where there is desire there is gonna be a flame where there is a flame someone's bound to get burned Who: Aisling & Cian Wilde What: A love story (of a sort) Where: Various places around Emillion When: Between 1997 and 2008 Rating: PG-13 Status: Complete!
Cian was everything her father had warned her about, which made him completely off limits. Which, of course, only made him that much more irresistible to her. It wasn’t like she could date anyone in her age group - downside of being a mob boss’ kid, and his only daughter at that - which severely limited her available dating pool. So far, she hadn’t really cared; the guys who were always around her were either too old or too scared of Tynan Wilde to try anything with his beloved daughter.
Really, everyone should have seen it coming.
And it wasn’t like she made a big secret of her crush on him. After all, there were only two categories of guys that Tynan employed, and Cian was most definitely in the latter one. That, of course, didn’t mean she wasn’t going to try.
Which was why she was standing outside of the house, leaning against one of the pillars at the entrance. Her father had sent him out to do some errand or something, and she knew that he would have to come back here to report in person. Tynan was a stickler for formalities.
The one thing Cian could say about this damn job -- which he hated -- was that it was better than the one he’d had before. Which wasn’t saying much, but he’d learned to settle for shitty-but-not-abysmal.
At least these days he got smacked around with his clothes still on. He was moving on up in the world.
He’d beaten the crap out of some moron who apparently liked the chocobos a bit too much (betting on birds; he couldn’t help sneering at the idiocy of it), threatened to rough up his pretty little girlfriend when she got home, and had gotten paid. He’d ignored the tears trickling from the guy’s two blackened eyes as he tried to explain that the money was for food or whatever (not his problem, he’d said, guy should’ve thought before betting), and now he was headed back to report on a job well done.
He spotted her from a distance and gritted his teeth. She was hard to ignore, Aisling Wilde -- long sunny blonde hair loose over her shoulders, pretty dress like the rich girls wore (she was a rich girl, sort of, but not that kind), and that sort of curiosity mixed with challenge in her eyes when she looked at him.
He wasn’t interested in pretty, rich girls with deadly daddies.
He hunched his shoulders as he approached the house, grunted something that could pass for greeting and tried to walk past.
Well, that wouldn’t do. Ash pushed away from the pillar and fell into step beside him. “All done for the day, Ci?” she asked. It had never occurred to her to ask whether or not he liked the nickname - she’d given some sort of a nickname to everyone in Tynan’s employ, including her brand new, overly anxious and paranoid bodyguard, Neil, whom she called baldie. A luxury that she had as Tynan’s daughter, no doubt. After all, who was going to tell her to stop?
“There’s a party tonight at the dance studio,” she continued. “You should come with me.”
“Yeah. All done.” Be polite was the first rule of dealing with the boss’ daughter. It came right before touch, and die. Since she was talking to him, he had to stop. He leaned back against the opposite pillar and crossed his arms over his chest, the posture slightly defensive. She threw him off-balance, and he didn’t like it. Why, exactly, was she trying to be his friend?
(He knew why. He had a mirror. He wasn’t blind. He was just also not suicidal.)
“Sorry,” he said. “I can’t dance.” And if I could, I’d find someone more my speed to dance with.
“I can teach you,” she countered with a smile . She ran her fingers through her hair, bringing it all to one side to cascade over her shoulder. “After all, that’s what I am.” Granted, she was barely class at this point, but she knew the basics well enough that she was confident she could at least keep Cian from stepping all over her feet.
And if she couldn’t? Well, it wouldn’t matter because she would have gotten Cian out on to the dance floor.
“It’ll be fun,” she added. “I’ll wait for you here. You can go tell papa you’re done, and then we can head out. I’ll even buy you dinner.”
“I’d rather not learn with all you fu -- your friends watching,” he said, amending his language just in time. “But,” hell, why not -- he was supposed to be nice, wasn’t he? -- “I could eat.”
It would be a lie to say he didn’t expect it when she kissed him. Hell, she’d been making eyes at him for months now, hadn’t she? And he’d been distant -- kind of -- and feigned disinterest -- badly -- but she was at least as stubborn as he was, and at the end of the day, with all of his misgivings, he was a teenage boy and she was a gorgeous girl, and if she wanted to kiss him, was there really anything he could do to stop her, while remaining agreeable and nice and all the other things he was supposed to be towards her? (He thought this while ignoring the fact that he didn’t really want to stop her, in the end.)
So when she kissed him, he kissed her back, though once their lips had parted and her eyes had opened, he did mutter in an unexpectedly thick voice, “This is a bad idea.”
The second she’d touched her lips to his, she immediately thought that she had made a mistake. After all, he hadn’t given her any indication that he was interested, had declined just as many overtures as he’d accepted, and generally seemed annoyed at her presence, even when she wasn’t talking or looking at him. But then he kissed her back, and those worries flew from her thoughts just as quickly as they’d come.
When she opened her eyes, it wasn’t difficult to tell that the kiss had affected him almost as much as it had affected her. Good, she thought, licking her lips. She might have missed what he was saying, but she’d learned to listen even when focused on other things. Like the slight shine of Cian’s lower lip.
She rose on the tips of her toes and wrapped her arms around his shoulders. “The worst idea,” she agreed quietly before pressing against him and nibbling on his bottom lip.
Sometimes, the worst ideas really were the best ones.
She was beautiful. And funny. And apparently fearless. And she smelled amazing. And the feel of her slim, compact little body pressing against him…
The old bastard had taught him a few things. One: sooner or later, the house always won (basically, he was fucked); two: sometimes, you had to go with your gut and go all in. He brought his hand up, stroked it through her long hair, letting its silky strands tangle around his fingers. “As long as we’re agreed on that,” he murmured against her lips before using that hand to lightly tug her head back so that he could deepen the kiss, his tongue stroking across her lower lip before slipping past her lips and into her mouth.
Might as well go down in a blaze of glory.
He didn’t know how to explain it to her. He still felt a deep shame when he thought of it, a dark shadow on something that was… more than he’d ever bargained for. She was more than gorgeous and funny and fearless. She was… just more. More than he’d expected. Sometimes you won a million gil. It was rare, but it happened. That was kind of how he felt -- like he’d hit the jackpot on accident. But there was that worry, still.
He’d gotten his hands under her shirt just the other day, and he was probably the first guy to have managed it (the thought of some other person touching her like that had rage bubbling inside him); she’d made comment, with a breathy laugh, that he really knew what he was doing with his hands.
Yeah, of course he fucking did. And if she knew why...
He didn’t want to know what she’d think, if she knew why. And he didn’t want to think about all of that when she kissed him and teased him into dark, private corners of that old house, when she let him touch her skin, when she sighed under his hands. He just wanted to be with her. To be with someone for the first time and not think about… everything that had happened before. Like it was all new. Like he was as innocent as she was.
Ha. Like that could ever happen.
She’d managed to coax him into one of the rooms that generally served as a repository for whatever Tynan needed to hold for a short time before handing it off. There was nothing in it today - someone had picked up the box he’d had in there the night before - but she doubted they’d need anything more than whatever furniture was set up in there. Which happened to be a nice chair that would be big enough for the two of them.
Smiling, she grabbed his hand and pulled him further into the room before pushing him down into the seat. Once he was sitting, she climbed on top of him, straddling his lap. “Much better,” she murmured, content. Cian was watching her; there was always something exciting about the way he looked at her, something that had nothing to do with what they were doing, but rather just that it was him.
She was falling, and falling fast. She hadn’t said anything to him, at least not yet. She would, when the time was right. Right now, though, she wanted to just enjoy a few minutes alone with him before Tynan summoned him for whatever stupid errand he had Cian running.
Without a word, she took Cian’s hands and placed them on her sides, right under her rib cage. “So,” she said cheerfully. “Think we can entertain ourselves for a little while?”
It was as hard to think of it as it was to not think of it when she invaded his space like this; almost as if they moved on their own, his hands skimmed down her sides to her waist, then back up again to rest just under her breasts, his thumbs stroking lightly over them, a light touch from which he tried to keep his uncertainty.
This wasn’t the right sort of moment for what ifs. And he wasn’t going to let it distract him from the fact that she was warm and heavy in his lap.
So he put on a thoughtful expression, spoiled slightly by a heavy dose of amusement, as he looked up at her self-satisfied grin and said, “I don’t know. Can we? Guess that’ll depend. How would you like to be entertained, princess?” The nickname amused him -- she was so incongruous and unsuited to the world around her, with her airy dancer dresses and long blonde hair and sunny disposition, even as everyone all but fell over themselves to make sure she got her way.
Who was he to go against the flow?
She really hated the nickname and frowned at him, jutting out her lower lip to show her displeasure. But the question left the next few minutes wide open and at her discretion, no less. The pout melted away and she bit her lower lip, thinking. There were so many things she could think of, and some of them she felt too awkward to ask for.
The idea that an eighteen year old boy was as much of a gentleman as Cian was was both charming and frustrating. There were times that she thought she was being completely clear about what she wanted but it seemed like he wanted - or needed - express permission.
The thoughts were pushed from her mind, though; now wasn’t the time or place to think of them, and it wasn’t like they had a whole lot of time. Instead, she pressed against him and trailed her lips down his neck. “I can think of a few ways.”
It was late. Ash was seated in front of her window, staring at the night sky and counting stars. Tynan had left that afternoon - some sort of pick up, from what she could gather - and had left her in the capable hands of whatever henchmen he had deemed good enough to watch his daughter for the evening. He had told her that he wouldn’t be back until Friday at the earliest, and that was nearly a week away.
Twenty three, twenty four.
She had rehearsal in the morning, and it promised to be long. There was a recital coming up - selections from various ballets, some original choreography to popular classical pieces - and her instructors were working them hard. Potential, they said when they looked at her, which only made her push harder. Hard enough to put too much pressure on her feet when she was en pointe.
A white mage had attended to her injury and she would be capable of dancing the next day, but her toe would be tender. She’d have to stay off pointe for another day or so.
Twenty five, twenty six.
Briefly, she considered messaging Cian, inviting him over. It wouldn’t be too difficult to sneak him in, she mused. Her room was on the second floor, but her father was a fanatic about safety and insisted she had a rope ladder to escape from her room if needed. She could always let it down, have Cian climb up, and then he could leave the same way the next morning; no one would even know he was there.
In the morning.
She grabbed her communication device and sent a quick message to him, asking if he would keep her company. Any thoughts of ulterior motives wouldn’t even cross his mind, of course; despite the intensity of their relationship, they had yet to sleep together. But maybe…
Twenty seven, twenty eight.
As she counted and daydreamed, Cian made his way slowly home -- if the squalid little flat he’d been able rent for himself could be called a home (it was a place to sleep; that was more than enough, wasn’t it?).
He’d killed a man today.
It hadn’t been the first time. It definitely wouldn’t be the last. He hadn’t known the guy outside of what little info he’d been provided to complete the task, and it hadn’t been messy -- one shot, straight to the head, and done -- and he didn’t feel anything much.
A little sadness, maybe. He was entitled to a little sadness if he kept his mouth shut about it -- the guy had had a kid, barely six. What the hell was going to happen to the kid now? He knew he wasn’t supposed to care -- was supposed to profess just how little he cared -- but the kid stuck with him. Sorry, kid, daddy was a fucktard.
Not his fucking problem. But he could be a little bit sad, as long as no one ever knew.
Even in the midst of his thoughts, her message wasn’t unexpected, considering they talked with some regularity (he’d tried, at first, not to, but with this, as with so many other things, he’d caved), but its contents… He stood there, in the dark alley, and reread it twice. He thought of telling her, I’m busy, or ignoring the summons altogether, going home and falling onto his ratty mattress alone. He’d lie there, he thought, and think of her smile and of some damn kid he had never met and...
He messaged back, I’m coming. He wanted -- needed -- the distraction. And something he didn’t know to ask for: comfort.
He took a shortcut, sprinting down streets, his breathing harsh and fast by the time he’d taken the side gate onto the grounds of the house, circled around in the shadows to stand under her window. He saw the little rope ladder and shook his head, but he was smiling faintly as he grabbed on to scale it. Her window was thrown open, he saw when he reached the top. He shook his head at her, seated on the edge of her bed in some flimsy sleeveless tunic and trews, and hauling his weight over the windowsill, quietly said, “And what if someone dangerous had scaled your castle wall, princess?”
He didn’t want to think about the irony of that statement. She shrugged and pulled the gun her father had given her from behind her. “Papa says I need to practice,” she replied. In truth, she hated the gun, but then, if someone other than Cian had scaled the wall to get into her room, she doubted that they would be deterred by her flail or mace. The gun, whether she wanted to admit it or not, was the quickest way to ensure her safety.
Fortunately, she’d never had to use it; Neil might be annoying, but he never failed to keep her safe. And if he found out that she had a boy in her room - let alone that the boy was Cian - she was pretty sure that he wouldn’t hurt her. Cian, however, was another matter.
Still, she pushed the thought away. No way would Neil enter without knocking, and so long as they kept their voices down, she doubted they’d be overheard. And now that Cian was here, she was pretty sure the gun could go back in its hiding spot - a hanging holster specially made to blend into the bedding on the side of her mattress. She climbed back onto the bed and tucked her legs under her, patting the space next to her for Cian to join.
“I didn’t bother you, did I?” she asked, biting her lower lip. She didn’t know what he’d had planned for the evening - she never asked, and he rarely volunteered the information - and a sudden bout of insecurity nagged at the back of her mind. It had been happening more often lately; what if he was only pretending to be interested in her because he worked for Tynan?
He raised one brow slightly as she pulled out the gun and spoke nonchalantly about using it. He forgot, sometimes, whose kid she was, but she always reminded him. It made him question sometimes whether he had a death wish. Could you pull the trigger? he wanted to ask. He couldn’t imagine it -- she wasn’t like him.
And that was enough of those thoughts now.
He went and sat where she indicated. Did she realize that he always came when she called? There was only one other person who could claim that, and his reasons were as different as night and day. He pulled his own gun from its holster, turned it over in his hands a few times, then said, “I think yours is better than mine. I should be jealous,” before setting it on her nightstand.
“You’re never a bother.” How could she even think it? He was all but wagging his metaphorical tail any time she gave him the time of day. It should have been humiliating how thoroughly she’d caught him. He pulled her against him, letting himself fall back on her comforter (soft, silky, expensive, so unlike anything he owned, and the fact that this was her bed was something not to be thought about at all), with her sprawled half on top of him. “Something on your mind?”
She settled herself more comfortably against his chest and tilted her head up to kiss his chin. “Nope,” she said. “Just thought it would be nice to see you.” She didn’t say that she was lonely; it was something she so rarely acknowledged. After all, how could she be lonely when there was always someone around?
Maybe that was part of it. Someone was always around; maybe she didn’t know how to be alone. But she didn’t particularly want to learn how, either; she might be lonely sometimes, but there was always someone a call away. Like the boy she was sprawled on top of. And he was a much better thought than the ones she’d been having.
She was never lonely when Cian was around.
“You have anywhere you need to be in the morning?” She widened her eyes and smiled innocently. One of her hands had already found its way under his shirt and was resting against his warm skin. She’d seen him barechested before - a few times, actually - but never for long stretches of time. Now she was wondering what his skin would look like against her sheets.
There were about a dozen joking answers he could give to the inquiry. The way she was grinning at him made him think she was playing yet another game with him, and damn it, did she really not realize just how much self control it took for him to play along and then pull back? “Got an important appointment with my pillow,” he said. He didn’t work tomorrow, officially, though that only meant a few extra hours of shut-eye. He’d probably wind up in the casinos after that.
He was putting together a nest egg. Slow going, but he wasn’t about to quit until he had enough to be self-sufficient at least awhile. Maybe then…
But it was hard to think too much about that with her fingers sneaking under his shirt. “That an invitation?” Making a game of it was probably all she wanted -- and so he added, “The pillow might forgive me for staying out all night. Your father, though, will probably serve me up my own balls in a waffle cone. With sprinkles.”
“Maybe it is,” she said, shifting so that she could slide a leg between his thighs. Ajora, she hoped she wasn’t going to make a fool of herself. “So we’ll just have to make sure Papa doesn’t find out. I’m pretty sure I like your balls where they are.” She licked her lips and moved her leg up to press against his crotch.
“Unless,” she added, “it’s not a gamble you want to take.” She really, really hoped that she wasn’t just giving him an excuse to say no. Before he could say anything, she dragged her nails across his hipbone.
His breath caught. Her thigh pressed against him and fuck, fuck, this was going to go somewhere he couldn’t entirely control really fast. He clamped his teeth tightly together to keep from groaning when her fingernails scraped over his hip. For all that she was almost entirely innocent -- he could tell -- she’d caught on pretty damn quickly.
He’d been taking his time, maybe with a vague thought that as long as they didn’t cross this final line, he’d be able to extricate himself unscathed eventually. And who the fuck was he kidding?
He wasn’t extricating himself unless she decided to let him go.
And so his hand came up to wind through her hair, and with his voice just raspy enough that she’d know, if she hadn’t before, just how much he’d been trying to control himself, he said, “Funny thing about gambling: greater risk, greater reward.” He pulled her head down so their lips could meet in a hard, deep kiss. Then he pulled back, just enough to speak, though he could still feel her breath on his lips, and said, “Ask me to stay the night.” It wasn’t quite a request. But that sinking feeling was back in his gut; he had to know she was sure.
Any doubts or thoughts that she might have had quickly went out the window. “Stay the night?” The question was audible - she wanted to make it very clear that this was as much his choice as hers. If there was a way to make what she wanted any clearer, she would have done it, but there really wasn’t. She moved her thigh again, slid her hand up and over his chest, letting her fingers brush lightly over his nipples. “Please?”
He did groan this time, though he managed to retain enough self control to do it quietly. There was a bodyguard outside the door, he knew, if not two, and a premature end to this night…
With a practiced motion, he hooked his thumbs under her tunic’s hem and pulled it up. No, he didn’t want to be interrupted. For what was probably the first time in his sad, broken, screwed up life, this wasn’t a chore or a quick, meaningless release of tension -- and he was going to take his time. “Thought you’d never ask.”
Tynan had absolutely forbidden it. It wasn’t like she’d expected him to agree, at least, not at first, but he’d been adamantly against it. She’d argued that everyone else around them had one, but he refused to listen, instead telling her that she was not to get one, and that was final.
And for the first time in her life, she directly disobeyed him.
She’d been planning the tattoo for months. Everything was set except for where she’d wanted it placed, and how big it was going to be. She didn’t want it too big, and she wanted it to be in a place that could easily be covered when she was onstage, so there were a few options. It had been one of the things that she’d figured she could decide on the day before, but Tynan’s disapproval threw a wrench into her original plan.
She’d wanted to get it the next week - performances ended the following Saturday - but today was as good a day as any.
When she met Cian a few hours later, she told him, “I want to get my tattoo today.”
“Oh yeah?” He had to admit, when she’d sent him over a time and a place, he hadn’t assumed this was the purpose. But he was nothing if not adaptable, and the request was easy enough to fulfill. He didn’t bother telling her, you know your old man would hate this, because all things considered, a tattoo paled in comparison to the other ways in which she was breaking his rules. His allegiance was to both of them, and that made it complicated, but he had to let her make her own decisions in the end. So he shrugged and told her, “Yeah, I know a guy. You got a few hours?” Slinging his arm over her shoulder, he directed her down the street.
He’d gotten his first tattoo at twelve, a tiny rebellion against a life that had seemed almost unbearably painful at the time. In retrospect, the fact that Reed was willing to ink a kid that young probably spoke ill of him, but Cian had had the (stolen) money, and Reed never had been a man of many words. In any case, he was skilled and discreet, which Cian had to assume would suit the princess just fine, if she was really set on playing bad girl.
(That it was a game was never in question; she was good through and through, regardless of her heritage.)
Reed’s studio was tucked in a nondescript brick building between the Theatre District and the Tenements. Inside, the walls were covered in sketches and images and the single chair -- Reed wasn’t much of a people person, and didn’t much like having other artists in his space -- was fortunately unoccupied. “Looks like we’re in luck.”
The room at least looked sanitary - well, as sanitary as she would expect a place like this to be - and she nodded timidly at the tattoo artist. If Cian had brought her here, then he had to be good; she doubted Cian would bring her to anything less. The other man motioned for her to get in the chair, and she obeyed, climbing into it and looking at him expectantly.
It took a moment for her to realize that he was waiting for her to tell him what she wanted, and she could feel her cheeks heat up. Quickly, she pulled out a sketch she had made - a stylized heart with an ancient symbol for love - and handed it to him. “I’d like this, please,” she said, holding out her hand and using her finger to draw a circle on her palm. “No bigger than this, and on my hip.”
The hip had seemed an easy place to hide from both her father and on stage. She wasn’t sure how much it would hurt, thought; she’d considered the top of her foot, but she’d heard that was a particularly painful place to get one. Anywhere else would be too difficult to cover from her father or when dancing - her back and stomach were usually bare in the summer to keep cool in the heat, her arms were often uncovered during shows, and the cut off trews and trousers she wore to rehearse in would expose most of her thigh and all of her calves.
The man didn’t say anything, but he took the slip of paper and studied the image. “Take off your pants,” he said after a moment.
Cian barely stopped himself from snapping at Reed, which was, in the end, fairly ridiculous. He’d been mostly naked in this chair himself a number of times, and it wasn’t like the guy could work through clothing.
Still, it was a bit of a challenge to hold back some sort of menacing statement. He looked down at Ash and shrugged, letting her, “Go ahead.” His look at the other man was flat and unreadable, which he thought would be self-explanatory. Reed wasn’t overly fond of words, but he wasn’t an idiot. And Cian might have been a helpless kid the first time he’d walked in here, but he wasn’t helpless now, and the power balance had shifted. “I’ll keep you company,” he added, taking up a position on the other side of the chair as she complied with Reed’s request. “It’ll sting,” he warned her unnecessarily, as though she didn’t know.
But when she finally settled in the chair, he offered his hand, and no matter how hard she squeezed it, didn’t complain.
That rope ladder, meant for a quick escape, was about the best thing possible for sneaking in a forbidden lover. He was getting pretty accustomed to scrambling up it and into the window; he did it now several times a week. It was a risky game, he knew -- the more often he skulked through the garden, the more likely was discovery -- and yet still he did it. He wasn’t much of a fan of mind-altering substances, but he’d seen enough addiction in his life to understand that he was completely hooked on her, for better or worse.
That nest egg of his kept growing, slowly but surely. The amorphous idea was slowly taking form. They’d go to Kerwon, maybe. It was half wild, wasn’t it? No one would ever find them.
Someday. But not yet. He didn’t mention it.
Her training was stepping up, and so were the university classes which her father had insisted upon; these days, she was tired more often than not, but Cian didn’t mind letting her sprawl over him in a half-awake daze, if that was all she was up for, and she seemed to enjoy his company even then.
Idly, he picked up the finance book off her nightstand, flipped through it. His reading was pretty good by now, basic math, too. He hadn’t had any formal teaching, but he’d known those were worthwhile skills to learn. This, though, was outside the realm of his knowledge. He stared at the numbers on the page, willing his brain to make sense of them. The fuck was a derivative?
“You like this stuff?” he asked her. She was heir apparent, of course she had to learn it. Some leader she’d be if she couldn’t keep the money flowing.
She glanced over at the book he was leafing through and shrugged before returning her attention back to her legal studies notes. Even though her father was the head of a crime syndicate, there had to be a squeaky clean legal side, and in order to keep that going, she had to know the laws. “It’s not terrible? Boring, though.” She sighed and pushed her notebook aside. “I’d rather be dancing, but Papa says I’ve got to know how all of this works.”
Between the dancing and University, she had little time for anything else. Even taking a moment out of her day to see Cian was becoming harder to wrangle, and that was one thing she was not going to give up. Even if it meant that spending time with him was also spent studying because there was no way she could fail her classes.
She rolled over and placed her head in Cian’s lap, sighing in contentment. There were few places she truly felt this comfortable. “Why is this so exhausting, Ci?”
He almost said, Because sometimes we all have to do things we don’t like, but stopped himself just in time. She didn’t deserve his sarcasm, for all that he’d have given a whole hell of a lot to spend his time with textbooks rather than knives or gun in hand. He ran his hand through her hair, trying to go for comfort instead of bitterness. “Sometimes, life’s an unfair fucker,” he settled on at last.
He let the conversation lapse back into silence before he spoke again, trying to hide his hesitation. “If you didn’t have to do all this, you think you’d be happier?” What sort of life do you want? he didn’t say. And somewhere inside him, what little hope remained whispered, I’ll try to give it to you.
It wasn’t something she’d ever considered, not even once. She’d been born to this life, had known exactly what was going to be expected of her someday. Tynan had allowed her more freedom than people liked, but now that she wasn’t a child anymore, there wasn’t any getting around it. She’d taken the fact that she would still be allowed to dance as an allowance and hadn’t provided any pushback against her father.
The classes were boring and time consuming, and some were far easier than others, but she’d never intended to let her father down. She would take over when Tynan told her to, but that wouldn’t be for at least a few more decades. Until then, she’d still have some freedom.
But would she be happier without all of it?
“If I could still dance and I still had you,” she said slowly, yawning, “probably.” A life without the impending handoff and the classes and the constant danger…Yeah, she realized, she probably would be.
“Hypothetical, of course,” he said. And it was, for now. “You’ve got me regardless.” They were getting pretty good at subterfuge. They’d keep it up right until he figured out if and how they could bolt. And if, somehow, she decided she wanted to stay…
Well, the syndicate leader needed a righthand man.
“Why don’t you go to sleep?” he suggested. “You’re nodding off anyway. This’ll all still be here in the morning.” He looked back down at the book, considered. “Can I borrow this, once your term’s done?” Her father had taught him the fine art of hedging. And if he -- they -- did end up staying, there were certain skills he lacked.
Ash yawned again and cuddled closer to Cian, looping her arms around his waist and nuzzling his stomach. “Sure,” she said sleepily. “Not like I’m going to need it when term is over.” If she was lucky, she wouldn’t need it ever, but for some reason, the logic of finance just wasn’t something she could easily get her head around. Basic arithmetic was fine, but the second derivatives were added? No dice.
She’d be lucky to pull a B in the class.
Ash sighed. She’d probably have to find a tutor.
“Stay a little longer? I’ll try - “ yawn “to stay awake.”
“I’ll stick around regardless,” he told her, “but if you’re going to tease like that, you’re right, you’re not sleeping anytime soon.”
His eye was swelling shut, his jaw was probably dislocated, and he’d lost a tooth. He understood, as he picked himself up off the floor, that he was lucky to be alive right now.
“This is how you repay me?” Tynan Wilde asked. He didn’t raise his voice. He almost never raised his voice; he dispensed violence with the sort of easy nonchalance that suggested he really didn’t give a fuck one way or another.
Cian didn’t answer; there was no right answer.
He was young, and yes, he had to admit, probably dumb. But even he understood that if he wanted to walk out of here of his own volition, then, I think I love her, was the wrongest of answers, even if it was all he had.
So he stood, silently, until he was knocked down a second time, then dragged himself to his feet and stood again, bracing for the next blow, which never came.
“I’ll tell you what, Cian,” Tynan said quietly, flatly. “I’m gonna give you a choice. That seems to work with you.”
It wouldn’t, Cian thought, be much of a choice. The last choice he’d been offered -- stay at the brothel or kill for me -- had worked out well in that at least he had some agency. But that hadn’t been a good choice either.
“You’re not fit to tie her fucking toe shoes. You do know that, right?” Cian’s silence earned him a fist in the stomach; it was not a gentle tap. “Right, asshole?”
“Yes,” Cian said. His voice was strained, but even. He had little, but his pride, at least, he’d retain. “I know.” And he did. He’d always known.
“Never did have any Faram-damned sense,” Tynan said. “I keep thinking your bitch mother got the good end of the deal. I keep trying to fix you up, teach you your place, make something of you, and this is what I get.” He spat on the floor in clear disgust. “So, here’s how it’s gonna go. You end it. Immediately. And you sell it, bastard, until she’s not willing to get within ten feet of you. No fucking sob story. Cut it off. You got that?”
“Or?” Cian said. He swallowed; fuck, yes, all right, he was dumb. But he had to ask. “You said I had a choice.”
“Yeah,” Tynan said. “You got a choice. Or I blow your useless fucking brains out.”
Just as Cian had thought, it wasn’t much of a choice.
“Listen,” he told her, his expression blank, neutral, bored, “I told you. Playtime’s over. How hard is that to understand? Didn’t think you were stupid.”
“Is that all this was to you?” she asked, trying desperately to keep the tears back. It had been sudden and Cian’s personality had completely changed. She knew that there had to be something, some reason that he would do this. But he was impassable, cold. Indifferent. And she wasn’t sure what hurt more. “Was I just some game to you?”
She couldn’t believe that. He loved her. She knew he did.
He shrugged. The old man had taught him to bluff, once upon a time. He’d never really thought he’d use the skill like this, but sometimes, life was shitty.
Understatement of the fucking century.
“Sure,” he said, hating himself. “Let’s go with that. You seemed like you wanted to play, so why the hell not? Go back to your tower, I’ll go back to my life, and we’ll say it’s been good, but it got old.” He was aiming to hurt her -- and damn it, he knew how. He could beat himself up over it later, but this was the quickest way. Cut it off, burn the bridge, stand on opposite sides of the chasm and watch it go up in flames. If she hated him, at least she wouldn’t miss him.
At least one of them ought to get that luxury.
Two years on a game. Two years reduced to some toy that he was going to throw away because he’d gotten bored. She couldn’t help it, the tears began to fall. “You’re horrible,” she whispered, voice trembling. She wanted to reach out to him, wanted him to tell her that he was just playing an awful joke, but when she looked at him, there wasn’t any warmth there.
It was like he wasn’t even looking at her.
She turned and ran.
“Absolutely not.”
Ash glared at her father. “You’re the one who keeps saying that I need to know the ins and outs of the business. I’m asking to join the Ring, Papa. Not whore myself out in one of the brothels.” She wasn’t going to back down on this, and she could tell by the tick in his eye that he knew that. Good, she thought.
“It is not a game, Aisling,” Tynan growled. “It’s not some theoretical arena. They fight to the death.”
“Then I just have to win.” It was false bravado; she’d heard that the Ring was to the death, but she hadn’t really believed it. Somehow, despite all of the mounting evidence to the contrary, she truly believed her father was a good man, and good men didn’t condone death matches.
Tynan glared, but Ash stood straight, refusing to cave in. “You honestly mean to tell me that you believe you can defeat men and women who have killed dozens of competitors with what? Your dancing?” The derisiveness in his tone was clearly evident. He didn’t think she could do it.
“You’re the one who said to get involved,” she pointed out patiently. “If you’d rather, I can go work at Opal.”
“You will do no such thing.”
“Then let me fight.”
Her father deflated, as though the wind had been taken out of his sails. “Fine,” he said, sounding tired. “Do what you like, Aisling.”
It was a lie. She couldn’t do what she’d like. The reins that her father held on her had gotten tighter over the past few years. Neil was practically glued to her, and she could barely do anything without Tynan first knowing and approving it. It was like she was in a prison and there was no way out.
But then, she’d known that since a young age. The only way out was in a bodybag.
And hopefully, she wouldn’t be leaving just yet.
He’d gotten tougher over the years. Tougher, smarter, stronger. He had to assume she had, too (he’d thought of her too much, and then not at all, in cycles for the last decade, but he’d stayed out of her way as though she carried some plague, and she’d let him), but seeing her like this was like a hard kick in the chest.
She looked… diminished. It was unsettling.
The short hair might have suited her, had her expression not been so haggard. The black dress, with its high collar and long pinched sleeves, didn’t suit her at all. Her eyes were swollen, her shoulders hunched. She looked like a stranger.
She was a stranger.
He’d thought of approaching her over the last three days. He’d nearly done it half a dozen times, but…
In the end, he’d just made the arrangements, so that she didn’t have to. And now, from across the room, he watched her, as though his gaze could prop her up.
The mausoleum had been large and grand and wrong. Everything was wrong and she couldn’t even begin to figure out how to make it right because she knew that she couldn’t. She would gladly let the entire business go up in smoke if she could just have her father back, but she knew that nothing would make that happen. She had felt alone for years, now she truly was.
She had never understood the concept of a wake. It had seemed ridiculous - a party in honor of the dead. The dead didn’t care if you partied or wept, and she wanted nothing more than to be alone, locked in her room with her grief. But Neil had insisted, and she needed to be there to greet the well wishers and the bottom feeders alike. To accept their condolences even as she knew that they were scheming some way to profit from Tynan Wilde’s death.
Neil had left her to her own devices, apparently confident that either she could protect herself or that she was surrounded by enough people who gave a shit about her, even if they couldn’t be bothered to care about Tynan. Anger was warring with grief and tears pricked at her eyes.
After what seemed like the millionth well wisher, she turned and headed towards the stairs, passing by Cian. Briefly, she met his eyes before dropping her gaze and hurrying past.
He watched her go, trying to pretend he wasn’t tempted to run out after her. “Pathetic,” said his bodyguard -- Cian wasn’t dumb; of course he had a bodyguard, especially now. “Her, a leader? Don’t make me laugh.”
Shut your fucking face before I shut it for you, he thought; he said only, “Never mind her.”
She had finally stopped crying, had finally stopped feeling much of anything. Someone had told her that eventually the numbness would settle in, and she was only mildly pleased to know that it was true. She wasn’t sure if it was actual blankness, or if she just didn’t have any tears left to shed. Either was as likely to be correct as anything.
There were papers that needed to be read, decisions that needed to be made. Things didn’t stop because someone had died; she knew that. But she didn’t care. She didn’t know how to do any of this, despite the years of training and integrating herself into the business. Everything looked foreign to her and it was too much to even make sure that everyone got paid and that there were no outstanding bills. The bare minimum of responsibility - it was all she could handle at the moment.
She stared blankly at the papers spread out across her father’s desk.
He’d let himself in. At this point, he was more or less letting himself in everywhere. No one was daring to stop him. And even after all these years, he knew this house.
He’d spent a long time thinking about this, but he’d decided to make the gamble in the end.
But as he stood in the doorway, watching her (she still looked smaller than she should, and tired, but not quite so broken now), all of the things he’d wanted to say flew out of his mind. A decade was a long time coming for an explanation. Hell, for a conversation of more than two words.
But he had to say something.
And so he started with, “Never mind that. I’ll take care of it.”
His voice startled her and she looked up. Once, she would have thrown herself at him, cried into his shoulder. But that was a so long ago she couldn’t even remember that girl. That girl was dead, just like her father. Still, she took him at his word and nodded, automatically stacking the papers and putting them to the side.
She knew Cian had been taking care of a lot of things lately. She’d heard the whispers and the talking, knew that most of organization thought he’d make a better leader. That she should just hand it all over to him and let him handle everything. She remembered her father talking to her about people who were just out to use her, to get in good with the family. Power hungry people who would do anything to rise the ranks.
She’d never thought Cian was one of them.
Now she wasn’t sure.
“What do you want?” Her voice was hoarse, but steady. Better than she had thought it would be.
It had become hard to talk to her, he realized. It had been so easy once. Now, what could he say? Something about his worry -- but the statement caught in his throat. He couldn’t say it. In the end, all he could manage was a terse, “The world is still turning.” He cursed himself as he said it -- why was he so incapable of a simple kindness?
The years hung between them, along with too many things unsaid.
“You need sleep,” he told her.
“Don’t tell me what I need.” What she needed was to be alone, because that’s what she was. She didn’t know why he was bothering to come and talk to her now. They’d spent years avoiding each other, of saying only the absolute bare minimum. And now he was standing in front of her, nonchalant and uncaring, while she grappled with the broken pieces of her life.
“Go away, Cian.” She didn’t need this right now. She didn’t need any of this or him or anything. She could leave. Take a ship to Kerwon or Ordalia. Lose herself somewhere no one knew her. There wasn’t anyone left here to care.
“Someone should,” he said. This conversation was stilted and all wrong and he didn’t know how to put it on the right track. “You’re a mess, Aisling.” Her name felt strange and foreign on his tongue. “I’ll take care of this, and everything else.”
He’d already realized it years ago -- she wasn’t suited to lead. Hell, she was hardly suited to participate; with all of her rebellions, she had always been too soft. The thought of her hardening enough to bear it was unbearably painful, even if he barely knew her at all anymore. He wasn’t so naive as to say the carefully orchestrated takeover he’d already set in motion was for altruistic reasons, but damn it, she played a part. He tried to soften his tone, to summon something like gentleness, or maybe sympathy, as he told her, “Listen, you don’t need all of this right now.”
It was hard to summon the words, but he made himself say them, even if his own feelings on the subject were infinitely more complicated than this: “I’m sorry.”
“You’re the last person who should be telling me what I need or what I am,” she sneered. Anger, irrational as it was, slid past the carefully erected barrier between her and her emotions. Years and years of his indifference, of watching him seamlessly climbing through the ranks because of her, because she’d wanted to help him, drowned out the grief and the pain of her father’s death. For the first time since Tynan had died, she could focus on something else.
She wasn’t sure whether to thank Cian or curse him.
“You’re not offering to do this to help me.” Her eyes narrowed and she stood. “This is just another step in your plan, isn’t it?” She’d heard whispers, rumors that Cian had been the one to hasten Tynan’s demise. Even with their history and his coldness towards her, she hadn’t thought he could do it. But now, with him standing here, telling her that he’d take care of everything, a small part of her wondered if it was true.
She could see now - the way he had stepped in when she couldn’t deal, his constant offers to make sure everything was taken care of - it was to take it all away from her. To take the position that he wanted, just as he’d taken everything else.
“What’s next? Going to help me out the door next?” She shook her head, pushed away from the desk. “Don’t bother. It’s all yours now. Just what you wanted. Just leave me alone.”
“That isn’t --” He stopped himself. What was the point? It was written all over her face -- there wasn’t a point. She had her own opinions, and nothing he said -- that yes, he was ambitious, but no, he wouldn’t serve himself at her expense, not even now, nor aim to hurt her -- would make any difference. And why bother with the truth, in the end? She’d just assume he was lying. He was a hell of a good liar -- even she didn’t realize just how good.
You didn’t rebuild burnt bridges. Ashes were just dust; they wouldn’t ever make something solid. And that metaphorical chasm had gotten wider over the years. Some things couldn’t be mended.
So he steeled himself and said, “Yeah, think what you want. It was mine anyway.” She’d never have fought him for it, not now, not later. He was suddenly tired. “No one’s kicking you out the door; I’m telling you to go the fuck to bed. But you know what?” He swept the papers from the desk in a messy stack which he drew against his chest and told her, “Do what you like. I’m taking these and getting the hell out. You’re welcome.”
When he shut the door behind him, he felt the finality of it. So much for stupid, useless hope. It had never suited him, anyway.
He zipped his jacket up against the wind, papers underneath, and headed out into the night.