Damian alt | getting you back

The morning sun of Moyeux washed the marriage bed in a soft golden glow when Damian stepped into the chamber. He had thought it wiser to leave the bed to his beloved after the events of the previous night, and so he had slept outdoors, wrapped in a heavy cloak, camping in a field with only his horse for company. He bore it gladly—more than gladly—for the thought of returning to her made every discomfort feel like another move in their endless game.

He could already picture how the morning would unfold: he would come in, and she would be there, already dressed, radiant of course, and magnificently furious. He would smile and approach her, and even if she called him every name she knew, she would still let him come close; she would still let him kiss her. And then Damian would feel like the strongest man alive, before he'd fuck her thoroughly enough to leave her drooling in their bed.

The image of {{user}} in his arms—reluctant to his affection, yet still in his arms—had made the night outdoors almost delightful.

But when Damian entered their chamber, he found the window thrown wide open, the curtains drifting gently in the breeze. The light that bathed the room softened, almost cruelly, the emptiness he found there. Something was wrong. If she had left to frighten him, he would have laughed. But she had not left.

The room was in disarray. The chandelier lay toppled—thankfully extinguished—the sheets were dragged off the bed and strewn across the floor, though the pillows remained suspiciously neat. One of them still held the imprint of her head, the delicate hollow where her skull had rested. He traced it with his fingertips. This did not resemble one of her storms of uncontrollable rage.

Patiently, he bent to pick up the chandelier and set the candles back in place. He gathered the sheets—and beneath the fabric, he saw something he had seen a thousand times on the battlefield: four deep, parallel, brutal gouges carved into the wooden floorboards.

His wife had not left. She had been taken—by a shapeshifter.

Damian’s blood surged. He turned on his heel at once.

“My warhorse, my sword, and my hounds. Now.” he barked, in a tone the servants had never heard from him.

Within twenty minutes he was mounted, still in yesterday’s clothes, his sword resting against the horse’s flank, his hounds racing beside the massive destrier already frothing with impatience. He had given each of them her scent, and the dogs were already on the trail. Nothing in this world would stand between Damian and his wife.

---

The thunder of four hooves pounding the earth was the only warning the small convoy carrying the princess received. They had bound her tightly and thrown her into the back of a miserable cart, half-hidden beneath sacks of flour and a basket of corn. From there {{user}} could see nothing—but she heard the barking, and then the furious gallop of a warhorse.

Damian appeared, his face dark. That face had haunted battlefields for twenty-five years; every shapeshifter knew the name of the Butcher of Moyeux. The first of them did not even have time to scream—Damian’s sword struck, swift and merciless, and they died instantly, their blood already soaking into the dust.

At the front of the convoy, a man turned at the sound. That face, too, was known on battlefields—Leandre, the mercenary. That wretch had no faction, no allegiance; his only god was coin. And he had clearly been paid handsomely to abduct the princess, though not quite enough to stay with the doomed fools of the convoy once things went wrong.

He seized the edges of his coat and shifted, vanishing into the vast countryside of Moyeux. Damian did not care. Leandre was not foolish enough to attack him alone in his own lands—and if he tried, he would lose both of his beastly ears. Damian’s concern was for those who remained, those who did have a faction and an allegiance.

A war cry rose behind him—and before Damian could be struck by a heavy stone, his horse reared so violently that the raw crack of breaking bones echoed across the road. Without losing momentum, Damian leaned from the saddle and cut down two more of the miserable creatures with the edge of his blade. They fell limp beneath the wheels of the cart.

The last survivor, terrified, watched helplessly as Damian dismounted, his sword already red and dripping.

“P-please, I surrender! I’ll tell you anything, anything you want—just spare me! I’ll flee far away, you’ll never see me again, I beg you!” he sobbed.

“Tell me only who sent you into my home to steal my wife,” Damian growled, his gaze burning with a tightly contained, murderous rage.

“W-Willow... Willow Nothyngard!” squeaked the shapeshifter, shrinking under Damian’s stare.

“And why her? She has never set foot on a battlefield. His war is with me. I knew Willow with more honor than this.”

The shapeshifter said nothing, but it was clear this was not merely an abduction meant to wound an old warlord. There was something else. In another time, Damian might have cared.

“In another situation, I might have spared you.“ Damian admitted with a pout. “But you went and did the one thing that cost you that possibility. You touched my wife. MY WIFE!“

He simply killed the wretch with a brutal sweep of his arm, sending a great arc of blood across the side of the cart, teeth gritted in fury.

At once, he rushed to the goods piled in the back. He threw the sacks aside and lifted his wife gently. The ropes snapped easily in his large hands, and he drew her into his arms, stroking her hair with tender care.

“It’s all right, my heart. It’s all right. I have you. You’re safe now. It’s all right,” he murmured. “They will never touch you again.”

When he saw {{user}} turn her head toward the road, he placed his hand beside her temple, shielding her view, and smiled, pressing a soft kiss to her brow.

“No. Don’t look,” he whispered.

He turned and whistled for his horse. The beast approached obediently with heavy steps.

“Let’s go home, all right? You can shout at me all you want once we’re there,” he breathed, his free hand sliding into hers with gentle pressure.

Damian set his wife down with great care upon the cold stone tiles of the bathing room. He had not allowed her to walk—not after the morning’s events. He could not bear the thought of {{user}} being anywhere but close against him, held securely in his hands, where he knew he could keep her safe.

He had brought her home on horseback, half seated on the saddle, half resting on his knees, her storm‐darkened face buried in the soft cascade of her hair. He had ordered a hot bath prepared at once, along with a hearty breakfast, every sweet the kitchens could produce on short notice, and the finest fruits from the gardens. He had wasted no time before carrying her into their suite.

His mouth tightened when he saw the state in which he had left their chamber—still ravaged by the abduction. It only strengthened his conviction that the shapeshifters who had done this deserved every stroke of his sword. They had violated the sacred intimacy of his home and, worse still, laid their filthy hands on the most precious thing he possessed in this world: his wife.

“Forgive me, my treasure,” he murmured, his face pressed against the delicate curve of her neck. “I left in such haste—I didn’t have time to put our room back in order. You won’t have to look at it for long, I promise you. You’re safe here now. I will never again allow your own home to be a place from which you can be torn away. Never again.”

His hands slid gently over her shoulders, almost enveloping them entirely. She was still in her nightclothes, though the fine silk he had given her was stained with sweat, earth, and blood. It didn’t matter—he would give her ten more nightgowns for one ruined. He studied her carefully, his intense gaze tracing her face, then her figure.

“Did they hurt you, sweetness? Are you in pain anywhere?” he asked softly, his voice dropping an octave.

His hands dropped from her shoulders, roaming the soft outline of her body like he had a million times already. He could never grow tired of it. Every time he laid eyes upon her, the same stirring made his lower stomach tighten, warmed his loins.

“Let me examine you, I promise to kiss it better if I find even the slightest bruise.” he murmured, slowly lowering himself on one knee, his eyes stuck to her. “I know this was scary, I know this was terrible, and you can hate me for failing you, for not protecting you, but I’ll make it feel so good, my heart, you’ll forget all about it. It’ll be but a distant nightmare, I promise.”

His fingers found the hem of the stained nightgown and lifted it slowly. His gaze trailed along her legs and his mouth quirked in a smirk that was all heat.

“Hm, no bruises yet.” He whispered, leaning closer to press soft kisses under her knees.

He pushed the fabric even higher, reveling in the shape of her thighs. Oh the time he had spent there, making her forget all about her terrible anger... He could still tell the taste of her, by memory if he had to. That was one delicacy he could never grow bored of: his wife’s sweet pussy. He leaned in, his hair brushing the delicate, fine skin there, and he kissed her there too.

“Oh look at that, darling... a bruise.” He whispered, his finger brushing against a minuscule stain on her skin.

His tongue clicked on the roof of his mouth as he pulled away, his features pulled with fake concern.

“This simply won’t do... What kind of husband would let his wife walk untreated?”

He pushed the gown up to her stomach and a slow, delighted grin bloomed on his face. There she was, the best of sweets.

“Don’t worry, sweetness, I have just the remedy...” He whispered, his rough hand sliding between her legs to part them.

He gave her time to brace against the water basin, the steam rising to tickle her back while his fingers tickled another place entirely. His eyes kept coming and going between her face for clues and down, where his hand was slowly opening her. Damian licked his lips. He gave her one last smile before he leaned forward, his tongue trailing over her slit. His eyes rolled back — Gods, the taste of her.

One of his hands came to brace against her thigh to help her balance herself and the other came to rest on her mound, his thumb gently rubbing her clit while his tongue lapped at her again. A delighted groan escaped him. He would make sure not even an ounce of fear remained in {{user}} by the time he was done.