He began to laugh, making me shiver and I backed away. "Well, if it isn't Tudor's bitch!"

I gasped. He knew me? I was scared now, and in fear I stepped back several more feet as the police seemed to lose their grip and had to wrestle to restrain him. He met my gaze straight on, eyes narrowing. "Now, where have you been, little girl? I've been looking for you everywhere this past week but no-one was home. Pity really, you look positively delectable in person," he licked his lips, lapping on his own blood, causing my skin to crawl.

My head span and my heart pounded. I wasn’t breathing. He'd been following me? He knew where I lived? Who was he? A stalker? A crazed fan? I couldn't speak through fear. The leer on his face was pure evil. He cocked his head and spat a mouthful of blood at my feet, making me retch.

He laughed at my reaction and tried to lean forwards. "The denial statement was good, by the way, but I knew it was bullshit. I was here, watching, waiting. I was going to finish what I started years ago before that bastard mistake of mine stopped me, stopped me from what I am entitled to do – she’s mine to play with however I wish. You were going to be the icing on the cake, the guilt would’ve killed him. But hey, there's always next time, and there will be a next time. Make no mistake about that!" he threatened as he was hauled into the back of a police car, the police officer apologising as he walked past.

As the patrol car pulled away, the man was staring at me out if the window, smiling all the time until they were out of sight, leaving me standing alone in the snow.

Breathe, Tash. There must be an explanation for all this whacked-out, Stanley Kubrick madness. Don’t vomit, keep it together… Pamela said Tudor needs you.

My inner monologue was broken by noises coming from inside the mansion. I commanded my feet to head towards the house as fast as I could. Henry, Tudor's brother, and Samantha, his wife, were sitting on the stairs directly in front of the large oak door.

Samantha was crying hysterically and Henry was as still as a statue, staring at nothing, as pale as a ghost. The door to the left of them was shut, but the crashing and banging noises emanating from behind it were loud and unyielding. I came to a halt, unsure of what to do next.

Henry noticed me first, shock clear on his face. "Natasha, what are you doing here?"

Samantha lifted her head and wiped the tears from her face. I flinched as something cracked against the wall on the other side of the door. Henry dragged a hand through his long, shaggy hair. "He's in there, we can't calm him down. I think you had better leave him a while. We can explain everything later."

“He told you about us.” I said softly. Not a question, but a statement.

Samantha stood beside me rubbing my arm. “He did. You made him very happy while it lasted.” she delivered with a tight smile. I swallowed the lump in my throat. He had told his family after all.

“Tash, just go and come back later, please.” Henry pushed once more.

I shook my head. I knew Tudor needed me, and I wasn’t going anywhere. I was nothing if not stubborn (thank you, Scottish genes!). "I want to see him," I whispered.

Henry groaned and turned away, sitting back on the stairs. Samantha touched my shoulder lightly. "He's struggling to rein it in, Natasha, it's probably best to wait a while. Tudor had to deal with everything that happened today. Again. It’s too much."

Still absolutely none the wiser as to what had actually happened, I hugged her quickly before walking towards the door, the three-inch piece of wood that stood between me and whatever was happening on the other side.

I took a few seconds to work up the nerve, swore quietly, put my shaking hand on the handle and pushed. The door creaked open slowly, noises of anguish amplifying as I stepped through.

I peeped my head cautiously around the door just as a chair hit the wall to my left. Undeterred, I slid through and carefully shut it behind me. In the centre of the room stood Tudor, my Tude, with his back to me, in a bloodied white T-shirt, ripped so badly that the scratched skin on his back was visible, gashes peppering his beautiful tattoos.

I inched closer to him as he kicked broken furniture, cushions and other debris around what I assumed was once Boleyn's pink-and-white bedroom. I noticed that the cream carpet had patches of blood in certain areas and the furniture was now mostly in pieces, photos scattered around like confetti.

He didn’t know I was there.

"Tudor?" I spoke in a shaky voice, worried at his reaction to my intrusion.

He stilled, his back muscles bunching, his shoulders high and his breathing erratic. He slowly turned to face me, his upper lip swollen and smeared with blood, a black eye forming on his beautiful face and red welts carved into his cheeks. He turned white and just stood there, watching me in silence.

I held out my hand, willing him to take my offered comfort. "B-Babes, are... are you okay?" I was moving slowly towards him, hands still outstretched.

He released a painful cry and practically ran the short distance between us to wrap me tightly in his arms. I began to cry with him as I held his injured body in my arms. I couldn’t even comprehend what he must have been through.

He was shaking and his head was tucked into the nook between my neck and shoulder. He was crying, crying so hard. I stroked his closely shaven head, trying to soothe him.

His legs buckled and he collapsed onto his knees, taking me with him, all the time gripping me tight. The fight in him instantly drained away. His hands slid to my waist and he wept – all I could do was hold him close.