Chapter Text
Two weeks after the dreaded announcement of his betrothal, Isabella Devereux finally arrived at the edge of the forest near the abbey, her mere presence a force of impending doom. Despite the messengers, letters, and formalities exchanged, she had insisted on meeting Arlo face-to-face, savoring the moment when he would finally understand that there was no escape from this marriage. It was a matter of conquest, and she relished the notion of seeing his broken resolve.
The clearing was quiet as she approached, the late afternoon sun casting long, menacing shadows over the trees. Isabella’s horse trotted with a determined pace, its hooves thudding softly over the earth. The solitude of the place, usually a source of solace, felt suffocating under her presence. The area, usually dotted with people from the nearby abbey, was deserted—a decision, arranged by Isabella herself.
He stood alone by an ancient oak tree, his back straight, his gaze fixed on the distant horizon. Arlo had always possessed a regal bearing, but there was something more to him now—something weathered, hardened by his time at the abbey. Yet, despite the calm he wore, Isabella could see the tension in his body, the way his hands were clasped tightly in front of him, the way his chest rose and fell with controlled, measured breaths.
She dismounted her horse, her movements slow and deliberate, her boots crunching over twigs and leaves. Her gaze lingered on him, drinking in the sight of him, so familiar yet changed. He had always been handsome—there was no denying that—but now there was a quiet dignity to him, a serenity that made his beauty even more striking. And yet, it was that very serenity that she intended to shatter.
“Arlo,” she called out, her voice smooth and mocking, laced with dark amusement.
He turned at the sound of her voice, and for a fleeting moment, something flickered in his eyes—fear, perhaps, or loathing—but it was quickly masked by a cold, impassive gaze. There was a steeliness to him that intrigued her, a defiance that she both admired and sought to crush.
“I didn’t think you would come here yourself,” he said finally, his voice measured, each word carefully chosen. “I thought you would send someone else to deliver your… demands.”
Isabella shrugged, a smirk playing on her lips. “Why would I send someone else when I could witness your defeat firsthand? It’s been so long since I last saw you. I wanted to see how you’ve changed—how you’ve matured.”
His jaw tightened, and his hands, which had been clasped in front of him, now clenched into fists. He knew what she was doing—trying to provoke him, trying to remind him of the power she held over him, over his life. But he would not give her the satisfaction.
“You’ve come to gloat,” he said softly, his voice barely above a whisper, but there was a sharpness to it that cut through the stillness of the clearing. “To show me that you’ve won.”
Isabella took a step closer, her eyes locking onto his, the smirk never leaving her face. “Won? Arlo, this was never a competition. This is simply how things were always meant to be. You may have deluded yourself into thinking you had a choice, but you and I both know that our fates were sealed the moment our families arranged this marriage.”
She reached out then, her fingers grazing the delicate skin of his cheek, and Arlo flinched, pulling away from her touch. There was no mistaking the way his body tensed, the way his breath hitched in his throat, but he quickly regained his composure, straightening his back and meeting her gaze with unwavering defiance.
“I will never be yours in spirit, Isabella,” he said, his voice steady despite the turmoil raging inside him. “You may have my hand, but you will never have my heart.”
Her eyes darkened at his words, and for a moment, the playful arrogance in her expression faltered. But then, just as quickly, it returned, and Isabella’s smile grew cold, predatory.
“We’ll see about that,” she murmured, stepping even closer until their faces were mere inches apart. “You may not want this, but that doesn’t matter. You belong to me now, Arlo. You always have.”
He could feel her breath against his skin, could feel the heat of her body so close to his, and it made his stomach churn with disgust. But he would not give her the satisfaction of seeing his fear. He would not break.
“You’ve always believed that you could bend people to your will,” he said through gritted teeth. “But you cannot break me.”
Isabella’s smile faded then, replaced by something far more sinister. She reached out again, this time grasping his arm, her fingers digging into his flesh with bruising force. Arlo gasped, instinctively trying to pull away, but her grip was unrelenting.
“Is that what you think?” she asked, her voice dangerously low. “That I want to break you?” She shook her head, her eyes boring into his. “No, Arlo. Breaking you would be too easy. What I want is far more than that. I want to own you. I want to strip away everything you think makes you strong, everything you think makes you defiant, until there’s nothing left but submission.”
His heart pounded in his chest, and for the first time, true fear crept into his veins. He had always known that Isabella was cruel, that she enjoyed exerting her power over others, but there was something in her eyes now—something dark, something twisted—that terrified him.
“You’re a fool if you think I will ever submit to you,” he spat, his voice trembling with barely contained rage. “I belong to God, not to you.”
Without warning, Isabella grabbed both his wrists and yanked him toward her with brutal force. In one swift motion, she pinned his back against the rough bark of a tree, the impact knocking the breath from his lungs.
Arlo let out a sharp cry, his body instinctively struggling against her, but it was useless. She was stronger—far stronger—and his attempts to free himself were little more than futile resistance. His wrists ached under her crushing grip, and the unforgiving tree bark scraped against his back, but the physical pain was nothing compared to the growing dread that twisted inside him.
Isabella leaned in, her face inches from his, her breath hot against his skin. She seemed to relish his fear, the wild, defiant look in his eyes that she knew would soon give way to helplessness. Her lips curled into a slow, cruel smile as she pressed her body against his, her strength overpowering, her dominance undeniable.
"You can struggle all you like," she whispered, her voice low and menacing, "but it won't change anything. You are mine, Arlo. You always have been."
Arlo gasped, his breath coming in short, frantic bursts. His heart raced in his chest, pounding so loudly he could hardly hear anything else. But he refused to let her see him break, refused to let her see the terror that was slowly creeping into his bones. He glared up at her, his eyes filled with fury.
"You’re a monster," he spat, his voice trembling but filled with loathing.
Isabella’s eyes gleamed with dark amusement. "Perhaps," she murmured, her voice a soft, dangerous purr, "but it doesn’t matter what you think. In the end, you'll bend to me, Arlo. You’ll have no choice."
With that, she lowered her head, her lips brushing against his neck. Arlo stiffened, a shudder of revulsion coursing through him as he felt her warm breath against his skin. She inhaled deeply, as if savoring his scent, her nose trailing along the curve of his throat. Her face nuzzled into the crook of his neck, lingering there far too long, her lips grazing his skin.
"Such soft skin," she murmured, her voice dark and heavy with intent. "I wonder if you’ll still feel this delicate once I’ve stripped away that façade of yours."
Arlo struggled again, thrashing against Isabella’s grip, but she only laughed, her fingers tightening around his wrists. She pulled back just enough to look into his eyes, her gaze piercing, predatory. Then, with deliberate slowness, she lifted her free hand and brought it to his lips, brushing her fingers against them.
He flinched, trying to turn his head away, but she held him in place with an iron grip. Her fingers lingered on his lips for a moment, the touch invasive, possessive. Then, slowly, deliberately, she began to trail her hand downward, her finger moving along the curve of his throat, over the slight rise of his chest.
“All of this,” Isabella whispered, her voice dripping with cruel satisfaction, “this… this… and everything down there will be mine.”
Her finger slid further, tracing a path over his stomach, her eyes never leaving his as she continued her slow, tormenting exploration. Arlo’s breath hitched, his heart pounding in his chest as her hand moved lower, her touch both a violation and a reminder of the power she now held over him.
“You may have devoted yourself to God,” she continued, her voice dark and mocking, “but your body… your life… belongs to me now. And you’ll learn that soon enough.”
Arlo’s body trembled, his mind screaming for him to fight back, to do something—anything—but his strength was waning, his resistance crumbling under the weight of her dominance. Isabella could see it, could feel the shift in him as he struggled to hold on to the last fragments of his defiance.
With one final, mocking smile, she released his wrists and stepped back, leaving him pressed against the tree, his body still trembling from the encounter. She had made her point. He was hers. There was no escaping it now.
As she turned and walked away, the cold emptiness of his defeat settled over him like a shroud.