A Little Rough, A Little Ruined

A demon prince. A cursed mid-life heroine. A mark that could destroy them both.

May 29, 2025

This story was inspired by a reel of a posh English gentleman demonstrating how to eat a banana with a knife and fork:

From that image came Maren and Evander.
A midlife female with needs. A polished male who unravels.
And a serialized story called “A Little Rough, A Little Ruined.”

There will be ~8 chapters total, released every other week. I’m not entirely sure how many yet. These characters have minds of their own, and absolutely no interest in telling me what they’re doing next.

Let’s dive in, shall we?

And please, let me know what you think in the comments.

Chapter 1: Maren (this post)
Chapter 2: Evander
Chapter 3: Maren

Chapter 1: Maren

"Lady Valmont, may I get you anything else?"

I didn’t look up right away, letting the pause stretch. Just long enough to make him sweat.

Everyone looked so young these days. Softer. Like they hadn’t bled for anything. He couldn’t have been more than a hundred. His hands were clasped behind his back, but a bead of moisture trickled down his temple.

I dragged my gaze up from the book in my lap and finally met his eyes.

"Flint," I said, voice soft but sharp. I set the book down, open and spine-up. "Lady Flint, if you don’t mind. I use my maiden name now."

"Ah, yes," he stammered. "It’s just that your husband—"

"Ex," I interrupted, taking a sip of my wine.

"Yes, your ex-husband. Only, well… word is he still considers you to be his—"

"Property?" I cut in, the word slipping out on a low laugh. A smile curved my lips as I draped one arm over the back of my chair, fingers loose. I conjured a small blue flame, turning it lazily over my knuckles like a coin I might spend. "What’s your name, darling?"

"Elliot."

"Well then, Elliot..." I leaned forward slightly. "Lord Valmont is not here. I am. Time to practice your survival instincts. Tell me, which one of us poses a greater threat to your person and this establishment right now?"

His eyes widened, and I could see his brain scrambling for a response. I smiled, letting the flame flicker out with a soft hiss. "I know. Vampires are a bit much, aren’t they? So much drama. Why do you think I left? There are only so many centuries of emotional manipulation a girl can take."

I leaned back, leisurely now. "Come, let’s be friends. Bring me a slice of that chocolate cake your chef hoards in the back. And another glass of your driest red."

"Yes, of course... my lady," he said, blinking rapidly. Then he scurried away before I could call him on still refusing to use my maiden name.

I was just reaching for my book when another waiter ushered a patron to the empty table beside me.

Irritation shot up my spine.

There was a standing order that the tables on either side of me were to remain empty. This was my spot. A two-top by the far window, with just enough room for a book, a glass, and the illusion of solitude.

The arched windows stretched floor to ceiling, offering sweeping views of the glittering city below. Lights shimmered along the river, magic flickering faintly between rooftop spires like fireflies in heat.

I dined here nightly. Alone. And paid well for the privacy.

I inhaled, ready to remind the waiter, politely but firmly, of our arrangement.

Then I saw who he was seating.

A tall, broad-shouldered male with bronze skin and two elegant horns curving back along either side of his head. His dark hair was long but impeccably groomed, parted cleanly and pulled into a low, tight ponytail at the nape of his neck. His gaze flicked to mine as I lifted my glass. I didn’t look away. Let my eyes drift over the cut of his shoulders.

He wore a black three-piece, every seam kissing the line of muscle beneath. The collar was high, formal, secured with a silver clasp shaped like a serpent. A white shirt peeked through at the throat, crisp and starched, not a wrinkle in sight. Charcoal trousers covered thick, muscular thighs.

He was raw physical power, perfectly packaged.

The demon sat without a word, posture straight, jaw tight. And when he glanced back at me, it was with the stiff, reluctant acknowledgment of a male who hadn’t meant to meet anyone’s gaze—and now regretted doing so.

He gave a curt nod. Proper. Dismissive. But his eyes lingered a breath too long.

I quirked an eyebrow, then returned to my book. I’d let him sit in my spot. Just for tonight.

A girl did deserve some eye candy now and then, after all.

I pretended to read my book as I listened to the demon place his order.

His voice was deep and smooth, like bourbon poured over ice in a quiet room. There was restraint in it. Precision. But underneath the polished exterior was a flicker of something darker. Like he was holding back sin with syllables.

"Filet. Rare." He paused. “And grilled asparagus. No sauce.”

The waiter mumbled something, and the demon continued. "Fruit for dessert. And a glass of Caltherian red."

Every word was delivered with clipped elegance, like he was used to being obeyed without question but had learned not to raise his voice unless necessary.

He removed his leather gloves and placed them neatly on the table, fingers aligned, palms down. Then he crossed his arms over that broad chest and leaned back, gaze shifting to the view beyond the window.

I let my eyes drift from the cut of his jacket to his face.

He had the kind of features sculptors chased. A strong jaw softened by just enough stubble to make a female wonder what it would feel like scraping against her skin. High cheekbones, and full, well-shaped lips.

Good breeding. You could see it in the way he moved, in the flawless tailoring that said he'd never fought for anything in his life. He was born to sit at the head of a table.

Me? I’d been born cleaning the bones off someone else’s plate. Everything I had, I’d earned, clawing my way up from the gutter with sheer grit and a power that made people whisper nervously when they thought I wasn’t listening.

I’d risen high enough to catch Lord Valmont’s eye. But I'd been too young, too desperate for affection, to realize he’d never been interested in me. Only in the fear I could ignite in his enemies’ chests. In what I could make them do. His lion on a leash.

Elliot reappeared at my side, carrying a plate with a slice of chocolate cake at its center. The layers were thin and rich, dusted with gold powder and topped with a shard of dark chocolate. A scoop of vanilla bean ice cream melted slowly beside it, pooling just enough to drip toward the fresh strawberries arranged along the edge.

I cocked my finger, and Elliot swallowed hard before leaning in.

"Who is he?"

He glanced at the demon. “That’s Prince Evander Ashbourne, my lady. Of the Seventh Kingdom.”

Of course he was.

Elliot hesitated, then cleared his throat. “The maître d asked me to extend his apologies for seating someone in your section. But the prince required privacy… and he knew you were uninterested in speaking with others. It was the best solution.”

I said nothing, letting him squirm. “Ah, also, your meals are covered for the next month,” he said. “As an apology.”

I pursed my lips and waved him back. He set the plate down, placing a silver spoon beside it with care.

"And my wine?" I asked, already turning my page.

"Oh! Yes, I’ll bring it immediately. Or would you prefer a cup of hot chocolate? With fresh whipped cream?"

I considered for a moment. "Bring the wine first. Then the chocolate after I’ve finished the glass. Good idea, Elliot. Gold star."

He smiled slightly before hurrying off, and I slid my book to the left of my plate, angling it for a comfortable read.

It was an old anthology of tragic love stories, the kind filled with unspoken longing, bad decisions, and too many cliffside declarations made during thunderstorms. Sentimental nonsense. Still, there was something comforting in the fall. At least you saw it coming.

I read a few lines, took a bite of cake, sipped my wine when it arrived.

And occasionally… I watched him.

Evander ate with the precision of a surgeon and the posture of a male who’d been beaten for slouching as a child. He cut his steak into small bites, pausing between each one to chew fully before lifting his glass to his lips. When he wiped his mouth, it was with a folded corner of the napkin, never the whole thing. Every motion was efficient. Controlled. Painfully proper.

I wondered how old he was. Five hundred, maybe, if memory served.

I thought back to what I knew of the Seventh Kingdom. It was one of the seven demon realms, yes, but the kingdom. The oldest. The most politically entrenched. Their power was quiet, strategic, brutal when it had to be. They didn’t conquer with armies, although they could. Instead, they conquered with treaties, with debts, with names whispered in the right ears.

Their bloodline was ancient. Rumors claimed the first king of the Seventh had bartered his soul with fear itself. He hadn’t asked for riches or land. He asked for influence. The kind that made people fall silent when he entered a room. The kind that made kings hesitate and generals second-guess.

I remembered the announcement of Evander's birth. A column on the front page of a discarded newspaper I’d scavenged from a bakery trash bin while hunting for scraps. Half-frozen and too proud to beg.

A prince had been born.

I’d been thirteen. Covered in soot. And I remembered thinking: Must be nice to arrive in the world and already have a title.

By the time Elliot returned with my hot chocolate—steaming, rich, crowned with an obscene swirl of fresh whipped cream—another waiter was placing dessert in front of Evander.

My mouth parted slowly.

It was an unpeeled banana. On a porcelain plate.

I watched in silence as he picked up a knife and fork. He sliced off one end. Then the other. Then he ran his knife down the length of the peel and began folding it back with the edge of his fork.

I blinked.

Once the fruit lay exposed, he began to cut it into neat, symmetrical slices. Each one exactly the same width. Each one eaten with a deliberate lift of the fork.

This male was wound so tight. If you pulled the right thread, he’d unravel completely.

I was very, very good at pulling.

I took a sip of my chocolate, the heat blooming on my tongue as I licked the whipped cream from my top lip. My eyes drifted to his powerful hands, and I let my imagination wander. Let it curl around me like smoke.

What would he be like, undone?

I imagined that low ponytail slipping free, dark hair falling around his face in loose waves. His lips, usually so restrained, curling into a snarl—not from anger, but from need. From hunger.

He’d grip my hip and brace himself above me, muscles taut and flexing. His jaw would clench as he tried to hold himself back. Eyes locked on mine. Watching. Wanting as I stroked his horns.

This was the kind of male who’d keep control until the moment he didn’t. And when he snapped, it would be glorious.

A little rough. A little ruined.

Just the way I liked it.

I took another sip of chocolate. "Should I avert my eyes, or is this considered a public performance in your kingdom?"

He froze, knife hovering above the plate. His gaze lifted to mine—sharp, confused.

“Excuse me?” he asked. Almost like he wasn’t sure I’d spoken to him.

I nodded toward the banana. “Most people just use their hands. That’s either the most erotic or the most repressed thing I’ve seen all week. Hard to tell.”

“I… hadn’t realized my table manners were up for review,” he said, shifting slightly in his chair. “And I didn’t expect conversation tonight. Certainly not like that.”

I chuckled. "If you don't want to be noticed, here's a tip—don't act like a psycho. I'd say you should loosen up, but something tells me you'd need written permission."

He reached for his glass, but didn’t drink. His eyes stayed on mine. “I don’t require permission to 'loosen up,' as you say. Merely… a reason.”

My lips curled. Oh, I wanted to give him a reason.

It had been ages since I’d had a male in my bed. I ached to feel a powerful body stretch on top of mine.

But I knew better.

My fingers brushed the nape of my neck. I couldn't see it, but I knew it was there. The mark Lord Valmont inked into me on our wedding night. I hadn’t cried when he burned it into my skin. But I had screamed when I realized what it cost me.

The mark was an open eye with a flame for an iris. As long as I stayed within the boundaries he’d drawn, the eye remained open—and my power stayed mine. But if I strayed, even now, the lid would begin to close. Smothering my power. Strangling what made me me.

A chill crept up my spine at the memory of the last time it had started to shutter. The weakness had come on slowly, then all at once. It wasn’t just pain. It was erasure. And I would never tolerate that again.

My lips quirked as I watched Evander swirl the wine in his glass, carefully avoiding my eyes. He didn’t even know what I was. I wondered what he’d think if I reached across the table and told him I once silenced an entire battalion with a whisper. That I’d made kings piss themselves in council halls.

I sighed. Now I ordered wine and let boys call me the wrong name.

Because a year ago, I had refused Lord Valmont's orders. He had threatened to kill me. I'd dared him to do it.

Until he offered me the one thing I wanted: freedom.

He got his deal. His influence. His reach across the sea. And in exchange for blood, I got a house of my own. An allowance. The illusion of choice. I could do whatever I wanted.

Except let another male touch me.

The mark ensured that even the brush of a hand burned like acid.

And if Lord Valmont needed to use my abilities again? I had to answer the call.

The eye pulsed like it knew I was imagining things I had no right to wish for.

But even if I couldn't touch Evander, I could ruin him a little.

Hooked? Tell a friend. Break a heart. Feed the algorithm and help this newsletter grow. More readers = more stories.

This is an original work of fiction. Do not reproduce or redistribute without written permission. Stealing stories is stealing souls. Don’t do it.