Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The Dellamorte chateau is quiet, save for the slow, steady crackling of the fire. Shadows curl long against the walls, flickering with each restless movement of the flames, dancing across the ornate moldings. Outside, an unusual Antivan winter presses cold fingers against the glass, the night heavy with frost and silence, the occasional soft patter of ice crystals tapping against the windowpane.

Rook sits on the couch, dressed in a simple silk chemise and house robe that whispers against her skin with each breath, her legs stretching out, cradling an untouched glass of wine between her fingers. The crystal is cool against her skin, a counterpoint to the warmth emanating from the hearth. Across from her, Viago de Riva occupies the other end of the seat, his posture the same as always— lounging, languid, deceptively at ease. One arm stretches along the back of the couch, fingers curling idly, the other resting near his thigh. Neither stiff nor restless, but still deliberate, as always.

She has spent years studying him, learning the small shifts in his expression, the calculated movements of his hands, the way he could turn silence into a weapon sharper than any dagger. The familiar tension coils within her chest, a mixture of anticipation and wariness that has become as natural as breathing in his presence. Her shoulders remain relaxed, but just beneath the surface, every muscle seems wound tight, waiting.

And yet, after all these years, she is still unable to tell what he is thinking. The opacity of his thoughts both frustrates and fascinates her, leaving her constantly searching his face for clues, for any crack in that perfect composure that might reveal the man beneath.

It had started innocently. He had come knocking at her door, the sound a sharp knock against the quiet of the evening.  She hadn’t thought to be better dressed before inviting him in, and now the thin silk robe molds to her skin where the heat lingers, leaving her with the uneasy sense of being far too bare.

Old stories, softened at the edges by time, had been spoken into the calm of a half-finished evening. The words hung in the air between them, fragrant with nostalgia, bitter with regret. House de Riva, the past, the versions of themselves that no longer existed— all recalled in voices that grew softer as the night deepened, until the memories seemed to hover in the fire-lit air like ghosts, tangible enough to touch if either of them dared to reach out.

The wine still sits untouched between the both of them. Viago had poured it himself, of course. He always did. A master poisoner trusts nothing he hasn’t prepared with his own hands. 

Viago’s blue eyes study the burgundy liquid in his glass, watching how it catches the firelight. His silence has weight, a familiar pressure Rook has felt countless times before, like the air before a storm, heavy and charged with potential energy. She waits, patient as only someone who truly knows him can be, though beneath her stillness, anticipation tangles tight in her stomach.

The crackling fire provides the only soundtrack to their silence, punctuated by the occasional soft pop of burning wood. The room smells of cedar, wine, and the faint spice of his cologne – scents that have become inextricably linked with these private moments between them.

“Teia is gone,” he finally says, the words a cut of a knife through the silence.

Rook takes a careful sip of wine, giving him space to continue. Her pulse quickens despite her composed exterior, her fingertips tingling slightly where they touch the cool glass.

“For good this time?” she asks when he offers nothing more.

A wry grin pulls at the corner of his mouth. “Yes. Quite definitively.”

He shifts slightly, the movement controlled, but the dip of the cushion sends a subtle wave of warmth toward her, his body heat drawn closer.

“She discovered certain... ambitions of mine. Found them distasteful.” His finger traces the rim of his glass, the soft crystal singing faintly under his touch. “Or perhaps dangerous. The distinction hardly matters now.”

Rook feels the low thrum of excitement tighten in her gut. “Your claim to the throne.”

It’s not a question. 

She’s known of his plans for years— careful, meticulous plans that would eventually position him to claim his birthright as the king’s bastard son. Plans she has watched slowly unfold with a mixture of awe and trepidation, feeling both pride and concern twist together in her heart.

“She wanted no part in it.” Viago’s voice remains level, but Rook catches the slight tightening around his eyes, the tension in his jaw. “Said she hadn’t signed up to be queen of a country built on poison and plotting, so she left.”

“Her loss,” Rook says, surprised by the fierce protectiveness that rises in her.

Viago’s eyebrow arches. “Is it?” 

“You’ve never hidden what you are.” Rook lowers her glass. “Not from those who truly know you.”

Something shifts in his expression— a softening, so faint most wouldn’t catch it.

“No,” he agrees, “not from you.”

The fire pops loudly in the hearth, sending a cascade of crimson sparks up the chimney. The sudden sound makes Rook’s heart jump, though she keeps her expression carefully neutral. 

When Viago speaks again, his voice has dropped lower, raising goosebumps along her arms. “You’ve always understood, haven’t you? The necessity of certain... methods.”

“I understand that kingdoms aren’t built with clean hands, Viago. I never expected yours to be.” Rook meets his gaze, steady as always, though her pulse thrums beneath her skin. “Besides, do you remember when you told me you’d be king of Antiva someday, all those years ago?”

Viago hums, slow and considering. Not looking at her. Looking past her, into the flames that dance and flicker. A shadow crosses his face. “I said a lot of things.” 

She lifts her glass, feeling the cool crystal against her lips as she smirks over the rim. “Oh, don’t do that. You said it like you meant it. Like the entire world would fold just because you decreed it should.” 

That got a twitch of his lips. Almost a smile. “You told me you’d be my queen.”

“I was mocking you, Viago,” she says, and a laugh breaks free as she throws her head back, wild and full of teeth, like she’s forgotten how to be cautious.

He finally turns to her, sapphire eyes dragging like silk over bare skin, pausing at the slope of her neck, then drifting lower, as if following a thought he doesn’t voice.

Not undressing her with his gaze— Viago was too refined for that. It isn’t obvious, isn’t hungry, not in the way a lesser man’s would be. If he wanted to look, truly look, she would never catch him doing it. And yet, the restraint in his observation only stokes the heat building within her, a slow-burn that curls low and steady, threatening to strip away her composure altogether.

She then turns toward him, draping an elbow along the back of the couch so she can watch him fully. She takes in the sharp lines of his profile, the way the firelight dances across his tanned skin, the dark hair that she knows would feel like silk between her fingers.

He lets her.

That, more than anything, is telling.

Viago never lets people observe him unguarded. But he remains as he is— shoulders at ease, posture unbothered, long, elegant fingers tracing slow, idle patterns against the rich fabric of the couch. Patterns that she finds herself wanting to trace onto his body with her own fingers, with her lips. 

His voice is quieter when he speaks again.

“Do you miss it?”

Rook blinks, dragging her focus back to his face. That wasn’t a casual question. Not from him. Not with the weight of history that hangs between them, the years of shared secrets and stolen moments.

“House de Riva?” she asks, more to buy herself time than anything else. Time to steady her racing heart, to quell the flutter in her stomach.

Viago tilts his head slightly. “Mm.”

It is not a careless inquiry, borne from thoughtlessness. There’s a depth to his gaze, an intensity that suggests he’s searching for something in her answer. Something more than just idle curiosity or polite conversation.

She exhales slowly, fingers drumming once against the plush fabric of the couch. “Not particularly.”

Viago makes a soft, considering noise. “No?”

She shrugs, shifting in her seat, acutely aware of the way his eyes follow the movement, the way they linger on the curve of her shoulder, the line of her neck. “Do you miss having me around?”

He swirls his wine, letting the light catch the deep red liquid, casting crimson reflections across his face. He finally takes a sip, his lips pressing against the glass. She watches the way his throat moves when he swallows, how his fingers curl so precisely around the stem. A flicker of heat flares low in her belly. She shouldn’t still notice these things. And yet she does.

“Only when I’m bored.”

Rook’s lips curl, a slow, feline stretch. “Then you must miss me constantly.”

There’s a ghost of a smirk, a flash of heat in those piercing blue eyes of his.

“Maybe.”

The silence between them thickens, winding tighter, smoke curling from a dying ember. It’s a silence laden with memories, with the echoes of almost kisses and whispered promises. A silence that speaks of the years they’ve spent orbiting each other, drawn together by a force that feels as inevitable as gravity.

“You were always good at finding your own entertainment,” Viago murmurs.

Rook lets her fingers trace the rim of her glass, a deliberate motion that draws his gaze. “And you were always good at making sure I didn’t get too carried away.” 

“And what of your own entertainment these days?” Viago asks, voice dipped in silk but lined with steel. He speaks as if making idle conversation, but Rook knows better. “How fares your arrangement with Lucanis Dellamorte?”

The name lands like a dagger, casual in tone but honed to cut. Rook doesn’t flinch—she never does—but her fingers pause on the glass, a breath of stillness betraying her before she resumes the slow, deliberate motion around the rim.

“Lucanis and I have an understanding,” she replies. “It’s all very professional. Very civilized.”

Viago doesn’t react. Not visibly. But she can feel his focus tighten, like a noose pulling closer. “And is that what you wanted?”

She tilts her head slightly, forcing a slight smile. “What I wanted was influence. Reach. Stability. Now I have all that and more.”

“That wasn’t my question.”

Rook exhales through her nose, a slow release of breath that might be irritation or restraint. She isn't entirely sure anymore, but still, she doesn’t look away. “Then rephrase it.”

“Are you satisfied?”

The pause that follows is deliberate. She lifts her glass, takes a slow sip, the wine washing over her tongue. She doesn’t answer immediately. She lets silence stretch, an old habit, a practiced form of power. If this is going where she thinks it is, she wants to make him wonder. Make him wait, as he has made her wait for years.

When she does speak, her voice has cooled several degrees. “It’s functional,” she says. “Efficient. We’ve each given up the pretense of fairy tales.”

Viago’s expression doesn’t change, but his fingers still against the couch fabric, a tiny tell that betrays his reaction to her words. In the silence that follows, Rook can feel the weight of his gaze, the intensity of his scrutiny, as if he’s trying to see beneath her skin, to the heart of her. “A practical match, then.”

“A very Antivan arrangement,” she replies, her smile thinner now. “Two god-killers, together. You should approve.” 

Viago’s eyes flick to her mouth, and linger there a fraction too long. Not with hunger, but with intent, as though the curve of her lips contains the answer he’s been chasing. When he speaks again, his voice is quieter, but no less dangerous. “Perhaps. Though I never took you for someone who settled.”

Rook does not rise to it, not immediately. But her fingers tighten minutely around the stem of her glass, a small crack in her otherwise flawless performance. 

Settled.

The word echoes louder than it should. Is that what this is? Separate lives under the same roof, polite conversation over dinner, a cold bed with no one waiting, the quiet knowledge that passion and true connection live elsewhere?

She forces a laugh, breathy and quick, so he doesn’t see that she is off balance, already trying to pivot. “Only you would call marrying the First Talon settling. I’d call it otherwise.”

Viago’s smile cuts sideways, the expression delicate and cruel all at once. It doesn’t reach his eyes. “Dress it up however you like. It’s still survival.”

“We’re Crows,” she says. “Survival’s what we’re made for.”

“So tell me, Rook.” He sets his glass down, the crystal tapping gently against the wood with a soft clink. “Is this the life you chose… or the one you were left with?”

A memory rises, unbidden: the two of them, younger then, hands still unbloodied, lying in a field gone gold in the late summer light. He turns to her and agrees she'd be his queen. Not a dare, not a game, but promise in those ocean blue eyes of his.

Now, years later, he watches her with that same stillness, that same impossible gaze. The fire gilds the edges of him in gold and red, and he looks both familiar and dangerous— the boy who taught her poison craft with patient hands and the man who would be king, whose ambitions run as deep and dark as Antivan nights.

And even now, with the years and blood between them, some part of her still believes him.

“You’re asking if I’m happy,” she says, softly. And in that moment, stripped of pretense, the question isn’t political at all.

Viago doesn’t confirm it. He knows he doesn’t have to.

“We’re comfortable with our arrangement,” she continues. A familiar ache blooms beneath her ribs, perhaps regret or longing, something that exists in the space between. “It’s a marriage of convenience that serves us both. No expectations beyond loyalty to the contract.” She hears it as if from a distance—hollow, too polished. A line she’s told herself so often it no longer feels like hers. Not when the emptiness still wakes her in the middle of the night.

Viago takes a measured sip of wine, and Rook watches the rim catch against that unforgiving line of his mouth, the same one that once whispered poison and promises in equal measure. “A diplomatic way of describing a cage, however gilded.”

The practiced curve of her lips remains perfect, poised, even as something colder settles in her gaze. “We all have our cages, Viago.” 

The truth hangs between them, unspoken but understood. He knows her too well—knows that beneath her well-crafted life lies a restlessness that no political marriage could ever satisfy. The same restlessness that had her scaling palace walls at sixteen, that had her training with blades when others practiced needlepoint. Just as she knows that behind his meticulous ambition burns a desire that no throne could ever quench, a longing that runs deeper than power, older than politics.

“Tell me, what do you truly want, Rook?” 

Years of diplomatic training hold her spine straight, keep her expression composed even as something molten stirs beneath her ribs. “What makes you think I don’t already have what I want?” The defiance in her words is deliberate, a parry to his thrust.

“Because I know you. Just as you know me.” There is no arrogance in his tone, only certainty— the certainty of years, of secrets, of watching each other become the people they are now.

“And what is it you think you know?” she challenges, and in that moment—despite everything—she betrays herself.

“That these arrangements and alliances will never be enough. Not for you.” His eyes hold hers, unflinching, piercing blue against the warm tones of the room. “Just as they will never be enough for me.”

The admission settles between them, neither accusation nor confession. It is something more honest than either has allowed themselves in years, carrying the weight of shared history, of possibilities glimpsed and denied, of paths not taken.

And Rook doesn’t deny it. Cannot deny it. Not to him. Not when he looks at her as though he can see past the facade to the woman beneath— the woman who wants things she shouldn’t, who dreams beyond the boundaries set for her.

“Then what would be enough?” she asks, the question barely above a whisper.

For a moment, his mask slips, and she glimpses the hunger she’s always suspected, carefully caged, never truly tamed.

“That,” he says quietly, “is the question we’ve both been avoiding, isn’t it?” 

And then he’s looking at her that way again.

Not in the way a mentor looks at his protege. Not even in the way an old friend looks across a glass of wine.

No, Viago is watching her the way a poisoner watches the vial, aware of its potency, savoring the risk. His gaze doesn’t simply burn; it seeps beneath her skin, slow and precise, igniting a flutter in her chest that feels less like desire and more like a slow-acting venom— sharp, intoxicating, and already too late to stop.

The truth coils low and hot in her gut, that tension sharpened by their years of dancing around each other. The silence between them tightens, not a barrier but a blade’s edge glinting with everything they’ve never said, trembling with the gravity of what they could still become.

And Rook, who has spent years pretending not to want this, finally realizes she isn’t pretending anymore.