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not-neverland06 · 3 days ago

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𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙶𝚒𝚕𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝙲𝚊𝚐𝚎

Pairing ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ Arthur Morgan x fem!reader

Next Part - Hell Hath No Fury Series

A/N: Sexually mature themes, no graphic or explicitly detailed smut

Summary: Even as a socialite, you've never had the honor of attending a mobster's party. Now, you get to say you've done it all. Tensions seem to ease with Arthur as you both relax into your roles. But things can never stay easy for long, can they?

Arthur had a fence in the city that could loan him a carriage in exchange for a favor down the road. You didn’t ask what the favor was and you weren’t interested in knowing. You’d offered to ride in the front with him but he’d just made a vague excuse of not wanting to dirty your new dress.

He was lying, it was clear as day that he didn’t give a damn about the state of your dress, but you weren’t going to push him. If he didn’t want to speak, then fine. The entire ride back to camp could be spent in silence for all you care. Though, it seems like he’s purposely trying to hit every damn rock he can. You’ve never had such a horribly bumpy ride as this one.

You can tell when you get closer to camp as the wheels struggle to slough through all the mud. A moment later the carriage comes to a halt and Sean’s muffled voice slinks through the thick wood of the walls. “Arthur,” the H slips through the vowels of his accent and it sounds like he’s saying Artur. “What the hell is that?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Arthur’s low voice calls back. The carriage rocks as Arthur climbs off the front bench and you slip forward, reaching for the door. It swings open before you can grab the handle. Arthur doesn’t look at you as he holds his hand out for you, just waits expectantly.

You roll your eyes at his stubbornness but take the help anyway. This dress is far too tight for you to shuffle down the steps on your own. Arthur guides you out and releases you the moment you’re standing on steady feet.

“Oh, be still my flutterin’ heart,” Sean calls out as he eyes you up in the dress.

Arthur grimaces, lip curling in distaste. “Shuddup, Sean.”

“What?” He asks, voice full of all the innocence in the world as he sends you a brief wink. “I’m not allowed to compliment the lady? You’d have to be one sour bastard not to tell the lady how beautiful she looks.”

The carriage being driven into camp has drawn the attention of a few others. They slowly move towards you and Arthur, eyeing you both with curiosity in their gazes. The door to Shady Belle flies open and Dutch stands in the doorway. “Now, what is this?”

He, fortunately, doesn’t make you walk to him. You’re standing on a slat of wood now, but one step forward and you’ll be ankle-deep in muck. “I think I might have gotten a lead while we were in the city. An Italian man invited me to a party tonight full of ‘influential’ people as he put it.”

Dutch’s brows raise in surprise, as though he hadn’t expected anything useful to come out of your trip. You’re not sure if he was just doubting you or the possibility of ever finding Jack, but you take his astonishment in offense.

“Italian?” Dutch questions and his eyes dart toward Arthur. You and Sadie have been on the receiving end of that look quite a lot these past few weeks. The both of you arguing for more involvement in the gang’s activities. And every time you’d receive placating words and a dismissive glance that meant you really shouldn’t bring it up again.

Arthur nods at Dutch, he barely spares you a glance as they both walk back into the house. You feel like a fool, standing in the middle of camp all dolled up and terrified of dirtying the hem of your dress with mud. You don’t feel like the woman you’ve become over the past few months, it’s as though you’ve turned into that cowering girl once more.

“You look pretty,” a deep voice interrupts your spiraling thoughts. Glancing over your shoulder, you see Charles approaching you. He looks you up and down, not admiring, simply observing.

“Oh,” you say, caught off guard. He said it so bluntly. There was no smooth delivery of a line. Instead, it felt like he was stating a cold hard fact rather than a sugary compliment . You were pretty, and he wasn’t trying to earn anything from you by saying that. “Thank you-”

“But this doesn’t suit you.” You clamp your mouth shut, lips thinning as your eyes narrow into slits.

“What is that supposed to mean?” You grit out, arms crossed tightly across your chest. His lips curl up slightly, laughing at your soured expression.

“It just doesn’t look like you. It’s like trying to force a bison into a herd of doe.”

Your jaw drops and you gape, stamping your foot at him, “I am in a corset! ” You’re halfway to outraged and it’s only making you angrier that he looks like he’s trying not to laugh.

His nose scrunches slightly but he just shrugs. “There might have been a kinder way to put it, but that doesn’t change that it’s the truth.”

“What?” You snap, “That I’m a giant lumbering beast?” You throw your arms out, irritated by his insistence on this ridiculous metaphor.

“That you’re trying to fit into a role you don’t belong in. You’re not a lady anymore, and you’re no outlaw. You can’t force yourself to be either of those things.” You hadn’t expected Charles, of all the people in this damn camp, to be the one to point out how you don’t belong. Not just among them, but in society in general. There’s no place anywhere for you anymore, not even here.

“Well then, what’s a bison supposed to do?” You snap, looking away as you wipe away the warmth trickling down your cheeks.

“I don’t know,” he says simply, his voice softer when he sees the glassiness in your eyes. You look back at him and he reaches forward, surprisingly gentle as he brushes away a tear. “That’s for you to figure out. But you’ll never be happy stuck standing between two worlds, especially when you don’t like either of them.” He smiles at you and places his hand on your shoulder, squeezing slightly. “But you look pretty,” he amends, as though that will undo the hurt he’s just caused.

“Thank you,” you scoff, rolling your eyes. He shrugs, eyes drifting over your shoulder. You turn, following his gaze, and smile as you see Mary-Beth and Tilly approaching. Charles walks off, not looking to get caught up in whatever it is the girls look so excited about. You can’t say you blame him, if you weren’t stuck in the only mudless spot here, you might try and make a run for it too.

They look far too eager for you not to be suspicious. “Are you really goin’ to a party?” Tilly rushes out, cornering you against the carriage alongside Mary-Beth.

“I don’t really have a choice, I’m the one who got the invitation.”

Mary-Beth gasps dramatically and swats at your shoulder. “Oh, I’m so jealous. What I would give to be able to look like a lady for once and get the hell out of this camp.” You’d switch places with her if you could. The laces of this dress are so tight you’re starting to feel lightheaded.

“You have to let us do your hair,” Tilly suddenly blurts out, hands already darting towards the leather strap tying your hair up. You duck out of the way of her wandering hands and she shoots you a firm glare.

“Well, I don’t know-”

“No arguing,” Mary-Beth snaps. She loops her arm through yours and Tilly takes the other. “We’ll get you looking prim and proper in no time,” you really don’t have the heart to argue when you see the dreamy smile on her face. You know it’s not often any of the women get to escape camp. Especially not for something as glamorous as a party in the city.

If they want to live vicariously through you for a night, who are you to deny them the pleasure?

“Alright, fine,” you acquiesce with a reluctant smile. “But you’re gonna have to help me through all this mud.” Tilly and Mary-Beth shoot each other giddy smiles, dragging you along behind them towards the women’s tent.

“Oh, Tilly, we should do her makeup too.”

Your eyes widen and you grimace. There’s a limited cache of rouge and lipstick hidden somewhere in camp. You know it’s only dragged out for special occasions. But it’s been so long since you’ve worn any that you’ve forgotten just how much you hate it. You’re remembering now, as you look upon their mischievous faces.

“Hold on now-”

“I’ll get the vanity case of it from Mrs. Grimshaw,” Tilly interrupts, rushing off before you can stop her. You sink into Mary-Beth’s side, letting out a heavy sigh as you relinquish yourself into her care for the next hour. You pass by Charles and glare at the slight smirk on his lips as he shakes his head at you. Smug bastard.

Arthur and Dutch finish up their talk while Mary-Beth and Tilly are still fussing over you. You manage to peek an eye open as Mary-Beth is slapping your cheeks with a powder puff. Arthur walks up to Hosea, sparing you a slight glance as he places his hand on the old man’s shoulder. He leans in close and you narrow your eyes, trying to decipher what he’s whispering to him.

“Straighten up,” Tilly snaps, the hot tongs in her hand getting dangerously close to the nape of your neck. The smell of smoke drifts around you and your nose scrunches in distaste.

“You’re not burning my hair off, are you?” You try to turn your head slightly to get a good look at her, but she nudges your face back around to a disgruntled Mary-Beth. Lipstick hovers over your face as Mary-Beth scrubs roughly at the smudged red on your cheek.

“Relax, I know how to use these better than any of the other women in camp,” Tilly assures you. There’s a release of tension as she lets the strand of hair out of the tongs and pins it up. The last time you had your hair curled like this, it had been a much gentler experience. You feel as though you’re being punished for your reluctance to get dolled up.

Here you sit, the opportunity they’ve always wanted landing right in your lap, and you want nothing to do with it. You suppose they might be bitter. The only times they’ve been allowed out of camp they’ve had to pose as whores or damsels in distress. You just get to be a lady. Letting out a heavy sigh, you force yourself to relax in their hold.

“Alright,” Mary-Beth’s tongue pokes from the corner of her lips as she tilts her head, examining your face. You try not to have your nose scrunch so you don’t wrinkle the powder. “I’m done,” she says, stepping back from you like an artist scrutinizing their latest painting. “It would help if you didn’t have that sour expression.”

You roll your eyes but Tilly releases you before you can say anything rude. She places one last pin in your hair and rounds the chair you sit on. “Oh, some of my finest work, if you don’t mind me sayin’.” Mary-Beth nods her approval and they both share a smile as they ogle down at you.

“We’re done?” You grouse, tired from sitting under their nagging hands for so long.

Tilly throws her hands up and narrows her eyes at you, “A thank you would be lovely. Ain’t they teach you manners in that fancy school of yours?”

You suppose you could be a bit more gracious. Swallowing your pride you nod in appreciation, “Thank you, ladies.” Mary-Beth rushes off and digs around in one of the crates beside the tent. She returns and thrusts a rusted silver mirror in your hand. The glass is slightly cracked but you can still see your reflection well enough.

Mary-Beth certainly doesn’t hold as heavy a hand as your old maids. You don’t despise the way your face looks with makeup, but it doesn’t feel natural. And you can already start to feel the powder itching on your skin. Still, you force a smile, pretending to be awed by your appearance.

Tilly certainly did better with your hair than you would have. You honestly hadn’t thought about attempting hair or makeup tonight. It’s been so long since you’ve been in polite society that you’ve forgotten all the work that goes into presenting yourself. Still, the updo looks pretty and the curled ringlets draped over your shoulder are a nice touch.

You can’t help the disappointment festering in your stomach. It feels as though you should be more excited to see yourself all prettied up. It’s been months since you’ve been in a dress or put any thought into how you look. In your old estates, you were surrounded by mirrors and scrutinizing faces. The only thing you could think about was your presentation and how others viewed you. You’ve grown so used to not giving it any thought that it weighs heavier on your shoulders than you’d expected.

“It looks wonderful,” you tell them with a strained smile, placing the mirror down by your side. Tilly and Mary-Beth nod, looking properly excited as they whisper to themselves about all the handsome men you’ll see at the party. You chuckle a little, they don’t know that you won’t meet any decent men where you’re going. Mary-Beth’s tales of whirlwind romance and being swept off your feet have ingrained themselves into the less jaded minds of camp. There’s no need to ruin their rose-tinted view of fine society.

You get to your feet, taking light steps as you skirt around the deeper piles of mud. You just manage to stay on the firmer parts of the land, dress lifted above your ankles. Someone whistles and you grimace, prepared for Micah to be shouting something nasty out to you.

Instead, a husky feminine voice calls out, “Lookin’ mighty fine, Lady Rowe.” You chuckle, turning to glare at Sadie. She stands a few feet away, lingering by the door of Shady Belle, likely trying to eavesdrop on the men’s conversation as she normally does. Her hand lingers on the revolver by her hip and she sends you a wink.

“You’re ridiculous, Sadie,” you admonish.

She shrugs and walks towards you, “Just the truth.”

“Well, did you have to tell it like a man?” You grouch, tugging the neckline of your dress up.

She smiles at you, walking with you towards the carriage. “Men always seem to have more fun.” You suppose that’s true. They don’t have to spend an hour and a half primping and prepping for something as ridiculous as a party. All they need to do is lick their hands, slick back their hair, and throw on a suit. Lucky bastards.

“I feel like a clown under all this makeup,” you resist the urge to claw at the skin of your face. It feels as though ants crawl under your flesh, it makes you antsy to just strip everything off.

She narrows her eyes at you, smile giving way to something more calculating. “It is odd, seeing you like this again. I remember when you used to leave for dinners or parties all dolled up. You never really looked happy then, you were always fussin’.”

“I’m still fussin’,” you admit, tugging at one of the ringlets draped over your shoulder. She swats your hand away and laughs at your aggrieved expression.

“It’s only one night. Then you can get back to pants and shootin’ at any bastard that pisses you off.” You relax slightly and send her a grateful smile. It’s nice that at least one of the women here recognizes just how constricting this role is.

Sadie used to have to take orders from you. She’d even had to stomach you cutting her pay when your husband gambled too much. You were the face telling her she was gonna have to scrape for extra money and figure out a new way to feed herself and her husband. Still, she remains the only one who understands just how unfulfilling the life of the rich is.

The front door of Shady Belle swings open and Dutch comes striding out in a suit, Hosea, Arthur, and one very angry-looking Bill not far behind. “Don’t you look fancy?” Sadie calls out, scoffing as she takes in the men.

“Why, thank you, Mrs. Adler,” Dutch bows his head towards her and she rolls her eyes. You share a brief glance before she walks off. Dutch comes to stand beside you at the carriage, the rest of the men following suit. Arthur opens up the door for you and gives you a hand up the steps. You squeeze his palm once, holding your breath until you feel him return it. Letting go of his hand, you settle yourself on the bench, smoothing out the wrinkles of your dress.

Dutch has nearly made it inside when Abigail comes rushing up to you all, John not far behind. Letting out a weary sigh, Dutch holds his hands up, shaking his head before Abigail even has a chance to say anything.

“I already told you, Abigail, it’s too much of a risk having you come with us. I can’t trust you’ll be able to keep your temper.”

Abigail shakes her head and glares at him, lips curled back like she wants to lunge at him. “It is my son that you are lookin’ for, Dutch. I’m not leavin’ him.”

“No,” Dutch assures her, voice calm and gentle in a way you’ve heard so many times before. You’re unsure where he’s learned the skills he has. But the way he puppeteers these people is near magic. “You’re trusting us,” he nods towards the men, “to take care of him for you. That boy is like family to me, Abigail, I’m not going to let anything happen to him.”

Every ounce of restraint is used not to mutter, you already have. Still, you know that won’t do anything but make Abigail fret even more. A little bit of petty satisfaction isn’t worth putting an already nervous mother on edge.

She takes a step back from him and John reaches for her but she skirts out of his grasp. Things were already tense between them, you’re not sure they’re going to be able to recover from this. Everyone can plainly see that she blames him for her child going missing. Even though you all know there was nothing he could have done to stop it.

John looks at her, face pinched with concern. He turns towards Dutch, something determined settling along his shoulders. “I’ll ride behind you.” He cuts Dutch off before the man can weasel his way out of anything. “I ain’t goin’ into the party, but if you’re going to be lookin’ for my son, then I’m goin’ to be there.”

Dutch lets out a heavy sigh, you know he wants to argue, but there’s no point. John’s been butting heads with him more and more, he’s beginning to lose faith in Dutch just as much as you are. “Fine,” Dutch relents. “But you’re not to get involved in any way.”

John nods, already heading towards his horse. Abigail follows along behind him, something stunned painted across her face. Dutch finally makes it into the carriage, taking a seat beside you as Hosea sits across from you both. Arthur closes the door and climbs atop the carriage with Bill.

“It’s gonna be suspicious,” you tell Dutch and Hosea as the horses start moving. “Walking in surrounded by so many men,” you clarify. Hosea nods and Dutch looks like he’s thinking about it as you continue. “Suppose you ought to be my father,” you tell Dutch.

He scoffs, shaking his head, “I ain’t that much older than you, sweetheart.” Your skin crawls at the pet name. It sounds so much sweeter when Arthur says it. You just feel like an idiot child when Dutch calls you sweetheart.

“You had me young,” you snap, glaring at him. His brows raise at the attitude and you suck in a deep breath, trying to keep your tone in check. “Look, the man we’re going to meet invited me to be his date. The fastest way to get to him is you present yourself as my father and ask for a meeting with him.”

Dutch sucks on his teeth, looking towards Hosea. “She’s got a good point,” the old man agrees, sending you a brief smile.

Dutch shrugs, “Alright then. I’m honored to escort my darling daughter,” he pats your hand and you screw your face up, jerking your arm away from him. Petulantly, you turn towards the window of the carriage, not wanting to be so close to him. He chuckles under his breath, talking to Hosea like you’re not even there.

He’s already doing such a wonderful job playing the part of your father.

Dutch files out of the carriage, Hosea following behind him. Arthur peers his head around the door, helping you out. You struggle a bit in the heels the girl’s had loaned you that are just a size too small. He places a steadying hand on your lower back and leads you around the side of the carriage to where the other’s wait.

You feel a little of the tension from before ease as he doesn’t immediately pull his hand away from you. The whole argument feels ridiculous, but now isn’t the time to dwell on it.

Still, you can’t shake how he'd made you feel when you were so vulnerable in front of him at the tailor’s, and the worry that the two of you might be too different to make this work.

He’s an outlaw through and through, and you know it’s why his last relationship fell apart. But you’re not trying to change who he is—you just want him to be safe. And he, ever stubborn, just wants to keep you far away from the gang’s dangerous business.

“Mrs. Rowe, Mr. Willamison, Mr. Morgan, and Mr. Matthews, don’t you all just look fine,” Dutch admires as you all stand before him.

“Almost look like we’ve got the same stick up our ass as the rest of them,” Bill snorts, tugging at the neck of his suit.

Dutch shoots Bill a sharp look before addressing the rest of you. “Remember, we’re here for information on Jack. But,” he adds with a smile, “let us take advantage of the wonderful opportunity the lady provided for us.” He nods at you and you offer him a pinched look. “Mingle, see if you can’t find something to get us to Tahiti,” he instructs with insincere cheer.

You shake your head at the mention of Tahiti. Dutch couldn’t point it out on a map if he tried. There’s never going to be an escape for these people, he’ll make sure of it. As Dutch is talking, Arthur slowly slips away from you, moving to stand beside Bill.

Hosea notices, eyes narrowing in on the space between the both of you. “Arthur,” he calls out, stopping Dutch from spewing any more half-baked lies. Arthur turns towards him and Hosea nods to your side. “Take the lady's arm,” he instructs.

Arthur’s brows furrow and he shakes his head. “The man in there thinks I’m just a half-wit chauffeur. Ain’t no fool holdin’ a lady’s arm,” he grouses, glancing over at you.

“Arthur,” you snap, narrowing your eyes at him. “You know I didn’t mean it like that.”

“What did you-”

“Arthur,” Hosea interrupts, voice firm as he nods once more at you. “Take the lady's arm, I won’t say it again.” Arthur sighs but his face remains infuriatingly neutral as he comes to stand at your side. He slips his arm into yours without a word and it makes your chest clench. “Well,” Hosea prompts, “aren’t you gonna tell her she looks pretty?”

“Hosea, really-” you start, but Arthur cuts you off.

“You look pretty.” You snap your mouth shut, eyes narrowing as Hosea gives a satisfied nod and saunters off after Dutch, probably grinning to himself. You glance up at Arthur, analyzing his face for any signs of deception or reluctance. He’s being genuine, you can tell that much. Leave it to Hosea to wring a compliment out of the man.

Arthur starts walking you both forward, following Dutch and Hosea. Two armed guards stand before the entrance of the estate. They each step forward, holding their hands up and stopping you all from progressing any further.

“No weapons, by request of Mr. Bronte.” Bill opens his mouth to protest but Dutch holds up a silencing hand.

“Not a problem, gentlemen.” You step to the side, letting them empty their holsters. One of the guards glances towards you and the beaded purse on your arm. He eyes you warily and you scoff with feigned offense.

“You think a lady like myself carries weapons? Really?” You shake your head and do your best to look outraged. “I suppose next you’ll be asking to look up my skirt too!” You can see the other's faces blanche but the guard backs off, hands raised as he lets you through. “I never,” you huff, glaring at him as you pass by.

Dutch is the first to catch up to you. He steals Arthuir’s spot by your side and takes your elbow in his hand. He guides you up the front porch stairs and you resist the urge to jerk your arm out of his grip. “You play your role quite well,” he compliments.

You give him an appreciative smile and open the clasp of your purse for him. “I’ve got a conveniently sized companion in my purse if you get too familiar, Father,” you bite out, showing him the small gun hidden within the fabric. He only chuckles, tucking you back into his hold.

The sounds of the party outside begin to leak through the extravagantly decorated halls of the estate and you feel your heart kick up. It’s been a long while since you’ve had to entertain one of these functions. You haven’t had the time to worry about your hair, or makeup, or how scandalous your dress was, in so long. You’ve forgotten how nerve-wracking it can be.

You find yourself squeezing Dutch’s arm, desperate for something to ground you and finding no comfort in him. Your hand fists itself in the silk of your dress, wrinkling it and staining it with your sweaty palm.

You step out onto the back terrace and stride towards the railing overlooking the vast garden. Below, a sea of socialites, businessmen, and politicians mills about, their laughter and pleasantries drowning out the quartet playing. Each of them mingles and laughs at each other’s jokes. But you know better, you see through the charade. They’re predators cloaked in silk, circling one another, each waiting for the faintest scent of weakness before they strike. There is no true friendship or kindness between people like this.

“Alright—” Dutch begins, turning to address the group behind him, but a thick Italian accent cuts him off.

“Ah, my guest of honor.”

The man from the bar strides past Arthur, his attention fixed on you and Dutch.

Dutch’s face splits into a wide, practiced smile as he steps forward, extending his hand for a shake. “Sir, this is my father-” you begin to introduce but the man interrupts.

He takes Dutch’s hand with a grin. “Dutch Van der Linde. And you,” he says, turning toward you with a gleam in his eye that makes your stomach twist, “the beautiful Mrs. Rowe.”

Arthur and Bill exchange a tense glance, their hands twitching instinctively for the guns they were forced to leave behind.

The man bursts into laughter, clapping his hands together at the sight of their wary expressions. “Please, gentlemen, do not insult me. I am no fool.” His gaze slides back to you, his grin widening. “But I do enjoy pretty things—like your charming companion here—putting on such delightful performances for me.”

You should have known better. Information shouldn’t have come so easily. Your grip on Dutch’s arm slackens, and without hesitation, you step toward Arthur.

“Well, you seem to know us, sir,” Dutch interjects smoothly, attempting to reclaim control of the conversation. “I can’t say we share the honor.”

“Angelo Bronte,” he introduces himself smoothly, shaking Hosea’s hand before moving through the men one by one. Finally, he reaches you. With a practiced elegance, he takes your hand, his touch light as he bends to press a kiss to your knuckles.

His eyes lift to meet yours, dark and calculating, as his lips brush against your gloved fingers. “A pleasure,” he murmurs, his voice rich with charm. “I do hope you’ll save a dance for me.”

Your face screws up in distaste before you mask it with a practiced smile. Words fail you as you’re overcome with the urge to put as much distance between yourself and Angelo as possible.

He lingers, his presence making your stomach twist with discomfort, for another moment before finally stepping back and releasing you. He turns towards Dutch and gives him a greasy smile. “I believe we have business to discuss,” he says smoothly, nodding toward Hosea. “If you and your companion would join me in my study.”

It’s a demand, not an invitation, as Bronte steps back through the grand doors of the estate. His men move swiftly to escort Hosea and Dutch inside. Dutch pauses, turning to the rest of you. “Talk to everyone you can,” he instructs, his tone clipped and focused.

You scoff under your breath. Even faced with an Italian mobster, Dutch’s mind is fixed firmly on profit.

“I’m headin’ to the bar,” Bill grumbles, brushing past you and Arthur without a second glance.

You turn to your partner, offering him a faint, hesitant smile but avoiding his gaze. “Feel like dancing?” You fear the same cruel rejection he’d given you earlier.

Arthur glances at you with a shrug, already heading for the stairs. “Oh, I don’t know,” he says, his tone teasing, dry. “I might be a bit too dull-witted for a dance.”

You roll your eyes, trailing after him, his jab lingering between you like an unspoken challenge. You take his arm and he begins shouldering through all the nicely dressed people. They send him affronted looks but he pays no mind, heading toward the bar Bill isn’t standing at. “Don’t keep pretending I intentionally hurt your feelings,” you taunt.

He pauses at the bar, gently pushing you in front of him to create a buffer between you and the throng of people. His presence shields you like a wall. It doesn’t help the way the air feels more suffocating with every passing moment. You’re unsure if it’s the corset or the amount of people swarming you that makes it hard to breathe.

“’Course my feelings ain’t hurt,” he mutters, flashing a brief grin before waving down the bartender. Without needing to say much, the man places a glass of whiskey in front of him and moves on to the next person. “I know you had to lie,” Arthur continues, voice quieter now. “I just don’t like you being mixed up in all this, alright? You could-”

“What?” You interrupt, turning to face him, your chest pressing against his. The sight you make must be quite a spectacle for polite society- two people so intimately entwined, neither of you wearing rings. You take his hand in yours, “I could get hurt?”

You let out a self-deprecating laugh and shake your head. “I already have been hurt, Arthur. The O'Driscolls were what dragged me into this, not you. Just being in that camp puts me in danger.”

His brows furrow, something that looks startling like hurt playing across his face. “I can’t be responsible,” he utters, voice low and heavy, “for someone else I care about dyin’.”

You sigh, heart aching for him. “Arthur,” you say softly, hand drifting up to cup his jaw. He leans into your touch, and you practically melt at the sight. You wish you could just keep him locked away. Away from all his troubles and the pain he carries, but you know you can’t.

“You can’t be responsible for everyone,” you tell him, voice low. “I make my own choices, I’m my own woman. If I choose to put myself in danger that’s my fault, not yours. You’re always gonna be worrying if you keep shouldering all this weight. Let some of it go. Please.”

He sighs heavily, and you know deep down he won’t listen to you, not about this. He’ll always blame himself for the gang’s troubles, and it eats you up inside. You wish he could see himself the way you see him, the way Hosea or Tilly or Sean sees him, not as the man Dutch created.

“Alright,” he whispers, an empty promise, and pulls your hand from his face, lacing his fingers through yours. Your throat tightens as you swallow hard. He’ll never let go. He’d give his dying breath to save someone else.

You blink rapidly, looking away from him as your gaze drifts toward the partygoers. Women in extravagant dresses pass by, on the arms of powerful men, nothing more than accessories to them. You find yourself reaching for the ring on your left hand, only to remember it's long gone.

You had hoped you’d never return to a place like this, to a life full of bad memories. But you should’ve known. No matter what, you always end up back here. It’s what you were raised for, trained for, to please men like Angelo Bronte.

“Can’t believe Hosea had to tell you to compliment me,” you tease, trying to lighten the mood.

He rolls his eyes with a small smile, “You look gorgeous, sweetheart,” he tells you, wholly earnest in his words. “But-”

You swear if he's about to call you a bison-

“Arthur!” A voice calls from above, cutting through the moment. You both frown and look up to see Dutch bent over the porch railing. He nods toward the door, then disappears back inside the estate.

“Alright,” Arthur mutters, pulling a key from inside his jacket and turning toward you. You raise an eyebrow, leaning against the bar, and giving him a questioning look. “Take this and head to the hotel down the road,” he says, handing you the key. “I’ll meet you when this is all done.”

“What is it?” You gingerly take the key from his hand and turn it over.

“A room key,” he deadpans and you roll your eyes.

“I see that, but why did you get it?” You ask, but before he can answer, an impatient voice calls his name from above. You tuck the key into your bag, waving him off. “Go on. I need to get out of here before Bronte collects on that dance.”

He grumbles something under his breath and heads back toward the stairs. He’s nearly at the landing when he turns back toward you.“I’ll be with you soon,” he promises, then rushes the rest of the way up to meet Dutch.

You stare at the key in your purse, then glance back at the women around you. This will be the first party you’ve ever left under your own volition. And, without the looming proposal of twenty men you’ve never met. This will be the first party you’ve ever left by choice. If that’s the only win you have tonight, you’ll be happy.

Saint Denis might be the most backward place you’ve encountered during your time with the gang. Perhaps not as stifling as Rhodes, but certainly no better.

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” the hotel clerk drawls, his tone dripping with false courtesy. “But we don’t allow women of your… caliber in our establishment.”

You glance down at your fine dress, the way Mary-Beth had carefully styled your hair, and try to reconcile his words with your polished appearance. For the life of you, you can’t fathom how this man sees anything but a proper lady.

“And what, exactly, is that supposed to mean?” you ask, your voice sharp.

The man sniffs, his expression folding into something both condescending and disdainful. “Well,” he says, as if speaking to a wayward child, “I happen to remember the gentleman who retained that room. He seems the type to… hire someone like you.”

It takes a moment for his words to land, but when they do, the whites of your eyes flash in disbelief. A whore. That’s what he’s implying you are. Just some woman off the street Arthur must have paid for companionship.

Your fingers twitch, the weight of the gun in your purse suddenly tempting, but you know better. Causing a scene here would accomplish nothing but attracting the attention of Saint Denis’ finest.

Instead, you step forward, your voice dropping into a low, icy drawl. “My husband is going to be quite upset by this treatment.”

He nods his head, lips tilted in faux pity, “I’m sure he will be,” he agrees, voice dripping with sarcasm. He doesn’t believe for one second that you’re married. And maybe you aren’t, but that doesn’t matter. You refuse to let him get away with treating you like this.

“Oh,” you trail off into a bitter chuckle, the sound sharp and humorless as you glare at the smug little man behind the counter. “Alright. I see how it is.”

He has the audacity to feign innocence, shaking his head with wide, exaggerated eyes. “How what is, ma’am?”

You don’t answer. Instead, you nod to yourself, your decision made, and storm over to the bench by the entrance. Without hesitation, you plant yourself down, smoothing your dress as you settle in for the long haul. “I’ll stay here all damn night if I have to,” you declare, voice loud enough to draw a few curious glances from other patrons. “But I will not be leaving this spot until you apologize.”

The clerk’s smile widens, smug and condescending. “Well,” he says with mock cheer, “I hope you’re comfortable.”

It takes Arthur an hour and a half to finish whatever Dutch had needed him for. You don’t have a clue if it had to do with Jack, Tahiti, or who knows what else. All you know is that your legs are practically numb from the tight heels you’re wearing and the uncomfortable wooden bench beneath you. Still, that doesn’t stop you from leaping to your feet the second you see Arthur walk through the hotel door.

His eyes narrow in confusion as you stride toward him. “What’re you still doin’ waitin’ out here?”

You scoff, grabbing his wrist and storming back toward the little man behind the counter, whose wide eyes have already clocked Arthur’s imposing presence. “This little-” You bite your tongue, sucking in a deep breath to steady yourself. Arthur’s brows quirk in amusement as he watches you wrestle your temper into submission.

“This man,” you start again, glaring at the clerk with barely restrained anger, “refused to let me into our room. Says he doesn’t think people like us belong in a place like this.”

Arthur’s expression hardens with interest, and the clerk quickly starts bumbling excuses, his words tripping over themselves in a frantic effort to backpedal. You plant a hand on your hip, your smile sharp and smug as you watch him squirm under the weight of Arthur’s silence.

“You left my wife,” Arthur says, his arm slipping around your waist as he pulls you close, “sittin’ out here. All night?”

The word wife rolls off his tongue so easily it catches you off guard, but you don’t have time to dwell on it. The clerk pales, shaking his head as he stammers, “It was an innocent mistake, sir, I swear. I will happily take you up to your rooms now.”

“No,” you snap, stopping him before he can step away. His strained smile falters as he turns back to you.

“Ma’am?” Both men look at you, but you’re too incensed to notice Arthur biting back his laughter.

“I want a proper apology,” you demand. “I sat on that bench for near two hours and all it takes is one word from him,” you jab a finger in Arthur’s direction. He makes a noise somewhere between affronted and amused, but stays quiet. “And suddenly everythings just fine and dandy?”

The clerk inhales deeply and forces the most half-hearted apologetic look you’ve ever seen. “I am truly sorry ma’am,” he says, tone clipped and mechanical. “Your dress had me mistaking you for someone of much less standing.”

Your jaw drops, and something between a squeak and a growl escapes you. Arthur swiftly snatches the room key back from the clerk and shoots him a glare.“We’ll find our own way to the room.” He tugs you along before you can lunge at the man, whose smug smirk makes your blood boil. Arthur steers you toward the stairs, pushing you gently ahead of him.

“He thought I was a whore, Arthur!” He chuckles and you gasp, whipping around and swatting at his arm. “Do I look like a whore to you?”

“Well, you’re pretty enough to be one—”

“Arthur!” you exclaim, smacking him harder as he laughs and ushers you down the hallway.

When you reach the door, your irritation fades. “Why’d you even get us a hotel room?”

“Well,” he says with a small smile, “I know Shady Belle ain’t up to your standards.”

Guilt twists at you and you shake your head. “Oh, Arthur, no-”

“It’s alright, sweetheart. It ain’t my house.” He takes your hand and leads you inside.

You have to admit, the second you see the clean walls of the room and the freshly-made bed, it’s like weight taken off your shoulders. You hadn’t realized just how much you’d been craving the cleanliness of your old life until now. The idea of a proper bath makes your heart ache with longing.

“How much did this cost you?”

Arthur quirks a brow, slowly sliding your purse off your arm. He frowns slightly at the weight of the gun inside, shooting you an odd look before continuing. “Is that any way to talk to a gentleman?”

“Oh,” you tease, grinning as you turn toward him, “I didn’t know I was talking to a gentleman.” He sets the purse on the table by the bed and closes the distance between you, his hands finding your waist as you loop your arms around his neck.

The conversation takes a more grave shift as you ask, “What did Dutch need?”

Arthur sighs, rolling his eyes. “That Bronte fella. He was the one who took Jack. Needed me and John to fetch some family heirloom. Still, robbin’ graves for an Italian mobster ain’t the oddest job I’ve worked.”

“So, Jack’s back?” you prod, intrigued by the grave-robbing but saving your questions for later.

He nods, the tension in his shoulders easing. “Back at camp. They’re probably celebratin’ by now.”

“And you didn’t want to celebrate with them?”

He shakes his head, his hands drifting to the laces of your dress. “Nowhere I’d rather be than right here.”

“Mr. Morgan,” you scold, your voice low and breathy as he leans closer. “What exactly are your intentions tonight?”

“To get you out of this damn dress,” he murmurs with a chuckle, plucking at a lace and loosening your corset. His eyes meet yours, warm and intent. “Feels like I’m holdin’ someone else’s woman. Wanna see you again.”

You can’t help but smile at the tenderness in his voice, though the words cut a little deeper than you expected. This dress, this persona, the polished veneer of a proper lady- it’s all a mask. And in Arthur’s arms, it feels like it’s already slipping away.

You tilt your head up, eyes fluttering close in invitation. He doesn’t waste a second before he’s pressing his lips against yours, eager hands working on pushing the corset the rest of the way off. You stumble towards the bed, your fingers drifting down his neck to tug at the bowtie still knotted too tightly around his collar.

Arthur seems to have better luck than you do with shedding your layers. He also seems to have more experience with ladies garments than he’s let on. You’d laugh at his eagerness if you weren’t just as desperate, fumbling at the buttons of his shirt with frustrated huffs.

He gives you a gentle push, your legs hit the edge of the bed and you fall back with a soft gasp. You prop yourself on your elbows, looking up at him with a coy smile as your fingers toy with the neckline of your shift, sliding it a little lower.

“Well, Mr. Morgan?” You tease, your voice low and inviting. “You really gonna keep a lady waiting?”

His lips quirk into a crooked smile, but he doesn’t bother with words. Instead, he leans down, his weight pressing into you as he captures your lips again. Your laughter melts into a quiet gasp as his hands find your waist, tugging you closer.

The room grows warmer, the world outside fading to nothing as you lose yourself in him, in the way his hands and lips feel against your skin. Your dress slips further, pooling around you like a forgotten memory. Whatever unspoken words linger in the air are stolen away, replaced by breathless laughter and the sweet whispers of a night that belongs to you and Arthur alone.

The ride back to camp is slow, neither of you in any rush to return to the chaos. Your conversation is devoid of your usual banter, instead you opt for soft glances and easy smiles. Thoughts of your intimate morning together, the way he’d brushed the hair off your bare shoulder, the two of you splashing out half the water figuring out if that bathtub was big enough for the both of you, it was all so perfect. Neither of you want to shatter the rare, fragile peace. Besides, what more is there to say after last night.

It’s easy to forget why there had ever been tension between you, until you make it back to camp. The noise is overwhelming immediately, loud cheering and shouted questions that you can’t make out through the cacophony of voices.

Arthur pulls Diablo to a stop, and you follow suit, hitching Lady beside him. He swings down from the saddle first, his eyes narrowing at the commotion around Dutch’s tent. Coming to your side, he offers a hand to help you down, his grip firm and steady. Without letting go, he threads your hand loosely through his, guiding you through the small crowd gathering near Dutch.

You lift up the edge of your skirt and follow along after him. After last night, you’ve learned the dress can survive some wear and tear, you’re no longer worried about messing it up. The tight tendrils of the night before are loose waves around your shoulders and the flush on your cheeks can no longer be blamed on rouge. You glance over at Arthur and grin, the bowtie and the jacket abandoned back at the hotel, his hair fussed from your wandering hands.

Sean comes bounding up to you both, hollering a loud, “Arthur!” The over-excited redhead practically bounces on Arthur’s shoulders as a broad grin splits his face. Arthur grimaces, swatting Sean’s hands off.

“What the hell’s gotten into you?” Arthur snaps, already out of patience for Sean’s antics.

Sean grins even wider, “Oh, he’s done it, Arthur! We’re finally gonna get the hell outta here!” Arthur looks over his shoulder at you, wearing a confused expression that you share, just as lost as he is.

“Arthur! Finally!” Dutch’s voice cuts through the noise, silencing the crowd. He strides over, smiling at Sean before nudging him aside with casual dismissal. Dutch’s sharp eyes flick to you, narrowing with suspicion. “I was wondering where you’d disappeared to,” he says smoothly, though there’s a pointed edge to his tone that makes your stomach twist. You stand straighter, unwilling to bend beneath his gaze.

“Dutch,” Arthur starts, his tone unsure. “What’s got everyone so worked up?”

“My dear boy, I have finally found our golden ticket out of here and onto a boat to Tahiti!” You can’t help but feel a spike of doubt. You rarely trust anything he says, but especially not when it comes to Tahiti. But what catches you off guard is the flicker of hesitation in Arthur’s expression.

“Really?” Arthur asks, his voice laced with skepticism as he eyes Dutch warily. If Dutch is surprised, he doesn’t let it show.

His grin doesn’t falter as he steps closer, resting both hands on Arthur’s shoulders. There’s an air of practiced paternal affection about him. “Arthur,” he says warmly, his voice almost a purr, “have I ever given you reason to doubt me?”

You scoff, crossing your arms. “I can think of a few,” you mutter under your breath, your glare sharp as you meet Dutch’s gaze.

Dutch turns to you with a polished smile, laughing as if you’ve shared some inside joke. “Ah, that tongue of yours—always so sharp, my dear.” You roll your eyes at his patronizing tone, your irritation barely contained. Arthur shoots you a warning look, silently asking you to hold your temper. But you can’t help it. Every instinct in you rails against Dutch, every polished word and easy charm grating like nails on a chalkboard.

There’s no way that whatever Dutch has planned actually works, it never does. In fact, it seems every mission, robbery, or even shopping trip since the mountains has ended up with you being chased by Pinkertons or Cornwall. It’s almost as though someone is letting them know where you’re going to be. You linger on the thought, swirl it around before dismissing it. Dutch’s power comes from having control over the gang. He wouldn’t so foolishly give that away by letting in a rat. He’s a conman, but he’s no idiot.

“I’ve received a tip from our friend Mr. Bronte.” Dutch starts, turning towards the rest of the gang so they can hear him. Arthur watches him with narrowed eyes and a scowl. You observe, face pinched as you try and discern what he’s thinking. “If we want to finally get out of here,” a few whistles from the group and he grins, “our future lay in trains.” he laughs, clapping his hands together and shaking his head. “I don’t know how I never thought of it before, but if there was one place that’s going to have the most foot traffic and money, it’s going to be the train station.”

You walk up to Arthur, snagging the elbow of his jacket and tugging him towards you. He shoots you a bewildered look but you shake your head, urging him not to say anything. “Do you really think this is smart?” Your voice is hushed, one eye trained on Dutch to make sure he’s busy regaling everyone with his tall tales. “Following a tip he got from a mobster sounds risky, even by the gang’s standards.”

Arthur lets out a rough sigh and scrubs a hand down his weary face. You steel yourself for his usual defense of Dutch, instead he just looks like a man beaten down too many times. His shoulders sag in a weary gesture that you’ve seen one too many times. “What choice do I have?” He asks, already sounding resigned to the mission. “It doesn’t matter what I think, he’ll drag everyone else along on his scheme. Someone’s gotta make sure they don’t all get themselves killed.”

“Does it have to be you?” You snap, biting back your volume as your frustration threatens to boil over. Your eyes narrow into slits as you tilt your head, trying to catch his eye. “We’ve had this conversation before, Arthur. Last time you were nearly dead, I don’t much feel like having you come back to me in a casket this time around.”

Arthur’s jaw tightens as he meets your gaze, looking like a rough mix of guilt and anger. “We’re going to keep having this conversation until you just accept that this is who I am,” he says sharply. “This is what I have to do, if you can’t live with that then this is gonna end just like it did with Mary.”

It almost feels like he’s trying to hurt you, trying to push you away. With a pained scoff, you shake your head, “Dammit, Arthur, maybe she had a point,” you shoot back. “There’s nothing wrong with you being an outlaw, but there is everything wrong with always being the first to throw yourself in front of a bullet.”

He snatches his arm from your grip and your stomach drops to your feet. The emptiness of your hands feels like a physical blow. His expression softens, ever so slightly. “One last job,” the promise lingers heavy in the air between you. His face is a quiet plea but you can only take a step back from him. Your heart is aching and he isn’t even gone yet. “I swear,” he adds.

“You’ve said that before,” you whisper, your voice cracking. “Go, Arthur. It doesn’t matter what I say, you’re never going to choose me.” He hesitates, his hand hovering near yours like he wants to reach for you. But before he can say anything, Hosea’s voice calls his name from the wagon, pulling him away. You watch him go, your chest tight and your vision blurring as the space between you grows. He doesn’t look back, and you don’t call after him.

This is who he is. And you? You’ll always be the one left behind.

You’re supposed to be packing Arthur’s things. After all, the miraculous Dutch Van der Linde is about to lead everyone out of the wetlands and onto a boat to paradise. You scoff at the thought, twirling a bottle of whiskey in your hand. The last time you drank this, you’d killed a man. You wonder what you’ll do this time.

A commotion breaks out at the edge of camp, dragging you away from whatever foolishness you were about to get into. Frowning, you drop the bottle to the ground without a care for the way it shatters. You step over the shards of glass and run towards the horses, dread coiling in your stomach. The job was supposed to be quick, but an hour seems far too fast for you.

Mrs. Grimshaw shouts at whoever’s parking their horse and you narrow your eyes in confusion when you see Charles struggling off Taima’s saddle, his movements sluggish and pained. Concern gnaws at your already frayed nerves when you realize he’s the only one to return. Your mind immediately follows the worst scenarios, Arthur thrown lifeless over a horse. Or, worse, never returning at all.

Charles staggers to a stop in front of you and you’re forced out of your spiraling thoughts. His face is a mottled portrait of bruises, blood still leaking steadily from his nose. This is the first time you’ve ever seen him look out of sorts and it’s chilling. “They’re gone,” he croaks, hand clenched around his ribs.

Your hands dart to his shoulders, steadying him. “Who is?” You ask, though you already have the sinking feeling you know the answer.

“Hosea and Lenny,” he says, his voice cracking. “Dead. Cops got them. Sean and John, were dragged off to prison-”

“Arthur,” you interrupt him, voice short as you impatiently wait for his answer. He winces, from pain or the reluctance to tell you, you can’t tell. “What happened to Arthur?” you ask slowly, voice low and tense. You feel like the string of a bow, taut and pulled back, just waiting to be set free.

“Got on a boat with Dutch and the others. A ferry, I don’t know where they are, but they’re gone.” He stumbles back from you, turning towards the rest of camp. The world seems to slip upside down. Your hands fall to your sides, grasping at nothing but empty air.

“They left us,” you whisper, the weight of it sinking in like a blade to the chest. Arthur left you. All the warmth he’d given was stripped away and left you cold.

Your mind races, but it always lands on the same bleak truth: this isn’t the first time you’ve been abandoned. You’d been foolish enough to think it might be different with Arthur. Foolish enough to believe he might stay.

Charles’s voice cuts through your haze. “The Pinkertons will be here soon,” he shouts, turning toward the rest of the camp. “We need to leave, now!”

You don’t move. Your feet are rooted in place, your mind screaming at you to react, but your body refuses to listen. You’re disgusted with yourself by how much this betrayal is surprising you.

Charles spins back to you, his hands gripping your shoulders with no care for gentleness. “We need to go,” he snaps, shaking you. “Now.”

His urgency finally breaks through, and you nod stiffly.

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