Chapter 39 Madeline
Madeline
Vince was behind me, propped up against the headboard in a black t-shirt, arm around my waist, his hand tucked just under the hem of my shirt.
We had the lights dimmed. My favourite dynasty gossip series played quietly across it—commentators dissecting alliances and outfits and the week’s scandals with.
I should’ve been loving it.
Instead, my mood sat… wrong.
I’d already adjusted my position three times and we were barely halfway through the episode. First curled sideways with my head on his chest, then on my stomach with my arms folded under my chin, now half-sitting again, shoulder against him, knees bent.
His hand followed every shift. Palm at my hip, then my lower back, then my thigh.
“You okay, angel?” he murmured against my hair.
“Fine.”
He hummed. The kind of sound that said he didn’t believe me, but wasn’t going to push yet.
On-screen, the host replayed a clip from last week’s Sovereign coverage, pausing over a still of some poor heir tripping on a staircase while the crest banners flared overhead.
I huffed a small laugh that died quickly.
Vince tightened his arm around my waist. “You’re not even pausing it to rant about their take. That’s not fine.”
“You’re surprisingly invested in my viewing habits.”
“You’re surprisingly quiet,” he countered.
I reached for the bowl of apple slices on the bedside table more to have something to do with my hands than from actual hunger. My fingers fumbled the slice. It slid out of my grip and bounced harmlessly off his thigh.
“Shit, sorry.”
His hand caught my wrist before I could snatch it back. “Hey.” He threaded our fingers together, and rested them on my stomach. “You’re jittery.”
“I’m just tired.”
“Liar.”
He tossed the slice into the bowl, and placed it aside.
I sighed and sank a little heavier into him, letting the weight of his chest hold my back in place. The show transitioned to the next feature.
“Oh, this is the one where they do the ‘Who Wore It Best’ on consort candidates,” I muttered. “Watch them crown Adams white-gold like it’s a personality trait.”
“That the one with the Thorne cousin who tried to bribe the stylist?”
My head snapped back.“What?”
He blinked, eyes still on the screen. “The one where the host hinted at it without saying his name. ‘Sources say one candidate attempted to secure a favourable tailoring slot through additional incentives,’” he quoted, tone dead-on.
My stomach dropped.
“That was three episodes ago. You weren’t here.”
He shrugged one shoulder. “I’ve got eyes and comms, Madeline. Veil exists outside your penthouse weekends.”
“Have you been watching this without me?”
He finally looked down at me, expression completely unbothered. “Yeah.”
“Why?”
He frowned slightly, like the question confused him. “Because you like it.”
“I—” My voice trembled. “You… what?”
He went back to the screen, casual as anything. “I started streaming it during paperwork. Helps me keep up with dynasty idiocy you don’t have time to explain.”
Tears pricked before I could stop them.
I blinked hard, furious with myself. The last thing I needed was to cry over my boyfriend having opinions on a gossip show.
He felt the tension anyway. “Talk to me, baby.”
“I’m—” I took a breath that came out wrong. “Fine.”
“You’re shaking.”
“I’m just—” The tears pushed through, hot and stupid. “You can’t just be sweet about my trash shows. It’s unfair.”
He paused the screen with a tap of his thumb.
“Okay. That’s my cue.”
Then he pulled me fully into his chest.
I hadn’t planned on it happening. One second I was swallowing it back, the next my eyes were overflowing and there was a ridiculous choked sound coming out of my throat.
“Oh, fuck, I’m sorry.”
“Hey.” His voice dropped into that low, steady register he used when the city was on fire and he needed everyone else calm. “No apologies.”
“It’s—” I tried to pull in a normal breath. “It’s not okay. I’m crying because you care about my stupid show. That’s insane.”
“It’s okay,” he said.
“It is not.”
His thumb traced my cheekbone, catching a tear before it slid down. He studied my face for a few seconds, then exhaled, like something had just slotted into place in his head.
“You’re due,” he said.
I sniffed. “Due for what, a meltdown?”
“Your period, baby.” He said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “You’re always emotional three days before.”
I stared up at him.
“What.”
“You heard me.”
“How do you… know that.”
He frowned faintly, as if confused by the question. “Because I pay attention?”
“That’s not…” My brain scrambled. “Three days?”
He nodded, matter-of-fact. “Sometimes two, if you’re stressed. You’re right on schedule now.”
The more he talked, the more unhinged the world felt.
“That is not normal, for you to know this.”
“It is. For Crows.”
I pushed off his chest enough to look at him properly. “Explain.”
“You really didn’t know I track your cycles?”
I made a strangled noise. “No, Vincent, I did not know that you track my cycles.”
“Huh.” He looked genuinely puzzled. “Thought you’d figured it out.”
My jaw dropped.
“Why would I have figured that out.”
“You didn’t notice the change in underwear I picked the days before and during? The cut, less tight?”
“Why would I notice that!” I covered my face. “Why! Why do you need to know this much information?”
“Because it influences everything I do. How I plan your check-ins. When I push you harder. When I back off. What food I order. When I send you to bed instead of letting you read until two. The spa appointments. What massages you get. You really didn’t see the pattern?”
“Vince. You are not seriously telling me you have my menstrual cycle charted.”
He just looked at me.
“Oh my God,” I whispered. “Do you?”
He hesitated for half a second, like he was deciding how much to admit. “Yeah.”
I pulled away entirely, sitting up on my knees facing him. “That is not normal.”
He followed me up, hands resting lightly on my thighs like he was ready to pull me back down if I bolted. “It should be.”
“It absolutely should not.”
“For Crows, it is.” He looked almost offended on behalf of his dynasty. “Every Crow husband tracks his wife’s cycle. They built an app for it.”
“There’s—” I blinked. “There’s an app.”
“Yeah. Dynasty-locked. Husband access only.” He shrugged. “It does more than cycles—sleep, stress responses, meds, blood markers. It’s essential for caring for her properly. I don’t get access to that yet.”
“Yet,” I was pretty sure I’d gone into shock.
“You’re not my wife. So I don’t have the husband systems. Yet.”
“So what…you… what are you using now. A notebook? A spreadsheet?”
“Custom app. Had Luca build it.” he said, like that was less insane.
I choked. He could not be serious right now.
“Luca knows about this?”
“He wrote the code. He doesn’t see the data. It’s all under my profile. I’m not an amateur.”
I pressed my hands over my face. Heat burned from my chest to my ears. “This is not normal behaviour. You have a custom app to track my period!”
He slid closer, him palm firm on my knee. “Hey. Stay in bed with me, angel. Don’t start pacing.”
I hadn’t realised I was halfway to getting up until he said it.
“This is not normal,” I repeated, fingers digging into the comforter instead. “You cannot seriously think this is fine.”
“Madeline. It’s data.”
“That doesn’t make it better.”
“It makes it useful.” His thumb stroked my knee. “You act like I’m doing surveillance. I’m not watching cameras of you in the bathroom. I’m tracking dates and symptoms you tell your handler anyway.”
“That’s different.”
“It’s not.” His voice stayed calm, annoyingly calm. “The handler uses that data for reports. I use it to take care of you.”
I glared at him. “Not everything I do is my period.”
“Baby… I never said that. I’m saying it’s a variable. Influencing how you feel, think, react. Not the only factor. One of them.”
“So if I get upset, you just… blame my uterus.”
“I’m not blaming anything.” He reached for my hand, tugged gently until I let him lace our fingers together. “I’m factoring.”
“That’s the coldest sentence I’ve ever heard,” I muttered.
He squeezed my hand. “Listen. Patterns matter. When you get this kind of… heavy. When you feel wrong in your own skin for no obvious reason. When you cry over me watching your show. It matters whether that’s coming from the city, from me, or from your body chemistry being an asshole.”
“You can’t prove it’s that.”
“Three days before and during, you get more sensitive to rejection. You second-guess yourself more. You apologise more. You go quiet in debriefs. You fidget harder. That’s not you being dramatic. That’s your body shifting hormone levels and your nervous system reacting.”
My pulse drummed in my ears.
“That still doesn’t make this normal.”
“If I know you’re three days out, I know I shouldn’t take your ‘I’m fine’ at face value. I know to offer more touch. To check if you’ve eaten. To ask twice instead of once. To not pick that fight I could save for next week. That’s not control. That’s care.”
My throat tightened. He lifted our joined hands and pressed a kiss to the back of mine.
He leaned in, free hand cupping my jaw, thumb brushing a tear away
“I care for the woman I love. Deeply. Obsessively. With every tool I have. My beautiful, gorgeous sub doesn’t get the half-version of me.” He kissed my cheek, along my jaw, my temple, the corner of my mouth.
A helpless sound slipped out of me.
He shifted, drawing me back down, his arm locked me. He kissed the top of my head. “I love you.”
“Say it,” I whispered, “in Crow.”
He did.
It rolled over me in syllables I now understood, warm and rough. I love you, you’re my home.
My nerves still hummed, but less frantically. The idea of him quietly plotting my cycle points in an app still made my brain spin… but under the mortification, something else sat there. Something which felt suspiciously like safety.
“I’m still mad about the app,” I muttered.
“Expected,”
“And I’m not a walking period chart.”
“Never said you were.”
“And if you ever say ‘oh, that’s just your hormones talking,’ I will stab you.”
He laughed under me. “Deal.”
I sighed before snuggling a bit closer. “Thank you. For… noticing. Even if it’s weird.”
“Baby,” he murmured, hand spreading over my ribs, “you could wake up one morning and decide the only thing you want to eat is toast cut into hexagons, and I’d have the kitchen learn geometry by noon. Tracking your cycle is the bare minimum.”
A startled laugh escaped me. “That’s absurd.” My eyes burned again, but this time the tears didn’t fall. I laced our fingers together over my stomach.
“I’m not going to break up with you again, I’m in this. All the way. So… don’t break my heart. Don’t switch me off.”
He kissed the back of my head. “That isn’t possible.”
Emotion swelled so big it hurt. He felt it. Of course he did.
“Don’t cry, baby,” he whispered. “Don’t do it. It’s okay. I’m here.”
I nodded, pressing back into him.
His breath evened out against my neck. “I miss this every night you’re away from me.”
My face heated. He exhaled slowly, chest vibrating against my spine.
He reached for the remote with his free hand, thumb brushing the side of my waist as he did. The screen unpaused.
Vince’s hand settled at my hip again, thumb stroking small circles.
As if he hadn’t just somehow got me to fall in love with him more.