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beardburnsupersoldiers · 3 years ago

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For fuck’s sake…. I have no words to convey my absolute love for this story and these Jekyll and Hyde men! Have a stupid amount of heart emojis because that is where I’m at with this! ❤️🥰😍💕♥️💙💜💗💖💛💚💞💓😻💝💘🧡🥰😘😍💕❤️♥️💙💜💗💛💖💞💚💓😻🧡💘💝😘😘❤️😍🥰💕♥️💙💜💞💖💛💗💚💓😻🧡💘💝❣️❣️❣️❣️🧡💚💞💖

watch your step (2)

Pairing: TF Boys x F!Reader Wordcount: 9.3K Warnings: gore. drug use. alcohol abuse. torture. kidnapping. eventual reverse harem. baddies flirting. Summary: She tries to escape. A/N: Happy Halloween sluts! Huge thank you to @frannyzooey for offering to look this over and giving me some v helpful notes. Trying to organize four fucking dudes and know where they are at all times is like herding CATS. This chapter really fucked with me tbh. I was MAD at it. Love you guys and love the response this has gotten. SERIOUSLY.

It was October. She could taste it.

The full, intoxicating thickness of a Northeast autumn. The sky was clear - Robin’s Egg blue. The leaves were candy red. Lollipop-sweet. It was a funeral. Another. She watched the coal black hearse carry her father away. There was the cloying scent of pie and her mother’s shampoo. The tinkle of ice in a shaker.

She shouldn’t be remembering this so clearly. She was five.

Her mother stared at her - tilting her head abruptly as she regarded her daughter with puzzlement. It was as if she had just realized she was there - her small fruit and shadow. Sioban's tiny heir snagging her little fingers in her mother’s linen pant leg. Her lipstick was purple as a bruise. Garish eye makeup. She grinned - mouth peeling back to reveal chiclet teeth. Bleached corn kernels.

“Go trick or treating, honey bunch,” she sing-songed as she wrenched her grip from her pants. “Go. Go. Daddy’s in the ground. Daddy’s gone so find some fun.”

She did as she was told, toddling to the streets. They were black and oily and they slithered on until they hit the slip of the horizon. She reached out for a hand - for anything to guide her - to watch her as she went from house to house. She was only five, after all. But - no one was there. No one reached back. She couldn’t find her mother anymore and the air smelled strongly of rot - like a corpse.

How would she know what a corpse smells like? She was only five.

Where was her mother? Something heavy and sad washed over her - plopped into the pit of her gut and twisted violently as if she’d eaten too much candy. She thought she might cry. She tried, but her bubbly girl voice stroked her sobs into giggles.

“Don’t laugh. It’s a funeral,” someone chastised in the distance.

She paused - she -

- reality began to fold around her. There was a buzz at the back of her head - stronger and stronger as the neighborhood swam and blurred like an Impressionist canvas.

There was a man now - eyes pitch black as a doll’s, but the frame of his face was rugged and handsome and he bent down to take her hand. His hair was shiny as crow wings.

“Hey sweetheart,” he said as he clutched her knuckles and tightened tightened tightened until she yelped. She tried to pull away, but he held firm. The sable shadow of his stubble roughed up his jaw - the pink tinged swell of his cheek.

He opened his mouth, stars sliding off his tongue as he yanked her to him.

***

She jerked - eyes snapping open to find a ceiling that wasn’t hers. It was a creamy eggshell and at its center hung a sweet little pendant light. What? She tried to sit up, but her palms sank deep into the mattress. It was like sleeping on a cloud. A white linen duvet had been pulled up to her waist. There was a plethora of pillows. A fox-fur throw. There was even a fireplace - trimmed in bronze. Dead and dark at the height of July.

She blinked, trying to recall her night. She’d dreamt of her father - the day of his funeral. It had been Halloween and her mother hadn’t allowed her to attend. She had made her go trick r treating instead in order to retain some “normalcy” for her. She couldn’t recall who took her.

Fucking weird. She never dreamt of him - barely thought of him - so why -

She stilled. Images from the night before crashed into her skull without letting up.

The gore-slick bat. The Chapel. The men. Benny’s teeth beneath the dim lights of the underground garage. His warning. The pain in her neck.

She suddenly realized how bad she felt. Her head throbbed - particularly behind her eyes. Her tongue was heavy in her mouth. The meat of it parched as tissue. She felt dizzy - as if everything part of her was on backwards. She fell against the pillows - shoving the heels of her hands into her eyelids until light burst silver and yellow. She tried to think - processing her current situation step by step.

You’ve been kidnapped by the worst fucking mob in Ashford. You witnessed a dude get bludgeoned to death. These linens are insane. Get the fuck out of bed.

She didn’t want to. In fact - she wanted to literally duck under these covers and curl into a ball. She felt sick and spread thin. She felt slightly faint and she remembered that she hadn’t eaten since yesterday morning. She glanced at the side table to see water and a bottle of Advil along with a bright pink post-it. She snatched the post-it - bringing it close because her vision was swimming.

Come downstairs when you’re hungry. There are clothes for you in the bathroom. Xoxo Benny

“Fuck,” she hissed as she grabbed the water bottle and chugged it. She made it about four gulps before it went down the wrong way and she choked - spitting it across the pristine duvet. She was a mess. She was a kidnapped mess and she could not deal with this hungover.

She slid out of the expensive sheets - only to stumble over her own feet. She fell hard into the dove-grey carpet - pain cracking through her limbs. The room spun and she tried to keep still - doubled over on her hands and knees. Breathe. Breathe. She was still in her dress from the funeral. Her boots were neatly placed on the ottoman at the end of the bed.

She could shower, at least. She was sure that would make her feel better - wake her up a bit. She needed to think and right now her brain had completely melted - had fled somewhere that wasn't the trash can of her current body. She’d barely been taking care of herself the last few months. The last year if she were being brutally honest. Most of her nights had been spent drinking and stuffing anti-anxiety meds down her throat until the world went soft - softer.

She tried to stand again, but her vision wavered. Her temples ached violently and bile climbed up her throat. Fuck. This.

She crawled to the bathroom.

***

She’d managed to shower...ish. She had actually curled up into the fetal position beneath the freezing cold spray and prayed to Jesus Christ himself to wingardium leviosa her ass back to her house. She could not deal with this now. She could not deal. She’d never been in a situation that required her to rely entirely on her instincts and sense of self-preservation.

Yes - she’d had guns wagged in her face before. Low-time drug dealers who needed the money her mother owed. Those had been frightening moments, but not like this. She had been able to solve those with cash. A solid - material solution.

This - this - was complicated and she definitely didn’t have all the cards. She needed to understand why they wanted her - why they had kept her alive. Who the fuck her father was to them.

It took her a solid hour to get clothes on. There had been a shopping bag of leggings, t-shirts, bralettes and underwear. Everything was a variety of sizes, which made her think they hadn’t unzipped her to check. She was at least grateful that none of the items were anything wild. No mini skirts or push-up bras or negligees - thank fuck.

She padded out of the bathroom - drying her hair with a fluffy towel. The bedroom really was lovely. She’d have to admit. The wallpaper had a stunning print of rolling hills in shades of grey and cream - the humps and curves outlined in navy. Bronze lamps stood in the corners. A huge vase of deep pink peonies sat on the white bureau. There was a giant flat screen above it.

Her stomach rumbled. She’d have to make an appearance at some point. She needed to get the layout of this place, as well as eat so that she didn’t faint.

She glanced down at her outfit. Her bare feet and black leggings. The oversized cotton shirt that stopped mid-thigh. She was comfortable enough.

Was this a bad move? Did this mean she was giving into their demands? Should she have just worn that dirty funeral dress as an act of defiance?

No.

She needed to play this right. She needed to not lose her shit. She needed to pretend to be obedient so that they wouldn’t pull her guts out and wear them as a hat. She shuddered - thinking of Will’s delighted smile when he’d brought that bat down on that wailing man’s skull.

Whatever. Just go.

She opened the bedroom door and slipped across the hall on quiet feet.

***

This place was sprawling.

When she reached the top of the staircase that overlooked the living room, she had to pause.

She quickly realized that this wasn’t a house. It was an apartment - a penthouse - a multiple storied penthouse.

LIke at the Chapel, she had to catch her breath. Again.

The interior was gorgeous. It was a far cry from what she would have assumed they’d have preferred. There was no black leather. No red or gold or gaudiness. No cheap silk.

No - this place was light. It was contemporary. The double-height living room had floor to ceiling windows. There in all its glory was the complete picture: Ashford’s clear sky and river and the geometric pattern of the cityscape that rose tall enough to clear the clouds. Panoramic views of downtown’s skyscrapers and the virescent bay that sparkled and lapped at its steel edges.

Beneath her feet were reddish mahogany floors covered in cream carpets. A decorative birch tree in the corner whose branches tangled and reached forward and up. Vases of flowers ranging from roses to peonies to dahlias to orchids. They exploded out of a sea-green glass bowl at the center of the living room’s round coffee table.

The velvet couches looked pillowy and inviting with forest green Hermès throws tossed over the backs of each.

The whole place was done in neutrals with splashes of jewel tones. Peacock blue curtains framed the windows - the fabric glistening with a design of watery reflection.

And then the art. Sculptures and textiles. Paintings ranged from classical oil landscapes to pop art. A Steinway piano in jade-lacquer. Andy Warhol. Jean-Michael Basquiat.

It wasn’t even cold or stiff as modern tended to go. It was a softened palette. Warm.

Lived in.

She walked into the next room and her jaw went slack. It was a bar. Bespoke multi-colored stained-glass windows served as the backdrop. The light from outside flowed through the numerous liquor bottles - splashing over the marble bar top. Burnt-orange leather high-backed stools. A fireplace tucked away to the side to anchor another seating area. Barrel chairs and a suede couch. It was almost neoclassical in its finishing.

She pressed on - finding another hallway. The place had to be the entire top two floors of this building. It was enormous. Never-ending. The walls here were covered in framed photographs - most in black and white. She gave them a passing glance - unable to recognize anyone. Not like she would. The Cardinal Syndicate was wraith-like - a monster and a machine that rumbled beneath Ashford. There were certain individuals who pulled strings, but the general public couldn’t actually identify any of them. They were just names whispered on the wind - churning through the bottom dregs of the city. Hell - most of the various mobsters went strictly by pseudonyms: Pope. Ironhead. The Baron. Catfish. Baby. Reaper. Lizard.

She’d never expected to meet any of them. They were just fucking myths. They were untouchable and distant and no one she’d ever crossed paths with. She could laugh now. She was stuck with four of them.

She had identified Pope and Ironhead.

She knew vaguely that Pope had an inner circle. Ironhead was one of them. She had assumed Frankie was Catfish after they’d called him Fish. Benny - seemingly being the youngest and baby-faced - well she could guess who he was.

She had never paid attention to the gossip or the city’s news. She had never had a reason to. Her life had been small - spectacularly lame. She went to work and then home and stayed within the confines of her father’s house. She drank cheap wine and watched reality television.

She wasn’t a threat. She wasn’t.

She moved through what had to be the dining room. A hand blown glass and bronze chandelier hung above a glossy black table. An arrangement of moth orchids and tangled branches shot up from a bowl filled with soft grass and pebbles. The petals of the orchid were blushed in lavender and pale pink. The wallpaper was silk - patterned with water lilies and moss. Christ. This place was romantic - rich and sumptuous and surprising.

She’d finally made it to the kitchen, which was also perfect. It was bright with light and painted in shades of green. A butcher block island and expensive Miele gas range and stove.. The stainless steel was contrasted with warm wood panels. Grey limestone. A giant basket filled with vibrant fruit. She bet that the fruit was replaced daily - not a single bruised skin allowed.

“Who are you?”

She jerked as her eyes fell upon another woman standing on the other side of the island. She was striking - dark short hair and a bee stung mouth. She was also in nothing, but a pair of black panties. She noticed her nipples were pierced before the woman crossed her arms over her chest. She tilted her head as she regarded her - her expression more curious than aggressive.

“Are you one of Frankie’s new chicks?” the woman asked. “He’s so fickle.”

She swallowed as she stared back at her dumbly.

“Okayyy,” the woman sighed - rolling her eyes and turning around. “Whatever.”

It took her a few seconds for her brain to catch up with her tongue before she snapped awake. This was a lifeline. She needed to beg this woman to get her the fuck out of there.

“Wait! Sorry!” she stammered, rushing forward. “I need your -”

She was sharply cut off.

Strong arms snagged around her waist and yanked her backward. She stumbled right into a firm chest and when she tilted her chin up, Frankie’s dark eyes bore down into hers. He looked mildly irritated - his brow creased.

“Get out,” he said flatly - barely acknowledging the woman.

“Christ, Frankie,” she replied. “You’re always so grumpy in the morning.”

He shut his eyes - inhaling for a beat. He seemed like he was controlling himself - shutting down to keep his anger in check. “Get the fuck out, Marissa,” he growled. “Or I’ll make sure that you’re not invited back here again.

Marissa glared at him, but did as he said. She flounced off - her ass jiggling quite attractive beneath the sweep of midday light. Frankie released her, stepping away and ducking his head. He cursed under his breath in Spanish - running a hand through the mess of his curls.

She was frozen in place - rooted to the spot. She should have called out to Marissa. She should have said something, but she was frightened and Frankie’s grip on her had been tight and unforgiving.

“Fucking idiot,” Frankie grumbled.

“Uh,” she said. “Sorry?”

“Not you,” he clarified as he rubbed his forehead. She wondered how old he was. He had crows feet and a few wrinkles. Still - there was a weighty youth in the drop of his face. His cheeks were flushed. His jaw perfectly cut beneath sparse facial hair that didn’t seem to grow quite right. He was rugged in a way and yet his eyes were what really made him see young and almost docile.

They were deep brown and doe-like, framed by thick lashes. They seemed sad - perpetually forlorn and it bothered her. He was both obscure and not - she couldn’t explain it. It was as if she could clearly read the emotions etched in the lines of his face, but didn’t know what they meant. Illegible.

He caught her staring and shot her a perplexed look before turning around. She inwardly cringed.

You are as subtle as a car crash.

“Benny!” he yelled suddenly, loud enough to startle her.

“Yeah?” Benny answered - strolling into the kitchen as he buttoned up a dress-shirt. It was crisp and white - expensive. His watch glittered on his wrist and his hair was wet from a shower. When he saw her, he grinned broadly and she stepped away from him. He pouted in response.

“Did you call Marissa last night?” Frankie accused, leaning back against the counter and crossing his arms over his chest. There was a pale scar that roped through the golden muscle of his forearm. It was slightly hidden by the design of an inky tattoo. She made out the tail of what she assumed was a serpent before it disappeared into his sleeve.

Benny rolled his eyes. “Maybe.”

“Pope said we had to be careful about who we allow at the house, now that we have her,” Frankie said, using his chin to gesture in her direction.

“She isn’t gonna say shit,” Benny replied as he opened the fridge. “She’s paid to not say shit.”

“Still.”

“I needed to blow off some steam.” Benny poked his head out from behind the metal door - his gaze directly on her. “I was so worked up after all the fun.” He waggled his eyebrows suggestively and she scowled.

“Drugging defenseless girls gets you horny?” she snapped. “Good to know.”

Frankie shot her a surprised glance before he wiped it away. “Whatever you say, Ben. You need to be ready in twenty.” He stormed out of the room, leaving her there. Cool.

She hadn’t meant to talk back to him. She’d just said it. She snuck a peek at him only to find him studying her thoughtfully.

He grabbed a carton of eggs and strolled toward the stove. When he spoke, his voice had a shade of regret. “You’re still pissed at me, huh?”

She blinked at him. Stunned. “You poisoned me.”

He turned around to face her. “It was just ketamine,” he defended. “One of the more fun drugs to be knocked out by, I might add.”

“You could have killed me.”

He rolled his eyes. “I think everything I did last night was in an effort to not kill you.”

She was angry - she felt it start to curl and spit inside her belly. It was rising swift and searing and she couldn’t shove down. She couldn’t bury it. She felt so deeply out of control here. She needed to be calm if she wanted to escape, but she was on the verge of a meltdown. The fucking nerve.

She counted to five in her head, sinking her teeth into the muscle of her tongue to catch herself. Benny was still watching her gleefully - like he knew she was trying to temper her rage. Finally, she spoke.

“Do you expect me to thank you?”

“Nah,” he smiled. “I’ve had all my needs fulfilled for the day.”

She gaped at him.

Heat swept beneath her skin at his implication. She wasn’t a prude - not even close. But him basically telling her that he’d fucked himself empty this morning rocked her a bit. He was trying to needle her - knock her off her axis.

She didn’t need to hear more and so she stalked toward the entryway to the hall.

She had made it five steps before he slid in front of her. He pushed close - his chest at her eye-level. She had to completely lift her face to meet his gaze. He smelled good - clean and soapy. His damp hair fell across his forehead in a way that gave him a boyish charm. She briefly thought about Marissa and how she’d been this close to him not an hour earlier. She wondered if he’d fucked her in the shower or just felt the need to wash her off of him. Chill, you psycho.

“I’m sorry,” he uttered huskily. He wasn’t touching her, but it felt like it. The way he was observing her seemed dirty somehow - crude - as if he was spreading her out on a hard surface and pushing in - savoring the way her brow furrowed as he split her open. His voice dropped even lower. “That was rude.”

She fisted her hands - digging her nails sharply into the meat of her palms.

“Move.”

“C’mon, Faire,” he drawled. “Let me make it up to you.”

“No thanks.”

He grabbed her wrist - his fingers loose as he lazily dragged her toward the stove. “Let me cook you breakfast, little captive.”

She wanted to slap him for that. She wanted to kick him in the shin, but he was trying to work her up and she still needed to process her situation. She needed to figure out her surroundings and not waste away in that room upstairs. She needed to play this dirty or she needed to somehow convince them to release her. She wouldn’t tell anyone anything. She’d move. She’d leave and never come back.

She also really needed to eat. Fainting and cracking her face on their priceless hardwoods would be incredibly humiliating at this point

“Fine,” she relented and Benny’s lips peeled apart into a blinding smile like he had won.

***

“So you’re leaving?”

He’d made her eggs, which were overcooked. Still - she ate them without complaint while he beamed at her like some creep - like she wasn’t just here against her will.

Yes - Benny was objectively hot, but she also hadn’t forgotten how quickly he had turned on her last night. He had guided her in, manipulated her into feeling safe as houses, up until he had stabbed her with that syringe. She remembered his warning: if you want to live.

“Yeah - you gonna miss me?”

He brushed against her - stealing a piece of toast off her plate and scarfing it down.

“I’ve known you for like two seconds,” She ate another spoonful of rubbery eggs - trying not to wrinkle her nose.

He snorted as he tossed the pan in the sink. It clanged violently - making her head throb. “Wow, babe - did last night mean nothing? I saved your life.”

“Are you always this high-energy in the morning? I can’t keep up.”

“It’s one in the afternoon,” he corrected. “I was gonna wake you up around ten, but you were drooling so sweetly that I figured I should let you rest.”

“My hero.”

He abruptly moved behind her stool - not exactly pinning her to the breakfast bar, but close. He planted his forearms on either side of her plate as he hunched over her body. She froze, feeling the very heat of him - his breath nudging the crown of her hair. “When was the last time you actually slept, Faire? You looked so content - so peaceful. I’m guessing that was the first time in a long while.”

She tightened her hand around her fork. “I had a little help seeing as you drugged me.”

“Whatever gets the job done,” he chirped before pushing away from the breakfast bar and gliding to the counter across from her.

He gracefully lifted himself onto it and began to scroll through his phone. His fucking flirting was going to give her whiplash. She watched him frown at his screen and she briefly wondered if Pope was rage-texting him for having a chick over. She hoped.

“Can I get my phone?” she asked - knowing full well the answer.

“Sure,” he said - not even looking up. “Just ask Pope.”

Fucker. Pope scared the shit out of her. Maybe - not as much as Will, but he was definitely the one who ran the show.

She sighed - scraping her fork across her plate. The congealed scrambled eggs had grown cold and the rest of her appetite had vanished with Benny grinding up against her. She rested her chin in her palm as she continued to stare at him.

“Like what you see?” he teased - his eyes still on his phone. Ugh.

“No.”

“Liar.”

“Was that your girlfriend? Marissa?”

He finally glanced up at her for that. She wanted to smack herself.

“And don’t say “why - are you jealous?”,” she added quickly. “ I am just making conversation.”

His lips quirked - his face momentarily serious before he scrunched his nose up in distaste. “No - she’s not my girlfriend.”

She nodded - eyes drifting back down to her plate. The stool beneath her was uncomfortable - the underside of the breakfast bar cutting into her knees. She could feel the weight of his gaze on her.

“You’re cute, Faire,” he said as he jumped from the counter. “Definitely girlfriend material.”

Her head shot up to catch his eyes sparkling with amusement. She wondered if he was really keeping her around to be his pet - to poke and prod until she inevitably went insane.

She was about to throw her fork at him when Frankie rushed into the kitchen. He’d changed into dark pants and a leather jacket. His thick hair brushed and curling at the nape of his neck.

“Let’s go,” he grunted. “Car’s downstairs.”

“You’re both leaving,” she asked - slipping from the stool. Frankie ignored her

“Yep,” Ben said as he walked out of the kitchen. She followed him. He was so tall - his head practically scraped the ceiling in the hallway. “Don’t get into too much trouble while we’re gone,” he threw over his shoulder. “You can use the media room if you want. Just don’t play any of the DVDs in the blue cases.”

“Do I even want to know?”

He laughed. “They’re homemade.”

That could mean pronography or snuff films. She was leaning towards both.

“When will you be back?”

“Don’t know. Could be hours - could be thirty minutes.”

If they were leaving her here - unguarded - then she could potentially get the fuck out. She could - at the very least - case the area and get a sense of the exits.

Benny stopped so suddenly at the door that she nearly crashed into his back. He turned around - bending at the waist so that the side of his face grazed her cheek.

“Sweetheart,” he murmured - soft as a secret - his breath tickling her ear. “If you manage to escape this place then you are welcome to go.”

He stood to his full height before reaching into the coat closet and grabbing a deep blue blazer. He shrugged it on. When he finally returned her gaze, his eyes were dark with a threat that made her step back. He noticed and his face shifted into something less antagonizing - more playful. “Be careful,” he warned before he walked out.

***

Benny was a fucking two-faced coin. She couldn’t parse his makeup - couldn’t decipher which part of him was the mask and which wasn’t. He was either overly flirtatious and smug or quietly deadly. Maybe - he was both. Maybe - he just liked fucking with her.

She stared at the door for a solid ten minutes until she decided that he wasn’t going to rush back in and scare her or snap her up and toss her in her room. She stepped forward and twisted the lock to the left. The door opened.

Okay.

She could explore. She could take note of potential exits and entrances. She highly doubted there was another way out of this penthouse other than the front door.

Go.

She couldn’t. Anxiety had begun to tangle around her lungs - coiling with python-grip. She shifted on her feet - her palms damp with sweat. She was still queasy from the night before - still hungover.

This is your only shot. They might never leave again. Go.

She remembered the bar and all of those shiny bright bottles. She’d take a shot of liquid courage to muddle the biting snag of her predicament. Her skin felt constricting. Her gut ached and her fingers had started to tremble. A shot. A shot would temper the shakes - the doubt. Hair of the dog and all that.

She ran to the bar and grabbed the first bottle within reach. Silver Tequila. Aggressive, but would get the job done. She uncapped the bottle and took a swig. It scorched her esophagus - dripped until it swelled in her stomach. She took another sip and it blistered her tongue - tore through her taste buds and flowed down down down to pool inside her belly. She felt the first wave of relief - her immediate buzz coiling around her in a lazy warm embrace. She took a third sip - a fourth until her head felt light and her brain floated in the shell of her skull.

She tucked the bottle back on its shelf and marched toward the front door. She felt better.

***

She discovered that the way out of the penthouse was fairly straight-forward. The front opened onto a small entryway where the steel doors of an elevator shimmered beneath a collection of iron pendant lights.

The elevator then took her to the lowest level of the building. She assumed this was where the garage had to be. This floor was a dramatic contrast to the opulence at the top. It was cold and fluorescently-lit. Linoleum and peeling dull-beige paint.

She walked and walked until she hit a door at the end of the hallway. Inside was another room - an office of sorts with a window that looked out onto the garage. She’d gotten that right, at least.

But how to get into the garage though?

She retraced her steps and tried the other doors in the hallway. All locked.

A chilly sweat had begun to collect at her hairline. Her limbs hung heavy, which wasn’t a surprise. She was running on a single scrambled egg and a piece of toast. All of that soaked in a nice half cup of tequila. Potentially - more. She’d taken heavy mouthfuls.

She moved back into the office. She was starting to panic and the buzz had melted away to make room for the adrenaline coursing through her system. She needed to get into that garage. She was sure of it.

This was how she escaped.

Her eyes landed on the simple metal chair next to the desk and then the window that led out to the fine array of cars. It would have to do. She had zero choice.

She lifted the chair by its legs and slammed it into the glass. It creaked and shuddered. She swung again. It cracked. Again and again until it shattered. She dropped the chair - stumbling slightly. Her vision blurred and she wiped at her mouth. Just go. Just go. Just fucking go.

She clambered over the edge - her palms sliding through broken glass. The sting was secondary - muddled under the blanket of tequila. She wouldn’t look at her hands until she was out. Not yet.

She scanned the sleek steel hull of the underground garage. There were several cars. Most of them were black and enormous: G-Wagons, Escalades, Range Rovers. Dark-tinted windows that she would bet were bullet-proof. Her hands hurt - felt warm and damp. Don’t look at them. Not yet. If she did, she might lose her courage. She might get sick.

She marched forward - toward the opposite end of the room where another steel door engulfed most of the wall. Maybe - she could take a car. With what keys, you idiot?

She could wait. She could hide somewhere nearby. Benny and Frankie would return and the doors would open and she could run. Not exactly fool-proof, but it wasn’t the worst idea. Confidence began to unfurl inside her - shoving all of those ridiculous worries away. She wiped at the sweat beneath her nose and smirked.

“Going somewhere?”

She shrieked - hand clasping her chest as she stumbled backward and fell on her ass.

“Jesus,” Will said. “Don’t have a heart attack.”

He was in jeans and a black t-shirt that seemed to stick to the bulges of him.. His golden hair combed behind his ears. He was casually leaning against a car - his arms crossed. His expression was profoundly amused.

“How-how long have you been there?”

“I followed you after you left the elevator,” He gestured to the corners of the ceiling. “You know there are cameras everywhere. We get notifications every time the front door opens.”

Fucking duh.

She bit her bottom lip. She couldn’t get up. She felt pathetic - deflated. She had rushed into this and for what? She’d missed her shot - spectacularly.

He cleared his throat and she begrudgingly stared up at him.

“I was close,” she muttered before casting a longing glance at the steel trap of the garage door. Under Will’s raw gaze - it looked impossible now. Unbreachable.

“Close,” he agreed as rubbed the back of his neck. “But there are guards just outside. There are guards manning every entrance and exit to this building.”

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

The fight in her bled out. The mixture of alcohol and grief was very close to making her cry. She sniffed - dropping her face back down to stare dumbly at her bare feet.

Will sighed, walking towards her and crouching to meet her at eye-level.

He was frowning. “You’re hurt,” he observed. She glanced down to see she had indeed cut the fuck out of her hands - she’d stained her shirt. They were dribbling red over the floor. “Probably shouldn’t have broken that window.”

She paused - realizing that he’d watched her do that. “You let me think I’d get out? Let me just - just make a fool of myself?”

“C’mon - it was endearing. You tried so hard.”

She snorted.

He smiled and it was infuriatingly attractive. Regardless - there was something beneath it - something near-sinister in the way he was inspecting her - the way he dipped his tongue over his lower lip. “I just wanted to see how far you’d go. I didn’t think you’d injure yourself.”

She coughed - a violent surge of emotions was threatening to steamroll through her. She felt truly stupid and she was making it so easy for them to laugh at her. She wasn’t made for situations like this. She couldn’t shoot or fight. She was just a boring chick who waited tables at a diner and would pay double for delivery from a restaurant a block away because she was too lazy to pick it up.

Her eyes watered and Will’s expression immediately morphed into disturbed. “You’re not going to cry are you? I really can’t do crying.”

He actually looked scared and she huffed a laugh because it was so ludicrous. Big Bag Ironhead couldn’t deal with a woman crying on him.

“No - not right now at least.” She sagged - cradling her hands that now fiercely throbbed - mimicking the snap of her heart in her chest.

Will exhaled slowly - probably relieved. “Alright - let’s go clean that up. I have work to finish.”

She let him help her up without a fight.

***

They were still stuck on the basement floor of the building. He’d taken her back to some room closer to the elevator. It was dimly lit - empty except for a desk and some shelves. There was a naked area in the middle. A couple chairs in the corner. It felt solid - the air heavy like it lacked poor circulation. The entire space was built out of concrete.

Like Benny - Will was an enigma of contradictions.

He’d wordlessly lifted her up onto the desk before telling her to sit still and give him her hands. He used tweezers to pull the glass from her flesh - his fingers calloused, but gentle as they slipped over her skin. He warned her before he pressed the alcohol swab to the cuts. She hissed - the pain startling and bright and she tried to snatch her hands back, but he held firm.

“C’mon,” he urged - his voice low and edged with the tiniest hint of a taunt. “Be a big girl. It’s not that bad.”

The fucking nerve.

She did what he said.

With his face so close to her, she was able to study him. He had a small scar through his eyebrow. His blonde beard perfectly lined the knife-edge of his jaw. His lashes like pen strokes. His hair a blend of wheat and sand - punched through with soft gold. He was well and truly handsome. Disney prince handsome. Well - if the Disney prince also enjoyed bathing in the blood of his enemies. She’d seen what those hands had done.

She’d been cursed with the most attractive captors. She felt guilty for noticing them - for admiring their looks. She couldn’t help it.

“Why do you smell like tequila?” he asked as he finished wrapping the bandage around her left before moving to the right.

Shame flooded her and she didn’t know why. She didn’t owe him shit, but she felt like it was a bad look to have gotten a little drunk in order to try and escape. It made her seem weak and maybe she was. She didn’t want him to know that, though. She shifted - tugging away from him, but he kept his grip on her wrist tight. “Stay still - I’m not done. You fucked up both your hands, princess.”

“Sorry.”

She relaxed for him and he continued. When he cleaned a rather nasty looking cut next to her thumb, she whimpered. His eyes shot up to hers - an unreadable expression on his face. The muscle in his jaw ticked and his nostrils flared.

“What?”

He blinked - shifting his gaze back to her hands and clearing his throat. “Nothing.” He reached for more bandages and then gingerly spread her fingers apart so he could weave them around “So,” he said. “You gonna tell me why you were pounding tequila before you made your daring escape?”

Fuck.

“Benny drove me to drink,” she finally replied. It was slightly true.

He chuckled and it was so warm - endearing. It made her nervous. “He has that effect on people.”

“How do you manage it?”

He tilted his face up - arching an eyebrow. “He’s my little brother. It’s my lot in life to suffer through it.”

Oh. They did kind of look similar. There were traces of Benny in him and vice versa.

“He’s like your brother brother?”

“Yeah,” He stood up, putting away the supplies. He rolled the bandages neatly, placing the alcohol swabs into the tight box compartment of the first aid kid. He did everything with care. It was obvious that he was organized and clean. She could see it in the way he handled things. “He’s my biological brother,” he specified..

“Frankie and Pope aren’t?”

He shot her an amused glance. “Do you think they are?”

“I don’t know,” she shrugged. “Genetics are weird.”

“They’re our brothers in all the ways it counts if that answers your question.”

“I suppose.”

He shook his head before suddenly stepping toward her. He wedged himself right between her spread knees - his chin knocking against the top of her head. He was close she could smell him - that soap-sweet scent of tumbled laundry and scrubbed skin. He inhaled and out of instinct she gripped his shirt - her knuckles curling into the fabric.

“What - what are you doing?”

He didn’t reply. He just grabbed the first aid kit and lazily tucked it onto the shelf above her head. He reached high enough that she could see a strip of his bare stomach - the shadowy lines of his cut abdominal muscles. Dear Lord.

He pulled away only to stare down at her. “Can I have my shirt back?”

“What? Oh! Sorry!”

She released him. Her fingers smarted from how deep they’d pressed into the cotton of his shirt. Embarrassed swarmed her - overwhelmed her. He did that shit on purpose. Fucking stupid ass fucker.

He really was Benny’s brother.

“Should - should I go back upstairs?”

He shook his head as he walked to the other side of the room. He pulled out a giant plastic tarp and tugged it over to the center of the floor. It was quite large - blanketing nearly half the space. It looked exactly like the one back at the Chapel when that man -

Fear bolted through her. Was he going to kill her?

No - he’d literally just spent half an hour patching her up. Unless he really was a sick bastard who enjoyed playing with his victims and making them feel safe before he beat them to a pulp.

He reached into his jeans, pulling out two black leather gloves. He slipped them over his hand - using his teeth to jerk them over the knuckle.

“Will,” she whispered as she slid down from the desk. She felt boneless - out of her head. He paused, looking up at her expectedly.

It was as if a light had switched off. He had completely shut down. His bright blue eyes now inky - swelling into the shade of the deepest part of the sea. It made her think of the predators beneath the surface - the fish with slack jaws and blade-sharp teeth. He was Ironhead.

“I can - I can go,” she offered.

“No,” he ordered - not unkindly or harshly. He said it with total indifference. No emotion. “You have to stay here with me while I work.”

Her heart lurhced.

“Why?”

He swiveled his head from side to side - his neck popping as he prepared himself. “Pope said it would be good for you.” He finally settled his gaze back on her and there was a tiny spark of what he’d been earlier - a blip of mirth in his pupil. “You shouldn’t have tried to get out, Faire.”

The pieces all fell together. She understood now.

She’d seen him lock the door. She was stuck. This was a punishment.

Well - she could do this. She could handle it. She’d show them.

“I’ll be a minute,” he muttered as he went to the far end of the room. He disappeared through a swinging black door, leaving her alone.

She’d seen him smash a guy’s head like a melon. She could deal. She’d bite the proverbial bullet and watch. Ironhead couldn’t frighten her more than he already had. Plus - he’d just carefully bandaged her hands like she was made of glass. He’d been kind.

***

She stumbled away from the scene in front of her - retching into the trash can beside the desk. It was the smell. The burning flesh. The piss. The shit.

Hours ago, the person who stepped back into the room was not there. It was just Ironhead - the wraith - the reaper who people had so often whispered about through the channels of the city. His eyes had briefly passed over her when he returned - perhaps to make sure she was there and watching. Behind him was a terrified man clad only in his underwear.

Will had tied him to a chair at the center of the room and gone to work.

Now - that man’s face was bloated - fluid and blood rushing beneath his skin until it looked mottled. His eyelid had swelled to the size of an egg. Red saliva oozed out of his mouth. He had shrieked and screamed and then he’d blessedly pass out until Will - Ironhead - would wake him up again.

There was the constant echo of fist meeting flesh. The squelch of a blade like an oil slick through tissue. The snap of bone and crack of teeth.

She understood where Will got his name. He was impossible to access - to bargain with or reach. He spoke to the man in a hushed voice as he asked him questions. The man’s pleading fell on deaf ears. Ironhead delivered his evidence - the files and records of whatever this man had done and there was no way around it.

She got the sense that the man had fucked over Pope - had gotten some people killed. She was too far away to really hear the details. Once she’d seen the white slip of bone peeking through the inside of hte man’s thigh, she’d planted herself closer to the exit.

The man had steadily lurched into an animal - weeping and cowering - trying to pathetically tear himself away from Ironhead’s grip. He reminded her of a pig in a pen. He was a mass of flesh - his breath ragged and wet. When Ironhead burned him, that particular wail set her off. It made her sick and she’d puked up the tequila and meager breakfast Benny had made her. She’d slammed her palms over her ears and curled into a ball and that was that. She rested her brow against her knees and prayed for it to end. She wanted him to die. If she had the balls, she would have marched over there and killed him herself. She doubted she could. She’d probably vomit again or burst into tears.

She waited.

***

“Hey.”

There was a warm pressure on her shoulder and she looked up to see Will regarding her with hesitancy. He loomed over her - the bulk of him blocking out the faint light from the ceiling. The room was silent except for the whir of the ceiling fan. His eyes were blessedly clear, but she could see what was left of the man between his spread legs. She could smell the iron - the burnt flesh.

“Is he dead?” she croaked - biting the inside of her mouth to keep from crying. Will wouldn’t like that..

He jerked his head in confirmation and she pulled away from him. “Can we go upstairs now?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Let me just clean up.”

She shuddered - exhaling sharply. She’d deal with it. She could wait. She could just turn around and count. She could think of other things - happier times - like when she’d dated Luke Robinson in college and they’d taken his beat-up jeep to Charlestown and drink Dark ‘n’ Stormies like they were going out of style and why the fuck did she break up with him again? She could be far away from Ashford. She could have followed him to the other coast.

“Actually...,” Will’s brow creased, a frown disrupting his pretty face as he studied her. “Let’s go upstairs. I can deal with all this later.”

She swayed as she stood up. Will’s hands fell on her hips to steady her before he quickly shoved them in his pockets.

***

She must have appeared terrible when she stepped back into the penthouse. Benny was sprawled out on the couch in front of the television, his long legs spread wide. Frankie on the other couch - his gaze pinned to the basketball game.

When they turned to look at her, both of their eyes widened. Benny’s eyebrows hit his hairline.

“Dude,” he groaned as he stood up. He rushed toward her. “What’d you do?”

Will brushed past her, but she still caught his grimace - the brief shadow of guilt in his expression. “Nothing I haven’t done before.”

Benny gripped her shoulders, squeezing her gently. He circled his thumb comfortingly into the skin by her throat. “You okay?”

She tried to focus on the television screen behind him - tried to zero in on something flat because the room was spinning. She was flooded with nausea. “I-I think I’d like to go upstairs.”

Benny whipped around. “Will - what the fuck?”

Will opened his mouth to speak before he was interrupted.

“He did what I asked him to do,” a cold voice sounded from the other end of the hall. Pope stepped out into the den - his face stern as he watched her. Fuck.

“We need to talk,” Pope grunted. “Come with me.”

“Can - can we just do it tomorrow?” she whined. “I’m really tired. I don’t - I don’t feel very well.”

“No,” he growled. “Now.”

“Santi,” Benny said - his tone almost pleading. “She’s had enough. C’mon.”

Pope turned toward Ben and his expression was fierce enough to make him shut up. He lifted his palms up. “Fine. Christ.”

Pope spun around and headed toward the end of the house, she’d yet to venture. She followed - dragging her feet. She really felt like she was going to faint. A migraine had begun to rear its ugly head at the base of her brain stem. Agony spiraling and shooting and not letting up.

Benny gripped her wrist and tugged her back to him. He pressed himself close - his breath flooding the sensitive shell of her ear. “Listen to him,” he warned. “Just fucking behave. Pope is already stressed out enough and you’re not doing yourself any favors.”

She nodded and continued down the hall after Pope’s retreating form. She didn’t want to fight the rest of the night. She didn’t want to do anything. She wanted to forget.

***

He led her to what had to be his office. It was unsurprisingly beautiful as the rest of the house. A fireplace and heavy curtains. Wood paneling. Artfully woven rug. A vast Anselm Kiefer painting that hung like a goliath - spreading across the far wall at the end of the room. A shiny black desk. Bronze sculptures. A floor to ceiling window that stretched behind his high-backed chair . She could see the city - the great churning mass of high-rises dotted with flickering lights. She’d been out there not twenty-four hours ago. She’d been free and flying in the steel trap of downtown and now she was here.

“Sit.”

She did - dropping into a dark green leather chair.

Pope stared at her from behind his desk - expression severe as the force of an ice storm. She thought of hail - of violence.

She supposed that it was her job to break the silence. She sighed - wiping at her damp chin. “I’m sorry I tried to escape,” she said mechanically. “I won’t do it again.”

He snorted, but said nothing.

What the fuck did he want from her? What was she supposed to do? Kiss his feet?

Anger began to bubble inside her chest quite suddenly. She had thought it had been snuffed completely - but here it was. Frustration and fury and exhaustion.

“What do you want me to say, Pope? I learned my lesson. I won’t fucking leave again.”

“You couldn’t if you tried,” he spat back at her.

She crossed her arms over her chest. “You kind of asked me to try to escape. You left me alone. You left the fucking door open.”

“I thought Benny made it pretty clear that you needed to listen and stay put. We thought you’d be obedient enough to not need to be shut in your room.”

“You haven’t told me anything! You literally drugged me and took me here against my will.”

He exhaled - a deep frustrated sound erupting from his chest. He ran a hand through the inky black mass of his curls.

“Why the fuck am I here?” she yelled loud enough for him to arch an eyebrow at her in annoyance.

“You know why you’re here unless you were that fucking drunk last night to not remember shit. You saw something you shouldn’t have. The Baron - the goddamn head of the Apostles - who I have a very tenuous relationship with at best - wanted you dead. Benny convinced me not to kill you.”

She had gathered that much. She knew she was playing dumb. She knew she was poking him - prodding him. Still - there was more to this.

“Because of my name, too?”

“What?”

“You changed your mind when you found out my last name was Faire.”

He narrowed his eyes - flexing his jaw. “Doesn’t matter. Just know that you’re lucky to be here. Period. The only other option would have been death.”

She leaned forward - pressing her forearms into the meat of her thighs.

“Why does my father’s name hold so much weight for you?”

“It’s complicated.”

“So you’re just not going to tell me?”

“I don’t have to tell you anything, Ms. Faire.”

“This is bullshit. I need to get out.”

“No,” he said. “You don’t. You’re stuck here and you’ll remain here until we figure out what to do with you.”

“How do I know I’m safe here? You guys are literal murderers and rapists and -”

“We’re not rapists,” he cut her off, his face bordering on affronted. “We don’t do that shit.”

She scoffed, but she knew she was grasping at straws with that one. She was verging on hysterical.

He rubbed at his chin - rasping the dark shadow of stubble over his mouth. “Look - believe whatever you want, but you’re safer here then you are out there.”

“I doubt that.”

His eyes widened - piercing and furious - almost wild. He sat up. His tone raised to incredulous.

“Were you not blind-drunk at the Chapel last night? Do you know what goes on at that place? You’d be fucking dead in a ditch or worse if it hadn’t been us who found you.”

He had her there. A pang of self-reproach stabbed through her. She had been so utterly stupid - had not cared at all for her well being or how dangerous it had been to get so messed up at a strange bar in the worst part of the city.

He didn’t let up. “You were a mess. You couldn’t even see straight. You weren’t exactly taking care of yourself out there.”

She dropped her head to stare at her bare knees. There was a smear of something. Blood, probably. Thanks to Will and what he’d done in that room. Maybe - he’d touched her. Maybe - it was from her cut hand.

“You were a dumb - fucking ridiculous - little girl last night and -”

She choked on a sob- pressing the heel of her hand to her mouth. Pope stopped. It seemed like her submission had snatched the wind out of his sails.

There was silence - long and stilted. Finally - he cleared his throat. He said her name quietly. It was the first time any of them had said it. Not Faire. Just her name. She peeked up at him and he looked both tired and uncomfortable.

“No one will touch you here,” he declared. “No one will hurt you.”

It was the earnestness in his expression. The pity that blossomed in his eyes when he realized that he had upset her so badly. She cracked.

“I won’t - I won’t say anything.” There were tears now - a whole wreck of emotion burning behind her nose as her lip trembled. She was very quickly losing her hold on this situation. She’d been brave. She’d sat still and watched Will pull apart a human being. She’d kept her head up. She’d tried her best and it was becoming increasingly obvious that there would be no escape for her. She’d never get out - not without their permission. She’d have to try this.

“I promise,” she pleaded - a whimper erupting from her throat. “I’ll leave town. I’ll do anything.”

He shook his head. “It’s not about that - it’s not something you can run away from.”

She stood up and rushed toward him and even he looked taken aback. He fell back into his chair as she got on her knees. She pressed herself to his legs and he stared at her - horrified. “Please,” she cried - tears carving their way down her cheeks. The salt of them caught on her lower lip. Snot and saliva and everything just emptying out of her. She doubted she had any liquid left to give.

After the events of today, she was a carcass - a husk.

“I don’t - I don’t...,” she was heaving - not able to get a word in. Her sentences fell on top of each other - turned to drivel. Pope darted his gaze to the door and gestured to someone.

She couldn’t breathe now. She didn’t have the strength to turn her head. But she felt firm hands at her waist - felt them circle her and lift her clean off her feet. There was warm breath at her temple - soft, comforting mouth sounds as they hushed her - dragging her away from Pope.

Pope said something under his breath - too indistinct for her to parse. But she could make out the distress carved into his face - the discomposure marking his frown.

He continued to watch her. He watched her until the door shut between them.

#will miller x reader #benny miller x reader #frankie morales x reader #santiago garcia x reader

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