Now then, to be absolutely clear:

I am only posting this here for feedback. This story is in development for an online romance publisher at the moment and as I work on it, I want honest critique since my practice in the realm of romance is severely lacking. No messages of 'This is great! Write more!'. No mindless fangirlyness. Honest, harsh, critique and comments. Compliments are welcome but nothing without substance.

That is all.

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Paris, September 19th 1759

Stephen Delory stood with his head held high as the rope about his wrists was pulled taut. His stony countenance would not alter, regardless of what he was facing, and he didn’t even pause when the guillotine came into view. He had been a proud, unshakable man throughout his life and he had decided with absolute certainty that he would face his death in the same manner.

As always, the promise of an execution had drawn a crowd to the square, some of them cheering, some of them watching in horrified fascination and a select few weeping for the handsome young nobleman who was being led to his doom. Many of those sniffling behind handkerchiefs were the young women who had hoped the striking lord would vie for their attentions.

The Lord Stephen was indeed an arresting sight to behold, with his pale, near white blonde hair, chiseled features and fair complexion, it was really no wonder that so many young ladies of the court were unhappy to have lost their chance at him. Heedless of their lamenting, he cast his gaze upon one woman and then another, searching for one in particular.

There was only one face that Stephen hunted for out in the horde. One set of bright green eyes that he prayed to set his own blues upon once more before his life was ended. Yet the lady he sought out was not to be seen, regardless of how hard he looked or how many silent prayers he made.

One last look, that's all I ask. Just one. Take my life if it be your will, only let me see her one final time.

So absorbed he was in his fruitless search that Stephen barely heard the din around him, until a voice cut through his reverie like a hot knife through butter. "For crimes against his countrymen and the crown, Lord Stephen Delory has been sentenced to death. Have you any last words, Lord Delory?"

In a tone clear and unwavering, Stephen spoke a single word, still searching for his beloved, “Nichole.”

Across the square, in a heavy, black woolen cloak with her face obscured from the passersby, the lady that Stephen sought out with such desperation, Nichole LeBranche, stood with her back rigid and her eyes locked on the condemned man. Every synapse in her brain was screaming at her to go to him, to run to him, to beg the executioner spare his life--but something held her fast where she stood.

No matter how much she wanted to go to him, she couldn’t do so. Part of it was because she knew it would be a futile attempt on her part to save him, and part of her knew that her companion--if you could call him that--would never allow her to stray from his side long enough to make her love for Stephen known to all of France.

Like a steel band over her ribs, one of Lord Louis Lynette’s arms was wrapped around her torso, holding her to his body securely. His raven hair spilled over her shoulder and his breath tickled the fine hairs on her neck as he nudged a spot behind her ear with his nose. "You could save him," he murmured in her ear, the silk over steel quality of his voice forcing Nichole’s eyes to flutter closed against her will. "You have but to say yes to me."

His tongue darted out from between his lips and caressed the spot that he had been the first to discover. The one that caused Nichole’s knees to lose their solidity. His lips traced a practiced path as he stealthily devoured the side of her neck in broad daylight, his hair and her cloak’s hood keeping his actions hidden from anyone who might chance to look at them.

Nichole tried to remain focused on Stephen, but her treacherous body was responding to the secret contact of Louis’ mouth on her flesh. His arm tightened ever so slightly around her, drawing her even closer to him, crushing her against him as he made his possessive side known. “Be mine.”

The lust laced voice that whispered the plea, almost sweetly, forced Nichole to come crashing back to reality. The man behind her may have known which buttons to push to turn her limbs to rubber, but he would never own her.

Regaining her equilibrium, the woman draped in black gulped once and went stiff again. Where mere moments earlier, she had been melting into his arms, she was reminded of her propriety and pulled away from him as much as she could before she hissed at her captor, "Never."

“You refuse me?” Nichole felt Louis’ lips twist into a smirk against her skin. “Then you've signed his death warrant, haven't you, my love?”

Nichole’s stomach lurched and her heart cried out where she couldn’t do so aloud. She knew that her rejection of Lord Lynette was going to kill Lord Delory, but to accept his advances would be worse. “My acquiescence would have nothing to do with his life...you would merely use him against me again when I rebelled.”

A deep rumbling chuckle came from Louis’ chest. “You think you would rebel once I had known you fully? You underestimate my powers of persuasion.” He punctuated his statement with a sharp nip to her earlobe, forcing a sharp gasp from her. “The way I see it, my dear, you have two options open to you. You can submit to me and save his life, or you can watch him die. Surely I’m not so repugnant a figure that you would rather let your beloved be beheaded than receive a stay of execution by allowing me the privilege of your company in my bed.”

Nichole fought to keep her breathing even and her voice strong. “You would have me relent to your demands and he would be locked away in a dungeon somewhere until you used him as leverage against my once more.” Nichole gulped and steadied herself, forcing out words she never thought she would hear herself utter. “To send him to the guillotine is a gift in comparison to what you and you companions would have in mind for him."

“And yet you regret this gift which you so graciously bestow upon your beloved,” he purred into her auburn hair.

“I regret nothing,” she replied with conviction.

“You lie. I can smell it on you…I can feel the unsteady flutter of your heart and the anxiety you’re experiencing. You want nothing more than to run to him and cry his name and beg for his life.”

“I--” Nichole swallowed hard as tears sprang to her eyes. “I regret nothing.”

Another rumbling chuckle was her reply. "You've hunted me for three hundred years...now here I stand in your grasp and you say you regret nothing? I never thought a woman of your breeding could be such an accomplished liar. Really, Madam, what would your beloved Oracle say?"

Feeling genuine confusion, Nichole tried to angle her head so that she could look at Lord Lynette. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

He caught her eye and smiled in a most unsettling manner, like the predator he was, "No, of course you don't, my pet."

Something inside Nichole cracked and she broke his grasp and spun to face him, intent on slapping him as hard as she could. "Do not use terms of endearments!”

He deftly caught her wrist in mid-swing and regarded her with amusement, one dark eyebrow cocked. “Why not?”

“You merely make a mockery of them!” She winced at the feeling of his powerful grip on her small wrist but twisted in an attempt to break free anyway.

“In all your incarnations, you always were an iron willed creature…it’s part of why I’ve been fonder of you than any other.” He increased the pressure on her wrist, causing her to whimper and he forced her back into the position they’d been in before her outburst, with her back pressed to his chest.

This action forced her to face the spectacle in the square once more. Stephen was being forced to his knees and she couldn’t contain the anguished sob that bubbled forth from her lips, no matter how much she wanted to control it.

“What was that?” Louis mocked her, trailing the fingers of his left hand up her face to catch the moisture that was spilling from her eyes. “Why, my dearest, are those tears?”

She shook with grief. “Monster!”

"Monster? And only three months ago you found me to be such a charming host." Nichole felt him shrug behind her trembling form. “Very well. Since you find me so monstrous now…and refuse me so flippantly,” He grabbed her chin roughly and forced her to watch as the nobleman she'd given her heart to was placed on the execution block. "Watch the man that you have doomed with your stubbornness perish beneath that razor sharp blade."

She wanted to tear her eyes away from the sight of Stephen kneeling; wanted to stop watching that shining strip of silver above his head, but she couldn’t.

All Nichole could do was watch the blade fall and scream.