Heartbreaking work. Teamwork. At breakfast you wanted to kill your husband. By bed time you are helping him burying someone else's body with him.

How odd the world worked.

You two were dragging the cadaver wrapped around the fine mat that once laid in his office, through the dark hallways of the now quiet mansion. The servants had long retired in their quarters, the kids were asleep.  It was an accident, or that's what you told myself.

Mrs. Stainer had come by the evening, thinking she could threaten Malcom Foxworth and make some money. The poor ex-governness didn't see it coming when he “accidentally” shoved her hand enough to hit her head on the corner of his office desk. The sheer audacity of that woman to even think a man like him would lower his head to a street rat like her.

You were even by his side the whole time, at first shocked at his cruelty but then quickly composed yourself. Knowing him this mustn't have been his first kill. He was far too calm.  With sharp and calculated movements he wrapped the dead body with the mat she had been laying down on.  He hasn't spoken, nor has you the whole time you dragged the body down the stairs, out to the garden. You communicated by simple gestures, grunts and glares. You couldn't afford to wake up anyone or things would have been messier. Malcom watched you quietly, and truth to be told he was rather surprised you weren't going around screaming. But one thing he learnt by getting married to you was that you were full of surprises when it came to protecting your children.  Good. At least he could use you in moments like this.

As you dropped the body of Mrs. Stainer down on the dirt, in a quiet corner of the immense garden where no one passed, Malcolm hurried to grab a pair of shovels. His lips were pressed in a thin line and jaw clenched. His fine nightrider was stained by the woman's blood as he started digging in the dirt and soil.  Malcolm’s hands moved with practiced precision, the weight of the shovel familiar in his grip. Beside him, Olivia was silent, her face pale but steady. She simply followed his lead, moving as he directed, her fingers brushing the earth without hesitation. He noticed it all—the quiet obedience, the sharp mind behind the calm façade. For a fleeting moment, a strange satisfaction flickered within him: here was someone who could match his darkness without crumbling, someone whose usefulness was undeniable.

He pushes the shovel in the ground, taking a deep breath as he wiped the sweat away from his forehead with his sleeve. He stepped closer to you, grabbing the shovel with an almost gentle hand— as if they weren't the same that he used to kill somebody.

After a beat he learned to press his lips against yours. It wasn't a passionate kiss or full of affection. A simple caste and still breathless after the work kiss. It almost looked foreign to be like this with him.  Always busy getting at each other's throat and yet there you were, kissing under the moonlight after murdering someone who once worked for you.

“Get some rest.” He simply said, his fingers tilting your chin up to look in his eyes once he pulled away from the kiss. “I'll finish up here.”