#tell me lies bree

[clubartaesthetic]

Very controversial

[thelusciousdevil]

[ariesrain]

Look, I think it's pretty obvious that you came here tonight looking for something, so we might as well just get to the point.

[sunlightandprayers]

i actually want to strangle lucy and stephen with my bare hands

[sunshinegirl29]

As someone who was in love with her teacher for years, Tell Me Lies casually dropping Tom Ellis in, and THEN having the chemistry and tension with Bree was a crime. I am SAD AND HORNY.

[magggg202]

I always love a bad boy in a movie or book, but the HATE I have for Stephen DeMarco is real!!! LEO AND Max did not deserve any of this!! WHY LUCY?! WHY!!

[byebuck]

oh my god. stephen pulled the “we are the only people that work together” (NOT TRUE STEPHEN OKAY LUCY IS FUCKING NORMAL WITHOUT YOU BUT YOU RUINED HER) and it’s gonna work. it’s gonna fucking work. because he’s a manipulator because yeah of course she can’t fucking get over you and what you’ve done because you’re sick and twisted you whore!!!!

so that 2015 timeline… we’ll get that hookup in the finale. feeling: scared!

[xtinyslip]

bree was sat with her camera out, clearly flicking through the work she had done today on her screen. she was really pleased with it, it finally felt like her photography business was beginning to take off and she couldn't have been more delighted. it had only taken years but it was a tough business and she had the patience to last it out. "oh, sorry." offering an apologetic smile as she started to clear the table to give the other person room, if they wanted to sit. it wasn't that uncommon in london, especially in a bar like this one ; she was used to it. "you can sit if you like? i was actually thinking of ordering another drink if you -- you know?" wanted to get one. @moonglowmuses

[naneki-maid]

so I get what Bree is saying in feeling betrayed—having been lied to, but it is just so funny and twisted hearing her say “I thought this was something special…there wasn’t any part of this that was mine!” like?? oh to be the mysterious mistress that she thought she was? what a sick and bizarre position to covet. and idk maybe the foundation of something special doesn’t begin with having an affair with a 45 year old man.

[tellmelieshulu]

bree, get behind me, we're going to war.

[mymmri3s]

[baileybasses-archive]

OH THIS HORRID WHITE MAN I HATE HIM SO MUCH

[msbigredmachine]

Off The Record (Roman Reigns)

When passion gets recorded, it becomes the hottest track of the year.

Pairing: Roman Reigns/Black female rapper!OC

Warnings: Fluff, smut

Word Count: 3k

Song inspos:

The neon lights bathed the walls of the recording studio, their pulsing hues reflecting off the glass panel that separated the booth from the control room. Lyrica Walker, better known to the world as the award winning rapper and singer Sweet Lyrica, was deep in thought. Her gaze flicked between the blank page and the microphone in the recording booth. A heavy bass line rumbled through the speakers, but the rhythm wasn’t igniting her the way it usually did.

Something was missing. Scratch that—someone was missing.

She tapped her pen against the spiral binding of her notebook, her full lips pursed in concentration. But no matter how hard she tried to focus, her mind kept drifting back to him.

Her man. Her love.

It was coming up to two years since she started dating Roman Reigns, and every day felt like she was living in a constant state of excitement and need. He spoiled her with everything—a constant flow of dinners at fancy restaurants, spontaneous trips to places she hadn’t even thought about, and a stream of expensive gifts and trinkets that made her feel like a queen. But it wasn’t just the gifts. No. It was the way he looked at her, touched her, loved her, like she was the only woman in the world.

“You’re zoning out again,” Dez, her producer, said from behind the console. His fingers hovered over the controls, his expression hovering somewhere between amused and exasperated.

Lyrica snapped out of her reverie, shaking her head as if that would dispel the image of Roman’s eyes, his lips, his hands, his dick…

“I’m tryna lock in,” she lied, her voice sultry even when she wasn’t trying. “It just don’t feel right yet. It’s too…soft. I need that shit to hit harder, like Roman does in bed.”

Dez cast her a sidelong glance, clearly uncomfortable. “You just had to say that, huh,” he griped.

Lyrica shot him a playful look. “Oh, come on. You gotta give me credit. With my line of thought, this track’s gonna be fire.”

Bree, her assistant, was sprawled out on the couch, scrolling through her phone with a grin plastered across her face. “I don’t know, Dez. I think this one’s gonna be a megahit. You can’t ignore the realness of it. It’s raw.”

Lyrica leaned back in her chair, tapping the pen against her lips. “I’m thinking of calling it ‘Can You Tell��.” She paused for dramatic effect. “Like, Can you tell when we alone in a room, we got the vibe and we got the tune?”

Dez nodded, impressed. “That’s a start.”

“And it’s facts, too,” Bree added with a smirk. “I mean, the neighbors definitely know when y’all are in the same room, that’s for sure.”

Lyrica couldn’t help but grin at the numerous reminders. Like the night before Roman had left for the UK. They fucked each other up and down her condo with such intensity that she woke the following morning to a complaint filed by her neighbors. If only she cared. It had been two weeks since then, and she was feeling every second of his absence. She had memories to hang on to, all of which made her toes curl and her lips curl into a small, secretive smile. But it wasn’t enough. She craved the real thing.

“Wait! How’s this? Can you tell from the way I don’t walk straight, that he eats my pussy out on every date?” she freestyled, her voice dripping with sass as she jotted down the lyrics.

“Oooh yasss girl, get that shit,” Bree cheered, snapping her fingers.

Dez’s reaction was the complete opposite, his hand over his eyes. “Lyrica, please! I do not need to hear about any more of your…dates with Roman. You like a sister to me, man,” he cringed.

“Come on now, let Miss Mama do her thing,” Bree interjected. “This song is gonna go viral. Big man’s gonna love it.”

Lyrica smirked. “He definitely will. This the kinda dirty shit he inspires.”

Bree snorted, “Girl, everything you do is inspired by Roman. I don’t blame you, though. Have you seen him?!”

Lyrica shot her a look but didn’t argue.

“Exactly,” Bree laughed, “I’m just sayin’,” she added, holding up her phone to display a video of Roman from his match the night before in London. He strode around the ring, dripping sweat, his long hair falling over his shoulders like a god carved from marble. “If my man looked like that, I’d write a whole damn album about him.”

“Exactly. He makes me wild. And wild is what sells,” Lyrica replied, her pen tapping again on her notebook. Bree wasn't wrong. Roman wasn’t just her man; he was her muse, her balance. With him, she felt powerful and vulnerable all at once—a walking contradiction that made her and her music come alive.

“Girl, it’s not just wild; it’s real,” said Bree, “That’s why people love you two. Y’all are couple goals, for real.”

Lyrica’s smile softened, but her voice carried the weight of a confession. “He’s so…different. The kind of man I didn’t even know I needed. I don’t know where I’d be without him. Like, literally.”

Her words hung in the air, heavy with unspoken truths. Dez and Bree exchanged a glance, their silence louder than anything they could say. They both knew the depths Lyrica had clawed her way out of—a nightmare disguised as a high-profile relationship with a rapper that had unraveled into chaos. What had started as love turned into suffocating control, bruises hidden beneath designer clothes, and a fear she’d once thought impossible to escape. Then, Roman was no more than an acquaintance. They’d met through mutual friends, and from the beginning, his kindness was disarming, selfless in a way she wasn’t used to, his quiet strength a balm to her chaos. She’d sensed his attraction, but he never once overstepped, respecting the fragile walls she’d built around herself.

It all changed on a storm-drenched night when Lyrica found herself standing on his doorstep, soaked to the bone, trembling, and broken. Her words had been disjointed, barely audible through her sobs, but the sight of her swollen face said more than enough. Roman didn’t ask questions. He didn’t hesitate.

“You’re staying here tonight,” he said, his tone steady and resolute as he guided her inside.

She shook her head weakly, her voice breaking. “I don’t wanna be a burden…”

“You’re not a burden,” he interrupted, his tone leaving no room for argument. His hands settled gently on her shoulders, grounding her. “Lyrica, you’re worth protecting.” He dipped his head, his eyes locking onto hers. “I’ll protect you. That fucker will never hurt you again.”

Lyrica remembered the rain pouring outside with the same intensity as her tears as she broke apart in his arms. For the first time in years, she’d felt something she thought she’d lost forever: hope.

It was Roman who encouraged her to testify against her abuser, standing beside her through every painful step of the process. His unwavering support gave her the strength to reclaim her life, and when her ex was finally sentenced, she knew she owed—and loved—Roman, more than she could ever express. 

An idea came to her mind, and she quickly scribbled it down:

Can you tell by the way I glow, his love is my fire and I can’t let him go?

The door to the studio creaked open. Lyrica barely registered it at first, assuming it was another assistant or studio tech coming in to fetch something. She didn’t bother looking up...until she heard a voice she hadn’t realized she was holding her breath for.

“Y’all talkin’ bout me in here?”

Familiar. Deep. Hers.

Her heart lurched, and a shiver raced down her spine. Slowly, almost afraid to hope, she turned her head.

Roman stood in the doorway, a bouquet of deep red roses cradled in his hand, his presence commanding the room like a storm that had just rolled in. The custom-made Nike tech fleece hugged his broad shoulders, his hair was tied back in a sleek bun, and that signature smirk—equal parts cocky and endearing—curved his lips. But it was his eyes that undid her. They locked onto hers, brimming with amusement, heat, and something softer, deeper, that made her chest tighten.

“Hey, baby girl,” he drawled, his deep baritone smooth and magnetic, the sound wrapping around her like a blanket on a cold night.

Lyrica’s breath hitched. It felt like the room had shrunk to just the two of them, his presence filling every corner of her world. She wanted to say something clever, something casual, but her words faltered under the weight of her emotions. She hadn’t seen him in weeks, and now here he was, looking at her like she was the only thing that mattered.

Her pen slipped from her fingers. “Baby!” She was on her feet before she realized she was moving, rushing across the room and leaping into his arms. He caught her with ease, holding her carefully as she wrapped her legs around his waist.

“What are you doing here?” she breathed, burying her face in his neck. His scent—clean and masculine with a hint of his cologne—made her head spin with a myriad of emotions. “Oh my god, you smell so good,” she gushed.

Laughing, his lips pressed against her skin. “Your birthday’s in three days,” he murmured against her ear, “You really think I’d miss that?”

Her grip on him tightened. “I thought you had more shows.”

“I did.” He pulled back just enough to look her in the eye, his huge hands possessively gripping her equally bounteous ass. “But you’re more important.”

Bree squealed softly from the couch, breaking the romantic moment. Finally setting Lyrica down on her feet, Roman’s eyes flicked to Bree, then to Dez, and his expression shifted to that commanding dominance that never failed to turn Lyrica on.

“Out. Both o' you. I need a moment with my girl,” he said.

Dez and Bree exchanged wide-eyed looks. Bree gave a sly smile and was the first to head for the door, dragging Dez along with her. “Don’t mind us, we’ll just…uh, take a break,” she said, clearly amused, shooting Lyrica a cheeky grin as she grabbed her bag. 

As the door clicked shut behind them, Roman turned to his girlfriend, that sexy smile back on his face. His eyes softened, a perfect mix of affection and desire. “So,” he began, his deep voice tinged with amusement, “what songs have you been working on lately?”

“A few here and there,” Lyrica teased, recalling the brainstorming session from just moments ago. “They’re about you, of course.”

His grin widened, and his hands slid around her waist, pulling her flush against him. “Yeah? I like the sound of that already,” he murmured, his thumbs brushing gentle circles on her sides. “But I got some lyrics for you, too.”

She raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Oh, you got bars? Lemme hear ‘em, then.”

He leaned in just enough to let his lips graze her ear, his voice dropping an octave. “I’m the flame to your fire, the calm to your fight, The one who showed you love could be so right.”

Her heart thudded at his words, striking deeper than she expected. For a moment, she could only blink at him, her playful facade slipping into something softer, more vulnerable. “Sounds like a hit already, baby,” she whispered.

Roman chuckled, low and warm, as Lyrica cupped his bearded cheeks and guided his lips to hers. The kiss was gentle, sensual, and full of untapped love, leaving them both breathless and clinging to each other like they were each other’s anchor. The room around them quickly melted away, the only sounds the faint hum of the studio equipment and their breaths mingling.

“I’ve missed the fuck outta you,” Roman admitted, his voice low and hungry as his hand slipped south to squeeze her ass in his possessive grasp. “Every time I was in the ring, all I could think about was getting back to you.”

Lyrica's fingers curled into the front of his hoodie, pulling him closer. “You think I’ve had it any easier? I can’t even write 'cause all I want is you.”

“I want you, too, baby. Come get this dick,” he growled, making her pulse quicken. As a couple, nowhere was off limits to fuck, not even in a recording studio. That’s how needy they were for each other. She could feel the heat radiating off of him, even more so as he kissed her again, fierce and persistent. With a soft groan into her mouth, he carried her blindly over to the console, settling her on the edge as he pressed into her. The control he had, the way he handled her like she was the only thing that mattered in that moment, aroused her to no end.

Shoving his joggers down his legs, Lyrica cupped that big ol’ dick of his in her palm, massaging him through his briefs. A moan emanated from both their lips at her touch, her acrylic nails scraping his rapidly stiffening flesh. Her fingers hooked the waistband of his briefs, and she pushed them down too, all the way to his ankles. In turn, he lifted her hips enough to drag her boy shorts off, then practically tore off her panties. He brought the scrap of lace material to his nose, eyes fluttering shut as the scent of her desire filled his nostrils. He smiled down at its source, gleaming from between her toned legs. "I see you're wet for me, baby," he observed, his voice thick with desire.

“I’m always wet for you,” Lyrica purred, resting on her hands behind her, watching him stroke himself in preparation for her. “Fuck me, baby. Hard.”

“Yes ma’am.” Roman inclined her against the glass paneling, hooked her legs around his bulging biceps and slowly guided his dick into her slick warmth. "Mmm, fuck yeah," he hissed as he started off with deep, plunging strokes, desperate for her as she was for him. He said nothing, for now, simply focusing on giving his girl something they’ve both been missing for weeks. The sensations flooding through him proved time and again that FaceTime could never replace the raw viscerality of his length wrapped by her tight, potent pussy.

Pushing her top up, he squeezed on her titties, caressing the soft, pliable flesh as he upped the tempo. “Such a good girl, keeping this pussy wet for daddy,” he rasped, leaning in for a sloppy kiss as he stared deep into her eyes. Her heavy breasts bounced in his palms, the glass panel rattling behind her as he fucked her against it. “Like how I’m fucking this pussy, baby? You missed this dick, huh?”

"I missed it, daddy, mmm, you feel so good," Lyrica whimpered, and it was the sweetest sound the OTC had ever heard. He plucked her nipples, gritting his teeth as her pussy squeezed his shaft, intensifying the already incredible sensations. 

“So fucking tight…” he growled, pounding into her harder, driving in and out of her dripping pussy. His hands left her breasts to grip her ass cheeks, lifting her against him while he hammered white-hot pleasure into her body, making her cry out again and again. 

“Mmmph, mmm, yes, yes, daddy, fuck me!” One hand moved to claw at his bicep, her fingernails digging into his taut skin, her breaths expelling with every slam of his pelvis. “Good ass dick…” she whined, her eyes rolling back, her stomach clenching along with her pussy as ecstasy beckoned. “Shit, I’m gonna come…”

“Uh huh. Get your nut, baby. Come on,” Roman rasped, grabbing her thick thighs and spreading them far apart as he kept up his ruthless pace. A sound of pleasure rumbled from his chest at the sight of his groin area smeared with her juices, the squelching sounds of her wetness mingling erotically with their sex noises. His glazed eyes locked onto her face, alight with ecstasy, and he watched her arch off the console and her jaw drop, moaning with reckless abandon, her legs trembling as she came apart around him.

“Unnnnhhh…”

"Shit," Roman gasped, pinning her down, his hips snapping furiously. He was so close, his end building with a near-crippling intensity that made his dick throb. "Fuck, Lyrica..."

“You're close, ain’tcha, Ro?” she taunted, her hands closing around his pumping hips to pull him deeper. “Come inside me, baby. Come for me.”

His groans harmonized with hers as he shuddered, releasing everything he had into her, Lyrica holding him close as pleasure swept through his big body. His nut seemed to go on forever, but at last, he stilled, his face buried in her neck, his heart hammering in his chest.

Lyrica laughed breathlessly, tenderly rubbing the back of his head. “Damn, big daddy,” she teased.

Roman wrapped a gentle hand around her neck and grinned down at her. “Told you I missed you.”

“I know, baby. I missed you too,” she nodded, sighing softly as their mouths met again, their tongues twining slowly, deliciously. Then, a loud gasp escaped her as she suddenly realized something. 

“Oh shit!” she muttered, looking around the room, then at Roman, her eyes wide. “The mics were on!”

Roman looked over at the recording equipment, his eyes narrowing. “What?”

Lyrica quickly pushed a button, and the playback button lit up. What followed was the unmistakable sounds of their passionate exchange—her breathy moans, his gruff grunts, the rhythmic slapping of wet skin. The lewd yet intimate sounds filled the entire room, layered over the faint beat Dez had left running in the background.

“Oh my god!” she said, burying her face in his chest from embarrassment. “I can’t believe that got recorded!”

Roman burst out laughing, clearly entertained by the whole situation. “I think it’s perfect,” he said, kissing the top of her head. He could see the wheels turning as she looked off to the side before shrugging her shoulders, her confidence returning.

“Ya know what? Fuck it. I’ma keep it.”

Roman raised an eyebrow, fighting the smirk that tugged at his lips. “Really? You ain’t worried about how it’ll look?” he teased.

Lyrica grinned, her fingers trailing up his chest. “It’s raw. It’s real. I might just build the whole track around it.”

He chuckled, gently tapping her backside. “As long as the world knows who you singin’ about.”

“Oh, they’ll know. You’re unforgettable, baby.” Her voice was a sultry purr as she kissed him. “It’ll be the most fire part of the song. People will be talking about it for months.”

And they did. 

A month later, ‘Can You Tell’ dropped, and as soon as the track hit the airwaves, the world exploded with speculation. Fans flooded Lyrica’s social media trying to figure out if the breathless sounds in the song were truly hers and Roman’s. Neither of them confirmed or denied it, letting the mystery add to the song’s allure.

The song went viral, and while the critics loved it, it was the rumors surrounding the track that kept the public hooked. One thing was certain, though: Lyrica and Roman had created a track that no one would forget. It was wild, passionate, and raw—just the way they both liked it.

But for Lyrica, the real triumph wasn’t the song’s success. It was the love that had inspired it, the beautiful, amazing man who had helped her heal and reminded her that she deserved the world.

THE END

Thoughts?

Shout out to the Anon who sent the idea for this a long time ago.

Credit to the owners of the pics and the gifs

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[artisticdemon]

I watched "Tell Me Lies" only for Tom Ellis

And let me fucking tell you that first of all the scenes with him were *chef's kiss* but the storyline pissed me off so much!

Bree knew what she was doing and he told her too. He even asked her if she could handle the fact that he was married and she said yes with of course the delusion that she will make him leave his wife.

Now don't get me wrong Oliver is an asshole too but so is a Bree! Girl what the fuck were you doing?! AND HOW CAN YOU FEEL SAD OR PLAY THE VICTIM AFTER THE TRUTH WAS REAVELED?! She knew he was married but proceed to do things with him anyway, how is that ok?

A lot of women do that and I just roll my eyes because girl you ain't special, fucking stop it! Many married men will only want to have sex with you and have you as a side chick! You will never be the wife so fuck off!!! HAVE SOME FUCKING SELF RESPECT! In these situations both the man and the woman are the asshole. Yes I fucking said it. Of course for both of them to act like that a lot of things need to be reconsidered: How they grew up, how their saw the relationship between their parents, what their parents taught them about relationships, how their friends act, what their influences are and many more.

If the environment they grew up in is problematic then they will turn out problematic. Also a huge "Go fuck yourselves" to the people who KNOW that their behavior is problematic, they KNOW what they are doing is wrong and feel bad but they DON'T DO ANYTHING to fucking change their fucking behavior. Go fuck yourselves, you deserve what will happen to you. And I ain't talking about romantic relationships, I'm talking in general. If you know what you're doing is wrong and keep doing it don't expect the rest of the world to feel bad about you when something bad happens to you. You are an asshole too.

To the people who are in problematic relationships I hope you see what is happening and get away as fast as you can.

Now after that mini rant back to the show.

Yes Oliver should have told Bree from the start that his marriage with Marianne was open (I hate marriages/ relationships like that because 90% of the time one of the two doesn't agree with it but they shut the fuck up for whatever reason and it's so fucking stupid) but if we want to be honest with ourselves here she knew what she was doing! And acting hurt pissed me off so bad. And Marianne told her too! She called her out on her behavior and asked too if it felt good to think that she was a clueless wife while she was having fun with Oliver. I'm on her side! Bree was living the fantasy, not Oliver, he knew what he was doing and so were she!

She flirted with him too, she went to the bar to find him, she kissed him in the "British" way, she went to his office and then later had sex in the apartment! Which the scene was hot as Hell and very sensual, I really liked it.

Also she is a hypocrite, she had no problem fucking with Oliver but she drew the line when they were having sex in the laundry room? Like girl seriously? That's where we draw the line? Why because the wife was in the next room? And then proceed to put her earrings in his jeans? Fuck off! When Oliver told her that he loved her I rolled my eyes so far back to my skull that I blacked out. Sure big boy, sure you love her I totally believe you //__-

Again, Oliver was wrong too and I am convinced that he probably convinced his wife to an open marriage which if it is true it pisses me off a lot more. He is an asshole too and so is Bree but I'm not gonna drag him that far because his role was literally to be a plot line for her. After all the series is about Bree and her friends not him.

Also let me be clear that I only watched Bree's storyline and parts of the others girls because I only wanted to watch the series for Tom Ellis. And Holy Hell it is a show with problematic relationships. It pissed me off and I want to see what will happen in season 3 if Tom is in it. I hope this plot line makes Bree see that she was wrong too and have the whole thing work as a lesson to recognize signs of problematic behavior to others and for herself too and change for the better. The only thing that she did right this season was breaking up with her stupid boyfriend. And that was my second favourite scene after the sex ones.

In conclusion: Bree and Oliver are both assholes.

And the actors delivered.

And I get it that the show's theme is problematic relationships but why can't we have a series where we see happy couples in healthy relationships? It seems there is an epidemic after 2020 to only show problematic relationships on screen in the majority of movies and tv series. Don't get me wrong, these relationships exist and should be addressed because some of them end in tragedy but showing only these is a problem too. If we want to talk about relationships we need to show the healthy ones too because they exist too. And I won't stand for the people that say they are boring, if you want drama in your life or you are comfortable around it good for you, go seek some help. There's actual people who don't want to see only the bad things in relationships.

This post probably came out meaner than I indented to but it pisses me off when I see problematic behavior FROM BOTH people in a relationship, no matter the relationship, and the show expects me to feel bad for one of them. And yes I would have said the same exact things if the genders were reversed.

[hb-writes]

like...it's very dated in the very best way.

I’m watching Tell Me Lies on Hulu and the way some of it just transmit directly back to college is wild. I went to college a few years after the story takes place but the music and everyone having a blackberry just really takes me back.

[little-peril-stories]

The Queen of Lies: Trust and Treachery

Story Intro | Content Warnings | Mood Board | Vibey Song Lyrics | Ao3

Contents: police, lady whump (sort of, ish, not exactly but ????), guy whump, guns (drawn but not fired)

Previous | Masterlist | Next

Word count: 4100 || Approx reading time: 17 mins

Trust and Treachery

Teaser: “I’m serious. They’re still looking for her. Isn’t anyone going to talk about that? Or am I the only one who’s worried?”

The tales were told over endless cups of tea, as night fell and deepened to the blues and purples of midnight: Will’s time in prison, including details Bree herself had not heard and which made her eyes fill with tears; Bree’s side of the story, and how she had run away from Baden and taken Will with her; Colette’s summary of her time spent in a “safe place” about which she gave no further information; and Jamie Wardrew’s account of shutting down all Iustitia aecum operations and hiding out with the mostly silent other man, who was called Geoff. They had reunited with Colette once word got out that a thief had mysteriously escaped from prison—and posters with Will’s face on them appeared all over the city.

“You idiots should have skipped town fucking weeks ago,” Will said more than once, but there was no vehemence in his words. In fact, he was almost glowing. For most of the conversation, he twitched, bounced, and shifted in his seat, incapable of sitting still—except for his hand, which, despite how often he pulled it away to talk animatedly, always came back to rest upon Bree’s.

Now, his thumb stroked the back of her hand in a gentle, comforting rhythm. “You doing all right?” he murmured in her ear when the others were distracted.

Bree hummed a confirmation that she was, but exhaustion settled over her, brought on by the hours of talking and digging up of painful memories.

Oh—and the residual worries, of course, about when the inner circle of Iustitia aecum would come to their senses and throw her out. After all, what kind of woman would marry a man like Baden Hatchett? And how could she ever be trusted?

“You sure you’re okay?” Will asked.

“I’m just tired,” she told him, and he squeezed her hand.

“Don’t look so worried,” he said. “Everything’s okay.”

But alongside the joy of the reunion, a heaviness clung to the air, and when she glanced at the others, she found that they would not meet her gaze.

***

The next morning, waking in a bed that seemed emptier and colder than it should have, Bree found that Will was not beside her. She could hear him, though—one of several voices that drifted in from the kitchen, hushed and serious.

Frowning, she sat up, trying to catch what was being whispered into the stillness of the early morning.

“Gotta decide what to…”

“If we start up again…”

Bree slipped out of the bed, stifling a gasp at the bite of the cold floor against her bare feet. At the door, which Will had left ajar—had he snuck out, trying not to wake her?—she paused, nudging it slightly to let in more sound.

“I’m serious. They’re still looking for her. Isn’t anyone going to talk about that? Or am I the only one who’s worried?”

Dread, barbed and brutal, tore through Bree’s chest. They weren’t merely talking about IA business. They were talking about her.

“Colette,” Will’s voice said stiffly, his earlier elation gone, “she doesn’t want to go b—”

“Stop twisting my words. I didn’t say she wants to go back. But if they find her, they find us. You can’t tell me it didn’t cross your mind, too.”

“Okay, fine, it did, but—”

Bree closed her eyes. Was that the reason he’d held out so long before giving his name? Fear that her very presence would lead Baden right to him—and that she would buckle under pressure and reveal his name to the entire constabulary? Destroy everything he’d suffered so keenly to conceal with a single witless utterance?

“I mean,” Colette went on, “does anyone else really believe that mad constable’s just going to give up? He’s insane.”

Silence met her words.

“I didn’t think so.” How could she sound so fearless? How could her words be so calm, so steeped in cool, unshakeable logic? “I think you’d all better listen to me about this. Because I get it, we all want to get back to normal, get back to business, but as long as she’s around—”

The sound of a chair scraping against the floor made Bree jump. Furiously, Will snapped, “Don’t you even fucking think about saying what you’re about to say.”

“God, will you let me finish? I’m not arguing that we ditch her somewhere. She’s lovely. God knows how someone like her ended up with someone like him. And—just wait, for heaven’s sake! I’m not a monster. But we need a plan, and we need to make it now, because Hatchett wants you and her and as long as that’s true, we’re all in trouble.”

“She wouldn’t fuck us over like th—”

“Are you even listening? That’s not what I—”

Jamie’s quiet voice cut in. “Okay. Both of you. Shut up for a second.”

“Alpha, you know I’m right.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Will said, his voice acidic. Something warm flickered in Bree’s chest. Even with his brother speaking now, he was standing up for her. “We know. You’re always right. You’re so fucking smart—”

“Will!” Jamie snapped. “Shut the fuck up. Listen, for once.”

“You’re taking her side?”

“I’m not taking sides,” Jamie said tightly. “She—”

Too loudly—enough that if Bree hadn’t already been awake, she would have been jolted out of a dead sleep—Will said, “If you say she has to go, we’re about to have a big problem.”

“Just—”

“She has nowhere else to go,” he said. “Her parents are dead, too. And she can’t go back to Hatchett. She can’t. I’ll fucking die before I let that happen.”

Barely audible, some of the coldness faded from her voice, Colette said, “Oh, Will.”

Bree pressed her hands to her mouth, her heart trying to tear itself free of her very chest.

“And I—I—”

Neither his brother nor his friend interrupted, yet Will’s voice trailed off, the thought unfinished.

Geoff grunted, “You what?”

“I just can’t do that to her, all right?”

Did he mean it? Every word? He did, didn’t he? He wouldn’t let her go back to Baden, even if it meant going against the family he’d only just found again.

“Okay,” Jamie said. A mere breath after him, Colette said the same. “Okay. It’s not going to come to that. But let’s make a contingency plan, all right?”

Will mumbled, “The fuck is a contingency?”

“A just-in-case plan,” Colette said quietly.

“Just in case of what?”

Bree’s throat tightened again as Colette responded, “Just in case things go sideways. In case he catches up with her.” She paused. “With us.”

Jamie, from the sound of it, continued, but Bree silently pushed the door closed again and backed away on trembling legs. Her heart pounded as she went over the conversation—the argument—the inner circle of Iustitia aecum had just had about her.

For a few painful seconds, tears prickled behind her eyes. No matter where she went, she was never good enough. Breanna certainly hadn’t been. Now, it seemed that Bree was not, either—not for her own failings, but for the peril she brought in her wake.

No.

She swallowed her tears and took a breath. So Colette and Jamie were wary. Weren’t they right to be? But Colette had said it herself—it wasn’t Bree she didn’t trust. It was Baden.

But Will trusted her. Even if the others were reserving their confidence for now, he had faith in her. And he was willing to go against the others to prove it.

So, there was only one thing to do. She was going to have to prove it, too. That she belonged here. The she was one of them. That she deserved every ounce of that hard-won faith.

***

Of course, proving herself to IA was easier said than done. Bree opted not to mention what she had overheard, and Will didn’t bring it up, either. In this, she was almost relieved; he was spared the unenviable task of admitting that he’d been talking about her when he thought she couldn’t hear, and she was spared the indignity of facing everyone else’s mistrust head-on. No, she decided, it was much better to carry on as if she were none the wiser, and do what she could to weave herself into the delicate IA web.

Evenings, she determined promptly, provided ripe opportunity to find common ground with the others—particularly Colette and Jamie, who seemed to be the ones who had filled the bookshelves until they bowed in the middle. It was when the fire burned hottest and brightest; when everyone gathered without speaking of gangs or thievery; when she could read amid the soothing sound of crackling embers. The threadbare chairs did not provide nearly enough room for everyone to fit, but sitting on the floor with her book made Bree feel like a child again. Will, pressed against her side, didn’t seem to mind, either, and that made it all the sweeter.

Tonight, in a move that made everyone else’s jaws drop, Will was thumbing through Romeo and Juliet, which Bree had finished reading. He wasn’t reading it in earnest, however.

“The hell does this all mean?” he asked, cackling to himself. “You trying to tell me any of this makes sense to you?”

Bree blinked herself out of her current book and looked up to meet his amused gaze and unimpressed smirk. “It’s an old story. Once you know what to expect, it makes sense.”

But Will just shook his head, dictating lines he found perplexing or droll. “‘Such comfort as do lusty young men feel…’” He burst into a laugh and, reading on, found another that had him howling. “‘An open-arse, thou a poperin pear…’ What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“You would find all the rude bits,” said Colette with a roll of her eyes.

“‘Some consequence,’” he went on, ignoring her save for a grin, “‘yet hanging in the stars, shall bitterly begin…’ Well, he sure sounds happy, doesn’t he? ‘Give me my Romeo, and when I shall die, take him and cut him out in little stars…’ No one else thinks that’s a weird thing to want? No? Just me? All right. ‘I have an ill-divining soul…’” He scoffed and pushed it away. “Why can’t he just write like a normal person?”

Shaking her head, Colette asked wryly, “That’s your expert literary opinion, is it?”

“Pretty sure you’d find most reasonable people would agree with me.”

“I rather think you’d find,” she shot back, “that most intelligent people would not.”

Will snatched a cushion right out from behind Jamie’s back, eliciting a surprised yelp, and threw it at her head, howling with laughter when it struck its target squarely.

And grunting a loud, “Ow!” when she hurled it back at him.

“Leave her alone,” Bree said, laughing, laying a hand on his arm to prevent him from launching another attack. “Maybe you should try reading it. Who knows? You might end up liking it.” She paused. “Though it is very sad.”

“Right. It’d take me a month just to get through the first chapter.”

“It has acts and scenes,” Bree said, pointing to the heading on the page. “Not chapters.”

“See? I’m already hopeless.” But he didn’t look hopeless or even terribly annoyed as he closed the book and peeked over at Bree’s. “Can’t believe you finished it in a few days. What are you reading now?”

Bree showed him the cover, and Colette, peering at it, too, piped up again. “Oh, you found my Ovid.” She heaved a long, dramatic sigh. “It’s nice to have another intellectual around for once.”

Biting her lip, Bree tried not to look too satisfied with this remark.

Will brandished the cushion again, prompting his brother to take it out of his hands and return it to its previous place, supporting his back. With his physical ammunition confiscated, Will merely said, “You’re fucking hilarious, Colette.”

“I just finished the story of Orpheus and Eurydice,” Bree said to her, talking over him.

Geoff and Jamie had been watching in silence, the former quite apathetic toward the topic of fine literature and the latter baffled that Will was engaging with it at all. Now, his long-suffering-elder-brother expression changed from faint amusement to outright hilarity when Will demanded with a groan, “What the hell kind of names are those, now?”

Rubbing his face, Jamie answered, “It’s a myth, Will. Ancient Greek.” He looked over at Bree almost apologetically. “I really tried, you know. He used to sneak away instead of going to school. You think this guy ever did anything he was told?”

Throwing his brother an obscene gesture, Will just asked, “What’s it about?”

Bree was about to answer, but Colette said, utterly straight-faced, “It’s about an idiot who can’t follow simple instructions.”

The group burst into gleeful laughter, celebrating how Will had set himself up for the joke. Bree took his hand.

“No, it isn’t,” she told him. “It’s about how love is sometimes stronger than reason.”

With another vulgar gesture at the others, Will leaned toward her and laid a kiss right on her lips. Bree blushed, but there were no huffs of disapproval, suspicious glares, or scandalized gasps. Instead, teasing whoops spread through the room.

“You give her one of those bite marks in front of me, and I’ll smother you in your sleep,” Colette said primly as the titters faded, and Jamie choked on his tea.

“Oh, shut up,” Will said, and even though even his face flooded as red as Bree’s, he nearly fell to the floor with laughter.

Maybe, Bree thought with a smile, winning over Iustitia aecum wouldn’t be as difficult as she thought.

***

“You know, I’ve never seen him care about any of Colette’s books before.”

Bree jumped and stifled a squeak at the sudden voice behind her. She’d offered to fetch some water from the well, and she’d been quietly humming to herself—certainly not expecting anyone to overhear her less-than-impressive musical talents—so the appearance of Will’s brother was not one she was prepared for.

“Sorry,” Jamie said, smiling a little ruefully upon seeing that she was startled. “I didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”

“It’s all right.” She resisted the urge to press a hand against her pounding heart, figuring she already seemed jumpy enough to his eyes—jumpy, silly, and in over her head. “I didn’t hear you walking up.”

Jamie’s laugh, to her ears, was sardonic and abrupt—almost uncomfortable. “Well. We’ve had some practice in being stealthy over the years.” He nodded at her arm, free of bandages now but still marred by an unsightly scab she suspected might leave a scar. “You need some help?”

 “Did Will send you?” she asked charily.

“No, actually.” He took the full bucket from her hand and replaced it with the empty one he had brought with him. “We can share the job. I’ll carry two back, you carry one.”

“Thank you,” she said, uncertain of where to go from there as she filled the last bucket. Was he going to be the one to confront her? Bring up Colette’s fears? Demand proof of her loyalty to the Iustitia aecum creed?

“Will didn’t send me after you,” Jamie said. “I wanted to say…” A strange look crossed his face—a happy one, but mixed with sadness, too, and perhaps even a touch of bemusement. “I’ve never heard Will…I don’t know, ask questions like that before. About books, I mean. Like he actually cared.”

A warm glow blossomed in Bree’s chest. “Really?”

“Definitely not.” He leaned against the side of the well, eyes fixed on the cloudy sky. “You know, I was… When we didn’t know what had happened to him, all I could do was hope we’d find him again. And I knew if we did, he might be different.” He laughed. “I didn’t think that this was the kind of different we’d be getting.”

Bree’s eyes burned with uninvited but admittedly gratified—and somewhat triumphant—tears. “Is that…” She swallowed. “That’s a good thing, right?”

He glanced at her now, seeming to notice the shine in her eyes, though he did not mention it. “I think so.”

Bree turned her face away for a moment to blink away the sting.

“You look familiar.”

Almost automatically, she said, “Well, maybe you saw me about town with Baden,” although now that he mentioned it, there was something about his face, hailing from a time long ago—more than just his striking resemblance to Will.

He clenched his jaw. “I can tell you for sure that I have never once been close enough to that fucker at any moment to see your face that well.” The flat hatred in his voice made a shiver run down her spine.

“Um…” Eager to move on from that thought, Bree said, “Perhaps before that? School, maybe?”

But he shook his head—the age difference was a bit too big, they determined, and he had likely already been working by the time she was in the schoolhouse, too poor for a governess.

“My maiden name is Cooper,” she said, thinking back and racking her brain for the answer, and as his expression changed to astonishment, the image struck her, too: a quiet boy with threadbare clothes, wind-chapped cheeks, and tired eyes—a boy she’d never seen again after a fateful winter’s day.

Or so she’d thought.

“James,” she gasped at the same time he said, “Cooper.”

“You worked for us!”

“Your dad’s a huge prick.”

Well, there was no denying that. “He was. He’s dead now.” She gazed at the man in front of her. Was it really him? The boy from that day?

The day her father had turned out all the servants, every single one—and one boy had fought back.

She hadn’t thought of him in years. It was painful to remember, those early days of her father’s broken business, his rage, his humiliation. That day in particular was one she preferred not to recall. All those people, thrown out in the bitter winter, hopeless and weeping and cold...

But a boy called James had tried so hard to stand up for them, shouting and railing, demanding some semblance of justice for the servants who were losing their livelihoods. As he always had, to everything and everyone, Silas Cooper had responded with violence—beat him and hurled him out, right into a snowdrift.

“He was horrible to you,” she whispered. “I’m—I’m so sorry—”

“You ran out,” he said, and she nodded. Bree had raced outside, determined to stay her father’s hand, and wound up with a handprint on her cheek. “I remember that. You…” He paused. “Thanks.”

Reeling at the revelation that her story and Will’s had been threaded together for so much longer than either of them had known, she pushed up her sleeves, close to sweating from exertion and awe. “I…I can’t believe it.”

“No,” Jamie said, equally stunned. “It’s a damn small world.”

They stared at one another a few moments more, Bree fitting his careworn face over the time-misted features of a sixteen-year-old boy with fire in his eyes—the same fire she had seen blazing in Will’s so many times before.

Suddenly, those eyes widened.

“Breanna?”

It took Bree a moment to realize that it was not Jamie calling to her—nor would that be the name he would use even if he was.

Gasping, Bree spun around, letting the bucket slip from her hands and spilling frigid water over her boots.

“Curt,” she whispered. The wonder of the moment, blazing hot and beautiful, vanished; every ounce of it sucked away, leaving nothing behind but cold, scouring dread.

He flew forward, so fast she only managed a panicked step backwards before he reached her. “It’s you.” Hands on her arms, pinching tightly. Eyes wide. Voice rasping. “God, Breanna—” Grip tight. Too tight. “We’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

“Please let go,” she said, half-dizzy. Frantic thoughts spilled through her mind, melting into the noisy, discordant symphony of Curt’s voice, rapid hoofbeats, and distant thunder. No. This can’t be. “I’m…”

But he was talking, clinging tight, talking, talking, talking, gesturing to the officers behind him. “Quick! Go get…” Not happening. This couldn’t be real. But he was holding her hand, lifting it, examining the scab on her arm. “Breanna, what happened to you?”

“Nothing!” He can’t be here. She tried to wrench herself free. She had to get free. Where was he sending that other constable? “Curt, you’re hurting me.”

Where’s Will?

What if—

“Don’t move!”

Bree froze her struggles, but the order was not for her.

“Who are you?” Curt demanded, his eyes on Jamie. “Breanna, is he with—is he with them? Is he keeping you here against your will?”

“No!” Bree tried again to pull away. Still, he wouldn’t let go. Why wouldn’t he let her go? “Curt, leave him. Please. He didn’t—”

“You’re hurt.” Curt’s voice was dark, his gaze flicking between her arm and Jamie’s frozen form. “That miserable bastard hurt you. The one who got out.”

“No,” she said. “Listen, please, Curt, he didn’t. He didn’t. Let me go, and—and—leave him, Curt, please. Please—”

But Curt was only half-listening, it seemed; he was no longer even looking at her, and when he spoke, he merely repeated, “He didn’t let you go and leave.” With his gaze trained on Jamie’s, he stared, slow recognition leaching into his face. Realizing he had seen those features before. Realizing who else that ruddy hair and those strangely hued eyes belonged to.

Forming his own twisted narrative from the face he saw before him and the cry for help he thought he’d heard.

He cursed softly, and Bree cried his name, desperate for him to look anywhere but at Jamie’s face.

“What did they do to you?” he hissed.

“Nothing!”

“You’re lying to me,” said Curt furiously. “Again. After everything. Aren’t you? That bastard is here somewhere. I know he is. Who is that—his bloody twin?” Finally, he looked back at her. “Where is he?”

Don’t look, don’t look, don’t look, don’t…

If she looked back at the townhouse, if she gave away the headquarters of Iustitia aecum, then it was all over—when it had barely even begun.

Don’t look back.

But she did.

She did, just in time to see a figure with red-brown hair fling open the door and start to run before a pair of brawny arms grabbed hold and yanked him out of sight.

Two furiously screamed names escaped before Will’s voice faded into strangled silence.

“Bree! Jamie! N—”

“That way,” Curt said, following her gaze. Following Will’s cry. One of his fellow constables hastened toward the townhouse, boots clicking maddeningly along the street.

And then he jerked his head toward Jamie and said, “Arrest him.”

Something shattered.

Perhaps it was the sound of Will’s voice being cut off. Perhaps it was the sight of that constable bolting toward the townhouse, all because her treacherous eyes could not do as they were told. Perhaps it was the cold fury in Curtis Lenton’s voice. Perhaps it was the way Jamie Wardrew did not move a muscle.

“No!” She thrashed against Curt’s grasp, and in his shock, he let go. “Curt, for the love of god, don’t do this, please!”

She made it three steps away from him before he captured her again.

“Why are you fighting me?” he asked as she pounded her fists against him. “Breanna—please! I’m here to help you! I’m going to get you away from these people!”

Tears, heavier and hotter and more painful than any she had ever shed in her life, blurred her vision. Her limbs trembled and, after a moment, gave out, for Curt did not listen. And he did not let go.

“Hey!”

All the officers froze.

“There’s no one there,” Jamie said. His words were calm. He had not run, and he still did not, even as the third officer approached him with his revolver drawn. But his arms, held in the air, trembled.

For one of them had the sleeve pulled up—baring the Iustitia aecum sigil for the constables to see.

“You’re too late,” Jamie said. “They’re already gone. You won’t find anyone else.”

Lies, Bree thought dizzily. A distraction to confuse them? Slow them down?

“Who are you?” Curt snarled again. “Where is the thief who escaped?” To the one he’d sent to the townhouse, he repeated the order to go, and the man obeyed.

“Forget him. He’s gone.” Jamie looked away from Curt’s glare to stare into the barrel of the other constable’s gun. His gaze met Bree’s for only an instant when the man reached him and wrenched his hands behind his back. “I’m the one who’s in charge of Iustitia aecum. I’m the one you want.”

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