The council chamber had emptied long ago, leaving Ehecatl alone, elbows resting on his lap as he stared ahead in silence. The flickering torchlight created uneven shadows on his face, deepening the hollows under his eyes. A chill hung in the air, not from the cold, but from what loomed beyond the chamber's walls.
He exhaled slowly, fingers curling into fists then relaxing. The moment he had been anticipating was finally here.
Ehecatl rose and adjusted his tilmatli. Each step toward the stairs was purposeful, steady, yet not rushed. Two guards waited just outside the door; one straightened as he passed, but Ehecatl offered him little more than a glance.
"Take me to him," he instructed.
The guard nodded without a word.
They descended into the palace's lower levels, where the air grew colder with each turn. The sounds of the bustling city above—workers chipping stone, voices barking orders during the reconstruction, the rhythmic thuds of looted Castilian hammers—faded behind thick walls. Soon, it was only torchlight and the muted sound of sandals against the hard earth.
Cortés was being held the way the Mexica treated prisoners they hadn't decided to execute.
Not in chains—those were reserved for laborers and sacrifices—but bound, seated, and watched. His wrists were tied behind him with fibers that dug into his skin when he moved. His ankles were free, though that was only because there was nowhere to run. The chamber was cramped and low-ceilinged, its walls stained with soot and remnants of blood. A single clay lamp flickered near the entrance, casting just enough light for him to be seen.
He had been cleaned, which was the true insult.
His wounds had been washed and packed with herbs. A healer had come once, silent and efficient, never meeting his eyes. He had been given food—thin maize porridge and boiled, cooled water. Enough to survive, but not enough to feel human.
That alone unsettled him more than the ropes ever could.
When the curtain shifted, Cortés straightened instinctively, wincing as his spine protested.
Ehecatl entered without a hint of ceremony.
No mask. No dramatic cruelty. No weapons drawn.
Just a boy—young, lean, with eyes far too steady for his age—dressed simply, as if he had just walked out of a council meeting rather than a place of judgment. Two guards remained outside the door, leaving them alone inside.
Cortés scrutinized him closely.
It's him… that boy… the bane of my existence.
Ehecatl stopped a few paces away, his gaze focused ahead. He didn't acknowledge the ropes binding Cortés. He merely stood there, hands at his sides.
"You know why you're still alive," Ehecatl said.
Cortés let out a dry breath. "Because you enjoy it."
"Yes, that too," Ehecatl replied. "But also because you're facing charges."
That surprised Cortés.
"Charged?" he laughed softly, incredulous. "By whom?"
"By us."
"With what?" Cortés leaned back as far as the cords would allow, chin raised defiantly. "Conquest? Victory? Is this how you dress up your defeat to feel civilized?"
Ehecatl's expression remained unchanged.
"War crimes."
The term landed awkwardly. Cortés frowned, confused.
"…What?"
Ehecatl repeated it, slower this time. "War crimes."
Cortés let out a sharp laugh. "That's not a thing."
"It is now."
Silence stretched between them.
Cortés narrowed his eyes, studying him. "Are you Indios trying to mimic us?" he scoffed. "You don't even know any laws."
"I know exactly what I'm doing."
"You can't judge war," Cortés snapped. "War has rules only when the victor decides them. And you didn't—"
"I did," Ehecatl interrupted, stepping closer.
"You entered Cholula under false pretenses and slaughtered civilians." Another step.
"You took hostages to force submission." Another step.
"You burned temples, executed those who surrendered, enslaved survivors, and violated the very terms you swore to uphold by your own god."
Cortés opened his mouth to retort.
"—And before you say it," Ehecatl continued, his voice unwavering, "no. 'That's how war is done' is not a defense. Especially when you've lost."
Cortés's jaw tightened in anger.
"You think this is justice?" he said. "Dragging me in here and spouting words you barely grasp?"
"I understand them just fine," Ehecatl replied. "You anticipated torture. You expected death."
Cortés offered a thin smile. "You're doing this to humiliate me."
Ehecatl tilted his head slightly. "I am, but this is just the beginning. There's more to come."
Cortés's smile faded.
"You want a trial?" he pressed. "You want me to speak? Fine. But you should hear everything. Including who stood by my side."
Ehecatl paused, and Cortés noticed a flicker of something—brief, but there.
"Marina," Cortés said deliberately. "Malinalli."
Ehecatl turned fully toward him now.
"Go on," he encouraged.
Cortés seized the moment like a weapon.
"She chose me," he said. "Not because I forced her. Your empire crushed her first. She translated because she wanted to. Because she understood how power works."
Ehecatl's gaze remained fixed on him.
"And you think that absolves you?"
"No," Cortés replied. "I think it condemns you."
A tense pause hung in the air.
Ehecatl stepped back toward the curtain.
"If that's your claim," he said evenly, "you'll repeat it later. In full. Under scrutiny."
He turned away.
"For now," he added, "get used to being fed, treated, and worked."
Cortés scoffed. "You think that's punishment?"
Ehecatl paused at the threshold.
"You came here for gold, glory, and men to serve you," he said. "Now you'll work. Every day. Until your body gives out. From the moment you wake up, you'll labor for fifteen hours, with just an hour to eat and rest, then sleep for eight hours, and do it all over again."
He glanced back one last time.
"That's your sentence."
Then he left.
Cortés was alone once more.
And for the first time since arriving in these lands, he felt something cold and unfamiliar tightening in his chest.
This boy wasn't just out to defeat him.
He was going to break him, piece by piece.
…
…
…
Ehecatl did not go far.
This cell was different.
No ropes. No bindings. Only two priestesses watching her.
Not out of mercy per say, but it's obvious what would happen if she's left alone with male guards.
Malinalli was not a warrior. Not a noble. Not yet condemned.
She sat on a reed mat near the wall, knees drawn in, arms wrapped loosely around them. Her hair had been brushed, but not braided. Her clothes were clean but plain — no finery, no ornament, no attempt at dignity beyond what she could hold herself.
When Ehecatl stepped inside, she looked up immediately.
Her eyes flicked to his hands first.
Then his face.
Then she stilled.
He didn't speak right away.
He let his gaze travel — openly, deliberately. From her hairline, down her face, her throat, the curve where cloth pulled against her chest, the slope of her hips beneath the huīpīlli.
Not hunger alone.
Assessment.
So this is her.
The woman who stood beside Cortés in every account. The one barely mentioned in historical sources at the time, and viewed negatively throughout history and barley positive in recent history.
She was beautiful.
That much was undeniable.
Not soft, nor fragile, but shaped in a way that drew the eye whether one wanted it to or not. Even now, sitting on the floor of a conquered city, stripped of protection, she held herself with a guarded tension that spoke of long practice.
Beauty and survival.
A dangerous pairing.
She shifted slightly under his stare. Not to cover herself, but to brace.
Only then did he speak.
"So," Ehecatl said, voice even. "You're Malinalli in Nahuatl, and Marina in Spanish."
She nodded once.
"You know who I am."
"Yes."
No title. No reverence. Just confirmation.
That annoyed him more than fear would have.
He stepped closer.
She did not move away.
He stopped just short of her.
"You were beside him when he burned cities," he said. "When he lied. When he broke oaths."
"I translated," she replied quietly.
"For him."
"For myself."
That answer came faster. Too fast.
Ehecatl crouched in front of her, elbows resting on his knees. Eye level now.
"And did it work?" he asked. "Helping yourself."
Her mouth tightened.
"I lived."
"That wasn't the question."
Silence.
Her eyes dropped for the first time — not in shame, but calculation. When she looked back up, her voice was steadier, flatter.
"It worked until it didn't."
He watched her closely as she spoke. The way her hands clenched and relaxed. The way her breathing changed when Cortés's name hung unspoken between them.
"You slept with him," Ehecatl said.
She flinched. Just barely.
"Yes."
"For safety?"
"For leverage."
"For power?"
Her jaw set.
"For survival."
Ehecatl smiled — small, sharp.
"You know what people say about you?" he continued. "That you wanted us to fall. That you hated us."
Her laugh was short. Humorless.
"They say many things about women who live."
That earned her a slap.
Not hard enough to knock her down.
Hard enough to remind her where she was.
Her head snapped to the side. She gasped — more from shock than pain — then slowly turned back to face him. Her eyes were wet now, but furious.
Ehecatl stood.
"Careful," he said. "I didn't bring you here to lecture me."
She swallowed, breathing uneven.
"I won't judge you yet," he went on. "Because I want to know exactly what I'm judging."
He looked down at her again — openly, unashamed. Letting her feel the weight of his attention. Letting her understand that her body, her mind, her past — all of it — was now subject to his curiosity.
"And don't misunderstand," he added. "If everything they say about you is true, your punishment won't be gentle."
Her voice came out hoarse.
"And if it isn't?"
Ehecatl's smile widened.
"Then you'll still pay," he said. "Just differently."
Malinalli stayed where she was, heart pounding, cheek burning — not broken, not defiant.
Just very aware of one thing:
She had survived Cortés by understanding men.
And this one won't be any different.
…
…
…
Malinalli didn't move at first.
Her gaze clung to his fleeing form like a lifeline that hasn't yet slipped through her fingers. Not because Ehecatl had offered her one—he hadn't. He hadn't promised safety. He hadn't promised forgiveness. But in the way he looked at her… not with pity, not with disgust, not even lust (not entirely)… something cracked open inside her. Something she'd kept buried for years.
She sat back slowly, arms folded around her knees, trembling—not from cold, but from the realization that the world was not done punishing her.
He hadn't called her "translator."
He hadn't spat "traitor."
He had called her "Marina."
That name.
That cursed, given name.
A name they all used for her when they needed her. When it was convenient. When they needed someone to whisper into ears, manipulate hearts, break ties that couldn't be mended.
She hated that name.
And yet… when he said it, something about it stung differently.
Her jaw clenched. She shook her head violently and pressed her palms to her temples, nails biting into her scalp. It was too much. Too quiet. Too soon. Too late.
"Shut up," she hissed at no one, at herself. "You're not going to cry. Not for him. Not for them."
But she did. Hot, bitter tears welled up and spilled down her cheeks as her body shuddered with the force of what she'd been holding in.
Cortés was defeated.
Cortés was caged.
And all she could think about was how it didn't make her feel anything close to triumph. Just empty. Like a doll someone had used, tossed aside, and now expected to explain herself to the people she was born from, but never belonged to.
She had done what she had to do. That was the line she repeated. That was the justification she carved into her soul like a tattoo.
But Ehecatl's look—it hadn't been one of a man who needed justification. It was worse. It was the look of a man who hadn't decided yet what she was.
Useful? Dangerous? Broken? Beautiful?
Maybe all of them.
Maybe none.
She pressed her forehead to her knees, rocking slightly.
The cell was spinning.
Her mind was unraveling.
And for the first time in years, Marina didn't know what language to pray in.
…
…
…
She sat alone.
No torch. No food. No whisper of visitors. Only the sour taste of rot at the back of her throat and the trickle of cold water along the wall like a mocking lullaby.
"He looked at me like a puzzle."
She murmured it. Not to the gods. Not to herself.
To him. The one who just left. Ehecatl.
He looked at her like she wasn't quite human. Like he hadn't made up his mind whether to use her, study her, or just… break her slowly. She'd seen that look before— on the Mayans, on priests, on Castilian captains, on women who smiled too softly while selling others to survive.
But never that young. Never with that kind of hunger buried behind the eyes.
He had power. And he enjoyed that she knew it.
She laughed once. Flat. Crooked.
"I'd slit your throat if I thought it'd matter," she whispered. "If I thought anyone in this city remembered I had a name before they gave me another."
Marina.
The name still felt like a curse carved into her spine. She'd worn it because it opened doors. Because it made the Castilians stop looking at her like a dog and start looking at her like a vessel. A necessary evil.
Was she a traitor?
She didn't even know anymore. Every side lost something.
The Mexica lost a city.
The Castilians lost the air of superiority.
And she lost… herself?
No.
She wasn't noble enough to make it poetic.
She lost nothing.
She traded it.
Traded, bartered, begged, lied, whispered, smiled, fucked—whatever was needed to stay alive, stay useful.
And now she was here.
Rotting.
Discarded.
Useful to no one.
Her stomach growled. She ignored it.
Her blood itched under her skin. She dug her nails into her arms and pressed until it passed.
Then she sat back, hair wild, eyes dull.
She knew he'd be back.
And when he came, he'd try to figure her out again. Ask the kind of questions only someone safe enough to ask them would dare to voice.
She wasn't sure which one of them she hated more—him, for having power and playing with it like a toy…
…or herself, for wondering what it would feel like if he touched her the way he looked at her.
She choked back bile.
But didn't look away from the door.
…
…
…
The rain had stopped. The cell stank of wet limestone and trapped breath, but she'd grown used to it. Malinalli sat cross-legged in the corner, brushing dirt from her fingernails. She didn't look up when the curtain door swished. She didn't have to.
She knew it was him.
Ehecatl stepped in like he owned the air. No guards again. No announcement. No ceremonial presence. Just him, and that stare.
"This is the second visit when no one's watching," she said, still scraping dirt off her nail. "What are you afraid they'll see?"
"What makes you think I'm hiding anything?"
"Because if you weren't, you'd come during the day."
"Daylight flatters liars," he said. "I prefer the dark. You don't wear masks in the dark."
She finally looked at him. Not with fear. Not with seduction. But with something worse.
Understanding.
"You want to know if I ever loved him," she said flatly.
Silence.
"You won't ask directly," she said. "Because that would mean admitting you care."
Ehecatl didn't blink.
"Nah," he said. "I already know the answers. What I don't know is if you believe your excuses."
That hit.
Malinalli didn't snap. She didn't rage. Her face twitched just once, and then she breathed in deep, slow, and cracked her knuckles.
"You think you're better than him?" she asked. "I was given to him by the Mayans who kept me as a slave, but he fed me. Protected me. Gave me power."
"He gave you scraps to keep you obedient."
"And your empire didn't do the same to its daughters?"
That time, he smiled. Not kindly.
"They didn't smile when they bled," he said. "You did."
Her expression froze.
And then something uncoiled between them—slow, venomous, and undeniable.
He was leaning forward now, one forearm braced on his knee. The brazier cast firelight across the side of his jaw, his knuckles, his eyes. He wasn't checking her out this time.
He was studying her.
"I've been reading the records," he said. "Every speech. Every order. Every name they wrote down after she translated it."
"She?" she asked, mockingly. "Say it. Malinalli. Marina. Malintzin. Call me the tongue. That's what they all think."
He didn't bite.
"I don't care what they called you," he said. "What matters is what you believed when you said their words."
Her throat tightened.
"You really came here to pick at what's left?" she asked, bitter.
"No," he murmured. "I came to see how much of you is left at all."
Then silence again. Thick. Unyielding.
Until she shifted her legs just slightly, the fabric of her skirt slipping higher across her thigh. Not dramatically. Not like some cheap seduction.
But enough.
Ehecatl's eyes tracked it for exactly one heartbeat.
"You came all this way," she said, voice low. "And yet you haven't touched me. Not once."
"Do you want me to?"
Her eyes didn't flinch. But her mouth did.
"I don't know," she whispered. "But it scares me that part of me does."
Ehecatl stood.
Not abruptly. Not to escape. But to hold dominance.
"Good," he said. "Fear keeps people honest."
Then, he did something unexpected.
He stepped closer.
Close enough for his hand to brush a loose lock of her hair, tucking it back behind her ear.
Not gently.
But not cruelly either.
And she… let him.
"You act like you know everything." she said.
"Not everything," he said, eyes on her throat. "But enough."
She shifted just slightly, one shoulder exposed now, whether from wear or design didn't matter.
Her lips parted.
He was closer now. Too close.
"You used him." he said.
"I survived him."
"And now?"
She didn't answer.
His fingers brushed her chin, tilting her face up. The touch was rough, not tender. The kind of touch that dared her to bite.
She didn't.
"What do you see," she whispered, "when you look at me?"
"A woman who does what's needed to survive," he said flatly. "And a woman who could still be useful."
His thumb lingered at the corner of her mouth.
"Useful," she echoed.
"Don't mistake it," he said, leaning in. "This isn't forgiveness. It's an offer."
"An offer for what?"
His voice was a whisper, but it cut like flint.
"To decide what kind of whore history will call you."
Her hand twitched like it wanted to slap him, but didn't.
Because she was trembling.
Not from fear.
From fury. From want. From the raw, hateful gravity between them.
She swallowed. Then smiled—ugly, bitter, feral.
"That's rich," she spat. "Coming from a bastard who's no doubt going to write said history."
He didn't laugh.
He just leaned in closer, his mouth grazing her ear.
"Even so, history is written by the victor and I am indeed the victor." he said. "The Mexica are the only ones who did what no one could here in the mainland, and in those islands the Caxtilteca took over."
Her breath hitched. She hated that they did indeed do that.
Then he stood again, looking down at her the same way a storm looks at fire: curious if it should snuff it out or feed it.
"Eat," he ordered.
"Or what?" she asked, rising slowly to her feet.
He stepped closer again, as their chests nearly touched.
"Or next time," he said darkly, "we'll stop pretending we don't know what this is."
And then he walked out.
Malinalli stayed standing for a long, long time—chest heaving, face flushed, hands clenched tight.
She didn't cry.
She didn't scream.
But the fire in her belly?
It didn't come from rage alone anymore.
…
…
…
The stone walls of Malinalli's cell seemed to close in tighter with each passing day, the air thick with the scent of damp earth and faint incense from the temple corridors beyond. She had lost track of time—hours? Days?—since what the Mexica call Victory Day, since the world she knew had crumbled under the weight of Mexica revenge, But she hadn't lost her edge. No, that had sharpened, honed by isolation and the gnawing hunger for something, anything, to fill the void.
She'd prepared for him this time. Her hair, once matted and wild from neglect, now fell in glossy waves down her back, brushed with a makeshift comb she'd fashioned from a splintered bone. The simple huipil she'd been given—thin cotton, meant for modesty—had been adjusted. She'd tugged the neckline lower, exposing the swell of her breasts, the fabric clinging to her curves from the humidity. Her skin glistened with a light sheen of oil she'd rubbed in from a stolen vial, making her look less like a prisoner and more like a temptation. She paced the small space, her bare feet silent on the cool floor, heart pounding not with fear, but with a twisted anticipation.
Ehecatl's footsteps echoed down the hall before he appeared, deliberate and unhurried, like a predator who knew his prey wasn't going anywhere. The curtain door swished open, and there he was: tall, imposing, his plain tilmatli, his face was a mask of calculated indifference, but his eyes betrayed him as they swept over her, lingering on the exposed skin, the way her nipples peaked against the thin fabric in the chill air.
"Malinalli," he said, his voice low and smooth. He closed the curtain door behind him with a soft rustle, sealing them in. No guards. No witnesses. Just the two of them in this suffocating intimacy.
She turned slowly, letting him drink her in, her hips swaying just enough to draw his gaze lower. "Ehecatl," she replied, her tone mocking, laced with bitterness. "Come to gloat again? Or have you finally decided what to do with me?"
He didn't answer immediately. Instead, he stepped closer, the space between them shrinking until she could feel the heat radiating from his body. His eyes traced the curve of her neck, down to where her huipil gaped open, revealing the shadow between her breasts. "You've changed," he murmured, his breath warm against her skin. "No more pretending to be the broken slave. Now you're… offering."
Her laugh was sharp, but it cracked at the edges, revealing the madness bubbling beneath. "Offering? To you? The man who parades my shame like a trophy?" She stepped forward, closing the gap, her chest brushing against his. The contact sent a jolt through her, electric and unwelcome, but she didn't pull away. Instead, she tilted her head back, exposing her throat like a challenge. "Or maybe you're the one who's been waiting. Staring. Wanting. But too afraid to take."
Ehecatl's hand shot out, fingers wrapping around her wrist in a vise grip, yanking her flush against him. She gasped, but it wasn't pain—it was the sudden press of his hardness against her belly, the evidence of his desire that he no longer bothered to hide. "Afraid?" he growled, his free hand tangling in her hair, pulling her head back to force her eyes to meet his. "You think you can provoke me, woman? You, who spread your legs for the Caxtilteca and whispered their poisons into our ears?"
The words stung, but they ignited something feral in her. She twisted in his grasp, not to escape, but to grind against him, feeling him throb through his loincloth. "And you?" she hissed, her nails digging into his arm. "The great Ehecatl, reduced to slumming in a cell with the one who helped bring this city down. Does it excite you? Knowing I'm the one who helped burn your world… and now you want to fuck it out of me?"
His lips curled into a cruel smile, and without warning, he shoved her back against the wall, the rough stone biting into her skin. She didn't fight it—her legs parted instinctively as he pinned her there, one thigh wedged between hers, pressing up against her core. She was already wet, traitorously so, her body betraying the rage in her mind. "You talk too much," he snarled, his mouth crashing down on hers in a bruising kiss. It wasn't tender; it was conquest, his tongue invading, claiming, tasting the bitterness on her lips.
Malinalli moaned into his mouth, her hands clawing at his tilmatli , undoing it off to expose the hard planes of his chest. She bit his lower lip hard enough to draw blood, and he retaliated by yanking her huipil down, tearing the fabric with a rip that echoed in the cell. Her breasts spilled free, heavy and aching, nipples hardening under his gaze.
"Look at you," he taunted, his voice rough with lust as he cupped one breast, thumb circling areola before pinching hard. She arched into the pain, a whimper escaping her. "So eager. So desperate. Is this what the Mayans, or Cortés taught you? To whore yourself for survival?"
"Fuck you," she spat, but her hands were already fumbling with his loincloth, freeing his cock—thick, veined, pulsing with need. She wrapped her fingers around him, stroking roughly, feeling him twitch in her grip. "He never made me feel like this. Like I want to destroy you… and beg for more."
Ehecatl's laugh was dark. He spun her around, slamming her chest against the wall, her ass grinding back against him. One hand snaked around to her throat, squeezing just enough to make her vision blur, while the other hiked up her skirt, fingers delving between her thighs. She was slick, dripping, and he groaned as he found her clit, circling it with brutal precision. "Beg then," he commanded, two fingers thrusting inside her without preamble, stretching her, curling to hit that spot that made her knees buckle. "Beg like the slut you are."
"Please," she gasped, hating herself for it, but the words tumbled out anyway. "Fuck me. Use me. Make me forget."
He didn't need more invitation. With a savage thrust, he buried himself inside her, the stretch burning deliciously as he filled her completely. She cried out, the sound muffled against the stone, her nails scraping the wall as he set a punishing rhythm. Each slam of his hips was a punishment—for her involvement, for his unwanted obsession, for the twisted bond forging between them. His hand tightened on her throat, controlling her breath, making her lightheaded, heightening every sensation.
"You're mine now," he growled in her ear, his free hand slapping her ass hard, the sting blooming into heat. "No more Cortés. No more games. Just this, your cunt clenching around me like it was made for it."
She pushed back against him, meeting his thrusts, her body on fire. "Harder," she demanded, her voice breaking. "Break me. I dare you."
He obliged, flipping her onto the thin mat on the floor, spreading her legs wide as he drove back in. His mouth latched onto her breast, teeth grazing her nipple before biting down, drawing a mix of pain and pleasure that had her screaming. One hand pinned her wrists above her head, the other rubbing her clit in furious circles. She bucked beneath him, chasing the edge, her mind fracturing into shards of hate and ecstasy.
"Come for me," he ordered, his thrusts erratic now, close to his own release. "Show me how much you need this, 'Malintzin'."
The orgasm hit her like a storm, ripping through her body, her walls pulsing around him as she sobbed his name—Ehecatl. He followed moments later, spilling deep inside her with a guttural roar, marking her in the most primal way.
They collapsed in a tangle of limbs, breaths ragged, bodies slick with sweat. But there was no tenderness in the aftermath. He pulled out roughly, watching his cum leak from her with a possessive gleam. "This changes nothing," he said coldly, even as his fingers traced a bruise forming on her hip.
Malinalli laughed, weak and unhinged, rolling onto her side to face him. "It changes everything. You'll be back. And I'll be waiting."
He dressed in silence, but his eyes lingered, promising more. As he left, the curtain door swished shut behind him, she curled up on the mat, aching and sated, already plotting the next round in their deadly game.
…
…
…
Ehecatl stepped out of her cell and pulled the curtain door shut behind him that echoed down the empty corridor. The torches flickered along the stone walls, casting long shadows that danced like mocking spirits. His legs felt steady, but everything else… no. Everything else was buzzing.
His skin still carried her heat. The ghost of her nails raking down his back. The taste of her throat under his tongue. The way she'd clenched around him at the end, milking every last drop as he spilled deep inside her with a growl he hadn't meant to let out.
Cloud nine didn't even cover it.
Catalina was sweet. Catalina knelt prettily, eyes wide and obedient, her pale Castilian skin flushing pink whenever he touched her. She submitted like a prayer—soft whimpers, gentle hands, always looking up at him like he was her sun in her sky. It fed the part of him that had craved control ever since he'd woken up in this blood-soaked timeline. She made him feel like the conqueror he was supposed to be.
But Malinalli?
Malinalli fought. Malinalli bit. Malinalli wrapped her legs around him and demanded harder, deeper, like she wanted to ruin him the same way he was ruining her. She knew exactly how to roll her hips, how to tighten just right, how to whisper filth in Nahuatl and Spanish until his vision whited out. With her, it wasn't submission—it was war. And he'd just lost the last battle spectacularly.
He walked slowly, savoring the ache in his muscles, the looseness in his limbs. Already planning the next time. Maybe tomorrow night. Bring oil. Tie her wrists with that torn huipil. Make her beg properly before he—
His steps faltered.
The thought hit him like a macuahuitl to the chest.
He hadn't pulled out.
Not even close.
He'd buried himself to the hilt and come harder than he could remember, pulsing inside her again and again, flooding her until he felt it leak out around him. Possessive. Primal. Like some animal marking territory he had no right to claim.
"Shit," he whispered aloud, the modern curse slipping out in English before he could stop it. His heart slammed against his ribs.
A child.
His child—potentially growing right now in the womb of the woman his entire empire called the ultimate traitor. The tongue that helped destroy Tenochtitlan. The whore of Cortés. La Malinche.
And he'd just painted her insides white without a second thought.
He leaned against the cool stone wall, head thumping back, eyes closing as the full scope of the fuck-up sank in.
If she's pregnant…
• He can't punish her. Not publicly. Not slowly. Not the way the Cortes is going to be.
• He can't even let the nobles flog her or brand her or parade her naked through the city. Not anymore. Because any mark on her body would be a mark on his child.
• The court will notice. Sooner or later, someone will see the way he looks at her door. Or she'll start to show. And then the questions begin.
• Worst of all—he still wants her. Wants to storm back in there right now, bend her over again, feel her scratch and moan and hate him while she comes apart on his cock.
He dragged a hand over his face, feeling the sweat still cooling there. Fifteen years old, this body, twenty-first-century mind screaming at him: You absolute idiot. Wrap it next time. Except there are no condoms in 1521. Genius.
But the thought of not going raw—of spilling anywhere but inside her—felt wrong now. Like a betrayal of the thing clawing at his chest every time he thought of her.
He pushed off the wall and kept walking, cloak pulled tight around him as if it could hide the evidence of what he'd done. Guards nodded as he passed; he barely acknowledged them.
He had to protect her now. Not because he loved her—gods, no. Not even because he pitied her. But because he'd just chained himself to her with his own cum.
And the terrifying part?
He wasn't sure he minded.
By the time he reached his chambers, the afterglow had curdled into something darker, hotter. Obsession laced with dread.
He'd go back tomorrow.
He'd fuck her again.
And next time… next time he'd still come inside her.
Because whatever this was—hate, hunger, madness—he wasn't done feeding it yet.
Damn the consequences.
Authors Note: first time attempting to write smut 😅. Let me know in aspects I can improve in, or if you'd prefer for me to leave that out entirely.