There are things he forgets.

Paperwork. Meetings. His tea turning cold. Sometimes, even the name of the guard he scolded an hour ago. But you?

He never forgets you. And more importantly, he never forgets the way you made him feel that night.

You didn’t plan it. Not really. Maybe it was a spark of irritation, or maybe you were just tired of the smug glint in his eye every time he teased you. All he did was lean a little too close over the documents you were reading, voice low, breath warm, lips far too close to yours.

And you?

You grabbed his collar.

Not gently.

You yanked him down, closed the gap, and kissed him like he was yours to claim.

He still remembers the shock in his own body—the heat that spiked through his spine, how his fingers flexed at his sides, hovering but not daring to touch unless you allowed it.

He let you.

He always lets you.

It wasn't the first time. You'd done it before—sat in his lap and warned him not to move a muscle. Straddled him mid-argument, hands pressing into his chest, silencing his words with your mouth. Palmed his jaw, forced him to meet your gaze when he was being stubborn, refusing to admit he needed rest.

But that time… in his office…?

You gave him a command.

Simple. Breathless. Direct.

“Sit.”

And he obeyed.

There, in his throne of a chair, behind the massive desk that had seen countless negotiations and arguments, Wriothesley—the Duke of Meropide—had obeyed a single word from your lips like a man possessed.

The way you climbed into his lap afterward? The way your hands tangled in his hair, his coat, anything you could grab as you devoured him like a starving queen?

It haunts him.

He thinks of it at midnight when the halls of the fortress are silent. He thinks of it when he's bruised and bleeding after a spar, when you reach out with a firm touch and the faintest frown. He thinks of it when you're curled up in his bed, calm, unaware of just how thoroughly you've undone him.

He's a fighter. A leader. A man feared and respected by criminals and guards alike.

But with you?

He’s something else.

Not weak. Never that. But undone. Unraveled. Owned.

Because every time you lean in with purpose—every time your fingers ghost toward his collar—his heart stutters. His breath hitches. His knees? Might just bend for you.

He won’t say it.

But you are his Roman Empire.

And every time you take control, every time you act like you own him?

He let you.

And gods above… He hopes you never stop.