Livia’s heart thrums fierce and wild as if to break free from its cage within her, while her breath races unchecked, only to push the muscle harder. She stopped here, just outside the door, to find her courage, but she worries she may not be able to.

Fear. She cannot allow herself to show it, not when she walks into that room.

She’s not had much experience in this - entertaining guests and such. She’s barely had time to stay in one place long enough to keep a household. And it was all the fault of the monster beyond the door, the one currently lounging in her home, despite the fact that she knows he’s been told of her husband’s absence.

What could he possibly want with them? Why is he here? The questions chase through mind, round and round, enough to make her head seize in pain.

Eyes closing as she sets a cool hand on her forehead, she reminds herself that they’ve done no wrong, she and her husband, and that many others have been shown mercy for falling on the wrong side of this civil war, most of them far more dangerous politically than her husband.

Livia absolutely does not think about the hundreds of senators who’ve been put to death. Nor the hundreds more innocent and unlucky men, women, and children in the city when it was sacked.

She sighs in frustration. This isn’t helping, and she can’t keep him waiting forever. Peering around at the slaves standing unmoving in the atrium, she wonders if any of them would lift a finger to help her if she should need it.

Not likely.

With a deep breath, followed by another, she knows she’s as ready as she’ll ever be.

Stepping lightly within the room, Livia admits surprise to see him where he is. Not lounging on their lecture and drinking her husband’s wine as if all were his, but standing tall and straight, eyes taking in the words of Greek poets that she’d left here the night prior.

His long, elegant fingers hold the papyrus with care as he unfurls the scroll a bit more, and she half wonders if he’s read it before.

She must make some sort of noise, or perhaps he senses her presence, but either way, the attention that before had been all for the words in front of him, is now focused solely on her. She tries her hardest to hold back the tell-tale signs of her fear of him, attempting to appear as poised and unconcerned as he.

“Sappho,” she says dumbly, without anything else before or after. She clears her throat as subtly as possible, hoping the strange greeting hasn’t given her away.

He nods, glancing at the scroll before rolling it again carefully. “At mere sight of you, my voice falters, my tongue is broken.”

He’s only quoting, but with his calculating gaze and precise enunciation, it seems to glide off his tongue with a different purpose.

“Apologies to have kept you waiting.”

He waves away her apology as he sets down the scroll. “No need, I came unannounced. It’s I who should be apologizing.”

He reminds her a bit of the cat that roams within her home. All long and lithe, his movements graceful yet deliberate. And his eyes... so sharp, she’s certain he doesn’t miss a thing. And when his eyes flit down to her throat for the briefest of moments, she fears he’s caught the flutter of her heart.

She’s his mouse, she thinks before swallowing down the desperation to flee.

Needing an excuse to look elsewhere, and gather some courage as she does so, she offers him wine. He declines. And when the thick silence sets between them once more, she feels like a silly girl who’s never learned how to play homemaker - she’s no idea how to do this.

“I’m afraid my husband’s not here.”

Holding out a hand to the lecture, he silently asks her to sit, so she does, and he across from her.

“It’s not him I’m here to see.”

She’s not certain how to reply to that, uttering a soft oh as she tries not to squirm under his piercing gaze.

“When are you due?”

Her arms wrap protectively around her swollen belly. “Four months. Perhaps three.”

He doesn’t appear relaxed, she notices, confident, yes, but not relaxed. And she wonders if she makes him nervous as well.

But why ever would that be?

“My wife, Scribonia, is also with child.”

A polite smile pulls at her lips. “Congratulations. I pray the gods grant you a healthy one.”

“And you as well.”

“Your first,” she asks. This facade of deference is becoming a bit easier to portray as they go on. But perhaps that’s what he wants - to lure her in before striking.

“It is. And I hope I am up to the task.”

“I’m sure you will be. You are...” He waits patiently for her to finish, but she’s not sure how. He is so many things. A cruel murderer, cold and calculating, or perhaps just the monster that haunts her nightmares. “Strong.”

“And you, this is your second, yes?”

Her breath catches, and she reminds herself to control her reactions.

How would he know that? Why? He must’ve asked - learned about her family. Does he know about her father, she wonders, who fell on his own sword instead of allowing himself to be captured by him. Or her husband, an honest man who would not stand down from what he thought was right, and as punishment, has spent years on the run.

Those were her years too, she thinks. Ever since she was newly married and first pregnant. Never safe or unguarded. Escaping into the night, fleeing from one city to the next - this last one still in ruins, it’s ground soaked in blood. All to try and keep one step ahead of him and his soldiers.

He’s taken much from her. But he can still take so much more.

“Yes, this is my second.”

The wooden seat creaks beneath him as he slowly leans forward. A hushed, unnerving sound that interrupts the weighted silence that’s fallen between them. And as he moves in, crystal blue eyes caressing her face, she feels exposed before him, both in body and in mind.

If someone told her he could read thoughts, she would not doubt it.

“Second of many, I hope,” he says, his voice a low rasp that sends shivers up her body for reasons very different than fear.

Throat gone suddenly dry, she swallows hard, though it doesn’t seem to help much. She watches, almost in a daze as he pours wine into a cup before offering it to her.

How can she refuse.

Their fingers brush when she goes to take it, and one of his caresses hers as he holds on a bit longer than is necessary, before finally releasing.

She misses the slight touch almost immediately once it’s gone. What a silly girl she is indeed.

Her thrumming heart is still prominent, but now it’s begun at her center as well, her thighs pressing together as subtly as possible, but needing so much more as she spies him over the rim, watching every pull of her throat with a fierce intensity.

She breathes out a thank you, and his lack of a response has her mind clamoring through the cobwebs of lust that’ve gathered there to think of something to fill the silence. Because she’s realized that the silence has become dangerous ground to tread.

Perhaps it’s from the wine, or the strange light-headedness of want that she’s begun to feel, but she decides to be brave. “May I speak plainly.”

“Always,” he replies with such a hushed fervency it has her rethinking. But she pushes forward despite.

“Why are you here, sir?”

His dark brows furrow, and she worries she may have misstep. “Sir. It’s what I’m called by my soldiers. I would like very much for you to call me Octavian.”

His name has has been formed by her lips many times. Spit out and cursed. But she’s not certain she can say it here, like this.

But oh, she wants to. “Octavian. Why are you here?”

The chair creaks yet again as he sits back, elbows set on the arms as his fingers lace in front of him, a kind of pose that gives off an air of ease and self-assurance. But one could also say he hides behind it, as if to protect himself. Though why he’d need to protect himself from her, she’s no idea.

“I noticed you at Senator Quilliantus’ party. I’m told that you are a virtuous and pious woman.”

She almost can’t help the smirk that tugs at her lips. Looking past it all - his history of battles won and minds manipulated - he’s just a boy, barely older than she, and he’s infatuated with her.

“That’s why you’ve come? Because I am a virtuous and pious woman?”

Now it’s he who swallows thick and heavy, appearing as a cornered animal, and she would be lying if she says she doesn’t enjoy it immensely.

“No,” he finally says, eyes unblinking. “I’m here to ask you to marry me.”

Nose flaring and eyes widening, she can feel the blood drain from her face. She thought he’d come hoping for a tumble. But this?

The fingers of her hands, interlaced demurely in her lap, grip each other painfully. “I am married. As are you.”

“Divorces are attained easily enough.”

Easily enough, especially when you’re the most powerful man in the whole of the republic.

“I cannot, sir.”

“Octavian,” he corrects with a soft kindness. And she hates it, hates how false he is, how innocent and good he tries to appear, when she’s experienced first hand what he’s capable of.

“I will not.” It’s ground out from deep in her throat, her hate not hidden at all. She should be terrified, and indeed she will be after, but for the moment her vitriol has risen to such a height she cannot continue any longer.

She stands swiftly, intent on abandoning the man who can bring about the death and ruin of she and her family. But he’s faster, and she gasps when he halts her exit, not by holding her back, but by dropping to his knees in front of her, arms held out pathetically at his sides with his palms up.

He doesn’t hold her there with violence, but with shock.

“Reject and hate me as you will, but I promise you, it will not cool the adoration and reverence with which I hold for you.”

She can’t help the derisive huff that escapes her chest. She’s heard many a time of his brilliance, of his cold calculation and his ability to sway even the most steel minded men. But this love-sick boy at her feet cannot be him.

“Nor the yearning that burns me as I kneel here at the alter of you.”

Her eyes roll inside her head. Quite the ridiculous, flowery one he is, but still she doesn’t leave. “You’re mad.”

A boyish grin is slow to his face, but it completely transforms his entire aura. “Perhaps. But love is an uncontrollable beast.”

“Love? You speak of love. You do not even know me.” Despite how false his current dramatics are, they make her think that perhaps she can do the one thing she’s wanted since she’s learned of her father’s death. Confront him for what he’s taken from her.

“So let me tell you, sir. My father, a good and loyal man died because of you. And I have spent my entire adult life fleeing from one city to the next, waking up everyday with the fear of wondering if this day would be the one your soldiers would find us - finish us.”

His arms are now fallen as he looks up at her, his sad features making him seem like a broken man.

“It’s true. I don’t deny the pain I’ve caused, or the blood that paints my hands, innocent and not, all to bring stability back to the republic.”

She’s about to call him out on sounding like every other man who excuses their actions with good intentions, but what he says next floors her.

“And to satisfy my own ambitions.”

It’s an admission and acknowledgment she’d never get from another man - not even her husband.

“And while that will never stop, I swear to you now, I will never hurt you again.”

The naivety of such a statement goes against every story she’s ever heard of him. “How can you promise something like that? You cannot promise something like that.”

“Because while I cannot replace what I’ve taken, I will take no more from you.”

It’s a tempting offer for someone who’s lived the last few years of her life fearing what she would lose next.

“I will give you all that you desire. A home for you to keep, which will never be stolen. A life of power or of quiet service. Or somewhere in between. I don’t care. It’s yours. And the power of my status will offer you the protection to make any of it possible.”

How does one deny their dreams when offered up on a silver platter?

“And my children?”

“Happy, educated, and wanting for nothing.”

Livia watches him for a time, trying to discern any insincerity. But she only sees a desperate need for her approval, and it gives her a powerful feeling she’s never felt before this moment.

“You promise the world. But I’m not so foolish enough to think that you can truly give it. Or that you will continue to do so when you simply tire of me.”

He opens his mouth to deny it, but her voice comes out strong - demanding. “Lustful desire is fleeting, and makes men rash.”

He seems to truly think on her words - to listen to them instead of merely dismissing them with his own. It’s not a way she’s ever been treated before, and it has her view of him softening against her will.

“That’s also true.” His boyish grin reappears, and her heart flips at the sight of it despite herself.

“We shall fight, and perhaps even wrestle with bouts of unhappiness with each other. I will make you wish to strike me, I’ve no doubt. And me you, even. It’s only natural.”

He moves then, sitting up higher on his knees as his hands come up slowly to rest on her hips with a gentle, light pressure she can easily break away from.

“But even so, know that I will never desert you. Because when our fight is over, I will always return here, on my knees. Whether to use my tongue to apologize profusely, or to punish you, makes no difference. I will be here.”

Livia’s heart is well and truly beating now, chest heaving as her skin begins to feel overly sensitive. She wants so much for his touch to become firmer on her, and her wish is soon granted as he continues speaking.

“Most men do not know their own minds, only for their desire in the present moment. But I know who I am, and who I can become, and with all possible versions of me, present and future, I know I will want you always.”

This is the moment to make a choice - a choice that has the possibility to change her life drastically. But is she brave enough to take such a dangerous leap? And if she does, will she be able to forgive herself?

She lifts a hand to brush a strand of his brown hair from his forehead, fingertips trailing along his hairline. “Then take me.”