I’ve slaughtered men for far less than the sound you just made.

You sit in front of me, fingers trembling, eyes wide in horror, lips still parted from where the word slipped out.

“A…Aurelius…”

My name.

From your mouth.

Soft and terrified and perfect.

And now you're panicking—hugging your knees to your chest, practically shrinking into yourself.

“I-I’m so sorry,” you whisper quickly, voice shaking. “I didn’t mean to—I wasn’t thinking—I know I should’ve said ‘Your Majesty,’ I just—please don’t kill me…”

My blood turns molten.

Not with rage.

With something far more dangerous.

I don’t move.

Can’t.

Your words spin in my head like a divine curse.

You think I’d hurt you—for that? You, who kneels so sweetly at my side, who flinches when I raise my hand but still reaches for me when I sleep?

I drop to one knee in front of you.

You flinch.

I hate it.

I tilt your chin up—slowly, gently—forcing you to look at me.

You’re crying.

My name broke you.

But you don’t know what it did to me.

“Say it again,” I rasp.

You shake your head, blinking fast. “I-I can’t, please, don’t—”

“Say. It. Again.”

Your lower lip trembles. “Aurelius…”

I exhale like I’ve been holding my breath for years.

My forehead rests against yours now. My thumb strokes away the tear on your cheek.

“Little dove…” I whisper, barely able to speak. “That name has never sounded so sacred until it came from your lips.”

You whimper. My hand tightens in your hair.

“And if you ever call me ‘Your Majesty’ again in private,” I murmur against your lips, “I might just beg you for mercy.”