A Change of Heart (Nettle Cypress)

Wyn Amaranth couldn't quite pinpoint when his feelings began to change, but he remembered very vividly the day he had noticed them, the shift from the chaste love as a guardian to the deep passion of a man who wanted nothing but the feel of his lover's soft skin against his. It must have been a slow progression, he thought, watching his ward blossom into womanhood. When he thought of it, he remembered that he had always found comfort in her close proximity, the way she would bat her long lashes, smiling up at him as he held her. It was funny, in that way, when he found that his heart would race at the sight of her, his angel, his little Sylvie Black, twenty years his junior but forever in his heart.

She had always been terribly pretty, even as a child--big brown eyes and soft as silk black hair, skin like snow, lips a sweet rose, his princess, his Snow White. He prized no one and nothing more than Sylvie, even if his work had him often away from her. He remembered how, because of this, she would sneak into his room at night when he would have a glass of wine and a cigarette, always wanting to curl up in his lap, nuzzling him as she fell to sleep right there in his arms. It was a habit of hers in the early days of their time together, perhaps because the first memory she had of him was her in his arms, he rescuing her from death. In hindsight, he relished those moments, where it was just the two of them, if only to give him something (or someone) to love outside of work. The world could have disappeared, leaving just the two of them, and he would be happier than any man could ever be.

He remembered how he did not want to send her to boarding school when she turned eleven, the thought of her not in his home for extended periods of time more unbearable than he cared to admit. Indeed, he regretted it almost immediately, the emptiness of his life so very apparent without her near. Still, there were some interesting... "side effects" of their separation. In particular, every time she came home on holiday, it was if he saw her again for the first time. After a few years, he had noticed her growth spurts through school, her legs longer beneath the pleats of her skirt and her uniform just a little tighter around her body. At first, he thought it was simply cute, but, on her sixteenth birthday, his opinion changed drastically.

Sylvie had come home from school to celebrate her birthday and had arrived to the estate before he had even made his way home from work, or so he was informed by a lighthearted text message filled with keyed smiling faces. Once he could tear himself away from his desk, he had ventured home a little more tired than he wished. Just as he had stepped in the door, he heard a bounding of steps towards him and, before he had a chance to look up, a young woman had thrown herself into his arms, almost knocking his glasses off his face.

"Wyn!" Sylvie exclaimed, nuzzling against his chest and pressing herself close, oh so close. She was supple in his hands and he noted, silently and in awe, the width of her hips as his fingers rested lightly there, the softness of her chest pressing against his body. He was not a man who shied away from dalliances, but this! He felt his heart leap into his throat. When he looked down, her pretty face, framed as it were with tousled black hair, greeted him with a smile so sweet he thought he might die.

"My heart," he hummed, forcing himself to gently disengage from the girl. "I think you've grown taller."

She laughed at that.

"Have I?" She made a quick twirl and the glimpse of her toned thighs with the rise of her skirt fascinated Wyn, his eyes lingering at the hem long after it returned to place. "I think I'll always be shorter than you."

"Perhaps." He moved to remove his blazer and Sylvie jumped up, helping him extract it from his shoulders with deft fingers. She placed it carefully on a coat rack of dark wood and, when she turned around again, Wyn took her pale hands in his, bringing them to his lips with a gentle kiss, his cerulean blue eyes steady on her honey brown. She smiled brightly and giggled, a titter tatter of twinkling notes.

"You always do that when I come back from school. Why do you do that?"

"Because it is how I greet you. I've done that since you were small, or don't you remember?"

Her face scrunched up in thought, one finger to her lips as she leaned to a side. When had she gone from the small girl who would sleep in his arms to this girl-woman of such beauty, this Persephone that stood out among all other women he had ever known? Just standing there, pink lips pursed up, Wyn wondered if all the boys in school saw her as he now suddenly saw her. (If so, he surmised he would have to take some measures against such dangers.) Inwardly, he pushed down the urge to sweep the girl-woman off her feet. Instead, he regretfully released his hold on her hands, watching her in wonder, the beautiful bow of her lips igniting in him a fire.

"Well," she laughed lightly, "if people saw you do that, I think they'd get the wrong impression. They'd think you're my boyfriend and not my guardian."

And is that so wrong, he thought to himself but dared not ask aloud. He was no different than that Humbert Humbert fellow, was he, suddenly lost and adrift in admiration and lust. Wyn's only saving grace was that his nymphet was much older than the mythical Lolita, much more mature, even if only physically. Of course, perhaps the girl-woman before him was twice as innocent, idly chatting with him about her days at school, bright and wide smiles, and a faint blush in her cheeks. His protective rearing had made her that way, after all. The thought stayed his hand and kept him silent.

Wyn followed his ward through the foyer and into his large kitchen, his mind (and eyes) preoccupied with the sway of the girl's pleated skirt as she walked and he only half listened to the words she spoke. Another turn around, the offending skirt rising with the sweep, the fire in his loins threatened his sanity. He breathed in deep, a hand resting on the kitchen island to steady himself. Damn it all, Wyn, he mentally chastised, she is still a child in the eyes of the law!

Much to his surprise, Sylvie had waited for Wyn to celebrate in her birthday dinner, Myrrha having made her favorite paella with chicken, and the girl was energetic through the meal, all but bouncing in her seat (much to his inner turmoil) as she talked about the friends she had made. By all accounts, she was a popular girl at Ptolmey and her radiant smile was all he needed to know why. When she mentioned no boys, he felt a little satisfaction that perhaps he need not worry on that front. The thought of some hormonal teenager touching her was enough to consider locking her in her bedroom forever.

After the requisite cake and the related fanfare, they retreated to Wyn's large living room, Sylvie requesting his company for as long as it remained her birthday. She wanted to watch a movie, she said in a sing-song voice, maybe something of classic Hollywood ("like with Carey Grant or something," she had said). He acquiesced easily to her demands and watched her rifle through DVDs, bent slightly to gaze at the shelves (to the horrifying pleasure of his newfound inner demon). Most of the collection was hers, he not spending much time home these days, and she eventually settled on a silly romance with Audrey Hepburn. She bent over one last time to place the disc into the player, before practically jumping onto the couch and sitting next to Wyn.

It seemed to him, as the movie played and caused little giggles and gasps from Sylvie, that she inched more and more towards Wyn, sliding over on the couch until she was leaning against him, their legs bumping against one another every time he shifted. Steadily he grew uncomfortable, not because he wished her away, but only because his hands wished desperately to touch the girl against him, the feel of her skin through his shirt not enough for the newborn incubus in his heart. At the sight of the romantic interests kissing in the film, his breath grew shallow and he had to loosen the tie around his collar. If Hell existed, he was certainly in it.

"Hey, Wyn...?" Sylvie's voice came softly. When he looked, she was gazing up at him with her doe eyes.

"Yes, Sylvie?"

"Do you remember when I was little, when I asked you who my prince was?"

How could he forget? She had been eight or nine and he had finally read her a certain fairy tale, as she had requested because of his nickname for her. She had looked up at him and, with seriousness, asked him...

"You asked me if I was your prince," he replied gently, unsure of her train of thought or, rather, his own instincts, clouded as they were with his current affliction.

"Well," she softly wrapped her arms around his own, leaning in to him, "will you always be my prince, no matter what?"

"... Always," he stated as he brought his hand to her cheek, finally looking at her fully. "If that's what you want, then I'll always be your prince, my Snow White."

It occurred to him that this particular exchange was not something that a father figure would normally have with a teenage child. As a matter of fact, it seemed more akin to a lover's confession than the promise between a guardian and ward. He only hoped that such a thought was objective in its assessment. After all, his current state of mind could not handle otherwise--It was a measure of strength that he did not bend down to kiss her.

Oblivious to his torture, Sylvie only smiled and, much to his shock, climbed into Wyn's lap to rest her cheek against his chest, enveloping herself in his arms. He meant to tell her that such an act was unfit for a girl her age, that she was no longer a small child, but the words would not escape his throat. His hands had a mind of their own and, while they oh so innocently rested on her back and arm, he knew that they would have just as easily thrown her to the couch so he could take her then and there. Indeed, his mind swam with flashes of lewd images and acts and it took all of his concentration to keep those "evil" thoughts at bay. He wondered if Catholic saints ever suffered as much temptation as he now did. It was something short of a miracle that he managed to stay chaste long enough for her to fall asleep. When she left for school two days later, he wept in the solitude of his bedroom.

Ever since that evening, Wyn found it difficult to engage in romance with other people and, as Sylvie grew more and more into a woman, the less other men and women appealed to him (if at all). He dreamt of her often, almost nightly, and more than once did he think he might lose his sanity. When she disappeared with her cousin from California, he sought retribution with his fists, his frustration dealt out on criminals who could have never known where his angel had gone. She returned to him two years later, albeit by force, and he feared that her cousin had not shown her the respect he had on that fateful birthday. In a jealous fit of rage, he convinced Sylvie to marry him, lest he seek revenge on what was left of her biological family. On their wedding night, he thankfully learned he had been wrong, but that did not assuage the green-eyed monster that lingered in his heart. He now knew he wanted her love as well as her body. (He should have never put her in boarding school, he repeated to himself.)

Meredith (a surname), Sylvie's uncle, was easy enough to capture given the right evidence and Wyn found himself ruminating over Sylvie's continued affections for her cousin while the father was held in the secret holding cells in the basement of his office building for the Counter Criminal Investigation Unit (CCIU for short, though often called Pomana by those who hated them). Wyn had convinced Sylvie (on her wedding night, no less) that his intentions were pure and she had bought his story with the ease he had expected. Still, as long as Drake Meredith remained chaste, he supposed Sylvie's feelings regarding him would never truly disappear. That would not do at all and Wyn stepped into the elevator, debating his options as he pressed the call button for the basement.

Through two security checkpoints, he stood in an empty room of gray concrete, mirrored windows to his left and right and an innocent-looking steel table in the middle with matching chairs. Tugging on black leather gloves, he called out for one of the guards.

"Rico! Bring me Meredith!"

A broad-shouldered Puerto Rican, skin like dusk and strong, brought out the prisoner shortly, a tall man, red around his silver-blue eyes and platinum blond hair disheveled, thinner and paler than Wyn remembered but perhaps because he had recently "placed" the man on an involuntary fast to make him more compliant. The man's normally handsome features seemed marred by the dirt and grime of his forced isolation, which pleased Wyn greatly. He had wanted the bastard to suffer.

"Well, well, well... Lucian Meredith. Look at you, how the mighty have fallen," Wyn laughed with derision as Rico held the man by the shoulders to a seat on the ground.

"What the fuck do you want, Amaranth," Meredith spat. "Here to mock me?"

"On the contrary, my old 'friend.' I need you to do something for me before I lock you away forever," he stated nonchalant, idly fitting brass knuckles over the leather on his fingers.

"And why on God's green earth do you think I'd do anything you asked?"

Quicker than the other man's eyes could catch, Wyn cocked his fist back and struck it hard across Meredith's face.

"Wrong answer." The man spitting blood, Rico brought Meredith back to his "seat" and Wyn perched down, trying to catch the other man's eyes with his own. "Now, are you ready to listen?"

"Fuck. Off. Don't you already have enough evidence for your little morality play?"

"Mmm, I do, but this isn't about that. This isn't about how you've willingly smuggled drugs or murdered countless people or the host of other reasons I'm sending you to prison." Wyn stared into the man's eyes, unflinching in his gaze. "No, this is about your son."

Meredith's eyes went wide, pulling back as if Wyn had struck him again.

"Leave Drake out of this! You know he's innocent!"

"So was Christy and that didn't stop her from being murdered, did it?" Wyn laughed, standing back up. "But, I'll make you a deal. Your son, Drake, will never have to spend time in jail so long as you convince him of one little thing."

"And what is that?" Meredith asked, venom laced in his voice. "Let me guess, it has to do with your 'wife.' Sylvie not bending to your will, like you hoped? You expect Drake to just let her go?"

"Sylvie is MY wife and MINE alone. I just want you to convince Drake that perhaps he is better off with someone else. Better yet, let's have him marry someone else."

Meredith raised his eyebrows high.

"You must be joking... You think I can convince Drake to just marry someone out of the blue?"

Wyn turned around, as if in thought, only to turn back swiftly, the brass knuckles meeting Meredith's face again with force.

"I think, perhaps, he'll listen to his father," Wyn stated as the man spit out a bloody tooth. Wyn grabbed Meredith's chin with his hand, so that he could stare again into his eyes. "Or else. I have a number of warrants and charges drafted in case he doesn't cooperate."

"You're insane! Is this what you call justice? You're worse than we ever were!"

"Do it or I'll make sure you and your son get the needle. It doesn't matter who the girl is, so long as the nuptials occur within the year."

Meredith stared at him in disbelief, but--before Wyn could hit him again, his fist pulled back--he nodded in a slow, resigned way. Wyn smiled, standing up again, haughty in his seeming triumph.

"Fine," Meredith sighed, feeling the empty socket in his mouth with his tongue. "I'll talk to Drake... You swear not to pursue him?"

"Sylvie would never forgive me," he laughed. "I won't touch him as long as he lives his life happily with his new wife."

"You're a monster."

"Why, thank you," Wyn grinned wickedly, motioning to Rico to take the beaten man away. His blue eyes watched as Meredith was brought to a stand, shoving off the other to walk on his own to his cell. It was certainly a pleasure to break men of their wills, Wyn thought idly as he dropped the brass knuckles into the pocket of his blazer. Laughing, he called out, "Pleasure working with you, Meredith."

Washing his hands and gloves clean, Wyn returned home from the office, taking his time on the drive from Metuperi to his estate in Portobello, a certain excitement in him as he made his way up his long driveway. Though he had been absent for much of Sylvie's childhood, he made a point of coming home at somewhat reasonable hours once he married. Looking at the clock on the dashboard of his Cadillac, he noted it was a tad too late for dinner.

He strolled leisurely up the immaculate white stone to his front door. Even in the dark, he could spot the young Australian Willow that Sylvie had planted some months ago, hundreds of tiny white and yellow flowers hidden in the long leaves. Like every plant she touched, it did well and he thought briefly that he might place a small bench underneath it when it was taller, the shade it would provide a welcome retreat from California's heat. Out there, he could read to her when he had the time.

He was inside by the time he realized it, even passing through his security measures automatically, a keypad locked door then another with a key card. Looking around, he saw no one, not the servants nor his dear wife, the only sounds coming from the kitchen to the left. Perhaps he had not missed dinner after all. He followed the sounds and found Sylvie's former nanny, Myrrha, plating meals.

"Good evening, Myrrha," he stated to the tall, tanned woman, her dark eyes looking up at his entry. "Where is my wife?"

"Miss Sylvie is in the reading room, sir," she stated calmly.

"Good. Give us a little bit, won't you, Myrrha? We should be down in an hour."

The woman only nodded and Wyn appreciated the lack of questions, leaving the woman to her duties as he made his way up the grand stairs to the second floor and down a few steps into a long hallway, the light from his library spilling into the corridor. Silently, he entered the library, knocking politely on the open door. He gazed around the room, the walls lined with books he and Sylvie had collected over the years, several of which he had never touched. His eyes settled on his wife, gazing at him with her brown eyes, a thick book open in her lap.

"You're home," Sylvie smiled. "How was your day?"

"Well enough," he replied, walking over to her, one hand resting on the small table in front of her. His eyes roamed over her, the peek of her collarbone above the neckline of her white and yellow summer dress oh so fascinating. "Had a few rebellious sorts but they complied easily enough."

"Oh. Well... I hope it was otherwise a simple day."

"It always is," he smiled, trying to reassure her as he brought a soft touch to her cheek. "All I ever want is to come home to you, my love. How was your day?"

"It was quiet, but it usually is around here. I planted some ballerina roses in the back with Myrrha and took care of the garden." She seemed to think for a moment, her hands gathering the hem of her dress as she played with it nervously. "Do you think that maybe I could go to college? Baccaria University is close and your alma mater. It would give me something to do."

Wyn gazed into her pleading eyes for a long moment, his mind no longer distracted by her form. He rationalized that denying her school would only lead to questions and he did want her happy, so long as that happiness was with him. Besides, he had men watching Drake and the boy was too busy in Metuperi these days to come to the countryside.

"Alright," he said slowly, "if that is what you want. I'll have Oswald drive you to and from school and you can start in the fall."

Closing the book on the table, Sylvie jumped up and embraced Wyn, her body pressed against him as he smelled the sun and flowers of the garden in her hair. He pulled away slightly to kiss her deeply, drawing down as he gathered her in his arms. She had long stopped resisting him and he felt her body mold to his. Overcome with need, he pressed kisses to her cheek and down until he suckled on her neck, his hands wandering to the ends of her dress as they slipped under. She gasped as his teeth nibbled on sensitive skin, fingers dancing up her thighs.

"W-Wyn...!"

He paid her no mind. One hand slipped between her legs and he felt her moistness underneath cotton and lace, an index finger pressing against sensitive skin. Shaking, Sylvie grasped his shoulders for leverage, her legs spreading slightly, much to Wyn's satisfaction. He played with her there, his face in the crook of her neck as he continued his ministrations there, her breath heavy with gasps. There would be a bruise there, on her neck, he knew and he rather liked it when he could see his mark on her.

Finally, he slipped his hand under the fabric of her underwear, feeling the slickness of her sex, his thumb making circles around a nub of oh-so-sensitive flesh. With a thrust, his finger entered her then and she cried out, leaning against him now as she wrapped her arms around his neck. He fucked her with his fingers until she was but a waterfall there, aching and trembling. Yes, he thought, just like this.

With a smooth motion, he pulled her underwear from her hips and, without asking, she stepped out of them as he discarded them to the side, his eyes bright with lust. Surprisingly, Sylvie went to her knees and began to unbuckle him from his slacks, pulling the belt loop free and unbuttoning with deft fingers. Looking at her, her face was flushed rose and he marveled at her attentiveness, her eyes glassy under the lights.

Before she could pull him free, he stopped her hand, finishing her work for her as he sat down in the very chair she had just abandoned. His sex stood erect and, wordlessly, he commanded her to him, she crawling to him. With her rose lips and her delicate fingers, she took him in her mouth, sucking on it in the way he liked best. She picked up speed at a slow pace, moving her pretty face back and forth, Wyn's eyes on the long lashes of her eyes as he groaned. He hummed his approval as she took as much as she could in her mouth, feeling the tip at the back of her throat. It was almost too much and he gently pulled her away.

"Oh, my love, my dear, dear Sylvie. You are so beautiful," he sighed as he brought her to a stand. He pulled her dress up and over her, throwing it to the side, before she unclasped herself from her bra. Naked before his eyes, his eyes stared at her form, the beautiful nymphet turned nymph, gorgeous and brilliant. He sat back down, his eyes never leaving her, and motioned for her to join him.

He pulled her into his lap, lifting her easily as she straddled him, his sex slick with the wetness of hers. She lifted herself slightly and, with her soft hand, guided him until, she gasping for air, he was finally inside her. With Wyn's hands guiding her, she rocked up and down, her back arched as he buried his face in her supple breasts, their hips grinding as she cried out his name.

In a deep rhythm, they made love like that for a time until, Wyn incensed, lifted her again in his arms and placed her atop the table, legs spread. Sylvie was flush with life and he, years of frustration blinking through his mind, came upon her, entering her roughly again with urgency as he hooked his arms underneath her legs. Again and again, he thrust into her and she moaned loudly with each of his grunts.

"Do you love me, Sylvie?" he asked between breaths. "Tell me you are mine and mine alone and that you'll never love anyone else. Tell me, my love."

"Ahh, ahh... Y-yes, I... ahh... I l-love you... I won't... ahh... I belong to you and no one else...!"

She screamed and he felt her climax pulsating around his sex, her back arched high. He smiled, only invigorated, pushing her more and more to the edge and she came not once but three more times until he finally spilled his seed deep inside her. He dropped her legs as gently as he could, almost collapsing atop of her if it were not for his hands dropping down to either side of her. Carefully, he pulled out of her and lifted her in his arms, placing her on his lap as he sat down. She rested her cheek against his shoulder and he ran his fingers through her dark hair.

"Do you really love me, Sylvie?" he asked quietly. "You can tell me the truth."

"I do love you," she stated firmly and he felt relief that there was no delay in her words. "I've always loved you."

"Am I still your prince?"

She looked up then, gazing up at him with her honey brown eyes.

"Who else would be my prince?" she replied softly and he could see a slight sadness in her gaze. "No one else comes to see me and no one else has tried to find me."

Continuing to smooth her hair with his hand, he left out the reasons for the absence of others in her life, leaving out the fact that he had not allowed anyone to see her. He supposed he might allow her friend, Nikalus, but no one else and it would continue to be that way until Drake Meredith married and (with hope) bore children with his new wife. Not that he would EVER allow Drake to see her again, unless it was by accident (or something he orchestrated). Sylvie belonged with her true prince. Not a soul could take her from him. He would be dead first before he allowed that.

"I'm sure your friends are just giving you your space, my heart," Wyn stated into Sylvie's hair. "Things have been rather tumultuous since you came back. Everyone probably thinks you need time to adjust..."

"A phone call would be nice," she sighed.

"I can have Nikalus call you, if you like," he spoke softly, nuzzling now into her hair as she drew in close. "Would you like that?"

Sylvie only nodded and he could feel the brush of her eyelashes as she shut her eyes. They stayed that way for some time and Wyn counted his blessings. He had his beloved Sylvie and she was his in all the ways he had always wished. He knew that there might come a day where the girl-woman would learn the truth, but he had plans in place that would make it difficult for her to leave.

First, of course, was her love and he knew that the ease with which she had fallen into his trap had as much to do with the years he had served as her faithful (and loving) guardian as it did their newfound marriage. Indeed, that she had responded to the news of her uncle's imprisonment with only a small sliver of surprise was sign enough that she still trusted Wyn enough to believe him in most matters, never mind that most of the charges were patently true even if the evidence was on less than solid ground. Indeed, if she had never learned of Wyn's more violent tendencies, he might have never lost her to begin with.

Second, he had every intention of telling her the truth, but he only intended to do so when he was sure the shock would not lead to flight. He had learned from his mistakes and knew that if the news did not come from him, then the blow would be that much harder to control. Naturally, it would also be his version of the truth and the conflicting viewpoints would only serve to make it seem that his enemies were only out to ruin her. He would show her all the love and care in the world and Drake and his lot would appear as homewreckers bent on thrusting her into a dangerous and disastrous life.

In this vein and his last part of this coup de grâce, he planned on soon having children with Sylvie. He knew for a fact that Sylvie would never leave children behind and, with no income of her own, a judge would never give custody to her, his fame as an integral part of their county's justice system notwithstanding. Besides, coming from a broken family before he had taken her in, she would likely not even choose divorce. He would show love to their children and she would understand that her life belonged squarely with Wyn (if she did not already).

He chuckled softly to himself at this thought and Sylvie opened her eyes again, shifting to look up to him. Wyn only smiled and straightened himself, gently bringing Sylvie to her feet.

"You must be hungry, my love," he hummed as he pulled his trousers back to their proper place, buckling his belt. "I think I saw Myrrha making paella in the kitchen before."

Sylvie smiled sweetly and nodded, her turn to dress again as Wyn watched her every move. Ahh, he would never become tired of this, he thought. Such luck that the small girl he had found so many years ago had become this angel, his Daphne, a doe to his wolf, except this Daphne had finally succumbed to her Apollo. He followed her in the quiet and they ate dinner pleasantly together.

Six weeks later, Sylvie had her first bout of morning sickness.