The Spice Aint Spicing - Tumblr Posts

I love you. You’re mine. I’ll kill any bastard who tries to take you from me. (But the I love you is silent) Raoul!

𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐒𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐕𝐄 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐏𝐄𝐓𝐈𝐓𝐈𝐕𝐄 𝐒𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄 𝐐𝐔𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐒.

You’re mine. I’ll kill any bastard who tries to take you from me.

Clearly.

The depths of Raoul’s preoccupation with her aren’t a thing Anne has taken the time to sit down and think through. She fears what she may discover if she does—the third and final nail in the coffin, another man that loves her for the sake of something else, the thrice-proven principle of her own innate lack of worth—so she’s gone out of her way not to. He treats her better than the last two, and even if he didn’t, he says all the right things. She’d be a fool to look this gift horse in the mouth; she’s taken it, him, in already. It’s too late to turn it back out and avoid the bloodshed to come, so why spoil what remains of the unspoiled hours? Why rush the attack if it’s already in motion and offering her a respite from the battle first? If what is between them is really the Greek horse, let Cassandra fall with Troy. Let the prophecy come unspoken. Let her fall without the loathing her words are known to inspire.

But she isn’t falling. Troy is burning down behind her, but there’s no blade at her throat, no hand pushing her down. In fact, the only hand nearby holds her. She is nestled in the cup of his palm, spared from the flames only because he decided it should be so.

Anne blinks again, but the scene doesn’t change: Jack is still there, on his knees, panting and glaring up at her. Silva is still behind him, his favorite pistol still leveled at the stupid bastard. His dark, feverish eyes are still setting fire to Anne through his stare alone. Except to glance at Jack, she hasn’t broken his stare. It feels…important, to look him in the eyes while this happens. To show him she won’t be taken without a fight, that she’s his no matter what poison the bastard’s been drip-feeding Silva while at the other end of his pistol. She’ll kill him herself if she has to. Whatever it takes.

“I’ve no intention of being anyone else’s.” Not anymore. Not again. She’d already made that decision: Silva’s the end of the line. No more. He’ll the best or the worst of them, it won’t matter; he’ll be the last. And after him, she’ll be alone or dead, or maybe both. “Kill him, ‘less ye want me t’do it.”