A Forbidden Kind of Devotion

Lucy Atkins had been part of the household for as long as I could remember. She wasn’t just “the help.” She was the one who had held me when I scraped my knee at seven, the one who made sure I never missed breakfast before exams, the one who scolded me with that half-smile when I stayed out too late. A servant, yes, but in truth she was woven into the fabric of my life like no one else.

My family called her loyal. I called her irreplaceable.

And yet, I never once thought about her in a different light—until the night I caught her alone in the kitchen, hair untied, apron off, sipping red wine like she was just any woman in her thirties instead of the shadow that moved through our halls.

“Long day?” I asked, stepping in.

She jumped a little, then laughed. “You scared me. And yes. Every day’s long in this house.”

That laugh did something to me. It sounded younger, freer. That was the first time I noticed the curve of her mouth, the way her blouse clung just slightly to her chest. Suddenly, I wasn’t looking at Lucy the servant—I was looking at Lucy the woman.

Quiet Moments That Changed Everything

It started with small things. Conversations at midnight when the house was asleep. Jokes whispered in corners. The brushing of her hand when she passed me a plate. None of it meant anything—or so I told myself.

But then one night, she sat on the back steps with me, the summer air heavy with heat. She handed me a glass of water and looked out at the garden.

“You’re supposed to marry rich, you know,” she said softly. “Your father would never forgive you if you didn’t.”

“Yeah? What about marrying for love?”

She gave me that sad smile. “Love is a luxury people like me don’t usually get.”

Something inside me snapped. I reached out, tilting her chin so she’d look at me. For a heartbeat, she didn’t pull away. Her breath caught, her lips parted, and before I could talk myself out of it, I kissed her.

It wasn’t soft or tentative. It was years of unspoken need, of stolen glances I hadn’t realized I’d been giving her, pouring out all at once. She pushed against my chest, gasping, “We can’t—” but she didn’t stop. Her body pressed into mine, trembling, hungry.

And in that moment, I knew there was no going back.

The Taste of Rebellion

The nights that followed blurred together, each one more reckless than the last. We’d meet in my room, doors locked, curtains drawn. She’d whisper my name like a prayer and a curse all at once, her nails digging into my skin as if holding on for dear life.

“God, you drive me insane,” she’d moan, her voice muffled against my shoulder.

“Say you’re mine,” I’d growl, pulling her tighter, needing her more than air.

And she’d whisper it—“I’m yours”—like it both thrilled and terrified her.

We were careful at first. Quiet. Secretive. But desire has a way of making people sloppy. My father almost caught her leaving my room once, her hair disheveled, cheeks flushed. He just frowned and muttered about her being overworked.

Every risk made the fire burn hotter. She’d bend over the counter in the empty kitchen while I buried myself inside her, biting her shoulder to stifle her cries. Or I’d pull her into the linen closet, kissing her breathless, her legs wrapped tight around me.

“Someone could hear,” she’d gasp, but her hips never stopped moving.

We were addicted, plain and simple.

Choosing Her Over Blood

Eventually, secrets rot in the dark. My father found out. He called me into his study one morning, his face red, his voice shaking with rage.

“You shame this family. A servant? Do you know what people will say?”

I told him I didn’t give a damn. That I loved her. That I’d marry her if I wanted.

“Over my dead body,” he spat.

I walked out without another word. And when I found Lucy in the laundry room, folding sheets with tears in her eyes, I knew she’d already heard.

“I’ll leave,” she whispered. “It’ll be easier for you.”

“No,” I said, pulling her into my arms. “You’re not leaving me. Not this time.”

We kissed, hard and desperate, both of us shaking. For once, I wasn’t just rebelling—I was choosing. Choosing her.

The next week, I defied them all. The family dinners, the lectures, the cold stares. I told them I was marrying Lucy Atkins, and if they wanted me gone, so be it.

They didn’t show up at the courthouse. None of them did.

But as Lucy slipped her hand into mine, her eyes wet and shining, I realized it didn’t matter. She wasn’t just the loyal servant anymore. She was my wife. My partner. My forbidden love made real.

And later that night, when I laid her down in our bed—no longer sneaking, no longer hiding—I whispered against her lips, “You were worth everything I lost.”

Her smile was trembling, but her voice was steady when she answered, “And you were worth everything I never thought I’d have.”