Chapter Text
The fire in her heart grew stronger with each passing day, fanned by her resolve to act against the tyrant who called himself her husband. Caracalla, after his brief moment of vulnerability, had retreated behind his usual walls of calculated detachment and shifting moods. He treated her with a cold civility in public and indifference in private. At first, she had feared the distance, but as days turned into weeks, it became her shield. His disinterest allowed her to observe, to learn, and to prepare.
She sat through long meetings with his advisors, smiled graciously at the senators, and played her part at the elaborate feasts. She listened carefully, noting everything she could—military plans, loyalties among the palace staff, the guarded movements of Caracalla’s inner circle.
Her mind, however, was never far from Marcus. Weeks had passed since she had last seen him, and the ache of his absence felt like a wound she could not heal. She clung to the memory of his voice, the way it carried both reassurance and strength. The image of his face, so deeply etched in her heart, became her sanctuary. And his touch—how gentle yet firm his hand had been on her, grounding her amidst chaos—remained a tether to hope. She feared losing those memories more than she feared Caracalla himself.
At night, she would lie awake in her chambers, replaying moments with Marcus like precious treasures she could not let fade. She would whisper his name into the darkness, as if calling him could summon his presence. “Marcus,” she murmured one night, her voice barely audible over the stillness. The sound of it sent a pang of longing through her chest.
The palace, for all its grandeur, felt suffocating. The walls seemed to close in on her with every secret she unearthed, and her desperation to leave this gilded prison grew stronger. Yet she did not falter. If anything, her longing for Marcus became her greatest strength. It reminded her of what she was fighting for—not just her freedom, but the chance to stand beside the man who had shown her kindness in a world of cruelty.
And so, she endured. Every smile she forced, every word she uttered in Caracalla’s presence was a calculated step towards rebellion. She would not let herself falter. Not now, when she was so close to striking back. For Marcus, for herself, and for the countless others crushed beneath Caracalla’s heel, she would endure.
But strength did not erase longing.
She thought of Marcus, his face etched in her mind like a relic she dared not forget. She missed his steadiness, his quiet honour, the way his voice softened when he spoke to her. He had been her anchor in the storm, and now, adrift in this sea of intrigue, she yearned for him with a fierce, aching need.
One night, the longing became unbearable. She lay in her grand bed, its silken sheets cool against her skin, the oppressive luxury of the room suffocating. Her mind drifted to memories of Marcus—the warmth of his hand on hers, the intensity of his gaze when he vowed to protect her, the faint, earthy scent of him that lingered in her memory. She closed her eyes, conjuring the image of him as vividly as she could: his broad shoulders, his strong hands, the way his jaw tensed when he was deep in thought.
Her hand moved almost of its own accord, sliding over the smooth skin of her thigh, her breath catching as she allowed herself to indulge in the fantasy. She closed her eyes and let her mind drift to that fleeting moment in her room at his villa, when Marcus had shown her a depth of tenderness that she had never experienced before. She could still feel the warmth of his breath against her skin, the strength of his hands holding her steady as his lips and tongue explored her.
She remembered the way he had knelt before her, unhurried and utterly focused, his mouth moving over her with a reverence that made her heart ache. He’d been so patient, so thorough, as though he wanted to teach her how to feel pleasure, to guide her into a world of sensations she’d never known. She could still hear his murmured reassurances, the way he had coaxed her to let go, to trust him. The memory sent a shiver down her spine, her fingers brushing over her inner thighs as her breathing grew shallower.
In her mind, it was his hands moving over her now, his fingers tracing delicate patterns on her skin, his lips brushing against the curve of her neck. She imagined the weight of him, the heat of his body against hers, the scrape of his stubble on her sensitive skin. The thought of his mouth on her again, the way he’d drawn soft, breathless cries from her as if it were his sole purpose, made her tremble with longing.
Her hand moved to her center, her touch becoming more insistent as she envisioned him taking her fully, his strength enveloping her, his voice a low, rough murmur in her ear. She could almost feel the way his body would move against hers, the tension in his muscles as he held her close, the quiet control he always maintained giving way to something more primal.
Her breath quickened, her whispered gasps filling the room as her hips shifted in rhythm with her thoughts. She imagined the way he’d look at her, the intensity in his gaze as he claimed her, his lips capturing hers in a kiss that left her utterly undone. She craved the connection, the raw intimacy of being wholly seen and wanted by him.
When the wave of pleasure finally overtook her, it was his name that escaped her lips, a soft, reverent whisper that echoed in the quiet of her chambers. She lay still for a long moment, her body relaxed but her heart racing, the longing for him settling into her chest like a bittersweet ache.
She opened her eyes and stared at the ceiling, her breath slowly evening out. The ache for Marcus was not just physical but deeply tied to her heart and her hope. Even as she played her part in the emperor’s schemes, it was thoughts of Marcus that gave her strength. One day, she vowed silently to herself, they would find a way to be together. And when that day came, she would no longer have to imagine his touch.
For a fleeting moment, she felt free. Free of the palace, of Caracalla, of the dangerous game she was playing. In that moment, there was only Marcus, his presence as real to her as the pounding of her heart. She pressed a hand to her lips, as though to silence the unspoken confession lingering in the air.
The yearning didn’t wane; if anything, it deepened, sharpening her determination. She had to find a way to see him, to speak to him. She would navigate this web of power and deceit with the same precision that had brought her this far. But now, there was more than survival driving her—there was the undeniable pull of her heart, drawing her back to Marcus.