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houserautha · 3 days

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These Destined Ends

Part 8

Summary: Jessica fulfilled the wishes of the Bene Gesserits to produce a daughter. You’re now burdened with the task of not only marrying the na-Baron, but also bearing his child — the Kwisatz Haderach. Will you take your fate into your own hands? Or will it always belong to those who control you?

Pairings: Feyd-Rautha x F!Reader

Word Count: 6.2k

Warnings: oral sex f receiving, the Reverend Mother is a bitch, you get your period, incest, mentions of child abuse and pedophilia, depictions of violence and gore, cannibalism (the harpies), he chases you, strangling, dubious consent, p in v, no foreplay, fingering, inappropriate use of a ring, rough sex, no protection, creampie

A/N: Nothing like a visit from your evil grandmother to snap you out of your dick trance. And a nice…jaunt…through the woods to put you right back into it

“You should stay.”

Feyd gazes up at you from between your thighs, mouth glistening and slick. His pupils are blown, plush lips swollen from the attention he’s been giving your cunt. His fingers dig into the supple flesh of your ass.

“Is now really the time to discuss this?”

You consider. This seemed like as good of a time as any, especially since you had him essentially trapped: you kneeling over him, knees bracketing his head, holding onto the headboard while Feyd laid beneath you, hands keeping you from squirming too far away from his eager mouth.

“I thought it might bolster my argument,” you finally admit.

Feyd hums in response, using a finger to spread your wetness. You shudder involuntarily.

Feyd.

When had you started calling him that? Probably sometime in the course of the last few days, in which neither of you seldom left the bed. No matter how many times he had touched you, each one led you to the brink of ecstasy.

“I do have a hard time refusing you when you’re like this,” Feyd rasps, inserting a single digit inside you. “But I’m afraid I have no choice.”

You wiggle your hips, hoping to both coax him into staying and incite him to move his deft fingers. “Please.”

Spending the last few days is exactly what you’re arguing about — Feyd is insistent that that he must return to his duties as na-Baron. Other duties, it turns out, then securing an heir.

“I said no,” he tells you briskly.

A whine builds in your throat.

Three months ago, you would’ve been appalled at this. Hell, a few days ago, you would’ve been appalled at this. But that was before Feyd had spent nearly every second of every day lavishing you with his tongue and his mouth, fingers alighting on your skin and cock keeping you full with his seed. Without him inside you, you would feel despicably empty.

“Be a good wife and I will come back and reward you for your patience.”

“How will you do that?”

And he shows you: lapping at your cunt until you can hardly bear to kneel anymore, then taking you from behind. His hips snap mercilessly against your ass as he tells you all of the ways he’ll pleasure you when he returns. It’s really not fair — especially when he fucks you so thoroughly that you barely have any protest left in you by the time he slips out the door.

Later in the day when you’re moping, sufficiently disgusted with yourself, a servant appears to summon you from your dick-induced misery. They stand hesitantly in your doorway.

“na-Baroness.”

“Hm?” You aim for casual indifference, hoping the servant can’t smell the evidence of your rampant fucking. You had turned away any of the cleaning servants, halfway clutching onto the hope that Feyd would come back. He didn’t.

Asshole.

“You have a visitor, come to congratulate you on your wedding.”

“Oh?” You can’t think of anyone who wasn’t already in attendance that would want to meet with you. “Who is this visitor?��

“She claimed that you would know her.”

You narrow your eyes. “You believed her?”

“She-She refused to tell me her name.” The servant sheepishly shifts their weight. “The next thing I knew, I was here, na-Baroness.”

Ah, The Voice, no doubt.

There could only be one person who would want to see you and be strong enough to inflict such a power. The reality of the situation sobers you. “Tell her that I will be right with her.”

Quickly you dress, your thoughts turning from the prowess of your husband to more pressing matters. Disappointment stabs at you when you realize that your suspicions were right — Reverend Mother Gaius Helen Mohiam perches elegantly on a chaise in the room where you typically receive guests.

She’s swathed in gauzy black fabric, the only indication of her gaze being the slightest trembling of her decorative chains as she turns to appraise you. Rather critically, if you were to guess.

“Lady Y/N. Or should I say na-Baroness Y/N?”

“That is my title now,” you reply coolly, “you should know, considering that you were the one to ensure it happened.”

“I did not come here to trade barbs with our tongues.”

“Shame,” you say.

The Reverend Mother says haughtily, “I came here to congratulate you. And remind you of your responsibility. I trust that Jessica delivered the fertility necklace?”

“She did,” you grind out.

“It is paramount that you conceive a child with Feyd-Rautha as soon as possible.”

“How do you know that I haven’t already?”

“I know you haven’t,” she hisses, “otherwise I would smell it on you. Your blood will come soon.”

This creates a knot of anguish in you that you try not to examine too closely.

The Reverend Mother continues, “You have failed. We cannot dally, child, when it comes to the matter of the Kwisatz Haderach.”

“It’s not for lack of trying. He’s been fucking me regularly to ensure a heir,” you snarl at her, hoping to blindside her with your crassness just as she did with news of your upcoming blood. “Maybe you should’ve gotten a Bene Gesserit witch to do your bidding.”

The Reverend Mother scoffs. “Jessica failed to educate you in our ways just as you’ve failed to conceive. I would’ve chosen anyone else if it wasn’t for ten thousand years of careful breeding. But, alas, it seems you are my only option.”

“Right,” you retort.

“Now we must do whatever it takes to ensure that the Kwisatz Haderach is conceived,” says the Reverend Mother. Her tone takes on that of self-importance. “I will conduct a visit every month until then.”

You twirl your finger in a celebratory manner.

“You mock me, but you are just fortunate enough to be here. The mother to the Kwisatz Haderach — no greater title could be bestowed upon an individual. You will bear the fruit of our tedious labor, the one destined to shape the future of our world. And you do not even appreciate this blessing.”

“Oh yes, a blessing upon my unborn child that will inevitably seat him as your puppet.” Your hand flickers to your belly, above your empty womb as if you can protect the life that has yet to take root there. “What kind of mother am I to impose that?”

The Reverend Mother stands. “An obedient one.”

You storm furiously from the receiving room without saying goodbye — formalities be damned. You’re surprised she doesn’t beckon you back with The Voice. Perhaps she knows that you’ll be forced to take audience with her next month. The thought carries you through the fortress halls without any predilection of where you’re going, replaying the conversation in your mind and growing angrier by the minute.

So lost in your anger that you scarcely recognize the rasping growl of your husband’s voice, clearly attempting for a whisper but failing spectacularly.

“—those times are over,” you catch him saying.

You peer into a room, the Baron’s own personal quarters. You’d been here only once before, when Asha gave you a tour of the grounds. How did you even get here?

“Even so, you are still my charge,” the Baron replies. “I am your keeper.”

Folding yourself into a corner adjacent to the Baron’s quarters, you watch your husband stalk back and forth like a caged predator. “I am a grown man, Uncle, you have no more use for me as you once did.”

“Even still, I remember the day you would come crawling at my every order —”

“I told you. Those days are over. They have been for quite some time.”

You can’t see the Baron as well as Feyd, just sense his enormous presence, a storm cloud encroaching a sunny day. “Perhaps it is the matters with your new wife that make me long for the days of the past.”

There’s a sickening intimacy in his words.

“Don’t speak of her,” Feyd snaps, but you get the impression that this admittance has rattled him.

“I have given you everything,” the Baron continues, nonplussed, “your title, your fame, even this wife that you’re so quick to defend. In return I ask just for you to —”

“No. Never again.”

The Baron’s softness hardens, crystallizes. “I know that it’s you who chases away my boys. And yet you won’t even offer your own services to me.”

“I chase them away to keep them from your clutches,” Feyd fires back, incensed. “Not from jealousy as you so selfishly presume.”

“What am I to do then, nephew?”

Feyd stops his pacing. “Rot. I ought to just drown you in that tub.”

“I know you don’t mean that. Come here.”

Feyd hesitates. Your pulse hammers uncertainly, if the implications of this conversation are —

You watch your husband — your proud, inviolable husband — slowly make his way to the side of the Baron’s tub. You risk moving from your hiding spot to see him kneel beside it, his features neutral and dark gaze lowered. The Baron raises a fat arm, black liquid sluicing from it, and cups the side of Feyd’s face.

“My darling nephew. You will always be my favorite.”

Feyd stills as the Baron nears him, presses a chaste kiss to Feyd’s lips — the lips that only hours ago had been between your legs, on your breasts. As far as you can tell Feyd does not reciprocate the gesture, but willingly allows it to happen anyway. Your stomach twists.

You can’t watch this anymore.

You turn and flee back from where you came, sickened and confused and utterly perplexed.

The next morning, there’s blood on the sheets. You tear them off in frustration, more so that the Reverend Mother’s prediction was correct than the fact of its presence. Feyd never returned as he promised, and you spent the night tossing and turning, your nightmares torn between images of your doomed child and the Baron in his tub, reaching out with thick fingers to drown you.

That being said, you’re exhausted. You draw a bath for yourself and have just sunken into the warmth depths when you hear a commotion in the other room. Feyd steps in the bathroom.

His gaze goes to you, roaming over your naked figure before landing on your face. “What happened?”

“I got my blood.” You dip lower into the tub, submerging yourself. “I don’t want to talk about it. What happened to you?”

He traipses inside. “What do you mean?”

“You were supposed to come back last night,” you say. You don’t want to seem sadden by his absence, however, so you busy yourself with lathering soap on your arms and legs.

“I’m here now.” He perches on the side of the tub.

It’s eerily similar to the scene you saw yesterday. You involuntarily shy away from him. “Don’t.”

“Don’t?” His voice pitches with disbelief.

“I-I need to talk to you,” you tell him.

Feyd’s smooth brow furrows. “If this is about your blood, it doesn’t —”

“I saw you. Yesterday. With the Baron.”

You expect him to flinch, to recoil. But there’s not even the slightest change in his expression. You swear you see a flicker of recognition in his eyes, but it disappears so fast that you’re not even sure you saw it. “You don’t know what you saw.”

“Explain what I did then.”

“I cannot.”

“The Baron —”

“I took care of it,” Feyd says.

His tone suggests that the conversation is over. You drag a hand through the water, swirling with soapy residue. “He hurt you.”

“He didn’t do anything I didn’t want him to do.”

“You were a child.”

“I haven’t been a child for a very long time,” Feyd says quietly.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

You finally meet his gaze. He’s watching you carefully, studying you like you’re something he’s never seen before. Your heart aches for him. While it’s impossible to imagine him so young, you know that at one point he was just a boy. Thin limbs and missing teeth. Dimples on his hands.

You touch his hands how they are now, scarred and calloused, fingers slightly bent from repeated breaks. He lets you.

“You’re starting to wrinkle.”

He snatches your hand, gazing in wonderment at your palms. You can’t help but laugh, though it’s pained, his admission fresh on your mind. “That’s what happens if I’m in water too long. Don’t look at me like that — do you not wrinkle?”

“Harkonnens don’t spend copious amounts of time in water.”

“Then what happens?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing? I don’t believe you.”

Feyd’s lips twitch. Before you know it, he’s removing his clothes and dropping into the bath behind you. He has to contort his long limbs but manages to settle in, pulling you back against him.

You tilt your head back to rest against his chest.

“I’m sorry —”

“I told you not to be.”

You close your eyes, throat working. “Not-Not about that. That I’m not pregnant.”

“I don’t care.”

“You don’t?”

He picks up your hand, runs his thumb over your wrinkled palm and the pads of your fingers. “No.”

Somewhat hesitantly, you tell him about your visit with the Reverend Mother. He listens, but with your back flush to his chest you can’t gauge his reaction.

“She said she’s going to conduct monthly visits,” you add sourly.

A rumble sounds in his chest. “Do you want this?”

“No, I don’t want it,” you retort. “If I had my way I would never see her again.”

“Then consider it done.”

You turn halfway, bracing yourself on the edge of the tub so you can face him. “You can’t just do that.”

“Do what?”

“The Reverend Mother always gets her way,” you tell him. “She won’t listen to you. And it’s not worth concurring her wrath.”

“Then we’ll have to ensure she won’t need to visit for a second time.”

You blow out a stream of air. “I wish it were that simple. Even if I do get pregnant, they’re going to be hovering over us until our last breath.”

Feyd doesn’t answer.

All you can hear is the sound of his heartbeat in your ear. It’s slower than yours. Due to the thickness of his blood, his heart doesn’t have to work as hard to get it through his body. At least, that’s how he explained it. You were still learning about each other.

You examine his hand. It’s as smooth as before.

“Strange,” you mutter.

He counters, “You’re the one that wrinkles.”

Later, when you’ve toweled dry, Feyd approaches you from behind. He cuts a menacing figure in the mirror, a charcoal sketch of blacks and whites. Pale skin, dark eyes. A phantom that presses his lips into the curve of your shoulder.

“I want to show you something.”

You frown. “What?”

“Come away with me. Tomorrow.”

“I will if you say where we’re going,” you reply. You spin around and he traps you against the vanity, hands at your waist.

“Just tell me you’ll go.”

You pause, although mentally you’ve already agreed. You’re desperate to leave the fortress. “Are you going to ask nicely?”

“No.”

“Then no.”

Feyd nudges open the panels of your robe, revealing a triangle of skin. “Very well. The girls will be disappointed.”

“What girls?” You close your robe.

“My concubines,” he says with a ghost of a smile. He knows exactly how to flay you, how to press his finger into the wound to make it hurt. “They will be going.”

“Then so will I.”

“I thought you wanted me to ask nicely.” His smooth brow raises.

“And I thought you were done with them.”

He skims his hands over your sides. “You have no need to be jealous, wife. They are nothing to me.” Feyd grins secretively. “This trip will satisfy a different hunger of theirs.”

“Dare I ask?”

“You’ll see soon enough.”

The thopter crouches ominously in the distance. You trail after Feyd in disbelief. “You know how to pilot that?”

“Don’t you?”

You scowl. “No. I don’t like heights.”

Yesterday, after Feyd delivered his previous promise of rewarding your patience, he explained that you would be traveling to the far side of Giedi Prime. He wouldn’t give you many more details than that, but you were too curious to care. Anyways, as much as you loathed to admit it, and no matter how much you denied it, you were jealous of his concubines. If you were forced to marry him, then he should be forced to endure you solely without the benefit of other women.

Fortunately, they would be traveling separately from you, in what Feyd swore would be a relatively short ride. He helps you onto the thopter then climbs in after you.

The machine shudders as the insect-like wings snap to life. You grip the armrests of your co-pilot’s seat as Feyd guides the thopter into the air and away from the fortress, piloting it with the refined way he does all other things, with little worry or fear of failure. You wish you could exercise such confidence — especially now, as the thopter clears the smog scarfing the planet, and can you really tell how far up you are.

“Tell me something,” you say, eyes closed. “I need a distraction.”

Even though you can’t see him, you can only too clearly picture him grinning at you. “Anything?”

“Anything,” you grit out.

Feyd is quiet for quite some time. When he finally speaks, his rasping lilt obtains a softness that you’re unfamiliar with. “The Baron still…requests…the company of young boys. I do my best to intervene but I don’t always succeed.”

You peel open one eye. “It’s his disgusting problem. You can’t blame yourself.”

“But when I do,” he forges ahead, almost as if you never said anything, “I like to make sure that they won’t need to worry about him again. And that their captors will never see the light of day again.”

“Is that what we’re doing?”

“Or something,” he says vaguely.

Feyd goes on to say that, with their military schools segregated into males and females, it’s only too easy for captors to select boys that will please the Baron. The longer he talks, the tighter his grip on the controls are, until you fear that he might snap them in half and plunge you back down to the earth.

“You didn’t have to do anything about it,” you say finally, quietly. “But you do.”

Feyd’s dark eyes glint. “The Baron needs to die.”

“Why haven’t you done anything?” It seems wrong to casually inquire why he hasn’t killed his uncle — his abuser — but he doesn’t seem to mind.

Feyd shrugs. “I’m afraid that the baronship will be stripped from me if I kill him. And I can’t allow Rabban to take over.” He glances at you. “By the way, I didn’t know you were so close to my brother.”

“I’m not,” you grumble.

“Then why did he want to dance with you?”

“He wanted to warn me. There seems to be something happening that I could’ve prevented had I—” you trail off.

Were you really going to tell him? You didn’t know how he would react. The only reason you hadn’t said anything yet was because you didn’t want to anger him for no reason. You had no proof Rabban was actually planning anything but fodder to try and convince you to side with him.

Feyd must sense your unease. “Had you what?”

“He wanted me for himself.”

You swear you feel the thopter jolt slightly as Feyd works to regain his control. “Why didn’t you tell me this?”

“I didn’t think it meant anything,” you explain. “I thought he was just…jealous. Do you know what he’s talking about?”

“No.” Feyd’s jaw clenches.

“So then maybe it’s nothing,” you say flippantly, though you’re no longer convinced.

“He can’t just corner you and —”

“I handled it,” you interrupt.

Feyd glances at you. “He doesn’t need to concern himself with you. You are mine.”

You might’ve rolled your eyes if he hadn’t chosen that moment to start your descent. You reclaim your grip on the armrests and don’t bother opening your eyes again until you feel the thopter safely grounded.

“I’ll speak with him,” Feyd tells you. Dust settles as the thopter’s wings fold in.

You frown. “You don’t have to. I don’t want him thinking that I need you to fight my battles.”

“I don’t want him thinking that he can just manipulate you.”

“Who said he was succeeding?”

Feyd smiles slightly. “No one.”

You both step from the thopter. The first thing you notice is the lack of factories. A band of barren land encircles you and, a few hundred yards away, the start of a forest. You squint at the trees — you hadn’t seen that many in one place since your time on Caladan. It’s a comforting sight, despite the eerie sight of the neon green leaves rustling in the stiff breeze. The black sun has begun to sink below the horizon, returning color to the land, but only in small amounts.

“Come, wife.” Feyd strides for the treeline.

“Where are we going?”

Your question is answered, however, when you spot the second thopter. Your muscles tense as you recognize the forms of his concubines, three women, standing against the machine along with four other huddled forms.

As you near, the shapes of the huddled forms come into detail — four men, hooded like the prisoners from your wedding, covered in grime. The concubines each hold one man, the fourth bleeding profusely from a wound; his entire right arm is gone. You feel bile rise in your throat.

“Did you start without me?” Feyd asks his concubines sharply, eyes flicking to the fourth man.

“No,” one of the concubines says, “he did that himself.”

“Y/N, these are the men who facilitate my uncle’s…bad habits.” Feyd steps up to the first one. The man trembles.

He removes his hood and then retrieves a dagger from his belt, pressing the blade into the man’s throat but only enough to draw a thin line of blood. In response, the concubines shift in anticipation. He’s bleeding them so that they’re easy to track.

You watch, wide eyed, as he repeats the process with the other men. You can hardly find any pity for them, these horrible, horrible men, but the ratcheting tension in the air sets you on edge. Your mouth feels dry.

“And now they will know what it’s like to be hunted.” Feyd steps back to admire his work. Then, speaking to the concubines, “These men shall make fine meals for you.”

Your stomach drops. A meal? Did that mean —

The concubine closest to you flicks the fork of her tongue over her black teeth.

Feyd grabs the chin of one of the men. His voice is sickly sweet, almost a purr. “It will be dark soon. You better run fast.”

The concubines release the men. The four of them linger, uncertain, afraid, before the tallest of the concubines lunge for them — the men scurry away, glancing periodically over their shoulders as they run for the treeline. The concubine giggles.

“I’m sorry it’s been so long,” Feyd says. “I know you must be hungry. But not for much longer.”

The women flock to him, kissing his neck, the stretch of skin exposed by his armor. But he holds his hand out to you, and you take it.

“Feyd —” you begin.

“This is what I wanted you to see,” he says. “I told you that I took care of it. My uncle will never touch another child again.”

You swallow. Your gaze sweeps outward, to the forest, where the men have already disappeared. There’s a trail of black blood on the ground from the man with only one arm. How would he survive in the wilderness?

“You didn’t tell me that they…” you glance at the concubines.

Feyd smirks. “They crave flesh. It only seems fitting that I can satisfy them while fulfilling justification of my own.” He tilts his head back, marveling at the darkening sky. “Plus, I so enjoy the thrill of the hunt.”

You don’t know how to reply, so you don’t. Just observe as the concubines grow more anxious until, finally, Feyd gives them the signal. It’s so dark that you can scarcely see, but the dome of their smooth heads glint in the remaining light, and a shiver dances up your spine as the forest swallows them completely.

“They deserve it,” Feyd says to you.

You turn to him. “I know it.”

“Then why do you look bewildered?”

“I didn’t know that Harkonnens enjoyed…flesh,” you admit, repeating his words from before.

“Not all of us do.”

“Do you?”

Feyd’s grin does something to you — runs a finger of desire up your thighs and to your core. He cups the side of your face. “I have my needs, just as everyone else. Why? Are you hungry, wife?”

“No, I’m not,” you answer, nose wrinkling.

“Hm. I am.” Feyd brings his mouth to yours but doesn’t touch it, his lower lip grazing your top. “I want to devour you. I want to feel your heart pulsing, taste it in your blood. I want to consume you.”

Heat pools in your belly. You raise your chin, body bowing to him as if pulled by invisible strings.

Your voice is low. “What are you suggesting?”

“Let’s play our own game,” he says, “I chase you, you keep away from me until the sun rises and avoid the others. Or not.”

“And if you catch me?” You ask, breathless.

“I will satisfy my own hunger.” The hand cupping your face brushes down your neck, your shoulder, over your breast.

“Is that supposed to be a punishment?”

“We’ll see.” A wicked delight smolders in his eyes.

Gone is the man who held you in the tub, who traced the wrinkles in your palm like he wanted to commit them to memory. And in his place is the man you know best, who terrified and enthralled you and had you questioning your sanity; every day drawing you further into his infuriating orbit.

And you ran from him.

You pump your arms as fast as they will go, legs cycling, the promise of him on your heels. This was the epitome of your game, the ultimate test, and you were determined not to fail.

You’d learned survival from your father and Gurney. And even though you had not taken to it as you should’ve, you had been taught the Bene Gesserit way of cataloguing every single movement and flash of light, every detail in perfect memory. And so you ran. And ran.

And you kept running until you stumbled upon your first body.

It was the man who had lost an arm in an attempt to escape from his imprisonment — at least, you thought. He was badly mutilated. Blood covered the ground and pervaded your senses, to the point that the combination of it and his shredded entrails made you nauseous. You were no medical expert but you were almost certain that he was missing organs.

That someone had feasted upon him.

You unwittingly absorb his torn flesh and the evidence of teeth marks. The white of his bone.

You fight down your repulsion. If you vomited, it would give Feyd and the concubines a hint at your presence, the latter who undoubtedly hunted down this man and ripped the flesh from him. So instead you turn and run in the opposite direction, hoping that you won’t meet anyone else.

The slightest of breezes has you flinching, certain that someone will descend upon you and ravish you — one way or another. The thought spurs you on, keeps you from lingering too long in one place. The ideal decision would be to stay still and wait until morning. But you know that Feyd will be as proficient of a hunter as he is a warrior, a lover, and this keeps you going.

Branches tear at your arms and legs, the pilingitam trees seemingly intent on ensnaring you and keeping you hostage. You wish you had a knife or a shield or something. You were left despairingly empty-handed and defenseless. The only weapon you had was your strength, your endurance, the cunning of your mind, which seemed insufficient in comparison to the next man you come across, who is unequivocally alive.

It’s an accident — both of you running in the dark and finally colliding in a burst of pain. You fall backwards on your ass. The man gazes at you in fear until he takes in your clothes, your hair.

“My, my, the na-Baroness,” he says, chuckling at his good fortune. “The na-Baron turned you loose, too?”

“He thought his harpies might need the help,” you sneer back, suppressing a wince as you stand to your feet.

“You don’t have their bloodlust,” the man observes. He looms closer to you. “You might not be the Baron’s typical type, but it must be awfully distracting to have you in the fortress with him. How lucky the na-Baron is.”

His voice is taunting. He’s sure that he’s got you trapped. “And how lucky am I to have found you first.”

The man launches at you. You twist to avoid him but his hand catches your side, spinning you and taking him down with you. His body lands on you, heavy and foul-smelling. Desperately you try to wriggle free from him but his actions are unpredictable. You jab aimlessly at him, hoping to find a weak spot — finally you bring your knee up into his crotch, and it’s enough for you to roll to the side and away. He glares at you.

The dark hinders your senses, but only slightly, trading blows with the man in rapid succession.

He grabs a rock from the undergrowth and raises his hand, intending to smash it down on your head, but there’s a sudden spray of hot liquid on your face. The man screams and falls to the side. You scramble away just in time to witness a blur of pale skin, a concubine with her teeth buried in his shoulder. It’s not long before his screams turn to whimpers as she bites and tears, pointed nails driving into his chest and stilling his heart.

“Thank-Thank you,” you gasp. You’re too stunned to move, unable to move your gaze from the man’s bloodied body.

“I didn’t do it to save you,” the concubine hisses.

Blood is slathered across her face and the front of her shift. Suddenly, you’re not so sure that you prefer her over the man.

“I —”

“You took him from us,” the concubine continues, taking staggering steps toward you. “No longer does he call on us in the middle of the night, mutters our names as we coax his orgasm from him. Now his lips only say your name.”

“I am his wife,” you counter, regaining the control on your racing thoughts, adrenaline subsiding. “I will secure him an heir, rule by his side. All you have to offer is your services.”

The concubine rushes you. It appears that you can’t catch a break. But this time you’re prepared for your opponent, dealing a swift jab to her jaw before she can even lay a hand on you. She reels. You take the opportunity to kick at her knee. She falls to one side. Maybe she knows how to wring pleasure from your husband but she’s forgotten that you, too, are a warrior.

You don’t want to strike her down, just as you didn’t want to kill Ze’ev. But circumstance has left you no choice. You will carve your place on Giedi Prime out of violence and bloodshed if that’s what it takes because that’s how you were taught.

You snap her neck. Her death doesn’t satisfy you, though, as Ze’ev’s did. You take a step back.

A branch breaks.

The harbinger of death melts from the shadows. “Not only have I found you, jewel, but I’ve found you with the blood of my concubine on your hands.” Feyd nudges the limp body with his foot. “They aren’t easy to train.”

“She attacked me.”

“I know.”

You grit your teeth. You’re covered in dirt and blood, both yours and not, sweat matting your hair to your skin. “You watched and you didn’t intervene?”

“No.” Feyd crosses to you. “And I didn’t need to, did I?”

“Would you have let her kill me?”

Feyd gazes upon your face, studying you closely. “Do you think I would’ve?”

“No. I don’t.”

He seizes you suddenly — grabs you by the throat and nearly lifts you off your feet. “If anyone kills you, it will be me. Do you understand? Only my hands can touch your body, steal your blood from it. Watch the light go from your eyes.”

Feyd releases his grip enough to steer you backwards, one hand bracing on the base of the tree and the other still at your throat.

“You are mine,” he growls.

Usually, a declaration of such a nature would ignite a flurry of anger within you. But coming from him, it’s nearly a love song. Possessive. Domineering. Fraught with dark devotion. His fingers on your throat a gift sweeter than any necklace of gold or silver.

Feyd pushes your pants down your thighs, then returns his hand beside your head. He captures your mouth with his. There’s no delicacy there, only fervent need, teeth scraping yours, your lips, tongue combating yours. And you kiss him just as hungrily. You lied earlier — you were hungry. You needed his touch. Needed the swipe of his tongue on your skin to subdue the darkness persistently lurking inside you, the one that he put there, the only person able to extinguish its flame.

He spreads your legs and spears you with his cock. His size, the lack of your readiness, causes frissons of pain to erupt through you and you cry out. Feyd grunts as he thrusts into you, tree bark scraping your palms as you clamor for a hold. He ruts into you with wild abandon, hips bucking, muscles tense as he foists his pleasure on your body.

You mumble your protest when he withdraws from you, just as you’ve stretched out to accommodate him. Feyd strokes himself, slick with your moisture, pre-cum gleaming on the tip of his head. He makes a fist and then presses his knuckles to your entrance, the cool metal of his ring bearing down on your clit. You yelp.

“Quiet, wife,” he rasps, “you’ll draw more unwanted attention. And I’m not done with you.”

He bites down on your lip, drawing blood. If he hopes to silence you, this does the opposite, and you moan into his mouth. Unperturbed, Feyd presses his knuckles against your entrance, the surface of his ring flattening on your clit, a wicked source of pressure — of pleasure — driving you to orgasm.

The coolness of the ring contrasts the heat flooding through you.

This time when he touches you, he twists the ring up his finger, and then, both into your cunt. It adds an extra ridge to his fingers, one that pitches your orgasm again as it slips in and out of you, each thrust of his hand causing you to jolt.

You come and your pleasure cleaves you, into what feels like nearly in half, splitting you down the middle. Feyd returns the ring to your clit until your orgasm subsides, then plucks it off. He offers it to you, pushing it into your mouth, and you eagerly suck it clean.

It tastes of metal, of your monthly blood.

Feyd hums his approval, then presses a kiss to the ring before slipping it back on.

You writhe. You need friction. You need his cock buried in you, his unrelenting pummeling.

Feyd fists the hair at the base of your skull and uses the grip on you to throw you to the ground, naked and quivering. He drops to his knees behind you. You gasp out as Feyd notches his cock at your entrance, grabs your hips to keep you firmly in place. Blood soaks your hands, your knees, the fresh smell of death enveloping you. You try to wiggle away from it but he secures you there with his cock, snapping his hips against your ass and himself snugly inside your cunt.

“Stay here,” he growls. “I want you bloody and spent, here where they can watch.”

You fight back a sob, a combination of desire and disbelief. The concubine and the man lie only a few feet from you, watching you with their glassy gaze, their blood coating your hands.

“They tried to take you from me.” Feyd’s voice is incensed, not entirely for you rather than for himself to hear. “My wife, my jewel. And now they can watch me fuck you amongst their bodies.”

Feyd increases the speed of his thrusts. You can feel him swell with his impending orgasm, fill you even further, deeper. A cry looses from you as he finally spills himself inside you, grinding into you as he finishes and his cock starts to soften. Feyd nudges open your thighs, ensures that none of his seed escapes.

He adjusts himself and leaves you to scramble to your own feet, filthy and, frankly, swimming in the fog of your post-orgasm.

Feyd examines you. “You look wonderful.”

You bark out a laugh, your throat bruised and sore, the sound scraping out of you. “Liar.”

“Of course, you always do, filled with my cum.” He turns you to him, picks a branch that’s woven into your hair. “My beautiful, full wife.”

He grabs your hand and tugs you into the surrounding darkness.

“Should-Should we wait for the others?” You ask.

“No.” Feyd glances behind you. “They won’t be pleased when they find out you killed their sister.”

Part 9

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