing more than to do precisely that. He wants it for her. So much.

“You can touch her, Solo,” Alistaire says. “I know many who would love to trade places with you right now and here she is. Bare and at your pleasure. Go ahead.”

His eyes are stuck on Alistaire when he feels her hands again, on his wrists, guiding them to her neck, placing them, running her hands up his forearms she whispers, “You won’t hurt me. You won’t hurt me. I know you won’t --” she sighs, rolls her head, relaxing under his hands, “-- hurt me.”

She sighs again and guides his hands to her breasts.

She is beautiful. She’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. The most beautiful he’s ever seen her. All he’s missing to make the dream complete is her -- alone -- with him, and --

-- sober?

What the fuck?

She giggles and sighs as she brings his hands down her neck to cover her perfect small breasts. A perfect petite pair. Desire floods his body and he can almost forget their audience. Can almost forgive himself for wanting her however he can have her. No matter the manner in which he can have her. He will have her tonight.

Her green eyes seek his and he’s immediately caught in them. They’re glazed. She’s taken something, no doubt. His heart swells with guilt and pity but he says nothing. Whatever she needs. Whatever she needs to get through this night. And maybe she won’t see how lost he is, how little he cares now that he has his hands on her.

He wants her.

Wants her so much.

“Darling. He needs your help.”

She flinches a little, pulled out of whatever dim place her mind had taken her.

She places her hands on his chest, attempting to get her bearings. He helps her. Holds her hands in place and allows her to explore the solid flesh beneath the cotton of his undershirt, her fingers tracing the sharp contours. His cock twitches shamelessly at her touch. Her wandering hands explore his body on the way down to tug a little awkwardly at the shirt tucked into his pants. He helps her, and in one pull the shirt is over his head, and on the floor.

She sighs and touches him again. He takes a hand to her chin and draws her gaze up to his face.

He’s greeted by her sleepy smile.

No, that isn’t right. She shouldn’t be so --

“Help Mr. Solo with his belt, my love.”

Rey sways a little and blinks, her eyes just a little clearer. Ben’s still concerned, but maybe, maybe she’s okay after all.

But she’s not. She fumbles at his belt and laughs out loud.

“My hands aren’t working. So silly. Silly fingers. Silly girl.”

Fucking hell. What has she done?

Ben tends to his own belt but stops to catch her.

“Feel her sweet little cunt, Benjamin. Feel how tight and wet she is.”

Ben doesn’t hear Alistaire. He’s fixed on Rey. Whatever she’s on -- it’s bad.

“Let me, darling,” she says.

Ben is completely unprepared for Rey to reach between her thighs and drag her fingers through her folds.

Rey holds her hand up in drunken victory, wiggling her fingers for her husband to see, then lurches forward to press her fingers against Ben’s mouth.

She leans forward, drunkenly amused, and she says, “Dry, dry, dry, silly, silly man. Guess you’ll have to fuck me dry, Solo.” She presses her hands to his chest and shoves him. She doesn’t possess the strength or resolve to actually push him away. Instead, she tumbles back on her elbows, shrieking her amusement.

“Rey!” Alistaire snarls, catching her by the wrist, twisting, and dragging her up the bed.

Ben springs into action, grabbing her by the ankle.

It’s the wrong move.

Alistaire yanks her again, and she yelps with pain.

Ben lets her go, spinning around the end of the bed to catch her and drag her from Alistaire’s arms. But he’s too late. He has her by the neck.

“What have you done?” Alistaire hisses.

Face turning red from the pressure she gags and whispers, “Should have taken the whole bottle, darling. What would you do then with your dead little wife?”

The words sting and Alistaire shoves her away, tossing her at Ben. She rolls onto her stomach and into Ben’s arms.

She raises her head and smiles at her husband. Her husband with his mottled skin and blue lips.

Voice raspy, she speaks one last time as she fades from consciousness.

“My darling loves me, Ben Solo. He loves his little wife so much it hurts.”

With that, she’s gone.

Stricken with fear, he lifts her into his arms and carries her to her room, screaming down the hallway for Alistaire’s nurse.

Chapter Text

Rey Niima Snoke

"If you value your life, you will do as I say."

When Rey wakes, she is alone in Alistaire's bed, his nurse beside her.

Rey blinks at the woman, head still muddled. She needs to pee. Rey was sleeping so well, but now -- The night before is a chaotic mess. She remembers some of it but most of it -- did she faint? She remembers feeling drunk -- or high. She remembers how serious the faces were and how she laughed.

Now there are consequences.

Oh, gods, she laughed at them.

"Rey, listen to me."

The whisper is a hiss.

Alistaire's nurse is a kind, stoic woman who has been with him since well before Rey became his wife. She has always treated Rey with empathy and kindness. And right now, her voice is urgent and low. The nurse, a pale, watery woman, is D'Acy, and her words come in a quiet rush as she assists Rey in scooting up, taking her vitals, and checking her eyes.

"Your husband is in the gym with his physical therapist, and I expect him back any moment for his shower. Whatever you did last night -- however you angered him, you have to play this exactly as I say. Follow my lead and perform like your life depends on it."

"You know?" Rey stops short of saying it.

D'Acy's lips pinch thin—a frustrated line of irritation and concern.

"No, but I can guess."

D'Acy urges Rey to lay flat as she busies herself with tucking her in.

"Be still, and don't move until I leave."

Rey goes still, heart pounding. The door opens, and Alistaire's medical assistant, a quiet fellow, pauses at the door.

"Take me to her."

The assistant steps aside.

"How is she?" Alistaire asks -- his words clipped and irritated.

"Her breathing is perfectly normal. If that was all she ingested, then she was never in danger. She'll feel a bit hungover, but she should be fine."

Rey feels his cold eyes on her, assessing every sharp angle and soft curve.

"You said she received some disturbing news last evening?" D'Acy asks.

"Yes." Alistaire's voice is cold.

D'Acy clears her throat and asks, "She hasn't done anything like this before, has she?"

Alistaire must shake his head. D'Acy hums and sits on the edge of the bed, placing a warm hand on Rey's shoulder. "Do you know how she got them?" Alistaire shifts in his wheelchair, and D'Acy breaks the tension with a soft clap and stands.

It was an accident, I'm sure. If Rey meant any actual harm, she'd take the whole bottle. You said six or eight were missing. If she was under duress, she could have panicked and forgotten she'd taken them.

"Twice?" Alistaire says.

D'Acy laughs at this.

"She's a sweet girl, sir, but she's young and not very -- experienced," D'Acy says. "We are all careless and impaired under stress, even the brightest of us. And, forgive me for saying this, but Mrs. Snoke is not very bright."

Under different circumstances, Rey might laugh. But for this, she could be dim. She could be downright stupid and glad of it. So this is the angle they are to play. This is who she has to be if she wants to leave this room with nothing but reddened cheeks and tears.

Fine.

Fine. Rey will do that.

And be grateful.

D'Acy steps forward and stands before Rey's husband.

"If you are concerned -- when she wakes -- simply ask her. There will be no need to pressure her. She's not one for secrets, and I'd be willing to bet she'll be embarrassed and ashamed enough to have learned a lesson. Prescriptions are not candy."

Did Rey imagine it, or was there an admonishment in D'Acy's words?

Rey can't see it, but she's good at reading him. In the way he breathes and speaks, he's softening a bit, and the flood of relief is so complete she struggles to moderate her breathing. She's going to give herself away. She clutches the sheet and remembers to twitch.

Sell it.

She has to fucking sell it.

"If she needs this again," D'Acy says, palming the bottle and handing it to Alistaire, "I think it would be smart to keep it with you so you can mind her intake yourself. Less chance of an accident."

Things grow quiet after that.

She hears her husband take a deep breath. "Leave us," he says to them. His tone is resigned -- and a little guilty.

Rey's attention follows the rattle of the pill bottle as he hands it up to his assistant.

"Wait outside until I call for you."

The moment the door shuts behind Beau, Alistaire's hands are on her. His clammy palms rub her arm.

"My poor girl. My darling little idiot. What have you done?"

She stirs, eyes opening slowly, and pretends she has trouble focusing.

"Alistaire?"

"I'm here, darling. You gave us quite the fright."

Tears -- genuine tears are never far away from the surface. It's a relatively easy sell. She lets them fall and begins to weep in earnest. "I'm sorry. I don't know what happened."

"Hush, now. It was an accident."

She covers her face with her hands and attempts to rise, and when she can, she leans from the bed into his arms.

Sweaty, disgusting arms with hands that hurt.

It is easy to play the part. To apologize profusely, to abuse herself. And Rey does it well. She's had so much practice.

His trust is tentative at first, but the more worked up she becomes, the more convinced he is -- to the point that he draws her into his chair and holds her across his lap. He soothes her with all the careful consideration he gave her early in their marriage.

"There will be other opportunities," he says. "We will try again tonight."

She goes rigid in his arms.

"Tonight?"

"Yes. Again, tonight. Not all is lost, my silly darling."

Sitting up, she searches his face for a clue. Is he testing her? Who is she kidding? Of course, he is. He is constantly trying her, and so she nods.

"It will be well. Now, you must wash and dress and go to the office."

Surely she misheard him.

"What? Why?"

"Your actions last evening were deeply offensive to our guest. You must go to him and make amends."

For a moment, she just blinks at him. After a long moment, she speaks.

"Amends?"

"Beaumont, come."

Alistaire urges her to her feet as Beaumont enters.

Her husband backs up a bit before wheeling himself toward the ensuite.

"What do you mean by amends," she asks as she follows after him. "What kind of amends?"

Alistaire rolls to a stop and turns his head so that she sees only his profile.

"The kind of amends that assuage a man with his temper and tastes."

Rey darts around the chair to face him.

"And what kind of amends are those, Alistaire?"

He looks up at her, sad eyes lightening in vague assurance, and takes her hand in his -- patting the top, all kind indulgence.

"I am sure a simple apology will suffice."

Rey reclaims her hand and steps back. She looks him up and down and cannot read him at all. She blinks a bit before affecting the same casual care.

"Of course. I will go as soon as I can."

Alistaire seems satisfied.

She watches him pass -- watches him until he can't see her anymore.

*****

Rey takes a quick shower and slips into a casual dress. She's careful not to act too quickly or too slowly. She's sure he's watching her somehow.

Somehow.

The trip is roughly forty minutes, depending on if she drives and where she parks. This time she drives, parks in a garage two blocks away, and walks to Ben's private entrance. Sure, she could use Alistaire's parking space, but it's undoubtedly observed in the event he arrives and requires assistance.

Better not to risk it. Be as invisible as possible, if it is possible at all.

The keycard opens outer doors, inner doors, and private elevators. Rey doesn't have the phone Ben gave her, but she can call Ben through the main line from her smartphone if she needs to.

That isn't suspicious.

Or she should have come up through that parking garage. It's not like Alistaire could object. Perhaps she is going about this all wrong. Maybe she's overthinking it all.

The elevator door opens on a private floor; she waves her card, the door whooshes open, and she is alone in his private quarters.

The door whispers shut behind her, and she freezes, taking it all in.

How has Rey never noticed how cavernous the space is? It's not huge but very tall, with shaded windows at least two stories high.

Rey wonders for a second if this room is on a blueprint somewhere.

Silly thought.

Of course, it is. Rey's husband would know, and he probably has something similar. Or had something similar. It matters little now.

She doesn't know what to do with herself. She's never thought past this point. All she wants is to see Ben. Apologize.

It's going to be okay.

It has to be.

Alistaire wants what he wants.

Surely he can't punish her for doing what he demands of her.

As she reaches for her phone, a smooth tone sounds, and a voice fills the room.

"Mr. Solo will be right with you. Please make yourself comfortable."

Rey has to remind herself to breathe.

And wait.

She strolls to the center of the room, turning in a circle, taking it all in.

All around her are wooden closets and cabinets—sleek low lighting and subtle tiles. There is a fridge tucked away behind wooden panels. Granite counters and polished stone floors pour into the fine, soft carpet. A large, swooping leather chaise lounge is at the center of the space. Something she imagined one might find in a psychologist's office. He said he sometimes sleeps here when the days are too long.

It seems he does so in comfort.

As he should.

It's colder than she thought it'd be -- painfully cold, so she pulls a lightweight throw from the back of the chair around her.

It's cashmere. It's soft and comfortable -- like the dozens of sweaters and other pieces of clothing Alistaire's shoppers regularly bring to her rooms. Fussing in and about her closets with things she rarely has the opportunity to wear.

Alistaire's vanity, she supposes.

She'd never seen anything like it. Her dressing space is the size of a boutique. The walls are lined with inset shelves occupied by shoes she'll never don, bags she'll never carry, and more clothing she could ever wear.

Accessories hide behind panels and doors.

Everything is excessive.

Except for her jewelry.

She doesn't have much of that.

It exists somewhere, probably in a safe in the belly of the house.

Alistaire is particular about her jewelry. She has delicate necklaces, bracelets, and sweet little rings: barely-there earrings, maybe half a dozen.

There are days when she looks like a child.

There are days she wonders if he doesn't prefer her that way.

She takes a deep breath to calm the swift beating of her heart.

So, no. Rey's jewelry is reasonable, with one notable exception.

Her diamond engagement ring.

"Rey?"

She spins around, and there he is, the door closing quietly behind him as he all but runs to her. She meets him halfway, throwing herself at him. He's so big he folds her in his arms, holds her, breathes, and whispers her name.

She tries to apologize, but she chokes on the words.

"I -- I'm so sorry. I was -- I didn't know -- Alistaire sent me here to make amends."

He doesn't let her go. He tells her it's okay. It's alright. She did nothing wrong. Alistaire should never have hurt her like that.

As if reminding himself, he pushes her away and holds her at arm's length. He inspects her with his hands and eyes, running massive warm hands up and down her arms and body, and she can't help leaning into his touch, burying her face in his chest, and wrapping her arms around him. All she needs is to be held. To breathe with him. And as if he reads her mind, he brings her closer, chest to his heart, where he rocks her.

He holds her until their breathing is in sync. Their hearts are in sync.

"Did he hurt you?" he whispers.

She doesn't know what to say.

-- not too much.

-- not as bad as he could have.

-- Nothing she couldn't handle.

"Sweetheart?"

"I'm alright."

"May I kiss you?"

She doesn't wait. She doesn't say yes. She toes up and turns her mouth to meet Ben's, and it's everything she's ever wanted in a kiss. His hands slide up her back, neck, and nape, and he holds her there tenderly, kissing her as if she is the most fragile, precious thing in the world.

For a moment, she thinks, why not? Why not run away with him? Why not forget everything and everyone? She'd earned it. She'd given everything. And this precious, wonderful man is all she wants—a life with him.

Her phone pings, and they both startle.

Her first thought is to ignore it, but Ben bursts her bubble with just a few words.

"It could be Alistaire."

He's right.

He's right.

She steps away from him, her eyes on him the entire time, hoping it's not him.

It's not him.

It's her sister, Rose.

ROSE

"Rey, Paige is missing. She was bartending at the gentleman's club last night and never made it home. What am I supposed to do?"

Rey goes completely cold; the phone slips from her hand.

Benjamin O. Solo

He catches it just in time.

Just in time to flip it and read the screen

It isn't Alistaire.

It's someone named Rose, and someone named Paige is missing.

He looks at Rey, and she's completely white. She takes a seat on the chaise and stares at her quaking hands.

"What has he done?" she whispers over and over.

"What has he done?"

Ben squats in front of her, brushing her hair away from her face.

"Who is Paige?"

"Paige is my sister. We lived together in a group home. Paige is the oldest. Rose is her younger sister. We are best friends. And now she's missing."

"Let me help you find her."

Rey looks at him as if she is seeing him for the first time.

"You can't. Nobody can. She's an easy target. She's a recovering addict. She's the most vulnerable of all of us. If she's missing," a tiny sob escapes her lips, "If she's missing -- it's Alistaire. And it's my fault."

"It's not your fault."

"It's my fault. Alistaire is punishing me. For last night. I made a fool of him, and this is how he repays me. He's taken her. And I can't get her back."

"We can get her back -- I can --"

"You can't. He'll kill her. He'll make her disappear for good. We'll never find her."

If he weren't so worried for Rey's safety -- he'd succumb to the rage barely concealed beneath the surface. Had it been anyone else -- Had it not been her --

He tells himself he can't give in to it. He could lose her just like that.

"Tell me what you want to do."

Rey's eyes close, her lips pursed, and she nods in defeat. When she looks at him again, all he can see is hopeless grief.

"I wish we'd met before this. I wish we could have known one another under different circumstances --"

"It doesn't matter, Rey. I love you."

"I love you," he says again.

He tucks her hair behind her ear, and he says it again.

"I love you."

"You love me?" she whispers.

"I do."

Oh, he wishes he could say it with joy, but all he can manage is the facts. Facts might help her. Romance? There could be no romance, not like this. But there could be sympathetic, authentic, selfless love. And he loved her. He did. He could love her in all the ways that matter, but she needs to know, and he needs her to see that she can trust him. He will help. He will keep her safe until she is ready to sacrifice her family. Until she has no choice. And she will. She will lose them all.

He wants to do something, but he can't. Not without Rey's consent. She'd never forgive him, and Alistaire would never let her go. He'd kill her first. For now, they will have to play the game, and when Rey is ready when the time is right, they can escape.

But not without her. Not without her whole, confident, fearless self.

"We have to do it," she whispers. Then she looks at him. "We have to do it tonight. But, Ben. I don't know how. I can't bear to have him watch."

He purses his lips and presses his forehead to hers.

"Yes, you can. I can protect you. You won't have to look at him. You'll look at me, and we will make ourselves believe there is nobody else in the world. I will cover you myself. I will shield you. You won't have to look at him. I won't let you hear him. And when you come, it will be for me and me alone."

"How?"

"I'll speak to you every step of the way. All you have to do is let go. Pretend it's just us. Give yourself to me, put yourself in my hands, and I will make you forget. Just -- let me. Sweetheart. Trust me."

It would be easy to lay her back on the chaise, comfort her, and show her how it could be done, but time is short. So Ben kisses her. She's stiff and unyielding.

"Trust me," he whispers in her ear. "Let go. I will be your teacher. I can make you forget."

Her beautiful hazel eyes are locked on him. She nods. Slowly. She leans into him, wrapping herself around him and slipping into his lap, letting him cradle her as she straddles his thighs.

"I love you," he whispers.

"I love you," she whispers.

"I love you; I love you, I do."

Chapter Text

Alistaire S. Snoke

He times her. From the moment she leaves to the moment she returns.

She’s a good girl. She’s always a good girl. She comes to him directly. Not a hair out of place. His precious girl is faithful.

As she should be.

She has everything she wants or needs here with him, and he will keep her safe and care for her despite her foolishness.

Every day.

For the rest of their lives together.

And after, when she is alone. She will need nothing -- want for nothing.

He has cared for her since he first met her when she served his table at the Governor’s ball.

She’d replaced some fool who’d mistakenly served him pumpkin puree soup, and before it landed on the charger in front of him, a sweet petite hand met the dish and swept it gracefully away. It was so subtle he might not have noticed had it not been right under his nose.

He presumed she’d ordered it away as well; she should, when she knelt discreetly next to him and asked if he preferred minestrone or if she should have something made solely for him. He’d been so surprised by her genuine care that he’d been left speechless. He simply nodded for the minestrone, and with a discreet snap of her finger, it appeared before him with a ramekin of Parmesan.

When she confirmed he required nothing more, she slipped away and disappeared between the tables.

Harter Kalonia, his long-time friend and the wife of his deceased business partner, was seated to his right. “It is so hard to find good help these days,” she’d said. “You’re fortunate she’s here. I should speak to the chef. They know your allergy well enough by now.”

There was no need.

What he had was perfect.

She was perfect.

She stayed near them all night -- presumably at the direction of the banquet manager.

Harter had the eye of a hawk.

She pretended to be casually watching the room when in reality, she was scouting the service with her wicked hostess’s eye. He was enjoying his wine when he heard her cluck -- that sound she made when she was horrified or impressed. He knew that sound by now.

Harter.

His make-shift wife for these twenty years.

“She sent it all back.”

Alistaire’s eyes followed Harter’s.

It was the girl again.

Sure enough, eight servers rushed down the side wall to the kitchen, presumably to attend to their entrees.

“I can’t believe it.”

Harter, the nosy old bitch scanned the room for the banquet manager, caring less for the food than the potential gossip.

What was one more rubber chicken dinner to any of them?

But Harter loved her Chicken Picatta no matter how it was prepared.

The young lady appeared at their elbows and offered them a mahi-mahi or salmon dish instead. There was an excellent vegetarian carbonara. Not that it mattered. What mattered was that eight people at the head table, including the Governor and the First Gentleman, were enjoying the finest meals they’d had at this hotel.

And there had been many over the years.

She’d served them personally, providing several sauces for them to choose from should they prefer it. She even poured Harter’s hollandaise, and when it wasn’t to Harter’s taste, the young lady slipped the plate away and immediately replaced it with another, ready to please.

Harter was struck dumb.

For once.

Halleluiah.

The girl was perfect.

She later returned to check glasses, direct a sommelier, and confirm coffee and dessert orders -- neither for him, thank you.

She disappeared during the program and met him back at his table when he returned to his seat with his “Philanthropist of the Year” award (his sixth in twenty-five). She had sparkling wine ready at the table and offered to take the heavy thing and have it packed and ready for him, waiting in his limo.

All he could do was nod and smile.

He never smiled.

Never.

Several other guests at the table mentioned to the Governor that she should hire her for their events. He was thinking the same thing.

He learned her name that evening.

Harter did too.

After that, it was a race to win her service.

Alistaire won.

As Alistaire always did.

Harter pretended to be merely inconvenienced when they both knew she was mightily offended.

Of course, the point of service was to blend seamlessly into the environment, but when it came to Rey, it was simply too inadequate a state to bear. So, when he hired her for his annual holiday party, he requested her and a team of her choosing. He then gave them a generous dress allowance to afford semi-formal service attire, something black and elegant.

It worked. The servers moved in and out of the 100-person crowd like merry spirits. Rey, most of all. She saw to him herself. She caught the eyes of his senior partners. She was so practiced and easy; several asked how they were related. Imagining, he was sure, that he had a child somewhere and she might be a granddaughter or a niece.

He saw their interest.

The audacity.

The assumption.

The only giveaway was her shoes. Not that anyone would bother to look at her old, flat, worn service shoes. She was a student, he’d learned. Of course, maybe she couldn’t afford dress shoes she’d rarely wear. And given the opportunity, surely she would choose other matters over a new pair of shoes. Maybe she struggled.

Alistaire wanted to know more about this beautiful, frugal, responsible girl. Before the night ended, he’d ordered a private investigation to learn all he could about her.

There was something special about her -- how she didn’t trust anyone else to serve him. Then there was Harter, who adored her and ran her ragged.

Harter mentioned in passing that she wanted her on her household staff.

That night, the girl named Rey banished a whole chafing dish of beef Wellington because she knew Senator Pryde’s wife was allergic to the mushroom base.

Later that evening, Rey removed a server from the floor for offering a woman a shrimp mousse crostini when he’d been advised the woman had a shellfish allergy.

That particular woman being Senator Pryde’s mistress.

Snoke didn’t hear about it until the next day, how Rey had raised hell, pointing out that it was mentioned in the contract that the mushroom base was to be substituted with a red-wine reduction.

Such a smart, capable girl.

That night, Rey dedicated herself to exclusively serving Harter and the senator’s wife. Harter, with her never-ending evolving preferences, kept the girl busy to a point past Alistaire’s bearing. His Rey, however, never once gave the slightest hint of irritation. She seemed pleased to please Harter. And Harter adored her.

No way Harter could have her.

He wouldn’t let it happen.

By the time the firm’s holiday party arrived, they were at a posh boutique hotel, and Snoke insisted that Rey’s team replace the age-old staff -- the original staff. They’d been greatly offended until presented with an astonishing gratuity.

They’d been happy to hover on the periphery that night should the young woman have needed them.

She hadn’t, but she asked their advice and deferred to them regarding their recommendations. Some of their recommendations. Not all. But they didn’t mind at all. She respected their experience.

She was marvelous.

They adored her.

She was perfect.

That night, Snoke left nothing to chance. He had his secretary attend to the uniform and styling, including any beauty routine or service, needed to make the servers equal to the guests.

Including finer shoes.

That night, Rey served him in a beautifully modest, elegant dress that fell just below her knees. Somebody swept her hair around the base of her neck, and she was as perfect as he imagined she could be. Save the fake pearl earrings.

She deserved real pearls.

She deserved diamonds.

He watched partners follow her with curious eyes and wives with barely concealed distaste. But Rey. Rey seemed above it all, as Rey should be. Rey had lived thrice the life anyone else in this room had lived.

He had the papers on it.

She was orphaned and abandoned at an early age.

She was bright, precocious, and a little too much for any couple seeking a mild-mannered child, which is funny. She is now perfectly mild and beautifully mannered. Based on his reports, it coincided with her entry into the fine dining industry. Paired with her required attendance at scholarship dinners for her many sponsors.

So, necessity -- likely.

Hunger could do that to a person.

Again, this night she was perfect.

As she was always perfect. If not perfectly refined. That could be fixed.

He didn’t realize his eyes had been on her the whole evening until he couldn’t find her.

He asked for her.

She couldn’t be found at the moment, but did he need anything else?

No.

He needed nothing else.

Wanted no one else.

Then he did a thing he’d never done.

He’d gone looking for her himself.

He should have known that was the beginning of the end for him. Or was it the end of the beginning and everything else that inevitably followed?

She could be cornered.

She could be hurt.

Someone could have her.

Someone who was not he.

And that was unacceptable to him.

He wasn’t an imposing man, but he was strong. His steps were certain -- his countenance was grave. The sound of his heels on stone sent men scrambling.

It was how he found Rey.

She was in the alley behind the kitchens.

Easy prey.

For a predator -- not him.

He was no predator.

She jumped the moment the door swung open and ricocheted off the brick siding -- sending her scrambling, shoes in hand, eyes wide with fright. The moment she realized it was Alistaire, she deflated, dropping her shoes and sagging against the wall in relief.

“I’m sorry,” she’d grimaced.

“What’s wrong?” he’d asked.

Her hands fluttered before she indicated her heel.

The goddamn shoes he’d bought her were tearing up her feet.

The flash of anger he felt was cooled only by the guilt that followed. This was his fault. He had hurt her. He hadn’t wasted a moment, scooped her into his arms, and walked her back through the kitchen to a side room, less crowded than the kitchen offices. There, he lowered her to a settee, pulled an elegant kerchief from one pocket, and placed it over the tattered flesh to staunch the bleeding.

He’d been a strong man then. Exceptionally so, given his age.

Doors opened and closed behind him, and soon a small army of attendants was at his side. Ice for the young lady. Cool towels and bandages for the young lady. Slippers were gifted to the young lady by the concierge.

That was the first night he’d called her darling, and she’d received it with all the warmth and care with which it was intended.

She liked him.

Nobody liked him.

But somehow, she did.

He sat with her until she shooed him away, insisting she was fine. He ensured she’d be supervised, directed the staff to dispose of the shoes, and made arrangements for her safe and secure return to her home.

Her home.

The thought of it haunted his thoughts for the rest of the night.

She lived in a tiny apartment in a dangerous neighborhood.

He could do something about that.

Nine days later, Rey’s apartment building was deemed uninhabitable. Something airborne, noxious, mold, maybe?

It took everyone by surprise.

Rey was temporarily relocated to a hotel, along with all the other residents.

None of the residents.

She never questioned it. Even after the life she lived, she was naively buoyant with hope.

And she deserved everything.

And he never believed it more than he did immediately following the automobile accident.

She was so naive then.

She is naive still, to an extent.

She’s become wiser since.

And he is proud of her for that.

How she suffocates her true feelings.

She’s upset at the moment, but one can easily imagine she’d done nothing more than kill another orchid.

He’d buy her another orchid.

He’d buy her thousands.

He’d commission a new species and name it for her. It would be sweet, resilient, and uncommon, just like his uncommon wife and their uncommon love.

She hides it, but she isn’t easy.

Something has happened to upset her.

Good.

She should be upset.

Suspicious.

And the way she hides it -- impressive.

She must have heard from Rose.

Probably around 10:21 a.m.

According to the records.

But what would he know about that?

“My darling, you seem troubled.”

He gestures for her to join him at the table, where lunch awaits them both.

She smiles at him demurely, the way he likes. The way that reminds him how much she relies on him defers to him, prefers him.

It’s exactly as he likes it.

He can read it in the soft curve of her shoulder -- the modest dip of her head as she stares at her hands.

She will perform for him tonight.

She will do her duty.

Beaumont gets her chair for her, and she purses her lips -- fighting the instinct to thank him and every other household servant.

It had been a hard lesson for her to learn that they preferred that she behave in the manner of the lady of the house. They all had roles to play, and they found her effusive appreciation unnerving.

And so she relented, her light shining a little less, but the demure, somber glow was gratifying. She knew her place now. They knew her place, and society knew her place. When he showed her off, her glowing skin and rounded belly, beautifully, made her the picture of radiant, beautiful health and happiness; they would be reminded of his place. Remind them that he would always be there. His sons. His daughters. His pretty wife. A paragon of desire. They would want to be him as they always had, even in death.

Now, she is the brightest gem in the family jewels.

And how he wishes to lavish her with gifts.

But it has to wait.

She just needs this tight little reminder that every move she makes counts. If she performs tonight, she will find her friend in another rehab facility. Should she fail, Paige Tico might be found in a river. It all depends on tonight.

“My love, are you well?”

Rey tinkers with her spoon, chasing a vegetable around a tomato broth, deep in thought and far away from the meal before her.

“Darling?”

She snaps back to attention, apologizing profusely.

“I’m not feeling well today.”

He nods understandingly, reaching a clammy palm for her cold hand.

“If you wish to lie down, darling, go ahead. Shall I send you the masseuse? Shall I have a special broth made for you?

She passes on the massage and nods yes to the broth.

The broth will settle her.

He nods kindly and kisses her hand.

“Take yourself to bed, darling. Rest.”

“Thank you,” she says, standing.

“And Mr. Solo was kind to you, I hope.”

She looks up at him without guile.

“He was kind.”

She bends to kiss his forehead and squeeze his arm before disappearing.

Yes, she would have beautiful children, and it would happen, and once he had what he wanted, and once he was dead and buried, perhaps, he’d give her to Solo. The man seemed pleased with her, and what better way to have his sons raised than by his protege?

Perhaps.

Perhaps not.

Benjamin O. Solo

The day has been excruciatingly long. He’d done nothing in the hours since she’d left but wished he could be done with the day. But he can’t. He doesn’t have that freedom. One small change in his usual routine would stand out to those watching.

And he knew they’d be watching.

Whomever they were.

They all worked for him.

So he doesn’t go home.

Workaholic Ben Solo would work as late as possible. Workaholic Ben Solo would shower here and then go straight there, as he would with any professional duty. Workaholic Ben Solo would always do what Alistaire expected.

Alistaire wouldn’t see the anxious, thoughtless shower. He wouldn’t be seen selecting his clothing with care.

Something soft and unintimidating. Something comforting to hold on to. Something that could be easily pulled down and pushed aside so that they could do what was necessary as discreetly as possible.

Laughable.

But not funny.

Anything he could do to make it easier for her.

If he can get her wet enough, he can contain himself and make it nothing more than a grunt and a grind. But Alistaire wants him to make her come. Rey’s doctor told the man it would make conception more --

Just so.

Ben suspects Alistaire wants to see what a woman looks like when she climaxes.

Ben can make it easier if he has permission. And he will ask for permission to assist Rey. The act might push her past humiliation into acceptance and make the path easier so that when he fucks her, it might seem the less salacious of the two acts. At least to her.

He has some bargaining to do.

He leaves the office at 7:30 and takes the long, dark, winding drive to the Snoke estate. When he arrives, there are only a handful of people there. The housekeeper holds the door for him as she leaves, saying politely that Alistaire would be pleased to see him. The groundskeeper and kitchen assistant follow, locking up. There are only four of them in the house tonight. The fourth is Alistaire’s body servant.

She will be up in her room, tucked away, anxious and fearful. There hadn’t been time to discuss how this might go, and in truth, it might be better that she doesn’t know -- one less thing to think about until there is nothing left to think about.

And the request he is about to make of Alistaire -- it is a big request.

“You want to hurt her, then.”

Alistaire doesn’t reply, but his nose flares -- a sure sign that he’s been caught out.

“You want her to hate me, and you think that will get you what you want? You’d let your pride get in the way --”

Alistaire cuts him off.

Fine.

Do it.

Ben gets his way. Alistaire doesn’t like it at all, but Alistaire’s ask is extraordinary. The man has to concede something; this is a small request in the grand scheme. It might be mortifying for her, but it would at least give her a chance to climax.

If she ever learns how her husband speaks of her so casually. If she had any inkling of the fact that Ben spent twenty minutes arguing the necessity of using something other than his fingers to get Rey to the point that she could take him -- If she ever learned that Alistaire suggested he be allowed to hold her while Ben performed the act --

And so Ben has his way in this.

He prays Rey will forgive him.

There is a light rap on the door, and there she is, barefoot, bruised, and beautiful. And Ben loves her. He loves her so fucking much.

Rey Niima Snoke

Did she even see Alistaire? She can’t recall.

He’s here.

Ben is standing at the foot of the bed, waiting for her. He said to keep her eyes on him. He said it could be just the two of them if she could just make herself believe it. If she could fill her eyes and ears and heart and hands with him, it could be the two of them alone. He said he would protect her, shield her, and help her. And standing here now, hands at her side, looking up at him, she believes him.

So she closes her eyes. She squeezes them so tightly she hears a low roaring in her ears. The sound of her breath in her body. The fluttering of her heart in her chest. The warmth of his hand as it envelops hers, coaxing her fingers open and massaging the palm of her hand. A frisson of excitement shoots from her hand to her heart, from her heart to her belly, and grows warmer with each passing second until she can’t quite see beyond their circle of two.

Just him.

Breathes in.

Shaky breath.

What if she likes it?

What if she can’t hide it?

What if --

What?

What choice does she have?

She takes a deep breath and leans her forehead into his chest, absolutely melting when his hand slides up her back to cup her neck and pull her gently closer.

“It's going to be okay,” he whispers into her temple. Too low for Alistaire to hear.

Alistaire.

Ben shushes her and presses his lips into her hair.

“He’s not here. Remember that. It’s just us.”

“Just us,” she breathes, resting her cheek against the broad expanse of his chest. He smells so good, and he makes her feel so safe, but --

“Are you ready to start, Sweetheart?”

She doesn’t look, just nods against his chest.

“Good, then.”

She looks up at him, and for a moment, it works; she forgets there's a man behind them watching their every move. She leans up on her tiptoes to offer him her mouth -- foolish move. Before she gives herself away, he dodges her and goes for her cheek, her jaw, and nuzzles into her neck. And, oh gods, the electric thrill of it.

She’s okay.

They’re alone.

Just the two of them.

He is tasting her throat, neck, collarbone, and the slick, hot warmth of his tongue, the suckle and pull of his lips, and the tiny bite of his teeth have her hand flying to her mouth to smother a whimper.

He hums against her flesh as if to say it’s okay.

It must be okay.

He’d have talked to Alistaire about all of this first, right?

Why hadn’t she asked? Easy. Because it didn’t matter. Her husband would engineer failure and revel in her punishment. But she can trust Ben. He has a way with her husband. She has to trust Ben. She has no other choice.

A large hand covers her shoulder and coaxes the delicate strap of her chemise down one arm -- while his mouth and teeth, and tongue paint a fiery path across the other shoulder. It is so hard to just -- how is she supposed to not melt under such sweet attention? It’s been years. So many years. Just as she begins to squirm, he returns to her jaw and nips his way up to her ears. He whispers, “I’m going to lift you.”

He moves so fast she can’t react with anything other than startled surprise. She teeters forward and throws her arms around his neck to keep from falling and buries her face in the curve of his neck, hiding her face in her hair as she tries not to hear the hiss of amusement coming from up the bed.

Her face flashes hot, and a sob catches in her throat when Ben’s arms crush her to him -- a threatening rumble reverberating in his chest. So loud she’s sure it frees her from Alistaire’s eyes. He isn’t looking at her now. He isn’t smiling now. He’s looking at Ben and Ben’s possessive fingers, bruising and tight about her hips and back, and she can feel the power shift.

Or maybe not.

It’s all Ben now. The man against the pillows is silent.

“Shut your eyes,” he demands -- “now.”

He spins her so fast and far that she can only cling to him, legs about his waist as he deposits her on top of Alistaire’s dresser. The one across from the bed. She lands on the back of her bottom with the force of the move and scrambles, struggling to keep her balance. He catches her and holds her close. He presses his lips to the top of her head and apologizes.

She leans back just so far. His hand and thumbs span almost the entirety of her waist and the swell of her hips, and she couldn’t escape if he wouldn’t let her, and she is struck again by precisely how much bigger he is than she.

“Ben? What are you --”

“Keep your eyes on me --”

She shifts to see around him, but he catches her by the chin, his brown eyes pleading.

“Rey, don’t. Please.”

The desperate tone of his voice stops her in her tracks.

“If you see him watching us, you might freeze, and I can’t do this if I know I’m hurting you.”

She reaches up to press one hand to his cheek, her eyes chasing his to the other.

“I love you,” he whispers - his voice is harsh and low.

She lunges for him, desperate to kiss him, but he catches her. Stops her.

“Don’t.”

The words are firm.

So she stops.

“Please.”

She nods, a little breathless at the charge. She wants him. She needs him. She wants -- She wants.

Forehead to hers again, he ducks to slide a hand up her calf. He squeezes her calf and takes a deep breath. sharing hers, and it’s all she can do not to throw her arms around his neck and kiss him anyway.

She needs him.

She’s not afraid.

It’s just him.

Just him.

Just them.

“Okay,” she nods. “Okay.”

He nods back and takes a breath and presses his cheek against her temple as he slides his hand higher on her thigh, to her hip, and when his fingers reach her panties she squeeks and jumps. His stern look is desperate.

“Do you want to keep them on?”

No. No, she doesn’t.

She shakes her head, and he looks relieved.

“Thank the gods, I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to make it w--”

“Just take them.”

He nods and goes to work lifting her gown, careful to move slowly enough not to spook her, yet fast enough to get through it as quickly as possible. He worries she might not -- or maybe she -- either way. There is no way to win.

Her feet point as he slips them down her legs to the floor.

“Ready?” he asks.

She nods her consent. She’d never thought this far. She isn’t ready. She isn’t wet enough --

“Please, sweetheart, keep your eyes closed.”

She looks up at him and nods. He looks so sad.

She isn’t surprised when he hitches one arm under her thigh, but when he doesn’t reach for his pants, she’s confused. And when he lowers himself to his --

“What are you doing?” She can hear the panic in her own voice.

He doesn’t stop until he’s on his knees on the carpet before her. And she knows. Her head snaps up, and somehow she catches herself and crushes her eyes closed, digging her teeth into her lower lip.

She can’t help scooting back -- legs closed and only the sound of his quiet pleading stops her from fighting him. She opens her eyes to look down at him, and he’s breathtaking like this. Her fear turns warm, and she feels that little twinge and pulse, and she nods almost imperceptibly.

His hands slide up the outside of her thighs, and, firm on her knees, he coaxes her legs apart.

She can’t help her body’s response -- how she opens her hips but can’t part her knees. He does his best with it, pressing his lips to her leg and using his hands to warm her thighs, up her knee, and down to her hip. He kisses the outside of her ankle, then the top of her foot, and then her instep, and her attention is pulled to him. The room about her fades, and he’s relieved. So relieved.

“The bed, boy.”

Her husband hisses, and she panics. Eyes open, she expects to see him scowling and angry, but instead he’s… He’s smiling.

Ben stands and catches his breath, and she presses her hands into his undershirt-covered chest. She whispers, “It’s okay. The bed.”

He lifts and carries her to the bed, sitting her down gently, one wary eye on his boss, and then he returns to her, pressing her back, her hands covering her eyes.

The moment his mouth closes around her cunt, she cries out in surprise, flying into a sitting position. Ben’s unholy gaze is on her as if to tell her to be quiet, close her eyes, and lie back. And so she does. Knowing Alistaire must be watching her and winding her hands and wrists into panicky knots against her chest.

At the first gentle suckle and tug of his lips, she suppresses a cry, but she can’t help the way her back bows. And when his tongue dances sinewy path up her slit, her eyes screw tightly shut, and she bites her lips so hard she tastes blood.

Above her, she can hear rustling clothes and heavy breathing, like he… like he might be... Enjoying this?

As wicked as it would seem, Alistair, lost in his own world, doesn’t feel as intrusive. He is downright distracted, and she feels almost alone in her - oh, gods - the way Ben’s tongue presses in perfect progressive circles around her clit. And the flat-tongued laving and long dragging sweeps up her center.

Her whole body coils tight, and her hands cover her mouth as she moans, eyes screwed so tight she sees only patterns. She is going to die, she is going to die.

She is going to be sick.

Above her comes the sound of spittle and the tentative jerk of a hand growing more and more confident.

She reaches desperately for Ben’s shoulders, and in an instant, he’s crawled up her body to her ear.

“Me. Focus on me. Just you and me. Say it.”

She silently chants it as Ben fumbles with his pants. Desperation, passion, and panic are driving him. If he can just keep control, he can keep her safe.

The bed dips, and Ben’s knees and thighs are beneath hers, his heavy body wrapped around hers, his hands fumbling to find the wet path to her core.

The grunting coming from the head of the bed is horrifying, and she turns a red, panicked face into his chest. He pulls her to him and does his best to align himself, probing at her entrance, clumsy and slippery and hot.

“Please,” she begs, “just do it.”

Alastair moves faster, panting wetly.

No, no, no, no, no.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers sincerely. “I wish it were different.”

She arches and screams when he drives into her.

But no.

He tries again.

No. It isn’t enough.

She sobs, dismayed and destroyed.

“Wait, just a second. Let me try.”

He takes her knee and presses it to her chest, angling it flat against the bed and giving thanks to all the Yoga gods as he begins to slide into her perfect heat.

Her eyes fly open wide in surprise, but then her breath hitches and she moans long and deep. The slide is slow, and she is so fucking tight he’s not sure he’ll make it all the way in before he… before he.

She beats him to it. The moment he’s fed his cock all the way in. The moment he presses the heel of his hand into her belly, the moment he moves, long, strong thrusts, he falls to cover her again and whispers to where only she can hear.

“Come for me, sweetheart. I don’t think I last -- “

Her body siezes, back arching, she cries out, her body jerking as he chokes and lets go, lets the thick ropes of cum spurt again and again as his hips jerk out of his control, drawing base animal noises from his chest and pulling from him more and more until he can’t breathe and she can’t breathe.

They’re still at the peak of a perfectly timed shared orgasm when Alistair spurts two chunky little dribbles of jizz, staring in wonder at his fingers and the lovers before him, at the height of shared ecstasy.

He uses his thumb. And with a choked, raspy sound of triumph, he uses the mess to paint a cross on the forehead of his wife.

A vile benediction.

She jerks.

Once.

Twice.

Then she turns her face into the sheets and vomits.