❝𝘠𝘰𝘶'𝘳𝘦 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘫𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘰𝘶𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘐 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘪𝘳.❞ You, an Atreides, the only daughter of Lady Jessica and Duke Leto are married to the violent bald Harkonnen.
I wrote all 20 + chapters of this in like three days so spelling...
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"I should take his head."
Alright so this was typical, all you wanted was one night of innocent flirting with a semi—attractive man before you got saddled with the burden of being a planetary governorness and not exactly consensual teenage mother bred, bore and manipulated by intergalactic space witches.
But all you could think of was if Lady Jessica would really let Reverend Mohiam kill you that day. You felt the breath of the needle, touching your neck idly.
She would have? Then found a way to explain it to The Duke, too.
And it was an awful thing to realise, in that moment of pristine silence as Rauthas chaotic, suffocating energy split everyone's gasping chests like a wound.
She would have.
"You could try."
Heart; in your ass. Gut; spinning, you clenched it, tearing away from the ruggedly, fucking infuriatingly handsome off—worlder THAT in a display of empowered boldness, saccharine slow, maintaining eye—contact with Na—Baron, TOUCHED YOUR BODY.
From the kitchen plates shattered.
Whatever creepy Hark string and heavy drum music that played stopping abruptly mid chorus.
And he did it openly, freely, as if there would be no consequences, some smug grin on his bearded, tattooed face while a huge and jewelled hand slipped across the cut out of your leather waist.
"Oh I will." The blonde replied in his haughty lilt, lifting his floppy, gleaming, "take your head that is," and peach scented hair to show his ink. "Easily."
And now you gawked at Leo in astonished silence, the five minutes of attention hadn't been worth it. It couldn't even be put down to cultural ignorance.
You'd been used as bait for a shot at glory.
For a man to touch a na—baroness without explicit permission was FORBIDDEN, so balls to the wall, get your throat cut, start a civil war forbidden the fact that he'd done it dropped Feyds jaw.
He may as well of slapped him and spat in his mouth.
On the ship to Giedi you'd been ordered to strip bare, sprayed with a mist—fine paint invisible and permanent, EVERY inch of you, but each contact with organic skin left a trace visible under a frequency light that glowed a cyan blue.
Whoever touched you could never deny it, their fingers stained forever, even after they'd been severed and left in a box. Harkonnens took the ownership of women serious as plague.
