Feyd had just dressed, uncaring, with his naturally perfect body no one batted a lid at, but he had thrown the whale—fur throw over your bare shoulders before DIPPING.

"Tell me, na—Baroness Atreides Rautha," YOU COULDN'T GET A MINUTE ALONE, The Floater, The Baron, Chief in Chicken joined you seconds after you sat at the breakfast table, "how after such a night do you appear so well rested?"

Alright so he had a point, swallowing the cheese like substance and bland meat, you observed the way he sat, at the head of the table, beady but intensely blue eyes hyper—focused as slaves rushed to fix his plate and cups.

Stick a plunger in that head and drag his around.

"The bed was lavish, my lord." NICE ONE.

Head thrown back with a throaty chuckle, "has my dear nephew completed his duty to your satisfaction, child?"

This odd tasting milk almost squirted through your nose, "yESss."

You may as well have screamed the truth, coughing violently.

"Interesting." Vladimirs face contorted, DISPLEASED, stopping the suck of a meaty bone, nodding once with a HARUMPH. "A beautiful young woman willing in his bed and he does what?" A plump hand raised, lips licked of oily meat, "rolls over and ignores you?"

MAKER, this was not morning conversation, especially with him. sliding down the chair with some twitch on your cheek. "I didn't say that—."

"You don't need to, Atreides."

"And how is dear Paul?"

You'd eaten in relative silence, except for when he retailed you with tales of his youth, how his subjects thirsted for war, how his military out numbered yours 3:1.

Sly, cunning eyes hunted you down, holding your heated gaze, suddenly the thought of food was unbearable. "Paul shows great prospect, he's both a skilled warrior, yet sharp as a fox. He's been trained well."

He picked up on your aggression, chuckling it away, "no need for hostility, young one. I simply inquire."

Sure he did...scouring for weakness more like, "believe me, my lord. You've yet to witness my hostility."

"Mmm," The Baron sighed, guzzling from his wine flute. "Yet to be tamed, give it time."

You was just about to excuse yourself, the scent of his pipe overwhelming. "Forgive me but I—."

"NEPHEW!"

Your head darted to the colossal entryway.

With purpose, Feyd strut down the stairs, Rabban not far behind, taking them three at a time, freshly bathed, scent of cinnamon noted from your chair. "Uncle," he gravelled, curious to the conversation.
"Wife." A flat palm flashed when a maid tried to serve him.

"Sit with us," The Baron beckoned, pointing to the chair between you, sliding over a fish—looking dish, "eat, a young groom must keep up his strength."

He winced, posture becoming tight, but sitting nonetheless. "And what does that mean, uncle?"

Vladimir took a suck of his pipe, dismissing all slaves who hurried out and shut the door, and he clicked his tongue, deep, tobacco stained voice dripping with disdain, "I had been looking forward to a grandson, for this woman here," he swished a chunky finger to your face, "to bring us a heir so our bloodline may continue."

Feyd took a steadying breath, fingers bunching on his leg.

"But I hear you lacked effort in producing one."

The room WHIPPED, Rabbans lips popping open, your eyes closing to your husbands sudden glare focused like lasers on your profile.

Fifteen minutes had passed of him getting CHEWED UP. "—or I will find someone up to the task."

Vlad rode away in his chair after causing outright chaos, Rabban following behind with a strange, lecherous look on the swell of your chest.

Only you two remained, the sound of closing doors making you flinch. So SUBMISSION, you made yourself small, kinda grossed out you'd actually complained about lack of dick to The Floater.

"YOU," he snarled, arm SMASHING PLATES AND POTS, the flowers imported from Caladan punched to the floor in their startling blue vase as he FIRED UP THAT INFAMOUS TEMPER, "YOU! Atreides swine!"

Ah shit.

"I told you what would happen if you humiliated me." Heaving, a force of nature snapped, TWO HANDS THROTTLED YOU after he broke half the table bashing through it, the wood exploding, choking you, or just about, spit clinging to your face when he shoved you up against the wall.

LISTEN, GIRL, Gurney said, his orders whispered in your head, STRIKE FROM BELOW.

"Little Atreides," Feyd staggered back, idly touching the meat knife stuck half way into his shoulder, blown eyes flitting between the silver jabber and you, "oh," and he poked his own wound, marvelling at the weep of blood, "so you do fight well."