THESE BROKEN VOWS (Kazbrekker x Fem!reader) [ book version]

CHAPTER 7

A/N ; enter matty simp

Key words: Y/N - your name
E/c - ur eye colour
Y/h/c - your hair colour
Y/L/N - your last name
Y/s/c - your skin colour
Y/f/s - your favourite sweet
Y/f/f - your favourite food.
Y/f/c - your favourite colour.

🐺 MATTHIAS P.O.V🐺

Matthias was dreaming again. Dreaming of her.

In all his dreams he hunted her, sometimes through the new green
meadows of spring, but usually through the ice fields, dodging boulders
and crevasses with unerring steps.

Always he chased, and always he caught her.

In the good dreams, he slammed her to the ground and throttled her,
watching the life drain from her eyes, heart full of vengeance - finally,
finally.

In the bad dreams, he kissed her.

In these dreams, she didn't fight
him.

She laughed as if the chase was nothing but a game, as if she'd known he would catch her, as if she'd wanted him to and there was no place she'd rather be than beneath him.

She was welcoming and perfect in
his arms.

He kissed her, buried his face in the sweet hollow of her neck.

Her curls brushed his cheeks, and he felt that if he could just hold her a little longer, every wound, every hurt, every bad thing would melt away.

"Matthias," she would whisper, his name so soft on her lips.

These were the worst dreams, and when he woke, he hated himself almost as much as he hated her.

To know that he could betray himself, betray his country again even in sleep, to know that - after everything she'd done - some sick part of him still hungered after her ... it was too much.

Tonight was a bad dream, very bad. She was wearing blue silk, clothes far more luxurious than anything he'd ever seen her in; some kind of gauzy veil was caught up in her hair, the lamplight glinting off of it like caught rain.

Djel, she smelled good. The mossy damp was still there, but perfume, too.

Nina loved luxury and this was expensive - roses and something else, something his pauper's nose didn't recognise.

She pressed her soft lips to his temple, and he could swear she was crying.

"Matthias."

"Nina," he managed.

"Oh, Saints, Matthias," she whispered. "Please wake up."

And then he was awake, and he knew he'd gone mad because she was here, in his cell, kneeling beside him, her hand resting gently on his chest.

"Matthias, please."

The sound of her voice, pleading with him.

He'd dreamed of this.

Sometimes she pleaded for mercy.

Sometimes there were other things she
begged for.

He reached up and touched her face. She had the softest skin.

He'd laughed at her for it once.

No real soldier had skin like that, he'd told her - pampered, coddled.

He'd mocked the lushness of her body, ashamed of his own response to her.

He cupped the warm curve of her cheek, felt the soft brush of her hair. So lovely. So real. It wasn't fair.