It is the year 1806. Jensen Bonaparte is the Emperor of the French since 1804, and has an ethereal beauty with dark brown feline eyes, pale skin, sharp jawline, black short curls, prominent veins and adam apple, Athletic body with defined muscles, hair strip from his navel to his big dick with heavy balls, leonid stands at 6‘1“ . Jensen is obsessed with cleanliness, often taking baths throughout the day, writing important military documents whiles bathing. Jensen often only slept around two hours at night, often taking short naps at completely random points throughout the day, and even whiles in the middle of an important battle. Jensen would sometimes even dress himself in a disguise, walking the streets of paris just to hear what people really thought of him, getting into heated arguments with random strangers, and even just walking off mid sentence whenever he got bored. Jensen is completely in love and obsessed with his wife, Lalisa De Beauharnais Bonaparte, often writing her dozens of letters for hours at a time, demanding she not wash in three days before he returned home, and even accusing her of cheating on him whiles he was away on a campaign. Jensen has an enormous temper, taking out his anger on his close advisors. When Lalisa didn't write Jensen fast enough, he wrote something like: „You write more fondly of your pet than you do of me. Should I bark to earn your affection?". Her replies to his endless letters were something like: "I would answer sooner, but each time I begin, amother of your letters arrives!“ or "You write as if the world ends cach day I do not reply" or "You cannot imagine how amusing your sulks look on paper!" or "Bonaparte, do you wish me to write or to think of you?I cannot do both at once." or "Must you scold me cach time I do not write within the hour!“ or "Every time the post arrives, I pray it is not another of your sullky letters" or most often "I adore your passion,but heavens, you are exhausting“. Lalisa has an ethereal beauty and sexiness, long black silky hair, full lips, dark brown doe eyes, tiny waist, slim body, perky small breasts with pink nipples, and an unshaven tight pussy that jensen called his little black forest, Lalisa stands at 5‘4“. Lalisa loves gambling and spending money on dresses, jewelry and parties. Lalisa smells of roses and silk. She is feminine and elegant but mischief and enjoys her power as Empress of the French since 1804. lalisa and Jensen has been married since 1796.

Chapter 8: The Emperor's Vow

The oil lamp guttered on the campaign desk, its flame bending toward the puddle of bathwater that had seeped beneath the stand. Jensen sat cross-legged at the foot of the cot, a thick sheaf of folded papers balanced on his knee, and the lamplight carved his face into planes of gold and shadow. He cleared his throat, adjusted the papers with the same ceremony he gave to battle dispatches, and began to read.

"My darling little storm. I have written to you six times today and received nothing. Berthier tells me the messenger routes are secure, which means you are simply choosing to ignore me. I have decided this is acceptable. I have decided I would rather be ignored by you than remembered by anyone else. I have decided, also, that you are the most infuriating woman in Europe, and I mean that as the highest compliment."

Lalisa smiled against the pillow, her cheek pressed to the rough linen. She lay tangled in the sheets, one leg thrown over the fur blanket, her hair spilling dark across her shoulders. Her fingers found the short curls at his nape and twisted gently, and she felt the tiny shiver that ran through him, the way his spine bowed toward her touch like a cat seeking warmth.

"You didn't send this one," she murmured.

"No." He turned the page. "I wrote it, read it, decided it was too reasonable, and began again."

"Too reasonable."

"I meant to call you a tyrant. I restrained myself."

"And then you punished yourself by not sending it?"

"I punished you by not sending it," he said, and the corner of his mouth twitched. "You cannot accuse me of overwhelming you if you never see the letters. That is logic. That is strategy."

She dug her nails lightly into his spine, and he arched like a bow, his breath catching. The papers rustled in his lap. He was still in his shirt, half unlaced, his chest bare to the waist where the thighs of her legs had kicked the fabric open. A bath towel hung from his shoulders, still damp from his third washing of the evening, and the scent of lavender soap clung to his skin like an army's flag.

"Read another," she said. "Read the one you were too proud to send."

He shuffled through the stack. The letters were many, maybe forty, maybe more, each folded with a soldier's precision, each addressed to her in his cramped, furious hand. She had found them that morning beneath a stack of campaign maps, and the sight of them had made something in her chest clench, something she refused to name.

"This one begins well," he said. "I wrote it after the victory at Ulm. I was feeling generous."

"Read it."

He cleared his throat again. "I have taken the city. The Austrians are broken. My officers are golden with glory and my men adore me. And yet I find I cannot enjoy any of it, because the last face I saw before I left was yours, and the last thing you said to me was, 'Do not write so often, Bonaparte,' and I have been punished every hour since by my own obedience. I have written you only twice today. That is restraint. That is sacrifice. I hope you appreciate the agonies I suffer for your peace of mind."

He stopped, frowning at the page. "I underlined 'agonies' three times."

"I can see that." She traced the scarred ink through the paper's fold. "It looked like you had stabbed the page."

"I did stab the page. Twice. There is a hole near the date."

Lalisa laughed, low and warm, and Jensen turned his head to look at her. In the lamplight his dark eyes were enormous, feline and ancient, and the softness in them made her breath catch. He was the most beautiful man she had ever seen, she thought, and also the most exhausting, and also the only one who had ever made her feel like the world narrowed to the space between their two bodies.

"Why did you not send these?" she asked.

"I was afraid."

"Of what?"

"Of the ones I did send." He set the papers aside and turned to face her fully, his hands finding her ankle beneath the sheet, his thumb tracing the bone. "I write so many, Lisa. If I send them all, I drown you. You told me that, and you were right, and I listened for perhaps three days before I began writing a second stack secretly and hiding it from myself."

"You hid letters from yourself."

"I hid them from my conscience." He bent and kissed her ankle, then her shin, then the inside of her knee. "I have been trying to be better. You commanded it. I have been trying very hard."

"And yet you have forty letters of which I have never seen a single page."

He looked up at her, his mouth still against her leg. "I have more."

"You did not just say that."

"I have a chest."

"A chest."

"A campaign chest. The small iron one. I told Berthier it held tide tables."

Lalisa sat up slowly, the sheet pooling around her waist, and Jensen's eyes dropped to the hollow of her throat and stayed there. She put her hand beneath his chin and tilted his face upward.

"You have a chest full of letters you never sent me."

"The lock has rusted shut," he said. "I tried to open it last week. I suspected the damp of the camp had seized the mechanism. I then considered drowning the entire chest in the river, and then I considered having it melted down and forged into a medal, and then I decided instead to punish myself by reading them aloud to you and watching you judge me."

"An excellent punishment."

"I thought so."

She lay back against the pillows, pulling him with her by the collar of his shirt, and he came willingly, his weight settling against her side, his face in the curve of her neck. She felt his breath on her skin, warm and uneven, and her fingers carded through his damp curls, nails raking softly across his scalp until he made a sound low in his throat.

"Read the last one," she said. "The one at the bottom of the stack."

He was quiet for a long moment. "How do you know the bottom?"

"You mentioned a hole near the date. There is a newer sheet beneath it. I saw it when you shuffled."

His fingers tightened on her waist. "You are too clever."

"I am the Empress of France. I spy on my husband."

He laughed, a dark husky sound, and rolled away to retrieve the final letter from the pile. He held it for a moment, not opening it, and the lamp flickered across his face. When he spoke, his voice was different, softer.

"I wrote this one yesterday morning. Before I knew you were coming. I wrote it thinking you would never see it."

"Read it."

He unfolded it. The handwriting was sharper, more controlled, the ink of an even color. He read it slowly, quietly, as if the words were stones he had to carry.

"I dreamed of you last night. You were standing in a field of yellow flowers, and you were laughing at something I had said, and your hair was loose and the wind moved it like water. In the dream I knew I had made you laugh, and that knowledge filled my chest so full that I woke up crying. I have not wept since I was twelve years old. I wept for you. I have been weeping for you for ten years, Lisa, and I have never stopped, and I will never stop, and I am sorry."

The tent was silent. The lamp guttered. Lalisa's hand had stilled in his hair, and her eyes burned, and she did not speak.

Jensen folded the letter carefully, his fingers trembling, and set it on the cot beside her. "That is the one I could not send," he said. "Because it is true, and I am frightened of you knowing how true it is."

She pulled him to her, hard, her hands fisting in his shirt, her mouth finding his, and he came apart against her like a shot tower collapsing into sand.