TITLE:Everything He Never Wanted

SERIES: Sins of the Father

AUTHOR'S NOTE: In "Sins of the Father", Vaderkin never really comes right out and explains what he may or may not have done with Angel, Padme's clone. You can read it however you want. If you believe that Vaderkin could never touch another woman except his wife, go for it. However, if you think Vaderkin may be twisted enough to willingly engage in acts that deeply disturb him, this is how things may have played out ...

AUTHOR'S NOTE 2: Stylistically, this story and its companion pieces are constructed much like my other series, The Senator's Wife. Each "chapter" is self-contained, but contributes to the larger framework. You do not need to read these pieces to understand Sins of the Father.

AUTHOR'S NOTE 3: There is an alternate version of this chapter available at my personal website.


He's drunk.

It's a rare occurrence to be certain, yet he would not dream of denying it. He's drunk. He stalks down the dark corridor. He may have shunned the Jedi teachings, their narrow code of conduct, but he still lives by his own strict moral code. That code does not include drinking to excess. Except when it happens – which isn't often.

He's seen far too many drunks in his time to be deluded into thinking it's glamorous. He knows he's being a nerf. And he doesn't care. He knows the heightened sense of control is an absolute illusion. But it's that illusion he needs tonight. To be completely out of control while feeling completely in control.

He stops in front of the beautifully carved wooden doors, his chest heaving with the force of his breath. He feels like a virgin on his wedding night. He hates that. He pounds on the doors, forgoing the security scanner which would undoubtedly grant him access.

He pounds again, having no concept of how much time might have elapsed. He raises his fist to pound yet again and the lock clicks open.

She stands there, blinking at him with those huge, luminous eyes. He doesn't wait for an invitation. He pushes his way inside. She turns to close the door and he presses her back against it.

She doesn't speak. She's not smart, but she can follow orders and she knows that on these desperate nights when he darkens her door, silence is necessary. She yields to him with everything she has and everything she is; and perversely it angers him. Contrary creature that he is, her supplication is sweetest when hardest won. And he does mean won. Not forced or coerced or manipulated. There would be no satisfaction in that.

But there is nothing to win here. She was designed specifically for this purpose. In a gesture that was everything he never wanted. The gesture cost Zemda Farr his life.

There is some part of him that always knew he would never be able to satisfy his wife. He would never be enough. Not smart enough, not patient enough, not educated enough. He always knew it was only a matter of time before she figured it out and left.

And she did.

It's impressive in a twisted sort of way. For Padmé to get any farther away from him, she'd have to actually leave the galaxy. He takes a perverse sense of accomplishment in that fact.

Most of the time.

But not tonight.

It's been a dozen years since he last saw his wife – fourteen since he last touched her. And he thinks of her every. single. day.

Angel is a poor imitation.

Oh, she's beautiful. And sweet. And absolutely loyal. So are prized felinx, but he doesn't want to bed those either.

Okay, well, he usually doesn't want to bed Angel (and he never wants to bed a felinx). She usually unnerves him with her vacant smiles and accommodating nature. Padmé was always most attractive when she was in high dudgeon, cheeks red, nostrils flaring, fists clenched. Nothing has ever gotten him as turned on as watching his wife's anger fly out of her control, watching her passions consume her.

Except right now his wife and her passions are in the Outer Rim playing moisture farmer.

And he's drunk in the west wing of the Imperial Palace bedding her clone even though it creeps him out.

Almost bedding her clone. They're both wearing too many clothes.

He pulls her dressing gown over her head, tossing it carelessly to the ground. She moans, pressing closer to him. He fists one hand in her hair, pulling her head back so he can kiss her neckwhile his other hand takes off his tunic.

"My Lord," she gasps.

He smacks her. Not hard. And she likes it. It's the upshot of having a consort designed solely for the purpose of sexual gratification. She likeseverything. Which is good. Because he does things to Angel he would never have dreamed of even mentioning to Padmé.

But still. He doesn't want to hear her talk. It's usually better when she's quiet.

He'll hate himself in the morning. He always does. It's a game he plays – more with himself than her. Every few months he gets lonely enough and drunk enough and horny enough to find his way down here. And she's always waiting.

Like a good girl.

Because she is a good girl.

And unlike the other few women he has bedded, Angel takes no offense when he calls Padmé's name.

And in the morning when he stumbles into the 'fresher and vomits, he can blame it on the booze.


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