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Chapter Text

Giedi Prime, 10191 A.G.

Nothing but bleakness.

No matter the season, no matter the weather, Giedi Prime was always ever bleak. There was no snow in winter; the air’s toxicity prevented ice crystals from forming. No landscape changed with the advent of spring or fall; nothing but trees planted for lumber grew on Giedi Prime. And around the year, the merciless sun cast the world in darkest shadows and white light so intense it hurt her eyes.

Even the mountains were filled with fire and covered in poison.

She rarely ventured outside the keep, much less outside Barony.

Barony. A Moloch, always hungry for more – more life, more light, more joy, the devourer of Giedi Prime’s children one generation after the other. The city, if one could even call it that, stretched for dozens of miles in each direction and easily pushed through the dense, discoloured clouds. Up here, sitting on the shoulders of this malevolent giant, hidden from the surface by shrouds of condensed vapours, it was easy to forget that the rest of the planet even existed.

Not that there was much to be found beyond Barony’s towering walls and deep pits but the misery of a ravaged people in a ravaged land. The few smaller cities were too crowded, too dirty, reeking of resignation and cynicism and littered with entertainment that served only to further erode in each person whatever remained of their human longing for dignity and integrity.

The only concerns of Giedi Prime’s lords had always been to uphold the steady stream of young men and women into their service, and the continuous industrial exploitation of the planet’s natural resources that funded their expansionary agenda and the dizzying cost of importing food they could not grow themselves.

Eating away at its own flesh, Harkonnen culture was cannibalistic at its core. As soon as one limb was gnawed down to the bone, it had to be replaced, usually by some new world beyond the Known Universe that lacked the means to ward off predators. At its seams, threads of boundless violence, fear and deprivation strained to hold this obscene construct together.

Tearing her gaze away from the vista of Barony behind one of the thick, transparent panels lining the long corridor, Arafa turned to leave. Years after Feyd-Rautha had pulled back the curtain of suavity to let her view the truth of his nature for the first time, right in this place, she had made it a habit of coming here. It helped her think.

There was little else to do for her, anyway. Just how much time she would have on her hands had blindsided her at first. So much time. Giedi Prime had not had a baroness in two generations, and thus did not know what to do with one. To dispel the leaden boredom that had threatened to take hold of her in the first few weeks, she had begun to take these long walks through the keep, and to fill her days with learning.

On first sight, there was not much to Giedi Prime’s culture other than fearful worship of terrible gods disguised as human sovereigns, and an endless struggle to avoid the deadly wrath of a superior. If one took but a second look, and delved just a bit deeper, however, one would find cultures of the people, new and old, low and high. Stories and histories, myths and beliefs, even arts had been thriving even in a world as parched as this one.

It seemed that all human existence, no matter how pathetic or miserable, produced something worth studying.

Her companion chittered.

“Oh, you need an invitation now? Come,” she said and paused until the creature was back at her side. The sound of its eight little hands moving along the keep’s sleek floors had long stopped making her skin crawl.

Outside the baron’s suite, it was always with her. She had tried to get rid of it, but Feyd-Rautha had not ordered the creature to stay away, and it would not listen to her. Every morning, it was waiting for her, its glistening, round eyes glued expectantly to the door it knew she would emerge from.

There was really no need to speak to the creature. It had no ability to answer. Yet by now, Arafa was pretty sure that it remembered everything it heard and saw, and that Feyd-Rautha had some way of extracting that information. What other reason could there be for the spider’s relentless pursuit of her company? A spider – that was what the creature most resembled, with its eight legs, shiny black skin, and flat face. There were parts of it, though, that had clearly been grown from human DNA, like the legs – human arms with hands.

She had never asked, but there was no doubt that it had been created by the perverted minds and machinery of the Bene Tleilax.

The corridor stretched for hundreds of yards with few intersections. It was wide enough to allow quick transfers of large numbers of soldiers from one part of the keep to the next and followed one thigh of the arena’s triangle. She hated it. She hated the enormous, empty spaces, the never-ending tunnels, the lack of colours and fabrics and anything warm, really.

Below, the arena lay quiet, its sand a bright white in the infrared light of the sun, its stands empty. The day Feyd-Rautha had returned to Giedi Prime, victorious, it had seethed with the rapturous joy of tens of thousands of souls, tricked into believing that they were partaking in his glory, when they were nothing but scenery.

Baron of Giedi Prime. Duke of Caladan.

Driven by habit alone, her left thumb moved over her right hand, catching the jewels heavy on her fingers.

He was different, here on Giedi Prime. More secure in his control of her, of his surroundings. She was a foreigner now, with no sway, stripped of nearly all means and unable to move against him even if she wanted to. And for now, she was at peace with that. The time for manoeuvres and resistance was later – after. After the emperor’s death. For as long as Shaddam was alive and in power, she and the remnants of her House would always be at the precipice of another catastrophe.

The spider scurried ahead with sudden haste, and for a moment, Arafa thought it might continue and leave her be for the very first time. A few steps ahead, though, the spider stopped and lowered its face to the ground. Wringing its last pair of hand-feet, it scuttled in place, restless, its many fingers tapping the floor with tiny steps.

“Go on then,” Arafa encouraged as she reached the creature. When it would not move, she made to sidestep it, only for the creature to follow and block her path.

“Well, what is it?”

The spider shook its round body and chittered softly.

“Let me pass, will you.” Another step, to the other side this time, and again the spider moved with her. It turned its face up to Arafa, then back to the dark, far-away bend of the corridor.

Extending one of its hands as if reaching for her skirt, it crept closer, but seemed to rethink its plan and stopped just short of touching her. With very small steps of its four pairs of arm-legs, it then pressed forward, only to stop again when she still would not budge.

Patience wearing thin and unsettled by the creature’s unusual behaviour, Arafa stayed right where she was and clicked her tongue at it, but the spider remained undeterred in its clumsy attempt to herd her back. It swayed back and forth, eyes darting between the other end of the corridor and its companion, and moved ever forward, inch after inch.

It did not need human eyes or words to make Arafa finally understand.

“You’re afraid of something,” she said. The words seemed strangely loud in the silence of the vast corridor. Once more she looked around, but could not see anything that might have put the creature on edge. Nonetheless, its upset was quickly spilling over to her.

Arafa lowered her voice to a whisper.

“Very well. Have it your way. Go ahead, I’ll come.”

As soon as she said it, the spider flit around her and down the corridor, back into the direction they had come from. So it truly understands exactly what I’m saying, Arafa mused as she hurried after the creature with long strides.

At the next intersection, the spider left the main corridor and darted into a narrow, unlit hallway. Once the darkness there had swallowed them both, it stopped and spun, dozens of fingers carrying it in a circle around its own middle with surprising agility. Moist, black eyes fixed on the hallway’s mouth.

She heard them not long before they passed by their hideout. Backlit by the glare of the sun over the arena, three pairs of soldiers entered the frame of the hallway’s entrance. Then, the bulky silhouette of Glossu Rabban came and went.

Arafa tilted her head at the spider. It seemed to be rooted to the spot, its whole body trembling with tension.

“You curious, curious creature,” she murmured when the sounds of the heavy boots had faded. “Why did we hide from him, hm?”

“She has taken another one of my favourites!”

The booming voice of his enraged older brother was the last thing Feyd-Rautha wanted to hear. At the end of another tedious day in a long row of such days, what he wanted to hear were either silence, clashing blades and pained grunts, or the gasps and moans of his wife and the sounds of his cock driving into her slick heat.

Yet here he was, spending his last ounces of restraint on not murdering Glossu Rabban the very instant he burst through the door of his study. Over a slave, at that. One of many Arafa had siphoned away into her own growing household, to replace those she had left behind on Caladan. After all, she had argued, if there was one thing Giedi Prime had a surplus of, it was slaves, and Feyd-Rautha had found that logic to be solid.

He had not anticipated that his wife would use this concession to pluck his brother’s feathers.

Wife.

Even as a thought, it still sounded as good as the very first time he had said it out loud.

“You don’t have favourites, Rabban. You can’t even tell them apart,” he drawled without taking his eyes off the document in front of him. The seal of House Ginaz graced the lower right corner.

“Of course I can! It was one of the young ones, the fresh ones!”

Rabban’s fist connected with the heavy table poured in one piece from a rare alloy.

“Answer me! Don’t just sit there!”

Tiny drops of spit landed on Feyd-Rautha’s face. He supressed the impulse to stand and meet Rabban’s aggressive posturing.

“You’re only interested in that because someone else has her now. There are still dozens to pick from.”

Smacking his massive hands onto the table right in front of his younger brother, the Beast leaned closer – lips wet, quick breaths shallow, bald head red with anger, only a hairsbreadth away from exploding.

“It doesn’t matter, Feyd! They’re mine! She doesn’t have a right to them!”

Feyd-Rautha shifted in his seat. He brushed his right hand over his face, then brought his eyes up to his brother and shot him a glare that would have warped any other man’s rage into fear and submission.

“They’re not yours, they’re mine,” he said. He had not raised his voice just yet, but his tone was laced with sharp warning. “I let you have them because I’m generous, and I let her take them for the very same reason.”

“Is that what happened to yours? Huh? Did you let her take them, too?”

Not exactly.

No, he had disposed of them himself, months prior. One day, he had thought to have caught his new wife jealous of the slaves that had been specifically selected and, some of them, created for him. Smug and a bit too confident, he had prompted her to admit her jealousy, but had gotten a very different reply. Jealous?, Arafa had snorted, so very amused by his assumption. Not at all, my lord. I wish you would use them more often.

For reasons he still could not quite articulate, the idea that she had seen in these slaves some kind of relief for herself had soured him on the women in an instant. The next morning, they had been gone. Arafa had asked him about their disappearance only once, and had received no answer, but he could have sworn he had seen the ghost of satisfaction dance across her face.

Feyd-Rautha’s lips pulled into a smile that lacked all warmth and carried the promise of violence instead.

“What happens to my property is none of your concern.”

“All of this concerns me! I’m your brother, Feyd!”

The Beast spun around and stomped away, only to spin on his heel for another approach. The rolled-up whip dangling on his belt was smacking against the side of his thick thigh with every move. He seemed to be pacing along an invisible wall, a chasm of power that separated the older, lesser brother from the younger one.

If Rabban was any less dangerous, Feyd-Rautha would have laughed at his brother’s dramatics.

“And what do I get from you other than trouble, brother? What makes you important to me, eh?”

“What do you get from me? What do you get from her, that you can’t get from any other warm body?” Rabban sputtered, voice cracking with fury.

Feyd-Rautha gave his shoulders a deceptively lazy roll.

“Legitimacy. A prospering world that adds to our wealth. Influence. Heirs.”

“Ha!” Rabban spread his arms and turned on his axis, eyes darting around the study in search of something that was nowhere to be found. “Heirs? What heirs? I don’t see any, and she isn’t growing round with one!”

A tick in Feyd-Rautha’s jaw gave away the moment Rabban landed a hit. If even Rabban had taken note of it, others would have, too. He knew, naturally, that these things could take a while. Especially, as the old quack had explained to him, since Arafa’s body still had to adapt to this very different environment, to the food she was unused to, to the filtered air, to radiation so different from that on Caladan.

The fucking light.

There were few things he wanted more than to put his child in her. Maybe none. If he was free from all other obligations, he would simply lay her bare under those artificial suns being constructed for her, and keep her on his cock from morning to evening, night to dawn, full of his seed, until it had taken root.

“I am your lord, and you’ll respect my decisions, brother.”

“Like you respected our uncle when you let her kill him, away from home? Open your eyes, Feyd! Look at what you’re doing! You’re preparing for a war! A war that we might not win, a war against our emperor, our benefactor! And for what? For a piece of meat? What’s so special about that cunt, huh?” He spat the last words at the ground and opened his mouth to continue, but Feyd-Rautha interrupted him briskly.

“Enough.”

The Beast’s pupils constricted with sudden alarm. His brother had never been one to raise his voice in anger. No, his voice dropped and sharpened, and usually only when it was almost too late to change course.

Feyd-Rautha rose slowly. Clasping his hands in the small of his back, he approached his older brother with measured steps and a biting sneer.

“Fall in line, Rabban,” he hissed at him. “Or I’ll put you on your back like the whiny little bitch you are.”

Fear he would never voice joined the resentment in Rabban’s stare. Shoulders suddenly tense, fingers clenching around a handle he wished was already there, he shifted his weight away from his lead foot, then relented when Feyd-Rautha stepped uncomfortably closer.

“We’re Harkonnen, brother. She’s not,” Rabban implored him, but Feyd-Rautha merely tilted his head and bared his blackened teeth at him.

“No, Rabban, we are not. I am.”

Under his heavy brow, the Beast’s eyes narrowed. He drew his massive shoulders as if he needed to protect his neck from the slice of a knife. As Feyd-Rautha turned his back to him again, unbothered, unafraid, not expecting another protest, Glossu Rabban took his losses and slunk away.

Just as the door closed behind his brother, Feyd-Rautha’s composure slipped.

He had returned without his uncle, had claimed the title of baron without any of the traditional rituals of succession, and had immediately begun preparing for a risky war against Emperor Shaddam Corrino IV. All of this was true. He had been confident, though, that he would be able to squash or soothe any upset, any rumour, any restlessness, by his presence alone and a heavy hand when necessary.

Yet somehow, he had missed this. Right under his nose, Arafa had taken her sharp needles to his brother’s envy, and he had been blind to it.

Temper breaking free as concern and irritation bled together and transformed into rage, he reached for the nearest chair and flung it across the room with a furious snarl. Heavy, it impacted an open shelf and then a plinth, taking down an obscure piece of art his uncle had loved.

The shards hit the ground. Feyd-Rautha, already halfway through the door, laughed.

His little spitfire.

Chapter Text

Giedi Prime, 10191 A.G.

Without a sound, the massive door to the baron’s suite retreated into the wall. The parlour right behind lay dark and empty, so close to nightfall. Feyd-Rautha crossed it, swift strides charged with irritation that had lost little momentum on his way here.

He found Arafa in the solar, on her favourite settee, legs tucked, brows drawn in concentration. In her lap, a small machine struggled with the playback of a battered shigawire recording.

Thanks to a soft, woven carpet she had insisted on, the sound of his heavy footfalls punched through her engrossment only at the last second. She straightened and turned to him right when he bent and reached for her. Wrapping one arm around her shoulders, he pushed the other beneath her bottom and picked her up without a word.

Stunned, she went rigid. The machine tumbled to the ground. As he moved to carry her past the settee, life rushed back into her body.

“What are you doing,” she seethed, “put me down!”

“Bothersome witch,” he hissed at her. Into the soft spot between her hipbone and the seam of her thigh his fingers went, until a pained sound escaped her.

Slender hands pushing against his shoulder, Arafa bent backwards against the iron hold he had on her. Like a stubborn toddler, if he knew anything about those, Feyd-Rautha mused and tightened his arms around her hips and bottom. When she would not stop squirming and cursing his name to the stars, he trapped an unbidden, gleeful chuckle behind his tongue and tutted.

“Stop, Feyd-Rautha.” What was supposed to be a forceful demand came out as a plea steeped in confusion and rising fear. “What are you –”

Now halfway through the room, he shifted her weight and freed his right arm to pluck a fig from an overflowing bowl. The motion caught her eyes, killed the words right where they lay on her tongue. Arafa stared at the fruit in his hand, dumbstruck.

From the solar, he proceeded into the bedroom, and she was still without a plan. Thoughts racing, heart fluttering out of rhythm, she fell back to her next best strategy: appeasement. She pressed her cheek to the side of his smooth head, whispered his name to him just as he hoisted her higher – and flung her onto the bed.

Before she even had the time to understand her new position, Feyd-Rautha bore down on her with his full weight and not a moment’s hesitation. Knees pressing her legs apart as far as her tangled dress would allow, his fingers twisted into her short curls and pulled with a force that had tears burning in her eyes. Arafa gasped and brought her hands up, clutching at the stiff fabric of his shirt until the strength of his fingers settled over her throat and put a brutal stop to her mindless flailing. Her palms flattened to his shoulder and chest; all fight drained away that very instant.

Was that it?

Had he found out?

“Is this what I have to do? Hm? Do I have to choke the life from you now, so my brother doesn’t get to do it?”

The natural, gravelly quality of his voice had deepened into the scrape of steel over bone. A flash of goosebumps made the hairs on her arms rise. Eyes squeezed shut, chest heaving with exertion, she faintly registered the taste of his breath on her lips. Quickly, she shook her head, unaware of what exactly it was she was denying.

Feyd-Rautha stared down at her. She was paralysed with fear. Moisture was gathering under her lashes. They stood in such stark contrast to her pale skin. So pale. If he shaved her hair, as he had threatened more than once already, she would look like a Harkonnen.

He would never shave her hair.

Through her hands on his chest, he felt her tremble. Every frantic beat of her heart, every strained breath, every tremor in her fingers shifted his mood, bit by bit. With a sigh, he closed what little distance had remained between them and pressed a kiss to her lips. Being angry with her for any amount of time took more effort than chasing a dozen men through the arena.

Especially when she was like this.

“Look at me, my sweet. Open your eyes. Let me see.”

She did not immediately comply. His voice had softened. Today might not be the day she died, after all, but that did not mean she was in the clear. On the contrary. She already knew what she would find in his eyes once she opened hers, and that she was ultimately powerless against it.

Anger, yes. He was clearly angry at something. She could deal with that. Right next to it, though, dwarfing it, there would be tenderness. His version of it, naturally. It had turned out to be an entrance to the secret path leading through the many layers of her façade. He had found it long ago and remembered it well. It led him to a place where he could speak to her directly, where he was as safe as she was.

His eyes crinkled at the corners with quiet delight, then wandered to her lips to linger there, to observe as the tightness ebbed away and the softness returned.

“You must stop eating from Rabban’s plate, my darling.”

The fabric of his shirt tightened over his shoulders as her fingers curled into it. She breathed through a fresh bout of confusion. Pieces clicked into place; she almost gagged on relief. His brother. This was about his brother. Her secret was safe.

Arafa forced her eyes open to brave his gaze.

“I thought that was your plate,” she bit out.

“Ah, my clever wife. Do you need another reminder?”

Under his hand, she swallowed against the dryness in her throat.

“You said I could just take those who suit my needs, my lord.”

He clicked his tongue at her, disapproving of her tactical use of honorifics, even as he loved hearing them from her.

“Then why is it always the young ones, those who just arrived?”

“They learn faster.”

Stubborn.

“Do they.”

The pressure of his hand on her throat increased as he pushed up onto his free arm. In the palm of that hand, he was holding the small fig with care. It appeared almost black in the low light. Ripe enough for its aroma to enrich the air in the scant space between their faces, Arafa’s eyes shot to the fruit.

“He’s a raw nerve, woman, and this has gone on for too long already. Cross him again, and I will replace each and every one of the girls you’ve taken with one from Caladan.”

Silence. She was glaring up at him again, threat heard but not accepted.

“Rabban is a dangerous enemy to have, Arafa.”

“Yes well, I wouldn’t have to worry about that if you could control him, but you can’t.”

“Don’t try to manipulate me, my darling. I know you want him gone, but I won’t let you force my hand. Now stop arguing with me. You need to eat.”

“I don’t need to –”

Tender fig-skin shoved against her lips shut her up.

“One bite. Then you can talk.”

She dug her teeth into the fruit with more force than necessary. The skin broke easily. Sticky, sweet juice filled her mouth first, then spilled to run down her cheeks and drip onto the dark sheets. From the side of her throat, his thumb moved to catch some and bring it to his lips.

Its sweetness brought the memory back – of her under that tree on Caladan, fingers prying a fig in two to offer him half. Wasps, he remembered, thousands, dissolved in the fruit to nurture the one female that would go on to spawn the next generation.

Without chewing, Arafa swallowed.

“Feyd-Rautha,” she insisted. There was a new urgency in her voice – her words were losing the battle for his attention against the juice glistening on her lips and cheeks, so she tried to reinforce her tone. The fig was still hovering right above her. “We both know who you’ll choose when it’s time. Why wait? Why take the chance that he does something in the meantime you can neither prevent nor undo?”

“He’s my brother, Arafa, and I will decide his fate, not you.”

“He’s a liability. You want to gain approval in the Landsraad, you want to lead your House away from this distasteful reputation. As long as you keep him around, any potential for these things will be –”

“Hush. Another.”

This time, she rolled her eyes at him before she obeyed and took another bite. With it came a fresh gush of juice, and a rush of blood to his cock that made him twitch against her.

“I will have your obedience in this. Nothing else. No argument, no discussion, only yes, my lord. Am I clear?”

Her brows furrowed, and she drew a breath she would not need if all she wanted to say was what he wanted to hear. With precise strength, he increased the pressure of his fingers around her throat. The words got stuck right below.

“Am I clear?”

One beat. Two. Three beats of Arafa staring at him, trying to decipher just how serious he was beyond that playful anticipation that had made its home in his eyes.

“Yes.”

A phantom smile came and went, and he hid his satisfaction against the delicate skin of her neck. The tip of his nose followed her jawline to the spot where it met her ear.

“Yes what?”

He felt her shiver through the stutter in her breath and the subtle shift of her hips under his.

“Yes, my lord.”

The press of his lips to her neck was her reward. They grazed her skin very gently before he spoke again.

“You need to eat more of those. I’m not having them shipped by the ton so you can let them go bad.”

“Are you keeping count now?”

“Doctor Puovila said you need to eat them.”

“He didn’t say I need to gorge myself to the point of nausea,” she protested with a snort, half laughter, half disbelief. “He said it might help speed things up if I had access to food I’m used to.”

“You’re mistaking this for a negotiation, my darling wife.”

To emphasise his point, he offered the last bite of the fig to her, and Arafa took it from him with a playful nip to his thumb.

“Ah,” he chided as he watched her chew. “You’re enjoying this.”

It was an accusation Arafa could not deny. She was enjoying this, immensely: every ounce of his frustration, every test with a negative result, and especially this new abundance of treats from home that made her life so much better, while being entirely useless for his purpose.

Feyd-Rautha, of course, knew nothing about that last little detail.

The secret purred in her blood like a lazy gàta in the sun.

“Quite so, my lord.” Arafa chuckled. The title came easier this time. “The fearsome Feyd-Rautha, devourer of worlds, held at bay by a whim of nature. You should just divorce me,” she went on, mirth dancing in her eyes. “Take one of Shaddam’s daughters instead, or all five, for all I care.”

Feyd-Rautha laughed.

Liar, little liar.

“For now.” He ignored her last two sentences and sat back, hands drifting to her splayed thighs to gather the silk of her dress until his fingers found smooth, warm skin. “But not for good. You held me at bay for eight years, my darling, and look at you now.”

Higher and higher his fingers wandered along her legs, taking the dress with him, baring her up to her hips. He did not miss the tightness around her eyes, the quick flicker of displeasure she was too distracted to conceal.

“After eight years, what’s a year or two more.” Hooking his fingers into her underwear, he pulled, and her hips lifted to comply. “One day,” he continued, “you’ll yield in this, too, and give me healthy, strong sons.”

Eyes glued to his lips, Arafa let her knees fall open again as he dropped the piece of fabric to the floor. A blush was creeping into her cheeks that had very little to do with being exposed to him and very much with the certainty in his voice.

Not if I can help it, she nearly declared, caught herself, and said, “But if it never happens –”

As he bent and slipped his arms under her legs, strong hands framing her ribcage, she hid her face in the pillows. Her fingers tightened around fistfuls of luxurious sheets under the press of his lips to her lower abdomen, right above where his cock and seed would soon be.

She reached for him, held his cheeks between her hands as his lips grazed her mound. Hot breath fanned over sensitive, damp skin. He inhaled, slowly, like one would on a cool spring morning, or on a windy beach with high waves.

This raw, unhurried sensuality of his had surprised her, at first. In retrospect, it made perfect sense. Feyd-Rautha, at his core, was a hedonist, unaffected by shame or morality. He enjoyed her in all ways, all conditions, seemed to subsist on reciprocity just as he did on resistance. The latter, he had not gotten much of lately.

When Shaddam is dead, she reminded herself, but the thought fell right through, lacking ground.

Arafa closed her eyes at the first touch of his tongue to her labia. He licked in broad, languid stripes from her entrance to her clit until she was coated in saliva and her own wetness, and that last denial she had wanted to utter turned into a breathy, indulgent moan.

Below her breasts, his thumbs were moving over her skin, hands spanning her sides. She felt the smile tugging at his lips – smug, satisfied. His tongue laved over her clit and his mouth closed around the nub, coaxing more sounds from her to add to his collection.

In his mind, there was no better taste than that of her lust. It always came with memories of the first time he had taken her, brought back the ghosts of her tears, of her hands pushing against his shoulders, of her whispered No, no. Victory, all over, in its sweetest form – a slow unveiling of the truth beneath her denials. Again and again.

Cock straining against the fabric of his pants, Feyd-Rautha clung to his patience. Her hips shifted, restless, tension rolling through her with every swipe of his tongue only to break against his firm hold. He brought his hands a bit higher to let her breasts fill his hands and pluck at her nipples.

A sob tore from her throat. He softened his lips, let his tongue melt over her clit.

These desperate sounds of need. They fed him better than the crack of splintering bones, better than any howl of agony, better than any futile appeal to his mercy. There was only so much he could take from a man. From her? So much more. Her pride, her armour, her falsehoods.

I don’t want you.

“Feyd-Rautha,” she pleaded, either coherent enough to wield his name with purpose or so far gone she had used it in vain. Oh, she was well aware that he would not let her come like this. She knew she was in for a moment of loss, of deprivation, torn between bracing for that and the orgasm that lay beyond her reach.

With a low chuckle, he raised his head just enough to deny her any touch and admire the state he had put her in. Chest heaving, head pushed back into the pillows, she was strung wire-taut.

“Beg me, my darling,” he rasped, voice tight with want thrashing against a tight leash, but it was too early. Pain blossomed where she dug her short nails into his scalp with vicious frustration. The words did not come, so he dipped his head again and lapped roughly at her clit.

The curse that spilled from her mouth would have made a grown man blush. His exhilarated laugh had her grasping at his shoulders, desperate to pressure and punish, but he was immovable. Always immovable.

He held her like that for a few beats, just long enough to blunt the edge, then returned his mouth to her to resume his torturous agenda. Twice more, he guided her close, so close, with lips and tongue alone, until she was stripped of all rational thought, heedless of her whines and moans.

When he withdrew for the third time, her hands fell away from his shoulders to burrow into the sheets. She whimpered, eyes squeezed shut, face drawn into a mask of seething, hopeless need. The sight made his hips rock into the sheets, cock pulsing with hunger.

“On my cock, Arafa. Only on my cock,” he hissed, but his right hand was already tearing at the belt and buttons of his pants, betraying him. Whether she asked for it or not, he would give her what she needed.

Devastatingly empty, brimming with pleasure so sharp it hurt, Arafa tried in vain to close her legs. Not to shut him out or deny him, but for some amount of friction of any kind. That was all it would take. But his body between her thighs kept her open, merciless, slick skin cooling in the absence of his hot mouth, and she could not bear it.

“In me, Feyd-Rautha, please,” she finally begged. Her voice had already lost most of its timbre. “Please, just –”

The breath that rushed from his lungs turned into a ragged, relieved exhale. Wrapping long fingers around the thick girth of his cock, he guided its fat head through her glistening folds. Her hips twitched when the crown caught her clit, and he dragged it across again and again until she was shuddering and gasping once more.

And just when she could taste it, just when her whole body was tensing for it, he pulled back and fed his greedy cock into her aching core in a long, smooth glide.

The pillow muffled her fractured moans. Goosebumps rushed over her arms and shoulders as he filled her, and her hips canted to take him. Jaw feathering, Feyd-Rautha watched his shaft sink into her slick heat until his hips met the backs of her thighs, and his heavy balls nestled against her ass.

Buried to the hilt, he stilled to stem the tide of his own lust. So snug. He could not have made her more perfect himself. Her walls were spasming deliciously along the length of his cock, as if she could not get enough, needed him deeper. He obliged and pressed in further, then settled his palm over her lower abdomen.

Here. Soon.

Arafa was still right on the precipice, right where he had left her. Like this, she felt every inch of his hard length, every twitch that spoke to just how close he was himself. A dull ache came with the insistent push of his cockhead against her cervix. She welcomed it, dug her heels into the bed to have more of it, more of him, always more.

“Yes,” he whispered. “You’ll take it all, won’t you. All of my cock, all of my seed, every single drop.”

She answered yes, Feyd-Rautha, and let me have it, and please. Once, she had choked on his name.

Splaying his fingers wide, his thumb found her clit. A tremor ran through her body, head to toes. One brush over the sensitive nub, then another, and her core drew tight. One more, and she was coming apart. He held her down, oblivious to his own guttural sounds, thumb moving relentlessly over her clit even as her hips surged and her walls clenched around his shaft in time with the waves of pleasure pulling her under.

Breathless sighs that carried nothing but his name cut the last threads of his control. He retreated, groaning through the drag of her silken flesh along his shaft, only to fill her again with a slow, charged thrust that made the pressure at the base of his spine give. His forehead dropped to her sternum as his hips stuttered into short jerks, cock swelling to unbearable hardness.

“Yes, yes, take it all, my darling, take it,” he gasped against her skin. His hand on her abdomen pushed down over her womb as his balance faltered. Under its weight or that of its promise, her walls fluttered, drawing him deep, and his cock pulsed with the first burst of seed.

One last time, he pulled away, breath stuck somewhere in his chest, then sank back in with the next rush of his essence through the length of his shaft. Straining to keep the flared tip pressed tight against her cervix, he pumped her full of himself with spurt after hot spurt.

Somewhere in between, her hands returned to him. One held his right wrist, the other hovered over his nape, fingers trailing over corded muscle as the last drops of seed drained from his cock. Neither moved to part from each other. He pressed an open-mouthed kiss to the skin above her heart and sank onto his forearms, letting her take the bulk of his weight.

Skin to skin, he was acutely aware of her breathing, of the slight trembling in her thighs, the sluggish wanderings of her hands over his arms and shoulders, down his sides. Above his left hip, her fingers found the small, faint scar. The only trace she had ever left on him, if by the hands of another.

A habit. And, same as the time before this, and the one before that, he wondered whether she sought to remind herself, or him. He pushed his hands underneath her shoulders to cradle the back of her head, fingers threading into her curls, thumbs tracing the shape of her cheekbones as his lips moved over her throat.

Arafa huffed quietly and squirmed, testing.

“I need –”

“No. Stay.”

With his cock softening inside her, his weight on her only seemed to increase. He had no intention of letting her up anytime soon. Arafa’s ribcage expanded under his for a sound that could have been annoyance, or amusement, or both.

In the quiet, her thoughts drifted. His skin was warm under her hands, its texture so familiar by now she would find him among a legion of men even if she was blind and deaf. His breath ghosted over her temple. Somewhere in her gut, the remnants of her earlier fright sat.

“The High Council has called the Landsraad meeting.”

She stiffened beneath him. His nose nudged her jaw, prompting her to turn her head and give him space where he wanted it.

“How long do we have?”

“About a week.”

Such a mundane thing. Yet these words breathed life back into her lungs with a vengeance. A week, and then – and then she could move again, survey what was left of her alliances, maybe look beyond this point in the very near future they had been working towards.

She would have options.

He nipped the skin right below her ear, gently, but not without emphasis.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, my darling,” he murmured, raising his head to catch her gaze. But even as he warned her, his eyes were bright with anticipation.

Chapter Text

Giedi Prime, 10191 A.G.

The next morning, Arafa woke from the deep rumble of Barony’s storm shields resonating in her bones. She stretched with a groan of protest. Again.

Storms on Caladan were a beautiful thing, a mesmerising display of nature’s power beating against a fortress that seemed to grow warm and still inside in the face of thunder and angry squalls. Storms on Giedi Prime, however, were something entirely different. They carried rain, yes – rain that was part water, part chemical cocktail so acidic it would blind Barony’s millions of transparent panels if they were exposed to it.

That’s what the storm shields were for.

They would remain shuttered for the duration of the storm, and that could really be anything from a few hours to a few weeks. In the meantime, the only light source inside would be the glow globes. Here, that could almost be considered a blessing, if not for the claustrophobia that would inevitably set in.

It had not taken long for Arafa to understand why the Harkonnen were calling these shutters storm shields, when in truth they were rain shields. More than their human rulers, rain dictated the rhythm of life not just in Barony, but on the whole planet.

In the history of Giedi Prime, there was a time before the rain had turned sour, and after.

Outside work was impossible when it rained. Aircraft remained in hangars to prevent damage to sensors. Poverty, and every interior outside of Barony had a specific type of light to it – dazed, blurry, or bereft of the sun entirely – because the rain would blind every pane left unprotected, without mercy.

Yet another tyrant the unfortunate people of Giedi Prime had to endure. The difference was that this one did not require its subjects to chant its name in ritualistic adoration, so they did what they could to avoid it.

The door to the sprawling bedroom pulled noiselessly back into the wall. A mistake in design, Arafa thought as she picked up the sound of Bodil’s brisk steps. Doors like these should never open without a sound. She just barely suppressed the childish impulse to dive back under the covers.

“You’re still in bed.”

“And the only reason you know that is because you came in here without permission.”

“It’s late. I told you, if he’s gone, and it’s late, I’m coming in.”

Bodil stopped next to the bed. An instant later, a disk of brushed metal detached from the floor and rose to Arafa’s eye level. Caught between its own weight and the repulsive force created by a strong magnet below, it hovered in the air as if resting on a physical stand.

With an unnecessarily loud clunk, Bodil sat a tray down on the table. The aroma of fresh coffee – roasted nuts, chocolate, something bitter – leaked into the air and wormed its way into Arafa’s nose. She sighed. At home, this boldness, bordering on overstepping, would have warranted a reprimand. Here, it felt a lot like care, and Arafa’s attendant was far too experienced for that to be coincidence.

Coming from a long line of loyal, high-ranking servants to the Atreides family, Bodil had never married nor had children, and had been determined to accompany her. None of Arafa’s warnings had sufficed to deter her. She was too old anyways, Bodil had claimed, for anyone to look at her funny, to even consider her as a target for any kind of violation.

In the end, it had taken her seneschal’s insistence to convince Arafa. Have at least one loyal soul there with you, Imad had pressed her, and she had caved under his stern tone and the prospect of utter loneliness.

Arafa propped herself up and reached for the steaming cup of coffee.

“We’re going to Ginaz in a week.”

“A week?” Bodil could not keep her surprise under wraps. “So he has known for what, two, three weeks?”

“If not more. Dealings with the Guild have their own pace, especially an operation like that. They don’t have a few dozen heighliners just idling around somewhere.” The coffee was smooth in Arafa’s mouth, the bitterness perfectly tempered by just the right amount of sugar. “It’s not – ideal. A week isn’t much. But at least he still respects me enough to keep secrets.”

Bodil shook her head with a snort unbefitting her station. Across the room, she was folding and sorting through clothes with deft, practised motions.

“Do you think the emperor already knows?”

“I’m not sure. I think – maybe he knows the Landsraad is meeting without him. And I think he might intuit why, roughly. Apart from that, he’ll be in the dark.”

“If no one leaks the details to him.”

“I can’t imagine anyone doing that. It would be such an egregious violation of the Convention.” Arafa wrapped her fingers around the cup to warm her hands. “Even if. What’s he going to do? We’re ready the moment we return to Giedi Prime. We had a year. And Shaddam –”

Bodil’s eyebrows rose, prompting her – still in bed – to go on.

“Shaddam has never done anything without a proper plan. Without knowing everything he felt he needed to know. Even if someone tells him what’s happened, I think he’ll wait for us to show him where we want to take this. How.”

Silence stretched, viscous, laden with a thousand if. What if word of their preparations had gotten out, despite the precautions? What if any of the Houses were to violate the ancient, sacred rules governing the relationship between Landsraad and emperor? What if everything went as planned, except for the very end?

They had done what they could. That truly was the only thing Arafa was confident about. If one went on a chase for every if, attempted to anticipate every possible deviation, tried to discern every motive of every single actor, no plan would ever be made. Therefore, at each turn, they had chosen the most likely scenario. The one that did not open up more questions than it answered.

In the end, they had agreed on an approach that was as straightforward as it was brutal, and final.

She had almost shied away from it, once it had taken its form: from the scale of destruction, the loss of life, the stakes, the irrevocability. Feyd-Rautha had seen it, of course, and allowed her hesitation for a while. Then, when he had her on her hands and knees the following day, fingers clawing viciously into her hips as he filled her to the brim, he had called her daughter of Leto.

Just in case.

“Have the sheets changed today, Bodil,” Arafa said when her wandering mind had finally returned to the present. “If you find any red on the stripped pillows, that’s juice.”

“Juice.”

Arafa ignored Bodil’s incredulous (impolite) stare and ducked her head to take a sip of coffee. Another of her habits Feyd-Rautha had so readily adopted. Wine. Sweets. Fresh fruit. And on Caladan, early morning swims and the sheer joy of catching the wind on a volan. Somehow, Giedi Prime’s special brand of austerity – tolerating pleasure only when it came with cruelty – did not seem to entirely satisfy him.

Another hour went by before Arafa was ready to face the day. She had to drag herself out of bed, aided by Bodil’s pointed busyness. Her limbs felt heavier than usual, and in a way, that seemed much more appropriate for the cascade of events they were about to trigger.

When she eventually left the suite, the spider was already waiting. The guards in the hallway had gotten used to the creature and paid no attention to it anymore. Today, though, more men were lining the walls. As she passed, a pair of soldiers broke away from their posts and fell into step a few yards behind her.

Arafa kept walking. The spider had to dodge two pairs of heavy boots before it caught up, its many dozen fingers scuttling hastily over the polished floor.

Either he thought his brother posed a serious threat even now, not in some version of the future. Or he had her shadowed to tighten the leash. Neither warranted picking a fight.

“I have something for you,” Arafa said and shook her hand free of the sleeve and the decorative drape of fabric over her arm. She dropped the small apple into her other hand and offered it to the spider. “Smell it first. I don’t know if you can eat that at all. But if it smells right, it should be fine.”

Without a break in its pace, the spider reached up with one hand and took the fruit to examine it. The creature brought the apple to its flat, round face. Eyes like moist glass moved and focused.

Then it sniffed.

Too entrapped by the texture and the aroma of the apple, the spider’s straight walk began to skew and slow until the fabric of Arafa’s dress brushed against one of its elbow-knees. The contact went through its bulbous body like a crack of lightning. It scuttled to the side, expecting a blow, tucking its arm-legs close. Arafa paused.

For a few breaths, the two stared at each other. Very slowly, the hand in which the creature was cradling the fruit moved farther back to better hide its prize. Even while it was quite obviously trying to figure out what consequences to expect for its transgression, it sought to protect the apple.

Arafa stifled a chuckle. She did not want to ridicule the spider’s obvious fear, but that hand was still moving, increment by increment, to bring the apple out of her sight.

“Do you have any concept of object permanence? I know you still have it, even if I can't see it anymore,” she said.

The spider froze.

“I’m not angry. Come now, before our escort gets bored.”

She did not wait for the spider to move, and after less than a dozen steps, the pitter-patter of little fingers on the smooth floor resumed.

Side by side, the pair continued on their familiar route. As was Arafa’s habit, she took a detour around the fortress’ representative sections and guest quarters. She had no desire to revisit that specific part of the keep – not the quarters she and her father had occupied on two occasions over the years, not the balcony. Least of all the balcony.

Instead, her feet carried her once more to the vast tunnel above the arena. To better memories. She had been stronger, here; she had been convinced that, contrary to the late Vladimir Harkonnen’s belief, Feyd-Rautha was not inevitable.

The light inside the tunnel was eerie today. The glow globes were arranged in such a fashion that their light cast sharp shadows where it broke on the massive ribs of the structure. Beyond the thick panes, the arena lay in utter darkness under the cover of the storm shield. Only the sand seemed to radiate a very low glow.

Chemiluminescence, caused by the reaction of all the blood spilled in it with the chemicals saturating Giedi Prime’s polluted air.

Behind her, the rhythmic thuds of the soldiers’ boots came to a halt.

“My lady.”

Arafa turned.

“The Baron says to join him in the command centre.”

Fingers curling into her palms, she gave a curt nod. Right next to her, the spider seemed to be picking up on the way her heart lost its rhythm for three, four beats. It inched closer, careful not to touch her.

The two men moved to each side of the tunnel – out of the way.

“Very well,” Arafa agreed.

She made her way through the maze of corridors with the mind-spider at her side and the soldiers in tow. Every now and then, her companion seemed to want to steer her and moved closer, creating the most subtle spatial pressure.

“Very perceptive,” Arafa mouthed quietly when she caught on to it. She had not been to the command centre very often. Most of the things that happened there were of the kind Feyd-Rautha was deliberately keeping from her. Thanks to the spider’s guidance, she did not need to disclose to the soldiers that she did not know exactly where to go.

Just when they reached the massive double doors leading to the keep’s heart, the creature veered off and hurried away. It might not be allowed in there, Arafa thought, and then the wings of the door were already pulling back into the walls.

The glow of a hologram cast the vast hall into a pale, blue light. It showed a rendition of Corrinth City, with the Imperial Opal Palace in the city’s centre. Harkonnen mentats were gathered around, deeply immersed in their calculations and projections. Their eyes were unseeing; they did not need them now. The sonorous hum of their voices seemed to penetrate through skin and flesh and bone alike, making the hairs on her arms rise.

A shudder went through the hologram. New data had been generated, and it had led to a divergence in events already anticipated. They had to begin anew.

From the side, a group of Feyd-Rautha’s military leaders stepped closer to the projection again. Glossu Rabban was nowhere to be seen. She recognised only Commander Leikko, the keep’s commandant. He was one of the younger officers – if she had to guess, about her age, give or take a few years. It was hard to say with any Harkonnen. Yet, the prestige of the post he had been given spoke volumes of his ambition, competence, and the confidence Feyd-Rautha had in both.

As far as she knew, Jaskari Leikko had been around Feyd-Rautha ever since Vladimir Harkonnen had brought his nephew from Lankiveil to Giedi Prime as a boy. As both grew into adulthood, Leikko had become a trusted companion, a brother-in-arms, during Feyd-Rautha’s regular campaigns to the edges of the Known Universe, and, if one believed the rumours, beyond.

He had also been one of the first to blacken his teeth in the fashion of his lord.

Even though, after Vladimir’s death, Feyd-Rautha had been hard pressed to fill the many vacancies left by officers whose loyalty was in doubt, the keep – thus, Barony – had gone to the man he trusted most. There had been no compromise on this position.

“We’ve received new troop counts from Caladan.” Feyd-Rautha left the projection’s shadow. “They’re slightly better than we thought they would be. Probabilities could rise to between 61 and 65.”

Up to 65 percent. As far as probabilities went, that was not too bad.

“How reliable are our estimates on Sardaukar numbers in Corrinth City?”

“They vary still. We know how many will be on Salusa Secundus, roughly. The variation mostly concerns troop distribution on Kaitain, and the speed with which he’ll be able to pull them to the city.”

“Did you include our data?”

Feyd-Rautha stopped halfway around the hologram, hands joined in the small of his back, attention snagging on the influx of red into the city’s model.

Our data. Hers, she meant, the data gathered by her spies, not his. Impatience reared its head in the back of her mind. On Caladan, she would know for sure what data had been included in devising an attack like this. On Caladan, she would think, plan, decide. She would have a grasp on the risks, the probabilities. Here, she knew the broad strokes, but the details Feyd-Rautha only shared when, or if, he felt like it.

She had never been one to trust easily, but this – waiting for him to decide whether he wanted her to know or not – this was excruciating. Rationally, she knew there was no reason to doubt his ability, or his will. There was no one better, no one more determined than Feyd-Rautha, who breathed war and exhaled destruction. And yet –

“I did,” he finally confirmed.

The projection flickered again. Another simulation, parameters tweaked, fed by the data extracted from the minds of the mentats. This time, the landing sequence was a different one.

They had been running these simulations for months already. Once the evidence that pointed to Shaddam as the murderer of Paul and Leto had been handed to House Ginaz, the Landsraad’s traditional convenor, it had only been a question of time until the Great Houses would gather.

And after that, if the other Houses agreed to remain neutral, everything would be set in motion at great speed. As soon as they returned to Giedi Prime, they would turn around and throw nearly everything they had at the paradise planet.

A week, plus a few days.

Madness, her father’s voice replied in her head, but he was not here, and had not lived through what she had.

This was the only way. If that way gave her odds of up to 65 percent favourable, that was more than she had dared hope for.

Feyd-Rautha drew closer to her with unhurried strides.

“Transports have been secured and payment has been arranged. All contingent, of course, on the Landsraad’s decision.”

Arafa pursed her lips. Guild Peace. What a brilliant twist on this monopoly, and the fact that the Guild simply did not care, as long as their services were paid for. To the Guild, all were equal, as long as they had the funds.

“Three, four decades worth of Spice profits?”

“Four. But if that’s what it costs –”

If that’s what it costs to kill an emperor.

“The odds could be worse,” Arafa said, more to herself than to anyone else.

“They could be better.” Right behind her, he stopped, far too close for her idea of what was appropriate in such settings. She moved to turn to him, but his hands framed her slender shoulders to keep her in place. The army of red dots took another holographic fortification.

“You’ll stay here.”

“I thought –”

His hands shifted to the tops of her shoulders, fingers splaying, some meeting over her sternum.

“You’ll stay here.”

Just like that. No room for discussion. For everyone to hear.

He would leave her behind, leave her on Giedi Prime, powerless, in the dark. Under his hands, her shoulders had gone rigid, and his thumbs dug into the spots between the cusps of her shoulder blades and her neck.

“You promised me I would be there.”

Arafa had to force the words out from behind her teeth. At her sides, hidden, her fingers were knotting into the folds of her dress. The rage had nowhere to go, and it was better that way, she knew; an outburst in a setting like this could only lead to something worse. So, she breathed through the violent surge and forced it down again to pool in the pit of her stomach like the poison in the craters of Giedi Prime’s volcanoes.

“You will, my darling, you will. I’ll bring him to you.”

“But if you don't return from Kaitain –”

This time, she interrupted herself. If he died, everything would change regardless of Shaddam's fate. Everything.

“If I don't return from Kaitain, my darling, it won't matter anymore. Nothing will.” His chin touched her hair as he lowered his head far enough for his lips to skim lightly across her temple and hesitate on her cheek. Hollow, now that her anger had dissipated under the weight of realisation, her chest fell.

“There are orders in place in case I remain on the field,” he whispered into her skin.

She turned her head. They were almost nose to nose now, close enough to breathe each other’s air, far enough for him to catch her eyes. There was a very faint smile on his lips.

“Both, Arafa. Or none.”

Across from her, the palace’s holographic double steeped in red between them, Commander Leikko was studying her with cool, grey eyes.