Bethany, 200 words. Rating changed to 'M' to be safe.
Bethany remembered her hands most of all. Nails short and rounded, skin marked by fine white scars. The lines crossing her palms; the pallor of her knuckles; the stillness of her fingers promising retribution yet to come.
Her own were poor substitutes. She closed her eyes and imagined callouses brushing her cheek, welted palms and the cold, hard press of steel against her throat.
It was no use. She bit her tongue against the whimper threatening to emerge and twisted in the sheets. The tingle growing in her belly spread and rose until she pressed her face into a pillow, teeth clenched and silent - always silent against her shame. Her secret.
Something brushed her hair. She brought her fingers to her mouth, a name upon her lips - no, not a name - a title; a prayer.
The curtains fluttered as though in answer. Hands curved over her breasts, slipping beneath her shift, grazing her sex. Her breathing quickened and she arched, needing more, needing so much more than what remembrance could provide.
"Knight-Commander," she whispered, and the spell broke; she fell back, knees parted and cheeks flushed, alone save for her grief, and her ghost.