"It'll be fine," he tells you. You'd heard a thousand variations of that over the past week. That you didn't do anything wrong, that you wouldn't be mistreated, that everything was going to be okay eventually. It didn't stop the sinking feeling in your stomach as you stared at yourself in the mirror, stripped down to undergarments, disgusted at what was expected of you.

Legally, his wife. Religiously, his Prime Mover. Legally, his equal, and yet, in the religion of equality, reduced to a vessel for his child.

Terzo glanced at you from the corner of his eye. His expression was solemn, the opposite of his usual. He was used to comforting strangers, not his partner. How was he even supposed to comfort you if he was expected to defile you right after? He grimaced slight, while you winced at the sight of yourself, him in the background.

He tightened the tie around his bathrobe, and in a slow motion, placed his hand between your shoulder blades. His gloves were off; a rare sight, and a rarer feeling. You thought he might try to initiate something, but his hand was still, the room just the same, only broken by his voice, which was much lower than usual. "We can wait," he tells you suddenly. "Nobody's watching."

You almost didn't believe him. You didn't expect him to be understanding; you expected rudeness, forcibility, the same treatment as Imperator had given you when she told you that you were going to marry Terzo. Every object in the room was proof at it; only his possessions, everything of yours from the furniture to your perfume chosen by the church.

His hand dropped from your back, and he went to lie down. "I don't expect you to like me, but I do hope you'll come to accept me."