My Lady | Bradley and Mrs Bradley

Never do the strings detach.

So he smiles, and clings to them so tightly they almost snap. The man — the creature — is possessive. Furious. Angry. Needy. He is a dark lord who feeds off love, an immortal spirit who can be destroyed by his heart. The slightest pinch, a cruel torment, and his eyes flood with fire.

Riza Hawkeye is demented by the truth.

I chose her.

He speaks as if the Lady is a tool, an object of desire, of beauty. The man's very own. When she almost drops the teapot, Riza slows, and relaxes.

Fear runs through her veins while she passes the tea, though.

I chose her.

King Bradley is a demon. A vessel of hatred. Woking for his Father in chains, possessed from the fragile age of his birth— a child who never learnt, never opened his eyes and could never see. Yet the amount of power, of furious invincibility— it is nothing compared to how his heart throbs daily and nightly.

He knows. He has always known.

Yet a loyal servant to his King, the boy doesn't speak.

I chose her.

The man caught sight of a Lady, a youthful girl, easy to intoxicate, a laughable prey. And suddenly he is shivering— suddenly he feels.

Bradley lost the game.

A fist clenches in his pocket when Hawkeye turns away.

He expresses happiness, joy when he speaks of his wife. It's an aching lie. All of it.

I chose her.

Because when he thinks of this woman, this wretched human being, Bradley isn't happy, isn't joyful.

He is in pain.

— I love her.

A King is nothing without his Queen.

The puppet falls.