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mcufan72 · 9 months ago

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Sugar and Cinnamon

Loki x female reader/ 18+

Chapter 6

Chapter 5

Warnings: contains fluff, smut, sex, oral sex, angst, alcohol, soft!dom/sub vibes, jealousy, dirty talking. It's a very long chapter (~9.5k words) so please be prepared! Some of you asked for it and I delivered.

Note: the dancing scene came to my mind when I walked through Soho/London a few weeks ago. It's also inspired by the dancing scene from the movie "Last Night in Soho" and you can find it on YouTube, and this is the song Anya Taylor-Joy and Matt Smith dance to... just to get a bit of the vibe ...and I couldn't resist to let MS make an appearance

I couldn't resist, my lovely @lokisprettygirl You already know that. Thanks for your help and for answering my special question and I sincerely hope I got it right...

This special part of the chapter is for you, my dearest (you'll know it when you read it)❤️🩷💚🤍

Loki couldn't remember the last time he felt that nervous and excited before an event. It must have been on Asgard when he was a young innocent prince, attending for the first time to a ball at the Asgardian Court, expected to dance with a princess for the very first time. He was delighted when Rhea sent him your confirmation for tonight's gala dinner and he looked forward to seeing you again. It wasn't even a real date, officially he booked you as his companion or as you were calling it, his arm candy. Nonetheless, he was grateful that you still wanted to spend time with him.

Dressed in black briefs after a relaxing bath which he took after returning from a run in Morris Canal Park, he stood in his closet and began to dress himself for the evening. For the gala dinner, he chose a black three-piece suit, perfectly tailored, excellently wrapping and emphasizing his muscular body. He combined it with a tight-fitting black shirt, and a dark-green tie which perfectly matched with the dark-green details of the waistcoat and the dark-green evening gown he gave to you, and finished his look with black leather shoes. He wished you would wear the dress tonight. He'd feel honoured. He had a further, little surprise for you. It was nothing special but he hoped you'd like it.

Nervous, nauseous, and excited. Three words to describe your condition. With trembling hands, you did your makeup and put on the dress. Why were you always so nervous when you had a date with Luke? You already slept with him so there was no need anymore to be nervous. You pulled your hair into a sleek tight bun like you always did, the knot high on your head this time. You'd prefer to wear your trainers but of course, you chose the elegant golden high heel sandals you had bought for events like these. They were just a further pair of beautiful little beasts but they perfectly rounded up the elegant design of the gown. You finished your look with the dark red lipstick and there she was: Sugar, ready to meet Luke. You grabbed your golden box clutch, studded with shimmering rhinestones, from the dresser and left your apartment, leaving all your problems behind. You wanted to enjoy this evening to the fullest. You deserved it, didn't you?

When you arrived at the event location, Luke was already waiting for you. Because of the evening darkness and the tinted car windows, you couldn't see what he was wearing but you were sure he would be the most handsome man tonight. He was always eye candy but for tonight he was your eye candy. Luke opened the door for you and offered you his hand helping you to get out of the limousine. You smiled brightly at him, happy to see him again. How could he look better every time you met him? He looked dashing in his tailored suit. Did his tie have the exact same colour as your evening gown? You found his attention to detail remarkable and adorable. What a man. What a wonderful, attentive man. Why wasn't he already taken? There must be a woman who would appreciate and want to be with a man like him.

Loki helped you to get out of the limousine and the first thing he saw were your beautiful legs and the elegant golden high heel sandals with the delicate straps on your feet. When you had left the car completely he smiled lovingly at you. You were wearing it, the evening gown he had chosen for you and you had no idea how happy you were making him. The evening gown hugged every curve of yours perfectly and the strong updo allowed an excellent view of your smooth neck and nearly bare back. You were so damn beautiful, and for tonight you were his and nobody would take you away from him.

“Good evening, Sugar. You look stunning in that dress. Absolutely gorgeous,” he gushed, one hand still hidden behind his back.

“And you look very dapper in your black suit. You're such a handsome man, Luke. And I like your tie, it looks gorgeous. I'm so happy to see you,” you complimented him.

“I hope I didn't overstep a boundary by sending you the evening gown. I just thought you might like it. Thank you for wearing it tonight. I feel extremely honoured,” and a hint of shyness appeared on his face.

“You didn't overstep, Luke. The dress is fantastic and I love it. It's perfect. You have an excellent taste for fashion. I don't deserve such a generous gift and I appreciate it. And also thanks for your lovely letter and I can assure you, I'm not mad at you. How could I, you don't owe me any excuse,” you explained to him sincerely.

His answer was a thankful smile and then he gave you what he had hidden behind his back. A little bouquet of multi-coloured wildflowers, tied together with a small green ribbon.

“Oh my god, Luke! Thank you! Thank you so much…how beautiful,” and your eyes teared up. You've gotten a lot of bouquets from some of your clients but none of them compared to this one. You never got a bouquet as pretty as this. You were sure he had poured his heart into it.

“Did you pick the flowers yourself?”, and you caressed the flowers.

“I did. I collected them in Morris Canal Park. I hope you like them,” he told you and you recognised a bit of shyness in his gaze.

“No man had ever done this for me. Thank you, Luke,” you whispered and pressed the flowers gently to your cleavage. You wanted to hug him but you didn't dare do it.

“It's nothing special but I…”

“Don't underestimate the beauty of self-picked flowers…and they are special. They're special to me because they're from you and I love them,” you interrupted him. You didn't want the flowers to wither and so you gave them to Walker who promised you to take care of them.

Loki felt like a little boy, trying to impress his first crush. He had never expected this cute reaction. He could've impressed you with a giant bouquet of roses but it seemed you appreciated the wildflowers more than any rose or lily he could've bought for you. You were amazing. How could you still be without a loving man by your side? You were so adorable… and naughty as well. A perfect combination.

“Shall we go in?” and as the gentleman he was, he offered you his arm.

“Yes, I'd love that!” and you two entered the location.

Loki introduced you to some of his business partners and finally, he wanted to introduce you to the host of the evening, Mr.Smith, who was still in a conversation. But he had already made eye contact with you. And then you understood what Rhea meant when she said, he's an attractive man. He wasn't a classic beautiful man but he definitely had an extremely charming aura. Almost as tall as Luke, he was lean but bulkier, had dark blonde hair and a sly smile which gave him something boyish and devious but in a very sympathetic way. His green deep-set eyes were sparkling with mischief and fun, and they had nearly the same stare as Luke's. The way he moved, spoke and behaved could captivate everyone under his spell. His elegant black tux and black bow tie perfectly rounded up his impressive appearance. You were sure a lot of women wouldn't say ‘no’ to him and your gaze wandered to an Indian beauty in an amazing black lehenga dress. This absolutely beautiful and elegant three-piece ensemble consisted of the actual lehenga, a long ankle-length and voluminous skirt, embellished with golden intricate embroidery, the choli, a well-fitted blouse top which emphasized her perfectly formed torso and the dupatta, a scarf which she had draped around her stunning outfit. Her waist-length and nearly black hair shimmered like black velvet and cascaded over her back, her big and sparkling dark-brown eyes were the most beautiful eyes you had ever seen. She was such a stunning eye-catcher and you didn't miss how Mr Smith looked at her from time to time. You knew that kind of gaze very well, not just from your clients and every time their gazes met, they both quickly looked away. It was kind of adorable. One might think he was totally smitten by the Indian beauty and nobody could blame him for this, she was one of the most beautiful women at tonight's gala.

“I don't like the way he looks at you,” Loki growled quietly.

“Do I hear some jealousy in your voice, Mr.Larsson?” you teased him. You didn't want to annoy him, you just wanted to see his reaction. You didn't want him to fall in love with you, he paid for your company but nonetheless you wanted him to desire you. You knew that was weird but tonight you were just his, and he was just yours, right?

“What? No, of course not! You're my escort, not my wife,” he frowned, pressing his lips firmly together, his jaw clenching.

“No, I'm not your wife. A pity, actually,” you teased him further and he side-eyed you, the expression on his face unreadable.

At this moment Mr Smith ended his conversation and came over to you two.

“What a beautiful sight at my friend's side… good evening, Miss…?

“...Black, I'm Miss Black,” you greeted him and he took your hand in his and gave a brief kiss to your knuckles.

“You look gorgeous, Miss Black, a further sparkling diamond at my party,” his deep-settled eyes staring flirtatious into yours and a sexy smile curved one corner of his mouth. He grabbed a glass of champagne from a waiter, who passed by with a tablet of filled champagne glasses, and gave it to you.

“Thank you for completing me, Mr Smith,” and you took the offered glass of champagne from his hand. “It's a pleasure to meet you,” you responded tantalizingly and held his gaze.

“The pleasure is all mine, Miss Black and I hope you enjoy the evening. Eat, drink, dance and have fun,” he encouraged you and he turned towards Loki. Mr.Smith was such a player, a sexy lad, you've already sensed that.

“Luke, my old friend, what a pleasure to have you here. I hope you enjoy the evening,” and he shook Loki's hand and placed his other hand amicably on Loki's shoulder.

“Matt, it is a pleasure to meet you, as always and thank you for the invitation," he answered, slightly annoyed and both appraisingly staring into each other's eyes. After a short conversation, Mr.Smith left to order a drink for himself at the bar.

You sensed the tension in Luke's shoulders and you suppressed a grin. He was a bit possessive over you, wasn't he? Since you worked as an escort lady, you were used to a man’s behaviour like Mr.Smith’s. You did everything to get these reactions, through clothes, style, and attitude because every man you saw could become your client. But all of this was a costume, a mask. That wasn't you. Luke would never want you or even like the woman and her problems, who were hidden behind that mask. The woman behind all the makeup and the dark-red lipstick. The woman who called herself ‘Sugar’.

“He was just being polite, and there's nothing wrong about it. He's interested in someone else so, relax Luke, he really was just being nice,” and he side-eyed you again, with raised eyebrows.

He was just being nice? Interested in someone else? You were a head-turner, an eye-catcher tonight and he just saw this guy lustfully staring at you and the only thing he could think about was that no man should ever chase after a girl on a friend’s turf. He saw you taking a sip of champagne, turning your head and grinning at him.

Between the main courses and the serving of the desserts was a pause so that everyone could take a short walk, have some drinks at the bar or enter the dance floor. Shortly before Loki wanted to ask you to dance with him, Mr.Smith came back to you, a glass of bourbon in his hand. With the biggest mischievous smirk on his face, he addressed Loki with a question.

“Would you allow me to dance with your charming companion?”

“You don't have to ask me. You have to ask the lady,” he said to Matt, giving him a fake smile.

“I think I should allow our host of the evening to dance with me, shouldn't I, Luke?” and Mr.Smith took you by your hand.

You would never understand why you had fun annoying Luke and where your self-confidence came from. Why did you want to provoke a reaction from him? And what kind of reaction did you expect? You didn't understand yourself anymore. Did you expect him to fight for his right to dance with you because he paid you for your company? You knew that Mr Smith just wanted to provoke a reaction from that gorgeous-looking Indian lady his eyes had been glued to for over several hours now. He couldn't fool you.

“I'm on to you, Mr. Smith but…Let's play a little game," you said to him while he led you to the dance floor. “But don't you dare play with her, she likes you,” you warned him.

“What do you mean, Miss Black?” He tried to play ignorant.

“Mr.Smith, don't fool me. I just dance with you when you spend the rest of the evening with her and dance with her only,” you answered demandingly, smiling at him.

“Her? Who is ‘her’?”

“The beautiful lady in the black lehenga.”

“I don't dare ask her. I'm sure she doesn't find me pretty enough, not good enough for her.”

“Then you probably should stop eye-fucking each other all evening… it's pretty obvious that you like her… and she likes you,” and you sensed he felt caught.

“Likewise,” he mocked you, "Mr Larsson is eye-fucking you as well, so… you two are not any better than us. It's obvious how possessive he's over you,” and he crowned his statement with a smug smile.

“I see we're speaking the same language, Mr.Smith. Get your girl, she likes you more than you think and believe me, you are very attractive and charming,” you tried to convince him.

“Thank you for saying that, you're very kind...And you go and get your man before he combusts with jealousy… he's addicted to you. And by the way, call me Matt.”

Before you could answer anything the music started to play and Matt began to dance with you.

“You're not his girlfriend, are you?” And he twirled you around.

“What makes you think I'm not?” you asked when you faced him again.

“Don't get me wrong, you're beautiful and charming but he's more the type for fake dating, he never wants to be connected to someone or be close to someone, nonetheless…,” you danced several steps away from him and twirled back into his arm, “…he's undressing you with his eyes,” and he twirled you around again and when you danced face to face again, he held you by your midriff, swaying to the rhythm.

“Why does it bother you? You should mind your own business, Matt. And to be very clear, I'll never date you, it'll always be him and you better take care of the Indian beauty over there. You should really ask her to dance with you … I'm not the one that you want,” you said kindly.

“Yeah, you might be right. I think if Luke is addicted to your personality and not just your body, then he may be falling for you.”

“I think we shouldn't play cruel games with them. We both have what we want, both are furious with jealousy. We should redeem them from their suffering, shouldn't we?” you suggested.

“You're an amazing woman, Miss Black, no man can fool you, indeed.”

“Not in this case, I guess, and… you can call me Candy,” you responded and with that the song ended, your dance was over and you both left the dance floor, walking towards Loki who was waiting for you with an annoyed expression on his face.

That was it. That was the reason why he hated it that you worked as an escort. Other men touching you, lustfully looking at you, dancing with you the tantalizing way Matt just did… This guy was too close, his hand too low on your back, his gaze at you too intimate. Loki fumed with jealousy. All those men didn't deserve you. He didn't deserve you either but he must do something to get you out of the escort business and he better not run out of ideas.

“Thank you for this nice conversation and the dance, Matt,” you thanked him with a bright smile.

“The pleasure was all mine, Candy. Thank you very much for telling me about your opinion and enjoy the rest of the evening.” Loki looked unbelievingly back and forth between you two, frowning.

“Relax, mate, she talked about you only,” Matt said to Loki, patted his shoulder and walked over to the bar.

“Candy? What?” Loki was confused.

“It's my second name, don't think about it further…oh and you can relax, Matt is off the market, he's no competition for you. He never was,” you smiled defiantly at him, clearly feeling the tension in his body. When the next song started, you saw Matt entering the dance floor with the Indian lady. ‘What a beautiful couple,’ you thought and smiled.

You could be such a bratty girl. You did it on purpose, didn't you? You had forbidden him to fall in love with you but you didn't hesitate to tease him like this? Maybe he should give you a proper and all-devouring kiss, here and now so that you and everyone else know, you belong to him. No, no he should not do that. You didn't belong to him. You were your own person and you could do whatever you wanted to do. But he had enough. He grabbed you by your upper arm and pulled you with him into an undisturbed, dark corner and pressed you with his whole body against the wall, breathing heavily.

“What are you thinking you're doing here, hm? Teasing me like that, here in public? Want me to fuck against the wall? Now? Hard, quick, deep?”

“Maybe? You wanted to show me pleasure…”

“You're such a tease. You in that dress… have you any idea what you're doing to me?”

“You wanted me to wear it…”

“Oh yes, because I knew how amazingly sexy you would look in it. And I wanted you to be one of the most gorgeous-looking women tonight because you deserve it. And I'm proud to be the man by your side,” he growled softly.

“Why didn't you want to dance with me? You let him dance with me but don't demand your right to a dance from me? You pay for me and my services. Why don't you force me to do my job?” you asked him quietly, still caged between him and the wall.

“I don't chase, I attract and to make myself very clear, I won't force you to do anything!” His voice dropped to subzero temperatures, dryer than gin.

“And believe me, Sugar, the kind of dance I'm thinking of, is not meant for the dance floor. All you have to do is ask me.”

“You can ask me the same question, I'm your escort, you pay for me, you can possibly demand it from me,” you provoked him further, a tantalizing smile on your lips.

“I'd never do that. I'd never force you. I'm still not sure if you want to do it at all so you'll have to be the one to ask!”

There it was again. He tried to give you the feeling that you were the centre of everything, that he was there to please you, not the other way around. You grabbed his tie and pulled his face closer to yours.

“I want to sleep with you, I want to make it up to you, I want to erase my mistake. I want you to play with me. And I want to try new things,” you whispered, your lips slightly brushing his earlobe, making him shiver. “Play with me, I allow you to kiss my whole body, if you want to, except my face,” you offered him sweetly.

“So you allow me to play with you? Are you sure?”

“Yes, show me pleasure, Luke. Show me how to give in to you, show me how to do it right. I won't disappoint you again,” you promised him.

“I'll do whatever you want and whatever you allow me to do. You won't regret it and believe me, you did nothing wrong or disappointed me,” and he pressed a gentle kiss on the soft flesh of your throat, his hand caressing the part of your naked thigh where the gown had the slit. Your hands clasped his shoulders and you felt his muscles tensing. You lifted the leg he was caressing and hooked it around his waist. He immediately pressed his hips against your throbbing core and you felt his cock hardening.

“We should stop doing this, Luke. We don't want to cause attention, do we? We should continue our ‘dance’ in the hotel suite later,” you moaned faintly.

“You have a valid point there. I don't want anyone to look at you while I tear you apart,” and he gave your butt a gentle squeeze. You felt so good in his arms, too good.

You giggled like a schoolgirl and loosened yourself from his lustful grip, took him by his hand and intertwined your fingers with his. It felt so familiar as if he were your lover, not your client.

“Let's get something to drink. And I need to sit down somewhere…my feet…”

“…are killing you. The little beasts, right?”

“Yeah, sorry. I shouldn't complain so much.”

“It's alright, sweet thing. We'll drink something and you can put your aching feet on my thighs if you want… underneath the table, of course. No one has to see it,” and he winked at you.

“You're adorable, Luke. I don't deserve it. Come, I need a cool beverage now… and…”

“…a dessert, yeah. I already know that. Sometimes I think it's the only reason why you escort me to dinner events,” he joked and teased you and he got a heartwarming laughter from you. You were so devastatingly beautiful when you were laughing. He shouldn't allow himself the feeling but you grew on him more and more.

“You might be right, Mr.Larsson,” was the only thing you could answer him. Desserts were definitely your weakness.

On your way to the dining area, you saw Matt and his beautiful Indian lady heavily making out in another dark corner of the location, both completely melting into each other's arms and forgetting the world around them.

“Shhhh,” you gestured to Luke, “we don't want to disturb them” and you both sneaked silently past them. You couldn't deny that you wouldn't mind Luke Larsson kissing you the same way Matt kissed his girl but unfortunately … you'd never kiss a client.

“I don't like desserts. I don't have a sweet tooth.” Loki complained when you both sat at a dining table to eat some dessert, sitting opposite to each other.

“Who doesn't like desserts? I still don't get it. It's the best thing about a meal. The culmination of every menu… sweet and a melting pleasure on the tongue…,” you gushed.

“I hate it, okay!”

“No, you don't!”

“I do!”

“No, you don't!”

“I do...mpffhh…” and you shoved a spoonful of chocolate mousse with cream into his mouth before he could speak further nonsense. The delightful glance in his eyes when the taste buds of his tongue were pleasantly surprised by the dark chocolate, told you otherwise. A blissful moan rumbled in his throat, making you smile.

“As I said. You don't hate desserts,” you stated knowingly.

“You forced me to eat it!” He frowned and pouted, licking the last droplets of mousse from his lips. “Can I have some more?” He whispered, barely audible to you.

“What did you say?” You mocked him.

“Can I have some more, please?”

“I'm sorry, it was the last one on the buffet… Well, you shouldn't be too disappointed that you can't have more, Luke, because you hate desserts, right?” A mischievous grin curved your lips.

“Hm!” He pouted and crossed his arms in front of his chest, trying to avoid showing his disappointment. “It's not as bad as I thought it would be… but, yeah you're right. I still hate it.”

You chuckled silently and recognised how cute he was at that moment. Trying hard to hold on to his opinion about desserts and not to show you how much he truly liked it after tasting it. Gosh, he was so adorable.

“You can tell me that you've changed your opinion about desserts. It's nothing to be ashamed of. And we can share my chocolate mousse if you want,” you told him softly.

“I appreciate it, Sugar, thanks. Enjoy your chocolate mousse. Come, place your foot on my thigh, sweet thing,” and you did.

Loki opened the straps of your sandal, took it off your foot, placed it on the free chair next to him and began to massage your aching foot and the toes tenderly but with the right amount of gentle pressure.

“Gosh, that feels so good,” you sighed blissfully and enjoyed his tender hand kneading your foot for several minutes.

“Now the other foot,” he said and gave it the same attention and care as he did with your other foot. You moaned blissfully again and the way Luke glanced at you was arousing you. When his fingers massaged around your ankle, you jumped at the opportunity rubbing your foot over his crotch and you felt him getting hard. You looked enticing at him and his pupils dilated with arising lust.

“You're such a bratty girl,” and he pressed a thumb into your bunion, hitting the right spot. You hissed lustfully and a dull throb in your core made you feel all giddy.

“Shall we leave for the hotel?” You asked him and he just nodded. He came over to you and gave you your shoes and when you put the first sandal on he bent down on one knee and fastened the straps.

“Luke, please, get up. I can do this on my own,” you begged him vehemently. He wasn't your servant and he certainly did not have to do this.

“You wear this torturous footwear for me so helping you with your shoes is a bare minimum,” he declared.

You stood up from your chair and stood close to him. He leaned into you and you put your hand on his shoulder. Your cheek gently touched his cheek when you whispered a soft “Thank you” into his ear.

Your closeness and your scent intoxicated him. His one hand wrapped automatically around your middle and pulled you closer to him. The way you gave in to his movement without any hesitation came so naturally that he immediately felt wanted. He couldn't believe that you were just pretending to want him. But it was maybe just your art of seduction and your magic allure that blurred his mind and made him succumb to you.

When you arrived at the hotel and finally in the same suite as the last time, you both didn't waste any time. You quickly prepared the things you needed to be prepared and put your kimono and a lace bra on the backrest of the chair. The purpose of being here again was more than clear. Loki took his jacket off, as well as the waistcoat and the tie. He would need the tie later. He opened his shirt completely but let the hem stay in the waistband of his trousers. He took a seat in the armchair and spread his long legs wide.

You stood opposite him, getting off of your high-heeled sandals and watching him getting partly undressed and taking a seat in the leather armchair, his shirt completely open. Every muscle in his arms and thighs and torso was flexing and relaxing while doing it and it sent a shiver down your spine and directly to your cunt. When there was one thing you hated, that disgusted you to the core, it was men sitting with wide-spread legs. Normally it disgusted you but Loki doing it did something to you, you had never expected. It aroused you, you wanted to sit on his lap or … humping one of his beautiful, muscled thighs. God, if you didn't shove those thoughts away immediately you would've turned into a wanton whore sooner than you thought. Nonetheless, you couldn't stop staring at his prominent bulge. This man was too sexy. His whole body screamed sex.

“Do you like what you see?" he teased you, an arrogant grin on his face while slowly rolling up the sleeves of his shirt.

"W…what?"

“I asked, do you like what you see?” And he placed his now bare forearms on the armrest of the armchair again, his long fingers curling around the ends.

“I hate it when a guy sits like a man whore.” Loki chuckled darkly, smugness written all over his face.

“You like it!”

“I hate it,” you murmured.

“Liar! Come here, Sugar!” Loki pronounced every single word, his voice deep and rich.

You looked at him and a smirk appeared at the corner of your mouth. You shook your head lightly and rolled your eyes. You wanted him to play with you and the game had already started. You both were all in.

“Come.Here.” His voice dropped to subzero temperatures. Harsh, cold as if he could freeze the whole room into an ice cave.

A shiver ran down your spine again and you obeyed. You walked slowly toward him until you stood between his spread thighs. You stared down at him, his ocean-blue eyes glancing up and down between your eyes, your lips and your cleavage. You wanted to be cool and collected but you couldn't help the wetness between your thighs drenching your lace underwear. Why was he able to cause such arousal in your body? It was just sex. A sex appointment. A date, set by your escort agency. A consensual sex date to get some steam off. Just a natural need that you and he wanted to satisfy.

“Strip off your dress,” he commanded seductively.

You obeyed again. You loved to be told what to do next. Since when? You reached behind your back to pull the zipper down but had some struggle finding it.

“Could you please unzip me?” And you slowly turned around. You couldn't see him but you felt his gaze wandering up to your shoulders and down to your buttocks where his eyes remained for a moment.

He could smell you. The subtle scent of your perfume, the natural scent of your skin and the heavy, beguiling scent of your arousal.

“You're outrageously beautiful, Sugar,” he murmured and pulled your zipper slowly down. It was the most arousing sound you had heard for a long time. He was so close to you and you felt his breath fanning over your skin. You let your green dream of a dress slide down your shoulders and it pooled around your ankles and you stepped out of it, kicking it carefully aside.

Slowly he let his hands slide over your shoulders and flanks to your front and cupped your naked breasts carefully, teasing your nipples with his thumbs, making you sigh and moan. A warm tingling rushed through your veins but a coolness rushed over your skin as if a god would touch a mortal to make said mortal shiver in submission.

“Get your bra,” he whispered to your ear, nibbling at the soft skin of your neck. You did as he told you and he took the flimsy lace bra from your hand, put it on you, and closed the clasp of your bra. From the last time, he remembered that you felt better leaving your bra on. And he wanted you to feel comfortable.

“Am I still allowed to play with you?” He asked quietly.

“Yes, yes you are,” you whispered and turned around to face him.

Loki made some steps backwards, sat down again in the leather armchair, leaned back and spread his long legs wide.

Loki's heartbeat quickened and his mouth watered when he saw you in your tantalizing black lingerie. The flimsy lace bra emphasized your cleavage and cupped your breasts perfectly. Your peaked rosy nipples were on display for him through the transparent lace and he felt his cock throbbing with anticipation. He was on edge and he would've loved to take you instantly, roughly, thrusting his cock deep inside of you until you were a dripping mess, screaming his name. But he wanted to take his time with you, enjoy you, seduce you slowly till you were begging him to fuck you. And he would make sure you never needed to fake an orgasm again. With him, every orgasm of yours would be a real one. He would take good care of it and he wanted you to enjoy it to the fullest without feeling ashamed or bad.

“How do you want me?” You asked him softly, your lips slightly parted. Your plump lips drove him crazy. He wished he were allowed to kiss these beautiful lips of yours. He could just imagine how deliciously they must taste.

“I want you to suck my dick. I want you to suck and lick it extensively,” he demanded, testing you. How far would you allow him to go? The imagination alone of your lips wrapped around his cock made him harden.

“Okay. But you won't cum in my mouth. I don't like swallowing your sperm. You can cum over my breasts…and don't hit my face!”

“With that I can deal,” Loki answered darkly.

You didn't like sucking cock at all and the last time you completely ruled it out. Not to talk about swallowing sperm. But it seemed possible to suck him, this handsome guy and you wondered why. You told him you wanted to try new things and so you wanted to give it a try.

You knelt between his thighs, unbuckled his belt and opened his trousers. You reached into his briefs and pulled out his dick along with his balls. Loki moaned quietly and you could just let out a small gasp when you saw his erection. You saw his cock for the first time tonight because the first time when he slept with you, he had blindfolded you before he got rid of his clothes. Loki was a bit bigger down there than the other men you had had sex with. And his cock was… beautiful, pretty even. Perfectly formed in length and thickness, his tip swollen and leaking pre-cum, the veins on the underside pulsating in anticipation, his balls heavy and hot. Your mouth watered and you couldn't wait to suckle him. You had never expected to think about a guy's cock like you did right here and now.

“Am I allowed to place my hands on your thighs?”

Loki hesitated for a moment before he permitted you to do so. If he lost control, nothing would be noticeable there for you. And he still wasn't sure if he was able to stand your touch. But he gave it a try.

“Yes,” he moaned, and you placed your hands there.

You lowered your head and licked a stripe from base to tip. Torturously slow. Once, twice, then you took his cock head gently into your mouth and let your tongue swirl over and around his sensitive tip. You released him with a plop and licked your lips. He tasted so good. Sweet and salty and you craved for more. You gave him a devouring look and turned your attention to his balls. With your hand, you gave him light strokes while you kissed and sucked his balls and when you bit them gently, Loki whimpered loudly. His cock got rock-hard, aching for your warm mouth. How could he even get harder than he already was?

His scent intoxicated you. The smell of musk and the natural scent of his skin, manly and heavy, awoke a kind of lust in your body that you didn't know you had inside of you. Unbridled, initial desire. You were dripping wet and you weren't sure if you were already soaking the floor with your juices.

His breathing became heavier, filled with whimpers and moans. Loki was so turned on that he nearly forgot to blindfold you.

“Should we get you more comfortable, Luke? Lift your ass for me,” you asked him quietly and pulled his trousers and his briefs completely down and took them off completely. While his ass wasn't placed back on the armchair again you took the chance and you caressed his buttocks and kneaded them firmly. Loki sat down again but now he rather laid in the armchair than sit on it so you were able to continue cupping his ass cheeks in your hands and kneading them tenderly. You started to lick his cock again and he gently blindfolded you with his tie.

You flattened your tongue and licked his tip like a popsicle, stimulating his frenulum tenderly but firmly, testing the waters of what he might like. You didn't want to hurt him. Your one hand fondled his balls, carefully and tenderly scratching over the skin. Loki moaned and sighed heavily, writhing under your merciless but delicious torture. You took his unbelievingly hard cock into your mouth again, hollowed your cheeks and started to suck the life out of him.

“Fuck…Sugar I can't…I can't take it…much longer,” he whimpered.

You sped up your pace, your head bobbing up and down in a steady rhythm, sucking and licking him until his eyes fluttered shut, his head leaning back against the armchair's backrest, his fingers clawing into the armrest. You felt him tensing up and shivers ran through his body and you were sure he would come soon. His arousal and writhing and the way he allowed you to own him in this moment made your cunt throbbing and dripping with need. You wanted to get off as well, you never felt so needy before. Never before was any other man able to do this to you.

“I'm…fuck…I'm coming…fuck…,” and he withdrew his cock from your mouth instantly, grabbed his cock and stroked himself two more times. The coil in his lower abdomen snapped and a mind-blowing orgasm washed over him, and he ejaculated in thick ropes all over your breasts. The sight of you blindfolded and letting him come all over your precious bosom doubled his satisfaction.

“Luke…please…” You didn't know what you were begging for but the feeling of his warm sperm running down your cleavage made your head spin. You still knelt between his legs, still blindfolded and dying because of arousal, your clit throbbing and yearning for attention. Loki came slowly down from his high, his cock still hard.

“Come here sweet thing,” and he grabbed you carefully by your upper arms and pulled you onto his lap.

“You took me so well, you're talented, sweet thing. You know exactly what you do, don't you? And now you will get off on my thigh, sweet girl. Want to ride my thigh, hm? Rub your needy clit over my leg and drench me with your arousal. Come, sweet thing, drive me wild…” he moaned lasciviously, guiding your hips when you began to gyrate them back and forth to get the friction to work yourself to much-needed relief. You placed your hands on the backrest of the armchair, your forehead close to his. You felt the warmth of an orgasm rising in your stomach and you moaned and whimpered breathlessly. It felt heavenly, he felt heavenly. And these feelings were all you had because you were still blindfolded. You were already on edge when Loki took one of your peaked nipples into his mouth, suckling and nipping it through the thin lace of your bra.

“Oh god…please…” you moaned. You needed to cum. Now. But Loki stopped your gyrating movements by holding your hips firmly.

“You will come around my cock, sweet thing. No fake orgasm this time, Sugar!”

“Close…I'm so close…please…”

“I know, I'll let you cum, be patient, sweet thing and don't move,” and you heard how he unfoiled a condom. Mere seconds later he lifted you from his thigh, shoved your lace thong aside and slid you carefully down onto his fully erect length, giving you enough time to accommodate his cock and get adjusted to him. He didn't want to hurt you. He would never forgive himself if he would cause you any kind of pain. You whimpered because of how deliciously he stretched and filled you and you were still in desperate need to cum.

“Are you okay, Sugar?” He asked quietly and concernedly. “Can I move?”

“Yes …yes please, I need you,” you answered desperately.

“Good girl, taking me so well. Fuck… you're so pretty…so tight…you've such a pretty cunt.”

Loki guided your movements, made you hop up and down and when you both had found a comfortable rhythm he thrust firmly upwards, faster, deeper, hitting your inner spot at a perfect angle. He took your nipple in his mouth again, nipping, sucking and licking it until it couldn't get any harder and changed to your other breast to torture that nipple in the same delicious way. At this point, you were a moaning, whimpering mess. You felt his cock throbbing inside of you, every vein and ridge massaging you straight towards your climax. It had never felt that good.

“Cum, cum all over my cock, show me how much you want it, Sugar. Scream for me!” And his one hand reached down to your throbbing clit and he pinched and rubbed your swollen bud purposefully. His thrusts became sloppier, he felt his own orgasm rising and he rubbed your clit faster than before.

“Cum…fuck…cum for me…now…” and right on cue you exploded. Your orgasm was intense and not only your cunt but also your whole body was convulsing and shaking and your toes curling.

“Good girl…you're such a…good girl.” Loki's abdominal muscles tensed up, his body shaking when he felt your walls clenching around his cock and it made him orgasm harder than before. You collapsed against each other, bathing in post-orgasmic bliss. This time you didn't fake it. This time you truly had an orgasm and it felt good, so damn good. For both of you.

When you came down from your highs you both chuckled in unison and Loki removed the blindfold from your eyes. They needed a moment to adjust to the dimmed lights of the hotel room again and you could swear there was a light shimmer of blue on Loki's skin. But then you were sure you had just imagined it and blamed the blindfolding for it.

“I'm sorry. I made a big mess out of you,” Loki chuckled.

“Don't worry about it, Luke Larsson. I'll take a shower after you've left. But we still have some time until midnight.” You released his cock, stood up from his lap and you instantly missed the warm feeling of him inside of you. You were still a little weak in your knees.

“Did you enjoy it this time, Sugar?” Loki asked you softly.

“The more important thing is you enjoyed it,” you answered him smilingly.

“That's not the answer to my question, sweets.”

“Why do men always need the confirmation that they were good and are a grenade in the bedroom department?” You contered sarcastically.

“That wasn't my question either. I don't need confirmation that…”

“You're being very self-confident, aren't you? Do we have a god-complex, Mr.Larsson?”

“Why do you have to destroy it, Sugar? I just wanted to know if you enjoyed it and if you're okay.” Loki sounded disappointed and sad and you instantly regretted your rude answer and your behaviour genuinely. You were afraid of your feelings again. You saw him heading for the bathroom and heard him opening the faucet of the sink. You followed him. He was cleaning himself, tossing the condom into the bin and preparing a washcloth with warm water. You stood next to him, facing him in the mirror.

“I'm sorry, Luke. I didn't intend to be mean. I did enjoy it. It felt good, really. I'm just not used to getting so much attention and care afterwards, you know. But please, Luke…don't catch feelings for me. I'm just your escort.” You smiled mildly at him. Your heart clenched when you saw how sad he looked at you. You liked him more than you were ready to admit.

“No worries about that. I won't catch feelings for you, Sugar.” A lie, a perfect lie from a perfect liar. That was what he always has been and always will be, a liar.

“I just wanted you to feel comfortable around me.” And he turned towards you, the washcloth in his hand. You wanted to take it out of his hand to clean your cleavage and stomach from his now sticky seed but he didn't give it to you.

“Let me do this, sweet thing. It's the one thing I'd like to do for you,” and he began to gently clean you. His actions were so soft and caring. You wished you could have this tenderness every day. But not with anyone, no, it had to be him.

'Don't fall in love with him, just don't, you foolish girl' you cursed inwardly.

“I destroyed your lingerie. I'm sorry for that. You looked so tempting and sexy in it, and it was wonderful to have sex with you dressed in this hot lace.”

“A bit kinky, hmm? Lingerie, a blindfold, commanding me…” you stated and smiled.

“Watch your mouth, sweet thing. Don't be a brat.”

“What if I'm bratty? Will you punish me next time?”

You both chuckled and looked into each other's eyes. There weren't only mischievous and lusty thoughts. There was something else. Sympathy, harmony, trust. You two didn't know how or why but you felt drawn to each other.

“Well, the biggest mess got cleaned,” Loki said after he finally cleaned you from his seed and smiled at you.

“Thank you! That was very sweet and thoughtful of you,” you said gratefully.

“My pleasure!" He answered with his deep voice, wrapping around you like a soft blanket. You wished you had a boyfriend like him. Attentive, affectionate and gentle. And not only in a sexual way. With a boyfriend like him, you surely haven't ended up here, as an escort with a man you liked more than you were allowed to like, not to talk about you weren't allowed to fall in love with. You made these rules yourself and you would never break them. Anyway, a man like him would never want to have someone like you as his partner in life. Why should he choose you when he could have any other woman who was smarter, more beautiful and more decent than you? Under different circumstances, you two might have had a chance but now your life was fucked up. You wished you would've met him before you became an escort but it was what it was and you couldn't turn back the time.

You walked back to the main room, took on your kimono and climbed into the bed. You curled up on one side and pulled the duvet over you.

“Are you okay, sweet thing?” Loki asked you softly when he found you lying in bed under the sheets when he returned to the main room as well, dressed in his briefs and his open shirt.

“Mhmh…,” you murmured sleepily. “I'm just tired.”

Loki climbed onto the bed, leaning his torso against the cushions on the headboard. You looked so innocent and cute with your head snuggled deeply into the fluffy pillows. He watched you dozing and he smiled lovingly at you.

“I'll stay until midnight if it's okay for you,” he whispered and you nodded slightly. It made him smile again. He hated cuddling after sex and cuddling without sex even more. But suddenly you came closer and in your sleepy state you draped your leg over his, curled your hand around his waist and your head snuggled into his chest as if he was a damn comfy pillow or a plushie. A sugar angel sleeping in the arms of a monster. He shouldn't enjoy it. He shouldn't touch you. His hands were the hands of a killer, a liar. Hands that fit easily around a gun or a neck. He shouldn't hold a precious woman like you in his embrace.

He wrapped his arm tightly around you and pulled you closer to his chest. You must've fallen asleep, your breathing became calm and deep. You felt so soft and warm and good in his arms and he stole a little kiss by pressing his lips softly on the top of your head. It wasn't a direct part of your face, was it? He closed his eyes for just one short moment because he had to leave soon but he wanted to enjoy every minute he had with you. Maybe aftercare wasn't as bad as he probably thought.

A loud banging at the hotel suite’s door and a loud man’s voice woke him up.

“Sugar? Sugar!” The banging became more violent. “Sugar, are you okay? Sugar, open the door, if not I'll have to break down the door.” It was Walker, deeply concerned because you hadn't been back by the limousine right in time. You also hadn't sent an emergency message. Loki shook you awake when he got aware that you both had fallen asleep.

“Sugar, wake up, Sugar…,” Loki tried to wake you up.

“I'm so tired…I just want…to sleep. Just… a few minutes…just a bit longer…,” you murmured, still sleepy when you heard the banging at the door.

“Sugar, I break the door open! Now!”

All of a sudden you were wide awake. You jumped out of the bed and ran to the door hurriedly. You flung the door open right in time before Walker would break it down.

“I'm okay, Walker, I'm okay,” you gasped in shock, breathing heavily. “Everything is fine,” you told Walker, appeasing.

“Are you sure?” Walker asked concernedly. He peeked into the suite and saw Loki getting dressed.

“Yes, I'm absolutely sure, Walker. I'm so sorry for frightening you but…we…we fell asleep. Mr.Larsson did nothing wrong, I assure you, he behaved decently,” you told Walker and he trusted you. You'd tell him if there was anything that wasn't okay for you. “Please give us a few minutes, we will just get ready,” you asked him.

“Okay, I'll wait for you by the limousine,” Walker answered, throwing a warning look at Loki, who didn't show any reaction towards Walker. You nodded once at Walker and closed the door, leaning against it and taking a deep breath.

“Didn't you tell me, you don't do aftercare?” you questioned Luke teasingly and slightly laughing.

“I did.”

“Do you know what it's called what you did for me in the bathroom and by lying in bed with me sleeping?”

Loki buttoned his shirt upwards, leaving the last three open, buckled his belt, put his waistcoat on, slid into his shoes and looked smilingly at you.

“You tell me,” he asked you and grabbed his jacket from the sofa and his tie from the armchair and draped them over his arm.

“The loveliest aftercare I've ever gotten. Thank you, Luke… also for this wonderful evening, the dress and…”

Loki walked towards you and cupped your head gently between his large hands. They were so soft and felt comfortably cool on your warm skin, that you had to suppress a shiver. He leaned down and pressed a tender, featherlight kiss to your forehead and you closed your eyes.

“No, Luke, please…please don't do that …,” you whispered with teary eyes.

“I know I'm not allowed to kiss your pretty face but I care about you and I want you to know that. I know you could call Walker immediately and tell him to beat me up and throw me out… but it's worth the risk.”

He leaned his forehead slightly against yours and his warm breath fanned over your face. And there it was again. The spicy aroma of something you couldn't specify mixed with his comforting scent of fresh cotton, sandalwood and orange blossoms.

“I just hope that all the other men you meet handle you with all the respect and care you deserve. Thank you for this wonderful evening and night, sweet thing. It was such a pleasure. I felt very comfortable with you. When can we meet again? What about tomorrow?” Loki asked, his voice dark and smooth. He was a picture of pure elegance and arrogance but also gentleness, and his eyes staring longingly at you while waiting for your answer. Would you ever be able to be without him?

“I'm sorry Luke. I already have appointments for the next three evenings.”

“Okay. Then I call the agency tomorrow and ask for another date with you. A club night? Dinner? Would you like that?” He asked you softly.

“Uh hmmh! Sounds good.” You seemed insecure and indifferent but he didn't ask you further.

“Good night, Sugar and take care of you.”

“Good night, Luke… and sleep well.”

Should you hug him? Should you tell him that he's the only one you were sleeping with? Did he already sense it? He had almost left the suite…

“Luke…”,you stopped him in his actions by calling his name and he turned around, facing you. You ran to him and fiercely flung your arms around his neck which obviously caught him off guard. He hugged you back, not knowing what to say.

“Luke Larsson, you might be the only one I take with me to this suite,” you whispered into his ear and for a brief moment you felt safe in the arms of a man who'll never love you back. “Say something …please say something,” you begged him and let go of him to look into his eyes.

He rubbed a thumb tenderly over your lips, his eyes teary.

“You shouldn't be an escort. You should leave the agency. You're too precious for that business. But if you'd do that, I'd never see you again. So I don't know what I should wish for. You being an escort so that I can still meet you but sharing you with other men or knowing you're safe and protected, away from that business but never be able to see you ever again. It both hurts, Sugar… and I know I've already let you come too close to my heart.”

“I can't quit this job, Luke. And maybe someone like you is the only reason that keeps me going. I'd love to meet you again next week. We could go to a nightclub, it doesn't have to be Vivian's Velvet. You can choose another one and afterwards you can have me again,” you offered him, your voice almost breaking. You better contain yourself and not show him that you don't want to let him go.

“In the beginning that was exactly what I didn't want and somehow you convinced me otherwise. You already know that I want to meet you again next week. You, and you alone decide what you want to do afterwards and please don't feel obliged to sleep with me. But you should also know that I'd never deny you. Good night, sweet thing. Promise me to get dressed now and let Walker drive you home. You need some sleep.”

“Promised,” you nodded. He was right. You were tired beyond belief.

When he finally had left, you opened your hair bun, got dressed in casual clothes and Walker drove you home. The whole time until you arrived at your apartment you held the wildflower bouquet in your hand, thinking of him.

“I'm sorry if I scared you, y/n but I was truly concerned.”

“It's okay, Walker, you just did your job. I should be sorry for frightening you… we just fell asleep, I was so tired.”

“Understandable, you are on the road seven days a week. You should take a break. You won't last forever.”

“I know Walker but I have no other choice,” you sighed.

“There's always a choice, y/n…and Mr Larsson likes you if not more,” and he grinned at you through the rear-view mirror, watching you gently touching the flowers Luke had given to you. You smiled tormented back at him.

“He doesn't know me, it's just my pretty shell he likes.”

“You might underestimate him. Sometimes you just have to ask for help and help will be given to you,” Walker told you wisely. Maybe he was right. If it just were that easy.

🌹🥂🌃🌹🥃🌃🌹🥂❤️🌃🌹🥃🌃🌹🥂🌃

Next chapter things will change 👀👀

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januaryembrs · 9 months ago

Text

LAST KNIGHT IN SOHO | Steven Grant/Marc Spector x reader [10]

Description: Marc finds out the truth about Dove, and pays the mortal price.

Word count: 12.6k

Trigger Warnings: okay so; HEAVY TRIGGER for drug use and overdose/ accidental suicide. guns. blood. gore. abusive relationship. poverty. HEAVY ON THE ANGST PEOPLE. suggestive tones in parts.

authors note: I'm sorry this has taken forever and a day to post, I had planned to upload on valentines day however life got in the way in every way it possibly could and so this got put on hold for few days, I hope that's okay! enjoy!!

main masterlist | series masterlist

“Boys, get down here. Dinner’s going cold.” She called up the stairs, her voice already that of a tired mother. Mathew practically skidded past her bounding down the stairs, god knows that boy knew how to eat, even if the parsnips were stone cold he would still devour them whole, “Where’s Mikey?” She yelled after him, her tattered apron tied around her waist, greasy fingerprints dragged down the whites.

“In his room,” Joey said, his bulky glasses deep in his new crossword book, “Nine down, a second chance at life?”

His sister looked up the stairs worried, her natural expression whenever Mikey wasn’t under her constant watch, before she met his gaze, adjusting fake pearls around her neck.

“Huh?”

“Second chance at life. Nine letters.” He repeated, scratching the light smattering of facial hair he had only just been able to grow. He felt her fingers deftly begin to fix the tie around his collar, the golden fairy lights wrapped around the bannister illuminating where her red nail polish chipped around the edges.

“After life?” She guessed, straightening his shirt out for him, fussing like she had always done. He shook his head, wincing as she screeched over his shoulder into the dining room. “MATHEW, PUT THE ROAST POTATOES BACK- THOSE ARE FOR EVERYONE,” She tutted under her breath. Sometimes he forgot she was only seventeen. “Sam, can you get the stuffing out the oven,”

A grunt of agreement from the second boy, before a six foot tall, moody boy shuffled past the open door with bumblebee oven mitts on which took every ounce of attitude out of him.

“One word,” Joe said, his eyes flicking over to the vinyl player that stuttered on its eighth run through of ‘Fairytale of New York’.

The tinsel she’d braided into her hair rustled, eyes identical to his own watching his mouth quirk in thought.

“You’re supposed to be the genius of the family,” She teased, her finger nudging under his chin affectionately before she released him, pecking his forehead as he passed her to go take a seat at the table. She fussed some more over the baubles hanging from the tree on her way to the kitchen, straightening out the few stragglers, her pruning fingertips brushing over the fleece blankets covering the back of the sofa, as if she needed to feel their home to remind her where she was, “How about Migration?”

“Good, but it ends in T,” He called out to her, watching his eldest brother look up guiltily where he had a dollop of mash on a spoon, his mouth already full.

It seemed their sister caught onto his greed as she sharply smacked him over the back over the head, ripping the spoon from his hand, “Pig,” She spit at him, not that it seemed to phase him too much as his eyes already set on the small beef loin, the fat dripping off the plate tenderly, “I’m going to get Mikey. Resurrect?”

His eyes lit up at the suggestion, scribbling it down in his book. The cinnamon candle burnt strongly in the centre of the table, warm and spicy, just how Christmas should smell.

It didn’t negate the fact they had all had to go easy on showers for the week, or that the house was freezing at night or that it was obvious all of their “Fancy day” clothes smelled like a charity shop.

Joseph was only thirteen and already he’d noticed how exhausted his sister seemed every day. He’s stopped thinking about it so much, seeing as she’d always been that way, but the drain on her body was clear as anything nowadays.

Joey was just a kid, but so was she.

It wasn’t long before the final two of their little family came traipsing down the stairs, Mikey’s hand tight in his sister’s. At twelve years old, he was still a dot of a boy, scrawny, practically all ribs she would say, and he was a weepy one too. It wasn’t a surprise the kids at school were so cruel, even their own father, when he bothered to drag himself home from the pub or his friends’ sofas, would say the fire had died out a little more with every kid that came out of his ex-wife. His sister was so fierce she could melt the world’s core if she wanted to, Joey was convinced of it. Matt simply was untouchable despite the kids at school taking digs at him just as often as they did Mikey, as if he knew from birth he was getting out of this hell hole, that he was made for better than this. Children could sniff out the ones among them that were struggling like a cadaver dog onto a corpse, and once they latched on they rarely let go. Then was Sammy, and well, one look at him and he spoke for himself. At fifteen he was already broad enough that the kids picking on Mike turned to deadly silence when he was around; grumpy as a mule, cold as their mother, a boy with a bitter face. His sister would rub her thumb over the scowl that marred his brow, trying to flatten the crack where his nose met his forehead, where the anger seemed to settle. She hated seeing them upset; had the unshakable need to fix them.

Joey was her smart boy, trying to fly under the radar and cause her less anguish than he saw the rest of the boys gave her. He thought sometimes, when she would come home at 2am in her clothes from the club, bruises on her arms, when she would make them both a cup of tea and help him with homework, he thought then that he might even be her favourite. They all vied for her attention, only her and Matthew even remembered their mother, it only made sense that she was the next best thing for her boys.

But she was more than just a stand in for their mom. She was their everything, even with the fights over who was doing laundry, the yelling between her and Sammy when she would have to pick him up from the station for the nth time that month for petty thievery, even when Matt started wolfing down a rogue handful of carrots that had fallen onto the dinner table and she had all but dragged him by the ear into the kitchen to go get them drinks.

They revelled in their little bubble, knowing the only thing they’d be given for free in this world was each other.

And when they had finally sat down for christmas dinner, the smoke from the DIY Christmas crackers tiny Mikey had made lingering with a sulphur bite to their nose; when Sam flashed them all a rare laugh as she read out the terrible jokes hidden inside, the paper hats falling down over their eyes as they laughed, their full tummies hurting, plates polished of every scrap, Matt ofcourse eating the left over yorkshire puddings as if they were crisps. When they’d sat in front of the TV that only had four channels and a hefty video player underneath, Joey fiddled with the only film they ever bothered to watch on Christmas Day.

The sepia scene met the soft orange of the fire she’d lit for them, every light besides the ones on the tree turned off for their movie. Joey and Mikey sat practically two inches from the screen, a somewhat stale bowl of popcorn passed between them.

They watched in awed silence as Dorothy ran down the country lane, Toto at her heels, her auburn hair jumping behind her in bunches as she looked over her shoulder.

Running away, always running away, same as she was every year they watched.

“She isn’t coming yet, Toto. Did she hurt you?” Judy Gartland fawned over her pet, the gingham dress bunching around her knees.

Worried, always worried. Always preening. Always fixing.

And by the time the twister came to rip her away from her family and send her to Oz, the girl who wasn’t Dove just yet was already asleep on Sammy’s shoulder, the grumpy boy knocking his head against hers affectionately, silently, the crunching of popcorn and the slurping of an off brand Cola the only things that cut through the sound of the movie.

Unaware, naive to what was about to happen to her.

—

Dove and Steven had a glint in their eyes that she was sure would never be wiped off as they walked beside one another, their pinky fingers clasped tightly together.

He had a dopey look on his face, not even watching where they were going as he stared at her side profile, seeing the warmth meeting her eyes for the first time in a while. Her cheeks were starting to hurt from the smiling, biting her bottom lip like she had a secret.

She would glance back at him every so often, only to see him already staring, his brown eyes softer than a cup of hot chocolate, swirling with adoration and melting at the sight of her meeting his gaze.

After the fourth or fifth time, she reached up to brush her nose gently, “Do I have something on my face?”

He didn’t even answer, he just pulled her in for another kiss, his free hand tugging at the fat of her hips, squeezing gently as he kissed her with a greed she felt high on.

She held back a whine, the hands on her body kind and loving, overwhelming, invading, saturating her with something so entirely like home she felt her face run hot.

She giggled into his mouth as he released her, her hands finding the sides of his neck, thumb running over either side of his jaw as she felt him smile under her touch.

“Steven?” He seemed dazed, eyes never leaving her lips as she said his name again, giddy like his brain had malfunctioned and slowed, “Do I have anything on my face?”

He mumbled something wordless, shaking his head slightly, looking back at her goofy smile as she waited for a real answer. As if it had only just caught up with him, his brow creased, meeting her eyes with a bit more clarity than before.

“Huh?” He asked, to which she giggled and kissed him some more. She was sure her heart was pounding out of her ribs, and that he could hear it from how closely he was pressed to her front.

“You’re staring, I thought I had something on my face,” She said, his nose brushing against hers as he dipped in to kiss the laugh lines of her cheeks, “Do I?”

Steven shook his head, his gaze fanning over the entirety of her face and landing where he wanted her the most, back to her lips that smiled at him in content.

“No, just,” He stopped himself from kissing her again, worrying he was smothering her, though some part of him knew she craved the touch as much as he did. She told him as much by the way her fingers intertwined in the root of his hair, pressing into him like a cat purring under his hand, “You make me really happy,”

Her throat bobbed, the smallest of tears springing to her eyes as she kissed him one last time. She wished she could meld her body to his, couldn’t wait for them to have a moment alone when she could take him fully if he would have her again. Truthfully, selfishly, she couldn’t give a damn about Harrow all that much anymore, her entire being hollow the moment she pulled away from him. He’d changed the epicentre of her world the moment she’d heard those three words.

He loved her.

She didn’t deserve it, but he loved her.

Shuffling away from him, not entirely unaware of how his hand was reluctant to drop her waist, how his lips chased hers, how he seemed to pout when she put some distance between them.

“You make me really happy too, Steven,” She said, her voice mellow and buttery, moving to hold his hand properly, the two of them setting off back to where Layla seemed to be fiddling with something from her backpack.

She knew she would never be good enough for him, that he deserved someone so much better, but it was difficult to hear the horrid thoughts that whirred around the abyss of her head when she heard him softly chuckle, smiling to himself as if he couldn’t believe the words out of her mouth.

Sometimes it’s not about deserve. That’s what Marc had said. And maybe she could start believing him. Because it was Marc, and Marc knew everything. Marc would know what to say, know how to soothe the feeling of rot that threatened to ruin Steven’s sweet words, his soft kisses.

Marc would fix it. Marc would understand. She was sure of it.

–

“We’re going to belay down there,” Layla explained, securing the mountaineering rope to the clasp on her waist, tightening the notch and giving the cable an experimental tug.

The two of them blanked, looking at one another in their own sets of gear that the woman had them step into with little explanation.

“I think we should be right on time, Harrow shouldn’t be too far ahead of us-” Dove started, only to be cut off by the older woman with a scoff and an eye roll.

“Belay. It means we’re going to lower ourselves down using our own weight.” Dove’s face fell in embarrassment, smiling sheepishly as Layla shook her head with a hidden chuckle.

“Right, got it.” She held her hands up, nudging Steven’s when she saw his smile widen, if that had even been possible, “Floor is yours,”

Layla hid her laugh with a cough, taking one confident step off the ledge and down into the tomb, the rope gently dropping her into the darkness.

Dove and Steven watched with bated breath, the former leaning forwards to ensure she had reached the floor safely. Her eyes squinted, not seeing all too much other than the broken steps that would have once been functional, that were half buried in sand by now.

“Be careful love,” She felt his fingers loop into her harness, keeping her safe even though they both knew she could survive the fall and much worse.

She smiled, ready to reply when she saw a flash of Layla’s torch from below, and the woman’s face returned.

“Alright, it’s safe. Come down one at a time,” She instructed, the younger woman sticking a thumbs up at her and moving back into a hard chest where Steven hovered over her.

“I’ll go first,” She said, reaching for the clip and tightening it to her harness the way Layla had.

“Wait, shouldn’t I go first? Make sure it’s working properly?” Steven said, though his voice hardly matched the chivalry of his words. She smiled toothily at him, tugging on the rope once to set it in place.

“Put it this way, honey. I can survive broken legs, but I need every bit of you to function or else I don’t know how I’m going to repay you,” It was new. It was flirty. She had a cheeky twinkle in her eye that reminded him she was able to be girlish and happy and tease him and call him honey and it all felt normal and he wanted more of it by the bucket load. He’d not seen her like this perhaps ever. He fell in love with her even more. He didn’t even think he could.

His mouth moved in an attempt to say something, his face tinging red at the implication of her words.

“You don’t have to repay me,” He murmured, feeling her fingers loop through his belt, a heat to her gaze that had his skin prickling.

“I know,” She pecked his lips one more time before they had to be parted even if it was only for a matter of a minute or two, “I just really want to,” She drew back when she heard his breath stutter, his cheeks growing all the more darker in their cherry red shade, and gripped the top of the rope the way she’d seen Layla do.

“Ok-kay,” The man stammered, his palms sweating, nose tingling with heat.

“See you in a minute,” She quipped with a deep breath for courage, stepping into the darkness as her body weight tugged against the rope.

Her feet met the sand faster than expected, stumbling a moment before she steadied herself, fingers quickly undoing the harness that sat around her thighs and waist.

Taking in the small entrance to the catacomb, she saw Layla crouched over the foot of a statue, her own torch clamped tightly in her grasp. Figuring she was conducting her own search, she chanced a look back up to where Steven’s dopey grin looked down at her, as if cartoonish pink hearts swirled around his head.

“It’s safe!” She called up, as she fumbled with the latch around her harness, “Just need to get this off-”

The wind was knocked out of her as a body crashed into her own, two startled voices filling the cave, two hands pinning either side of her, landing on her back with a shooting pain through her brow.

She groaned in unison with the heavy body atop her, feeling where his head had banged against hers.

“Guess you could say I’m really falling for you,” Steven’s joke melded with a grunt as he pried himself off her, feeling Marc huff in annoyance from inside the head.

“Huh?” Her voice was muddled, her face scrunched in pain. She barely heard what he said before he had stumbled to his knees, holding his hand out to lift her off the floor.

“I said- Nothing- Sorry love,” Steven stuttered, his hand pawing at his aching temple, pulling the girl back to her feet, “Guess I just need a bit of practice at that Belay thing,”

“A bit?” Layla scoffed, though she watched the pair with a hidden smirk, the bumbling mess of limbs as they dusted themselves off and unhooked their gear, “You okay?”

“I’m aces,” He said, turning to where Dove had dirt collecting in her hairline. Reaching a hand up to help her brush it away gently, he was distracted by the huge statue of big cat, most likely a lion, engraved into the stone, “Look at you,” He murmured breathlessly.

It was her turn to warm under his brazen words, stilling her movements, fingertips rubbing away the traces of sand clinging to her clammy skin.

She laughed with more shock than anything, though it sounded more like a choke, swallowing heavily as she braved to meet his gaze.

Her brow furrowed as she flicked a glance over her shoulder at the artwork along the wall, untouched for hundreds of years, the paint lines a thick and dark umber red as if sketched only yesterday.

Looking back to him, she crossed her fingers he hadn’t seen her flattered expression, knowing better than to be embarrassed around him yet she couldn’t deny those three words spread the heat back through her gut that he had satiated only moments earlier.

Clicking her torch back on, she threw her attention away from those soft brown eyes, back to the sculpt of the lions, the stone cracking as chalky under their years of solitude, but striking nonetheless.

“If they just sprang to life right now and asked me a riddle for passage, I’d be thrilled,” Steven said, his voice that of a boy at Christmas, “I’d shit myself, but I’d be thrilled,”

Giggling behind besotted eyes, Dove moved to head further into the tomb, stopping dead in her tracks when she saw freshly drawn initials in the sand.

Glancing back to where Layla seemed to shrink in demeanour, she gestured to the markings with her light, “Did you do these?” She asked, curious to her motives.

“Yeah,” She cleared her throat, averting her eyes to the wall opposite them where vibrant blues and sunflower yellow strokes stared back, “Yeah it’s for my father. He would have loved to be here,”

“Big history buff is he?” Steven asked, the three of them setting off through the tunnel, leading them further into the crypt.

“So much worse,” The El-Faouly woman replied with a smile, falling into step with the duo, “Archeologist with a mission,”

They all breathed a laugh, the air stagnant and musky around them, the smell of a place only the dead seemed to know the past few thousand years.

“And to him it was a dream worth dying for. And he did,” She went on, Dove’s face falling into solemn sorrow. She knew, if Layla was anything like she was, she would hate the idea of hearing an apology, would hate the idea of someone feeling sorry for her. She had barely been treading water the past day or two, fighting to stay in Layla’s good books, she feared if she were to show any remorse now it would only earn her a slap to the face.

“Did he dig it?” She asked, her face forlorn and wary as she toed the boundary between their friendship. Casting a glance back at Layla and Steven, she gulped, “So history, you could say he dug it?”

The light bulb went for both of them, Layla frowning with a defeated grin.

“That was awful,” She playfully shoved the younger woman, who took it with no bother, smiling back in relief her joke had been taken kindly, “That was the worst-”

“I quite liked it,” Steven inputted helpfully, also earning a bash to the shoulder as Layla laughed.

“Not a word from the two of you now unless it’s something useful,” She scolded, leading the way through the tightening corridor, the darkness encompassing them in something that felt like comradery.

“Did you want to hear the one about the dinosaur’s dog-” Dove started, the words echoing around them as they headed further in, only to be stopped again by Layla’s softened voice.

“Do-you-think-he-saurus rex!”

–

She stared at the house, the one she’d been born in, the light in her room long since switched out. She wouldn’t blame them if they’d taken over her room, it was the biggest one, though that wasn’t saying much. She could see it now, Mathew shotgunning the double bed the moment she left, there was more than enough room for Billie’s small cot next to him. She’d grabbed what she could the day Oz had taken her away, but she wouldn’t bat an eye if they’d sold the clothes she’d left, or even thrown them on the fire to stay warm.

No, she wouldn’t blame them for erasing all memory of her. She’d been the one to leave, not them. As far as they knew, she’d not made contact whatsoever. Her letters had never been sent, never even left the house.

She’d not seen home in three years. It was smaller than she remembered. Darker.

The duffle bag was clutched tightly in her hands, wringing the fabric of the handle between her fingers. The accelerator had been to the floor the entire way here, the blood was still caked thick in her hair, under her nails, stained parts of her skin.

Frank’s blood. She wondered if the neighbours had called the police yet, if they ever would since he kept them so isolated. Wondered if she was already a suspect in his murder.

She shook in her shoes at the thought, though that may just be the December night air.

A figure came storming out of the front door, hands in his pockets, his coat thin and moth eaten.

Mathew had never been a tall boy, not even at eighteen when she’d last seen him, especially not now at twenty. He was always thin in his face, despite devouring the most out of any of them, his eyes always tired. Though, becoming a dad at such a young age would do that to someone.

He stopped in front of her, his eyes roving over her with a grand mix of anger and worry. He looked as if he’d seen a ghost, as if he’d seen a dog returning home with its tail between its legs. Which was sort of how she felt.

“Matty-” She breathed, her exhale clear as day in the freezing night, only he scoffed at the words. He may as well have spat in her, “I don’t have time to explain-”

“What?” He growled, lip sneering in a way that looked too much like their mother, “Where the fuck have you been?”

She baulked, eyebrows furrowing in a way that she willed herself not to burst into tears. She wanted to head inside, wanted to curl up on the old, ratty sofa they’d had since she was young, wanted to feel Sammy’s head knock against hers affectionately, the only sign the grumpy boy ever gave that said he loved her, despite the fact she knew. She wanted to scold Matty for eating all the bacon out the fridge, help Joey finish his sudoku, wanted, no, needed to see Mikey, see he was okay. Last time she’d been here, she’d found him stashing pills for his friends she knew had a one way ticket to juvie or the streets.

She’d left for all of them, left to get them a better life. And now she was standing outside her childhood home, drenched in bloodied clothes, her body used, beaten, betrayed. Grace was gone. Frank was dead.

This was all she had left. Her boys were all she had left.

“I don’t have time,” She repeated, forcing the duffle bag into his hands, hoping he missed the way the blood collected beneath her nails. She’d scrubbed off what she could before she left, but she knew had it been daylight he’d notice the red ichor immediately, “This is for you,”

“Wha-” Matty looked as if he could swing for her, and she knew she deserved it. She’d left them. Her bottom lip trembled at the very thought. He said her name, only now it seemed dirty, filthy, tainted, like that name had been said by so many awful men she felt as though it was muddied even Matty when he said it, “You leave us to rot for three years, and all of a sudden you just swan in here with presents-”

“Mathew, be quiet,” She barked, hearing his voice grow louder and louder, echoing in the silent street she used to run down to catch her bus, “I have to go,”

He stopped, staring at her teary eyes for a moment, and then laughed. Loud and cruel, and she knew his vitriol was still ongoing, knew she wouldn’t even stop him if he wanted to throw a cruel hand across her face for running away.

She was such a coward. She was a liar. A murderer. But she was a coward above all of that.

“Did we stop being good enough for you, huh?” He spat, trying to hand her the bag back, “I don’t want your pity or your little presents, take it-”

“It wasn’t like that,” She pleaded, wrestling with him to keep the bag strap in his grasp, “Mathew, just take the bag,”

He shoved her away, but she didn’t relent, her mind set on getting him to take the damn money, the fucking notes that mean nothing to her anymore. There had to be at least thirty grand in there by now, probably more.

“We needed you, and you weren’t here,” Matt stumbled away from her as she forced the bag into his chest. His voice trembled in a way it hadn’t since he was a boy, since she used to bathe him with that damn toy boat, wash his hair with dish soap, “Social Services know about Mikey and the pills- they want to take Billie away-”

She stopped at that, the two of them looking at each other for the first time since she’d shown up. His eyes were watery, where hers were empty. His sister had always been strong, Matt didn’t think he’d ever seen her cry in all the years of shit she’d trodden through for them. She had always looked exhausted, as if her brain was fired up every moment of the day, as if she could go for a three day nap and it wouldn’t so much as touch her.

But this was worse. She wasn’t tired. Wasn’t thinking hard. His sister didn’t even look alive.

Whoever it was staring back at him was not the girl he remembered. Someone could tell him a wraith had crawled into his sister’s skin and dragged her back here with the sole mission of getting him to take the damn bag, and he’d believe them.

She looked dead. She felt it too.

“Is that-” He stopped himself, a bitter hand reaching up for a mark on her face that glinted under the moonlight, “Blood?”

She froze, and for a moment neither of them said anything.

Her breath rattled in her chest, the stickiness of Frank’s blood clinging her clothes to her skin, and he realised once he’d actually taken the sight of her in, that she smelled metallic, that she had a thousand mile stare that had not been there the day she’d left them.

“Everything I’ve done, I did it for you.” She said after a moment’s reprieve and the anger brewing in his frown wiped immediately, the words soothing his fury into a simmering guilt.

He tried to say her name again, only to have her cut him off, shoving the back into his arms with finality, her eyes blank, leaving no space for questions, for retaliation.

“Get Mikey a lawyer. Get him to rehab. Read the letters, or not, I don’t care,” But she did. She cared more than anything. Cared so much she needed to run, now, cared so much she knew every moment she spent talking was more time for him to be incriminated in what she’d done. “I have to go, it’s not safe,”

He wanted to hug her; he’d never been the affectionate one, she usually saved her cuddles for the younger ones. He wished he’d hugged her now. Wished he’d dragged her back inside, gotten her warm in front of their fire, forced the truth out of her. Anything to tell him what that look on her face had meant. Anything to make her stop seeming so dead it scared him like a child.

But he didn’t. He couldn’t, not even as she all but sped away in a car he’d never seen before, a limp he’d not noticed through his anger fogged brain as he’d stormed down their front path.

He barely caught Sammy, filling their entire doorway with his form that had only grown tenfold, if that had even been possible, since his sister left, looking like a kicked dog behind angry eyes that glinted with rare tears.

“Come on, Sam,” Matty said, brushing past his little brother, though he towered over him for a nineteen year old, heading inside their small house that had felt colder since she’d abandoned them, “We’ll sort it out in the morning,”

But Sam didn’t. He watched the broken tail lights of the car speed off into the distance, until they were no more than a sound rattling around the silent neighbourhood. Only then did he let himself begin to cry, hoping she came back for them soon.

–

“It’s a maze,” Layla said, as the three of them traipsed through the tunnels that certainly looked like they had seen better days. Dove startled a bit at the bugs that skittered up the walls as the light hit them, no doubt a little frightened themselves at the rude intrusion from the trio, though she stuck behind Layla. She’d fought demon jackals, men with guns, lived a double life but bugs were what scared her.

“It’s a-maze-ing,” Steven replied, snickering to himself, which had her giggling too, shaking her head at the man behind her.

“She means there are six paths, Steven,” D ove clarified, and he hoped the light covered the way his cheeks rouged.

“Right, yeah, yeah,” He replied, sticking his head down one of the thin alley ways to scope out the labyrinth they’d found themselves in, “Six points,”

Dove hung back as Layla went towards another one of the pathways, eyes clocking a stone surface planted directly in the middle of the antechamber, the sand laying thick over the top, yet uneven as if the stone wasn’t entirely flat.

Her brows furrowed, and she traced her finger deeper in the dust, carving out where the ridges grooved into the table. She made an almond shape, an arching line parallelling it, before she realised what the marking was, her brows shooting into her forehead.

She saw a torch flick over where she worked, felt Steven’s body press against her side as if he’d forgotten what personal space was exactly.

“You don’t think…” He started, watching how her soft fingertip swirled around into a spiral the two of them had seen a million times walking past the exhibits on the way to the gift shop, “This whole structure is-”

“The Eye of Horus,” She finished, curving around to create the iris. As if proving her point, Steven’s light reflected off the the shiny stone of the table, producing the identical symbol on the ceiling of the room, which had her nudging his hand, pointing to the light, “Look at that,”

“Wow,” He hummed, his eyes flicking between the eye and the wonder on her face as she smiled wryly at the stone, “It’s the royal symbol, protection in the afterlife.”

“I mean the resources needed to build this-” Layla added, looking between all of the corridors that had certainly not been crafted in a day’s work, nor had it been done cheaply, judging by the quality of stone that surrounded them. She stopped, her eyes wild with excitement as she looked at the two of them, “Her final avatar was a pharaoh,”

A breath whooshed from Dove’s lungs, jaw gaping, feeling Steven practically buzzing in his shoes beside her.

“A bloody pharoah,” He repeated, the joy coating his words like a kid on Christmas. He and Layla chuckled between one another, before their gaze fell on Dove, who stared at the drawing in the sand as if it would outright speak to her.

“So you think it’s a map?” Layla asked, her fawn eyes dropping to the girl who bit her lip unsure.

She nodded, gaze scanning over the drawing again, as Steven’s rough finger followed where her own hand had traced just moments before.

“Right. So the eye of Horus is also the Eye of mind, yeah?” He asked, his face now more serious than she’d ever seen him, as he thought harder, “Representing the six senses, six points.” He gestured to each of the corridors that lead away from the chamber they huddled in, “So you’ve got the eyebrow that denotes thoughts. Pupil, sight obviously.” He followed each of his words with his calloused fingers, the same ones that had been down her trousers not so much as a few hours ago. She felt her stomach writhe at the thought, “This point here is, uh, hearing. Smell. Touch. And this long line ending in a spiral is the tongue,”

She felt her eyes train on his lips as he said it, his gaze falling to her face where she stood besides him, watching every movement on his lips as if she could barely hold herself back from meeting their mouths then and there.

“The avatar would be Ammit’s voice,” Layla murmured, entirely unaware of the heated thoughts racing through the girl’s mind as she stared at the man, his own expression indiscernible, meeting her eyes with his own chestnut hues, “We should head this way,”

Layla took off towards the route the tongue pointed them to, the two of them hanging behind for a moment, unable to rip their eyes from one another.

“What’s that look for?” Steven asked, chuckling nervously as he tried and failed to pull his gaze away from her where she licked her lips slowly. Leaning towards him, her fingers found the front of his jacket as she pulled him closer, kissing him gently, though there was a subtle bite to it that went straight to his trousers as he melted.

Pulling away, she looked at him with a spritely kind of excitement, as if she loved every moment of looking at him like that.

“Did I ever tell you how amazing I think you are?” She asked, her face warm with adoration, and the words had his cheeks blazing instantly.

“You mentioned it once or twice,” He joked, both of them knowing full well the girl was known to give him every compliment she could even before they had been brave enough to admit how they felt for one another.

She snickered, pulling away from him to follow where Layla had wandered off too, looping a pinky finger in his own to encourage him to follow. Had she not, he was sure he’d be rooted to the floor, waiting for his heartbeat to slow down, or even for his cock to calm enough that he could move without feeling it press against his trousers.

He cursed himself moments later, when his brain caught up to him, that he hadn’t told her just how amazing he thought she was.

Yet Steven felt his jeans tighten again when he thought of one other way he could show her just what he felt.

The heavy panting was the only sign either of them were even there as they walked through the narrow corridor, the smallest slither of light meeting them at the end, not unlike when they had trudged into the Great pyramid. That had seemed weeks ago, when in reality it had only been six days, how her life had been flipped upside down all the more since then.

Her head rattled on her shoulders, thoughts flitting over Layla and her whereabouts as they stepped through the hallway, dust thickening in their lungs with every pant. Her ears were alert to the smallest of movements, her heart pounding in her chest, the image of that thing, the resurrected Heka Priest, replaying in her head, the screech of its rotted vocal chords keeping her arm hairs standing in goose flesh.

“She’ll be alright, won’t she?” Dove asked solemnly, her brow creased so tight she reminded herself of Sammy, knowing they had always looked the most similar out of all of her brothers. She knew, by the way Steven blanched at the sight of her worry, that she looked as guilty as she felt, “I shouldn’t have left her-”

“We didn’t have much choice, sweetheart,” He sighed, grabbing her hand tightly in his own, stopping in the middle of the darkened chamber to look at her properly. She tugged her lip between her teeth as she averted his gaze, the disappointment in herself shadowing over her chest, “We did everything we could- it’s Layla, she’s done this a thousand times with Marc. She’ll know what to do,”

Though he was more convincing himself than anything. He wasn’t so sure from the way Marc scoffed inside the headspace that she had in fact not run from undead creatures that threatened to rip her limb from limb a thousand times. Not even once. This was new territory for all of them.

She didn’t seem convinced as she nodded, her lips quirking as if she was about to say something, only for him to kiss her forehead before she could.

“I don’t think I’d be able to forgive myself if something happened to her,” She confessed, after he drew back, watching her thoughts swimming behind sad eyes, as if he could see the way she bit her tongue to stop herself from calling herself the worst names imaginable.

He stroked her cheek gently, tilting her chin to meet his gaze, his chocolate gaze warmer than summer and he smiled at her sadly.

“None of this is your fault,” He said, though she said nothing, chewing her cheek silently, “The faster we get the ushabti, and the faster we can go find Layla. Deal?”

She nodded again, and he squeezed her hand, pulling her towards the end of the corridor with a small smile.

Steven Grant was not a brave man, not by any means. But for her, he would be. He thought the same as she had, worried for the El-Faouley woman more and more with every step they took towards the tomb, his own body on high alert for an incoming attack from one of those creatures.

The end of the hallway drew near, the path widening out to accommodate an entrance, water trickling between the tiles in a silent stream, and he held her hand tighter as they navigated over the stepping stones, her boots slippy over the moss that clung to the rocks.

It wasn’t until he reached the end, where the corridor opened out, that he let go of her hand in favour of flicking his torch on. His entire body froze at the sight, satiated in awe of the tomb before him.

She hopped the final stepping stone, hands grabbing onto the wall and his shoulder for support before she followed his gaze to the room, and her jaw dropped too.

“First ones in, tomb fit for a pharaoh,” Steven hummed, stepping further into the antechamber, and he wasn’t wrong by any means. The walls were all but covered in bright paints that had yet to wash away, the tales of heroic battles and armies surrounding them like one huge mural. Solid gold plates, figurines, vases scattered neatly around the room, each one shiny and polished as if the death bed had never been touched since the day it had been sealed. Four bronze horse statues the size of her watched them enter, carefully avoiding the water that surrounded the sarcophagus in a deep pool, stepping between cracked slabs towards the coffin.

She let out a breath she hadn’t realised she was holding as she saw the sheer amount of engravings on the sarcophagus, each one proving the power the dead king had held over his people when he’d died. It was more than she’d seen even on one, more than she would ever see.

This was a wealthy, wealthy pharaoh, she realised, her brows flicking into her hairline

“Thutmose II?” Steven guessed, leading the way to the coffin, the excitement blaringly clear in his voice. He couldn’t so much as catch his breath behind his smile, “Nefertiti. It’s gotta be one of the bigg’uns, Dove,” He said, flicking a grin over his shoulder as her eyes scaled every inch of the tomb. Her jaw hung open, ignoring the dusty task of musk in her mouth, the stagnant smell of water, her eyes pure wonder of what she was seeing.

This was the stuff of movies, of adventures she read to Joey and Mikey before bed, never did she think she would be part of it, let alone with Steven Grant, a man so quiet he apologised to pigeons, who jumped at his own shadow, who missed his bus every single morning.

“Must be, I’ve never seen so many offerings,” She replied, willing her feet to hold steady as they stepped between the stones and water carefully. “The engravings, there nothing like I’ve studied before,”

“Oh wow, look at that,” Steven gawped, taking the final step onto the centrepiece, heading towards the sarcophagus with ravenous eyes, “Look at all these relics,”

She was hot on his heels, quick to hop over, and expand her search with an eagle eye as she closed in on the sarcophagus.

“Hold on, Macedonian?” Dove stopped in her tracks, clicking her torch on and nearing the engravings with wide eyes, “It can’t be right-”

“That’s Macedonian,” Steven echoed, kneeling next to her with wary fingertips. He brushed over the markings, a gobsmacked laugh coming from his chest, “Well-b-but the only pharaoh-”

She grabbed his arm with a clawing strength, head drinking in the facts before her, gently hands following the engravings as if she needed to touch it herself to believe what she knew to be true, “H-He insisted on calling himself Egyptian,” She swallowed, standing on shaky knees to behold the rest of the coffin, her heart hammering. The two of them approached either side of the king’s burial place. “Steven, I think we found the long lost tomb of Alexander the Great,”

Taking a moment, if not to catch a nervous breath, their eyes met across the top of the sarcophagus, an identical expression of astonishment on their faces.

She couldn’t help it then; she started laughing. Nervous and yet amazed, she was lost entirely for words.

“We have to open it, Steven,” She said, her chuckles dying out, a hand flying to her forehead when she realised what a desecration they were about to cause, “The ushabti has to be inside, we have to open it up, oh goodness-”

“Everything inside me is screaming not to touch this thing,” Steven agreed, shaking his nerves out through his hands while watching her also fret over the slight grave robbing they were about to commit.

“You want Harrow to get to Ammit first?” Marc snapped from the glint in the cursive gold writing across the sarcophagus’ chest. He seemed to have roused from his silent protest and come back swinging, Steven thought with a bitter huff, his hands coming up to the side of the opening.

“Alright, alright, alright,” He replied, a nervous grip settling on the cold sandstone. His eyes flicked to her again for reassurance, though she herself looked to be coming to a sobering understanding they needed to disgrace the burial sight to get what they wanted. She nodded, her hand drifting to clutch over her mouth in shock, like she needed to stop herself from protesting his actions, and with that he pushed.

The smell of death invaded her nose, choking her for a moment as the stone slid to reveal the mummified corpse of the man historians had been babbling about for decades.

This had once been a conqueror, a king, a pharaoh everyone whispered about, a man who’s name was spoken a thousand times a day on the guided tours in the museum.

And they had found him.

A plated scarab sat across his chest, one she assumed was a sister to the one they had used to find him, the one Harrow took, below it; a huge, solid battle axe with engravings the entire length of its sharp edge. An offering to a man so revered for his wars.

A shiver trickling down her spine, she looked up at Steven through wide eyes, the two of them entirely stumped for words at what they were discovering, the thousands of years they had just peeled back with one fell swoop.

“Oh man,” Steven shook his head, barely ripping his eyes away from the mummy for a moment as she moved to stand at the head of the sarcophagus.

“Where’s the ushabti?” Marc spoke again, this time from the fresh golden sheen on the axe, seeing no other offerings or trinkets inside the coffin besides the weapon.

“Well, if you’re going to hide it for all eternity, you’d probably put it in a place where the average looter wouldn’t think to look,” Steven replied, his heart a hummingbird behind his chest, almost, almost as excited as he had been when he’d been kissing her against that post.

Almost, but not quite.

She stayed silent, attuning her ears into keeping watch for Harrow’s men approaching, or hopefully even figuring out where Layla was, while Steven’s brain whirred, conferring with Marc.

She hoped he wasn’t mad at her for Steven pushing him out of the headspace, for throwing that mirror into the sand the moment he’d gotten his lips on hers. She hoped he would understand. Marc always understood.

Steven’s face smoothed out in realisation, whether he had come to it on his own or Marc had helped she wasn’t sure, but she grabbed his wrist gently nonetheless.

“What is it?” She murmured, his eyes trained on the tightly wrapped linen, an almost horrified look on his face.

“Alexander was the voice of Ammit…” He trailed off, his hand coming to rest on the corpse’s jaw, “All right, I’m gonna try something, I’m gonna do something here.”

His fingers found the lip of the cloth where the head met the body, weaving their way under and tugging them away carefully.

Dove released a shaky breath, her hand returning in shock over her mouth, knowing that this was technically known as grave desecration, let alone ruining thousands of years of history.

“Steven, oh my god-” She gagged as the smell hit her, the man beside her writhing in sickness as his fingers touched the mummified skin beneath.

“Oh god- so sorry- sorry, Mr Great,” He choked on his words, the disgust running over his skin when he touched something cold and wrinkled.

He tore the bandages with more force, the linen coming away easily, but they both shuddered hearing something crack under the weight of his hand, something she could only imagine was a bone.

Steven pulled the cloth away to reveal a perfectly mummified face, and the sight wasn’t so uncommon as she’d thought since they had two preserved in the museum. But seeing it so up close, without the temperature controlled glass, it made her want to vomit and stare in awe all at the same time.

Steven took an unsure breath, before he went even further, his fingers resting on the lower mandible, pulling back whatever remained of the lips to slip between his teeth, his other hand holding his cranium still.

She forced herself not to wince as he started tugging the mouth open; the look on his face was torture for him enough.

“All right, open up. Oh, sorry, Mr Great,” He bit out, bile rising in his own throat at the sensations beneath his hand, the jaw cracking and ripping down with a nauseating crunch. His hand reached down the gullet, and she had to turn away then when he started rooting around the throat, resisting the retch that fought her own mouth, “Oh, sorry, oh god, I couldn’t be more sorry,”

It wasn’t until she heard a squelch they both heaved, Steven’s own noises of disgust filling the tomb as his entire upper arm wormed its way into the chest cavity, and she thought he might just be the bravest man she’d ever known.

His arm twisted for a moment, before he started pulling it out, not without some resistance from the collar bones, only for it to come away with one final tug, and in his hand producing a small ceramic figure of an alligator headed woman, and two audible gasps filled the silence.

“Steven-” She started, turning to him with something warm and gooey and close to pride in her eyes, “Steven, you did it!”

She threw herself at him in a hug, ignoring every morsel of her that cringed when she imagined where his hand had been, feeling him squeeze her to him just as tightly.

“We did it, we did- I could never have done any of this without you,” He replied, nosing her hair for a moment before he pulled her away to look at her face, beaming with glee. It didn’t matter then, that he had been chased by that creature, or that he’d been shot at, or that he’d been digging around a dead man’s throat. It didn’t matter then that his life had been turned upside down, or that he was actually one man split into another, or that he’d lost his job. He didn’t care. Because seeing how she looked at him, as if she’d just watched him solve string theory or win a nobel prize, healed every wound he’d ever had.

He only needed her; only ever wanted her.

“I really do love you,” She said, and he wondered it she’d heard his thoughts, fought the urge to kiss her then and there.

Her head snapped to where they had entered the tomb, something wary in her gaze until he saw Layla appear in the doorway, looking entirely scraped up, as if she’d just been dragged through the caverns backwards.

“Layla!” Dove called, bounding over the stepping stones, “Layla, are you alright- we got the ushabti-”

“Layla, look! We won!” Behind her Steven held up the figurine, the pair of them with billion dollar smiles on their faces, watching the woman approach on shaky legs, “And the ushabti goes to; us. I had to go digging down old Alexander the Great’s gullet, but we found it,”

Dove giggled at his teasing, shaking her head, and fighting the urge to yank Layla into a hug of her own. They had done it, they’d won. Now they could get out of here and away from Harrow, she could go home, go home with Steven-

She was quick to notice the stare Layla pinned on the man behind her, something visceral and in pain beneath her skin, something raw, a wound ripped open. She knew it well, knew it like an old friend. Layla was the pure image of betrayal.

She stalked forward silently, not paying the younger woman a scrap of attention as she approached, stepping over the cobbles with not a single hesitant foot. Her eyes gleaned with unshed tears, something rageful keeping them bay.

Dove stopped still, her eyes trained on the woman, her smile dissolving into confusion.

“Layla, are you alright-”

“Can he hear me?” Layla cut her off, not giving a shit for her soft lilted voice or her concern. She only cared about Marc, Harrow’s words rattling in her head like a foghorn calling every shred of anger she’d ever felt for her ex-husband to arms.

“Alexander? No, I don’t think so, god I hope not,” Steven snickered, and Dove winced. Layla’s eyes darkened, her honey tones near black in the lowlit antechamber, and the younger woman knew whatever had happened in the moments passed since they’d parted, Layla was now out for blood.

“What happened to my father?” The El-Faouley woman spat, her hands shaking with anger, and Dove could do nothing but wait for Steven to understand that she wasn’t kidding around.

She dared a glance at the man who stood there like a lost child, whatever celebration and relief they had felt swept away in a matter of moments. Seconds.

She knew from the silence that lingered Layla already suspected something.

“I’m talking to you,” Layla seethed, stepping towards the man without a bat of an eyelid at the woman who watched whatever progress they’d made swirl down the drain like yesterday’s newspaper.

“What?” Steven murmured, a frown on his face as Layla’s hands came up to shove him in the chest hard.

“I’m talking to you, Marc,”

He barely stumbled, barely blinked, but she saw it. Saw the way the innocence melted away, and his frown became cold and distant. She saw the moment Marc took the body, and her heart dropped at the flash of guilt that glinted in the crook of his eyes as he saw his ex-wife’s expression in the flesh.

“Come on, let’s go, let’s go-” He tried to pull her away, but Dove knew it was his own brand of avoiding the subject. She’d never hold it against him, who was she to judge someone for running from responsibility, but she knew. And so did Layla.

“No,” The woman dug her heels in as he tried pulling her to the exit, her empty fist weakly beating on his wrist while he yanked on her coat.

“We have to go right now,”

“No, Marc, no,” She fought, the venom in her tone only growing. He tugged her harder, the two of them all but grappling with one another for control.

“We have to go, right now,” He repeated, eyes flicking to where Dove stood still, her hands playing with one another nervously, “Come on, we gotta get out of here-”

Layla forced his head back to her, away from where the younger woman moved between each foot, watching it play out like a tragedy.

“What happened to my father?” She said again, louder this time, and it was clear no amount of deflection would stop her from getting an answer.

“Listen to me,” Marc said with a seriousness Dove had never heard, real life panic in his tone that had her shifting to check the doorway for signs of Harrow’s men following closely behind, “We need to leave right now, I will explain everything, I swear. But we have to go,”

“Did you kill Abdullah El Faouley?” Layla’s voice cracked, because the answer would break her if it were true, if it was what she feared.

“Of course not. Of course I didn’t,” And it was the first honest thing Marc had said to her in years. The pain in his eyes at the accusation said it all.

Layla sighed in short lived relief, running a hand over her face.

“But you were there,” She said quietly, and the four words cleaved Marc’s resolve right down the middle, his brow furrowing in agony, “You were there, right?”

“I was- I was there,” He confessed, Dove’s stomach turning over in anguish. She wanted to hug both of them to her in entirely different ways. Wanted to grab Layla, stroke her hair the way Grace used to when she was upset, hold her to her chest and tell her how sorry she was that her father was taken from her so cruelly. She wanted to pull Marc in, slot him right over her heart and tell him he wasn’t bad, not even now, not ever, that he was good, pure, golden goodness, just as good as Steven. That he wasn’t guilty, he was just unlucky.

“My partner got greedy, he executed everyone at the digsite. Shot me too, I was supposed to die that night,” Marc spilled out, his expression bleak, distraught.

She knew better than to interrupt, than to get in between the two of them when they fought like this. That is, until her ears pricked up with her inhumane senses, the sound of guns cocking and creeping footsteps dragging through the sand stones they had just come from, whispers between comrades that they were getting close to what they had been searching for.

“Someone’s here,” She said, before she could think better of speaking. Their heads turned to her, as if they’d forgotten she was there, Marc’s face a picture of a tortured soul. She angled her head to distinguish what the men were saying, try give her some pointers how long they had, “Harrow is getting close, I can hear his watch-”

“Who’s Grace?” Layla asked, her tone guarded, as if she’d begged the question the entire time she’d known the girl, “Marc’s not the only one who’s been keeping secrets,”

But Dove was frozen. Entirely frozen. Not so much of a breath in her chest, not even a blink.

Because hearing that name again, her name, hearing Layla take everything close to her and toss it around as a conversation piece shattered her into a million small pieces, floating down neatly into the water right then and there.

He saw it.

When her eyes glazed over, as if hearing the name pressed play on a movie she’d not seen in years, and she no longer stood there, with them, but she was transported somewhere else entirely. It was the same as when she’d been in the car, staring out that window, he wanted to yell out to her, grab her delicate face and scream Where do you go? Come back to me, take my hand and come back to me. Where are you where I can’t follow.

Because she wasn’t there, inside her own body. And she feared she would never be again.

She was back in that room, in that window sill, replaying every single night she’d spent in Grace’s room. Who’s Grace? She was opening that door, the one Frank told her not to go in, she was staring at the body, the unmoving one, the cold corpse, frozen in pain, what was once her entire world ripping away from her soul, pulling her apart right down the middle, the empty bottle staring right back at her from the bedside table as if to say ‘I won, I won.’ Who’s Grace? She wasn’t there, wasn’t in the tomb at all, she was rotting in her bed, lying still and waiting for death to take her too, because it seemed impossible that the person who had been made as her mirror image in every way but looks could be culled but not her.

How could she explain who Grace was? How do you even begin to explain to a person what every cell of your body is?

“Harrow said you let her die,” Layla said, and she knew she’d hit a home run with whatever that look on Dove’s face meant, knew that everything he’d said had been true, “He said you could have saved her and you didn’t-”

“Don’t,” It was a snarl, something unearthly and rotten, but the grief in the single word was clear as a bell, “Stop it, Layla,”

She hadn’t ever spoken to her like that, had snapped and rolled her eyes, but never had such a clear threat to her words.

The woman blinked in response, the hairs on her arms standing on end at the voice that was entirely not Dove’s coming from her throat. It was monstrous, and part of her wondered if it was Seth who had in fact taken her body, only to see the eyes she knew well staring back at her with the image of a deer at the barrel of a gun.

Vulnerable. Ready for slaughter. Ready to be laid bare on the butcher's block.

Layla thought twice before she opened her mouth again, second guessing pushing for more answers, but something in the way the girl looked told her there was a truth to it.

“And Frank?” Layla asked, watching Dove’s hands shake. With anger, Layla guessed, anger that her little secrets were being poured out on the cobbles for her precious Steven to see.

Layla was not a cruel woman, not by any means. But she despised liars. And Dove was one of them.

“You and Harrow seem to be best pals, Layla, why don’t you ask him who Frank was,” Dove hissed, and it was like Marc was looking at someone else entirely, like he was watching a mutt backed into a corner snapping at everyone who approached, like watching game gnaw at its own leg to be free of a trap, “He got what he deserved,”

And Marc didn't doubt it. Not even when he reeled back in shock at her tone of voice, not expecting it from his peaceful dove, but then again Layla had ripped all sorts of wounds open in the interest of her own search for answers.

Marc opened his mouth to reinforce their need haste, only to hear for himself the footsteps draw nearer, and the three of them swivelled to look at the direction they came from.

“They’re here,” He said with a pit opening in his stomach, right around where his heart had fallen, springing into action as Layla paced across the stones, searching for a hiding spot.

“There must be another way out,” Dove said, though she felt her brain wrestling with images of that day, that last day, the feel of the mirror beneath her fingers, the scars that to this day marred her palm from the glass as she’d driven it into his chest.

“You find it, I’ll hold them off,” Marc ordered her, backing on himself to grab the battleaxe from inside the sarcophagus. Layla followed orders without protest, heading for the small alleyway she had come from, knowing she couldn’t go back that way with those creatures lurking behind the walls.

Crouching behind a pillar, she watched them with doubtful eyes. She knew they could find her in a matter of seconds. She was beyond angry at both of them for their deceit, yet she watched Dove summon the claws of her suit around her hands, ten blades sprouting over her natural nails in a small motion.

“Get out of here-” Marc waved her off, trying to nudge her body towards where Layla crouched, only for her to gently brush his hands away, careful not to scratch him with her talons.

“Marc, I’m not letting you do this alone- you don’t have a suit-” She argued back, hating the way he was still ready to go down swinging for her, hating the way he’d brushed off what Layla had said because it was Layla and Layla had every reason to throw her under any bus coming.

Her heart plummeted even more, dragging her shame down with it, and she understood then what it was.

He didn’t believe she’d done anything. He didn’t believe something was wrong, something was wrong with her. Didn’t believe she had lied, and kept things from him, didn’t entertain the idea for a single second that she was not the Dove he thought she was.

She knew if he would ask, she wouldn’t have the heart to lie to him to his face, knew she couldn’t keep betraying the undying loyalty he had to her. Knew he would take Steven away.

But she also knew he wouldn’t ask in the first place. Because to Marc, she was innocent of everything everyone accused her of, no matter how true.

She felt even worse than before, if that had even been possible.

She could only steel her face over as Harrow entered the room behind her, the infuriating tap tap tap of his staff against the floor giving him away.

And in a split moment, twenty armed men followed him, crawling out from the corners of the room, their rifles loaded, torches trained on the two of them, the red aimpoints hovering over their chests. She tried to account for every single one of the guns and their wielders, but she couldn’t. There was just too many.

The only way they were getting out of here alive is if he ran, if he ducked out with Layla and left her here to fight alone. But she knew he would never. Not unless she were to throw her body over his, take every single round of ammunition in her suit, keep him protected until they had run dry, but even then she knew he would fight against having her in front of him.

She couldn’t just stand by, couldn’t just let him go, no matter how much she dreaded what was coming next, how much he would hate her once she told him. But maybe he could understand, maybe he would. He had killed people before, she knew he had, he never hid from that. Killed those who deserved it. He hadn’t cared, hadn’t treated her differently when Hellhound had slaughtered those men. She wished she was back in that bathtub, back in their hotel room, the room full of lavender and vanilla, wished his hands were back in her hair telling her she was going to be okay.

She wished. Because that was all she had left.

“Just you two?” Harrow asked, his voice a wisp of smoke in the dark tomb that seemed to be closing in on them as the men steadied their aim, fingers resting on the triggers, “The rest is silence. I remember the first morning, I woke up knowing Khonshu was gone. The quiet was liberating,”

Harrow pocketed the scarab that nestled in his palm, stepping carefully towards them, his damn stick tapping at the floor like death had come knocking.

“And you, little dove,” Harrow turned to her, her eyes a cold glare, twitching with every knock of the wooden cane against the floor, “The truth can be just as liberating as being rid of the voice that controls you. But maybe, you already know that.”

She couldn’t disagree more. There was nothing liberating about what she’d done to Frank. She was a woman haunted, forever tainted by that day. She was ruined, she couldn’t believe she’d ever thought she could be fixed.

“Why don’t you tell him the truth?” Harrow goaded, her insides shrivelling as she saw Marc’s chocolate hues flick to her for a moment, “Ask her, Marc.”

“Marc, I can explain-” She said, eyes locking onto where he clenched a tight fist around his weapon, Harrow's words cutting her off.

“You’re a free man. And ofcourse with that freedom comes choice.” Harrow continued, “You can choose to pretend not to see the guilt writhing under her skin like a serpent. Or, you can choose to keep dear Steven safe,”

“Safe from what?” Marc snapped, his hackles raised at Harrow’s words, as if there was ever a moment of doubt he would choose anything over Steven’s wellbeing, or perhaps it was the way he questioned her that did it.

“Safe from the woman who slaughtered her own boyfriend, maybe?”

Harrow’s tone was soft, gentle, like he hadn’t just dropped a bomb upon the room, a tidal wave of cold overcoming the space between them.

“What?” Marc scoffed, almost a genuine laugh emerging at the levels Harrow was willing to stoop to in order to get the ushabti, including making up ludicrous tales, “What kind of shit is that, you can’t honestly think I’d believe that-”

He looked back to her, expecting confusion, aghast, anything except the deep pools of guilt encompassing her entire being as she stared at him.

He went cold.

No. No, please, no.

He said nothing, did nothing, not even when she tugged a lip between her teeth to keep it from wobbling.

“Please,” She whimpered, stepping towards him with empty hands, “Please, I can explain,”

Only he stepped back, and with it ripped whatever remained of her soul away from.

His eyes no longer were warm nests of mousy brown, his expression no longer soft as he took her in, his jaw tight and feathered with hesitation.

“I can explain, please listen to me,” She begged, she wasn’t above sinking to her knees and pleading against his knee in tears, “I was going to tell you, I tried-”

“You lied to me?” Marc bit, his face empty of whatever it was that he’d regarded her with before. The hands in her hair as she bathed were a million miles away, the kindness that had shone upon her like a warm summer now pelted her like hail in a storm.

“It wasn’t like the others, I had to-” She said, her hands shaking as she dared another step towards him, only for him to take another step back, “I thought you would understand,”

“I killed people because it was service to Khonshu, or-or because people's lives hung in the balance, not because I chose to,” He snapped, drawing his hand away from her like she’d burned him with her very being, “You killed your own boyfriend? You told me you stole- you lied to me,”

“No.” Steven’s voice was a whine, a bleat of agony inside the headspace, a man who was watching the only thing he’d ever had for himself slip away, “No, she wouldn’t Marc, she-”

“Please, just listen,” Her eyes had welled now, “Please, I- Marc, watch out!” She jumped at him, not missing the way his knuckles had quivered on the axe at her sudden movement, only for her to shove past him and descend onto a figure that had been moments away from grabbing the Ushabti.

It was like a switch had flickered then, and the rest of the room was invited into their conversation.

Marc slashed at one of the men who dived for her, snapping his forearm clean in two, the rifle falling from his grasp, and she clawed at the guards wrist, ripping through tendons and flesh like it were fabric.

He heard another of the men squeal as she slashed his face, he cut down another of Harrow’s men with a swift blow to the arm, ichor spurting over his hand at the contact.

He barely even blinked an eye as he threw the battle axe at the next one in his path, though he hadn’t even felt the handle leave his palm as it hit its mark and another one of the men went down.

He knew it made him somewhat of a hypocrite. But it wasn't just the blatant lie that had caused his walls to clamp down around him. That man, whoever he was, had been her boyfriend. And Steven... If he hadn't known something so telling about her, how could he be sure she wouldn't flip and do the same to Steven.

She wouldn't. He wanted to say he knew she wouldn't lay a hand on the man clawing at his brain in torment, but Marc felt he didn't know anything about her anymore.

She had killed someone. His dove, his innocent dove, that he had spent weeks feeling like filth for so much as touching, feeling as though he had ruined her, only to find out she was just as tainted as he was. She had lied to him. She had every chance, every moment he showed his soft underbelly, to tell him the truth, and she hadn’t. He was supposed to keep Steven safe, and he was dropping walls left right and centre for someone who could have had him lined up as her next target.

Dove’s head whirled around when she heard him grunt, fearing he had gotten a barrel to the face, or even a rogue fist. She took a sweeping glance at him from head to toe, the relief tangible in her bones, seeing he was rattled and angry, but not bleeding.

She needed to set this right. She was a liar, she knew that, she was a murderer, she knew that aswell. She didn’t deserve any of the kindness she’d been shown, she’d known she was on borrowed time the entirety of their friendship. She had known this was coming any day now.

It still hurt like a bitch to be confronted with the truth. And the truth was Marc glared at her like hated her. Marc wanted nothing to do with her, as liar, a con, an actress. A whore.

She had to fix this; if she even could. She had to try. For Steven.

Dove had gotten all of one step when Harrow pulled the pistol out of his jeans.

It was like a slow motion picture from there, like she was in the back seat trying to steer the wheel, sitting front row of the audience as the movie played out in front of her.

Harrow lifting the gun at Marc’s chest, pulling the trigger once, his aim true enough that a crimson hole bloomed through the man’s sweater in seconds, spraying out of the wound and onto his outfit.

She heard herself scream, heard his name coming from her in a deafening squeal, something weak and horrified in the tone. She heard the second bang of the bullet leaving its chamber, puncturing in the gut in a second deadly hit, Marc’s body stumbling back as the wound poured faster, harder, his eyes glazed into an entirely empty concoction.

She heard herself call him again, didn’t realise until it choked through a sob that she was crying, inconsolably actually. He swayed for a moment, before the weightlessness took over and he tipped backwards on his heel, and his cold gaze fell to hers for a split moment of reprieve of what she knew was coming.

She didn’t even realise until she had crouched over where he’d fallen into the water that she was sobbing, didn’t realise until the tears started falling on his face that she was crying over him, over every word she was supposed to say to him.

She didn’t realise until the heartbeat she adored so much, the one she’d planned to spend every morning pressed up against, had stopped beating, and Dove was swept up with a feeling she despised.

In all of two seconds, Dove was all alone again, and Marc and Steven were dead.

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