"She's in love with you," Castran said.
It was the most absurd thing Tarquin had ever heard and it made him wonder at the mental state of his brother.
"No," Cassandra said sharply, incredulity laced into her voice, too. Now she speaks. But something in her eyes betrayed her.
Tarquin pulled his hand back from her as if she'd burnt him. No, it couldn't be true. He just stared at her and she stared back. "No," she said and for a moment he believed her for the reason that he wanted to.
This could not be true. It was preposterous and completely illogical. Completely illogical meant it wasn't true, his mind told him. Illogical always meant it was a lie.
He still couldn't help goose bumps from spreading up his arms. No, had Castran lost his mind?
"Well, that's new," Castran said, leaning into her. "Sucks, doesn't it?"
She looked at Castran like he was diseased, then turned her face away. "I might have fallen in love with someone dead who didn't give a shit about me, but you fell in love with him," Castran said with amusement. "My situation might be bad, but you're fucked." He laughed and walked away, leaving a still silence in the cavernous room.
Tarquin was dumbfounded, staring at Cassandra, who had her eyes cast down to the floor. "Is this true?"
"No," she said, refusing to look up.
With all his resources, he'd found no trace of conspiracy, no trace of accomplices, or even of a plan of attack. There had been nothing amongst her things in Rio that suggested even an attempt to hurt the family. Of course, there could be a second place where she kept information like that, but she'd been watched long enough to root something like that out.
Castran’s accusation was the one thing that fit, but it was too strange to… How the hell had this happened? How could this happen? There were no answers. Technically, he was old enough to be her father. In fact, he'd been the one who'd carried her tiny and sleeping from her cot after he'd killed her parents. That time, those actions, had signified a change for him, a line crossed where he knew there had been no going back. He'd committed himself to being a person without redemption. He hadn't had the heart to kill her. Even in that moment, there was a level of innocence even he would not trespass against, and she had been it. Instead, he'd dropped her off with the Wilkes, who had promised to raise her the right ways. She didn't know this; she couldn't. If she'd found out, she certainly wouldn't have talked herself into being in love with him.
Tarquin didn't even believe in love. It was a notion weak people clung to to give meaning to their lives. And yet she'd run, which was never less than a lethal choice. She’d known it was a secret she needed to protect, believing herself in love despite herself. Her strange behavior before leaving even fit now, and the action she'd chosen had been to run. She obviously felt the threat in this.
By her actions, he should kill her. "What the hell am I supposed to do with you?" he asked, dropping his sword down, still feeling dumbstruck at this revelation. "How… ?" he started, not even able to put words to the outrageousness of this all. How could she even talk herself into having any feelings for him? People feared him. It was universal. Then again, she had run, which did fit—more scared of her feelings than for the retribution he would wreak on her. Maybe she'd prefer the punishment for running over the punishment for loving him.
"You're the only one I ever showed mercy to," he said and she looked up, a haunted look in her eyes. It might not be entirely true. On the odd occasion, he'd shown mercy, but not in the way he'd done for her when she was small and completely defenseless. She didn't know. The confusion in her expression more than proved it. That love would die in an instance if she really knew he was the one who killed her family and ripped her life apart. Felicity Soakes. She didn't even know her name.
He should kill her, but the guilt still sat in his chest, surviving from a time he’d still felt guilt. That time was long gone, but he still couldn't bring himself to snuff her life out.
Chapter 23:
* * *
The car felt small when Cassandra stepped in, wearing her normal navy suit. They were off to a meeting somewhere across town. Both Adaeus and Tarquin were in the back and she was guarding them, stepping back into her life as if nothing had happened. Tarquin had insisted, shrinking from her as Castran had left. He'd looked at her like she'd betrayed him, and he'd refused to deal with her for long minutes, until he had walked behind her and loosened the ties that held her there. She'd felt his fingers along hers, the warm of him still surprising.
After expecting death, 'go to your room' had been a bit of an anticlimax, but she had obliged, feeling a bit surreal and shell shocked. In truth, she hadn't known what to expect, but this hadn't been it. It was as if he didn't know what to do with her and as a result had chosen inaction.
It was unbearable, going back into the basement and finding her room searched but otherwise the same. Someone had gone through her belongings and she knew in her gut that Tarquin had, pried her life open for his scrutiny. She’d felt both violated and exposed, and she’d lay down on her bed, drawing her knees up. She'd never intended on revealing this secret, had been prepared to take it to the grave, but it had been ripped out of her hands with such certainty and precision it left no room for argument.
Apparently there had been something about her that told Castran the truth, while Tarquin hadn't seen it—because he didn't know what he was looking for. She'd seen the shock on his face, those few unguarded moments.
This whole situation was mortifying and she had no idea what the price would be. Undoubtedly there would be one. Or maybe it was all too embarrassing for Tarquin to actually acknowledge, and it, her issue, would just be ignored.
Her mind returning to the present, she suppressed a deep sigh as she sat in the front passenger seat of the family vehicle, again something Ramone had insisted on. Adaeus spoke in the back about a legal issue that stood in their way, mentioning a loophole that could be twisted to suit their purposes. Tarquin didn't speak, which suited her fine, because she felt his voice up her spine. He was out of sight, sitting behind her, but she felt him nonetheless.
What kind of person did it make her? In love with a monster? Because it was that little spark of humanity in a being that seemed entirely lost, as if that little spark was worth so very much, shining in such stark surroundings. Was it because she didn't want him to lose it? Redemption was beyond hope for someone like him—she knew that intellectually, but there was something in her that didn't respond to reason, only hope.
The driver pulled over by a large, stone building, ornate decorations littered the façade. She got out and opened the door for him, forcing herself to look away as he rose from inside the car. Butterflies rioted in her stomach as he moved past and she closed the door behind him.
"Ah, Miss Wilkes," Adaeus said, walking around the car. "It seems you have been welcomed back into the fold again," he said with his customary directness. He turned to Tarquin in search of an explanation, but Tarquin only looked away. "I must admit, this is unusual."
Adaeus' gaze returned to her and she couldn't help feeling flustered under the cold scrutiny. Heaven knew what Adaeus assumed at that moment regarding how she had escaped punishment. It was impossible to explain in light of how traitors were typically treated—yet she appeared to have escaped punishment all together. Who knew what assumptions they had all drawn? They didn't perhaps understand that just being here was punishment.
"We will be late," Tarquin finally said, refusing to elaborate.
"Yes," Adaeus said, turning his regard to Tarquin, who ignored the searching consideration. "Can't have that."
Cassandra walked behind them as they moved into the building, trying to keep her mind distracted from relentless thoughts. They said love was madness, and it really was, especially if you didn't want to be in love. It overcame you, against your best judgment.
They walked up a set of stairs in a cavernous hall, soft footsteps echoing off the wall before they reached a heavy oak door.<
br />
Ramone appeared by her side, looking stoic as always. He hadn't really spoken to her since her return and she was pretty sure he didn't want her there. "You are to go in, stand against the wall and not interfere in any way."
"What?" she said. She was never invited inside; that was normally Ramone's domain.
"Just do as you're told," he said sharply and she tentatively took some steps in through the door into a large office with mirrors and gilt around the walls, the remnants of a different era. Tarquin and Adaeus sat in large chairs and were served drinks by a waiter in white. Why was she here? What was this? What was the purpose behind this change? This directive could only have come from Tarquin. Ramone would not have chosen this; he would have placed her as far from the family as possible. The thought occurred to her that maybe Tarquin didn't trust her out of his sight, believing she would run away again.
Running away again seemed utterly pointless. She'd done her very best and he'd still found her. It had proved impossible to evade him, even with all the steps she had taken to obscure and protect herself. Wherever she went, he would find her. There were no defenses she could employ with him, not physically, and now not emotionally. She was utterly in his power; the thing she had feared so very much.
It wasn't her job to listen to the meeting, so she tuned out, her eyes lingering exactly where she didn't want them to, totally cognizant of the endorphins that flooded her brain whenever she looked at him. His back was to her and she was stuck staring at the back of his head. At times, he would turn slightly and she could see the curve of his jaw.
*
They returned home, the car pulling in and again, she got out first to open the door for him, going through the exact same painful routine. Once inside, they all dispersed and Tarquin walked slowly toward his study.
Through her sluggish brain, she was too slow to move, watching him as he went, soon to disappear, but at the door he turned. With a slight panic, she noticed they were alone now, the hall empty of the people who had been there seconds before. His eyes met hers and she felt a current flowing when he looked at her. "You don't have to watch me," she said and he raised his eyebrow as if what she said was absurd. "I mean, you don't have to keep tabs on me."
"Don't I?" he said without inflection.
"My secret is out," she admitted, feeling foolish and uncertain, and raw, her voice threatening to break.
He only stared at her and she grew increasingly uncomfortable.
"I'm just saying I don't really have a reason to run now."
"Don't you?"
Flashes of painful longing and twisting anxiety stretched before her and she couldn't stop her uncertainty showing on her face. That was the worst part of this: she was too raw. She was unable to hide her emotions because they felt so large and threatening, taking over her whole body.
"All the same, I prefer to keep you in sight."
He didn't trust her. Why would he? Not that he trusted anyone, and he certainly didn't care if she felt uncomfortable.
"I thought perhaps it would be best if you reassigned me."
He let go of the brass handle and stepped toward her. Her stomach clenched violently. "No, I think not," he said. She looked up into his eyes and they were just as cold as always, staring right back at her. She felt like a deer caught in headlights, unable to look away, again endorphins flooding her brain, urging her to trust him.
"I… this, compromises me."
He didn't respond for a moment and she had no idea what was going to come out of his mouth next. "That is for you to deal with," he said and withdrew, taking his attention away.
That's unfair, she wanted to shout, but maybe this was her punishment after all. All told, it wasn't a bad one for impact. What she wanted was tantalizingly close and always too far away, too remote. He was cruel, but then she'd always known he would be if he found out.
She both did and didn't want him to disappear into his study. Her being was split in two; the rational, who knew this was the most idiotic, dangerous thing to ever happen to her, and the irrational, who just wanted to be with him.
Closing her eyes, she turned and headed downstairs, where she knew the other members of the security detail would be resentful and suspicious. They didn't want her around and she couldn't blame them. Even hidden away in her room, she was tortured by desires and wants piercing into her consciousness relentlessly. There was no peace to be had anywhere. Her sleep was stolen by him as were her waking hours. Work was absolutely no distraction, especially as he didn't trust her out of his sight. It was all exhausting.
Chapter 24:
* * *
What did love make a person? Visibly there was no difference, other than she avoided his eyes whenever she was near. If hate was the intense staring, love avoided all contact—both opposed from what was logical. On one level Tarquin was fascinated by it, but on another, he knew there was danger there. He felt it in his bones, a threat he couldn't articulate or even identify. She posed no threat to him, but there was still a pervasive unease.
She wore her hair in a tight bun, the soft blond tones shining in the sunlight. She was unadorned in every way, no jewelry or makeup. Make up wasn't necessary for her. Thinking back, he couldn't remember seeing her with any. Not that he'd really paid attention before.
Her expression was stark. There was little doubt that she wished not to be here. This love was something she suffered but didn't embrace. Not that there was anything to embrace. Of all the people in the world, he was the least appropriate to fall in love with, which fascinated him even more.
What did she do now that she was out of sight? Did she try to kill this love? Did she pine? Did she dream of him? A rush of something passed through him; he couldn't identify it. This was, as far as he was concerned, completely unchartered territory and he didn't know what to do with this knowledge. Love was something he knew very little about. This affliction that struck people.
Picking up the decanter, he poured himself a measure of whiskey. He wanted her here, to watch her, to observe, but he had no call for insisting on her presence. He sat down on the chair by the fire in his study. Winter was not giving up its claim on Paris yet. The flames danced like a woman set on seducing. That he knew. He'd seen every form of it. Cassandra, on the other hand, wasn't trying to draw him in; she was trying to get away. Again an emotion flashed through his mind, then fleeted.
Today she'd stood in the room as they’d met with the human civilian administration, still as a mouse, but Tarquin was aware of her presence behind him. He felt her eyes on him when his back was turned. That in itself wasn't unusual, but her intentions were. Intentions were not the right word, because she had no intentions. It was he who had drawn her back here, returned everything to normal, made her resume her duties. He didn't quite understand why, but he had. There had been other options, but this was the one that had entered his mind and insisted.
The door to Tarquin's study swung open. Only a family member would be so brass as to enter without knocking. Castran appeared wearing a tux with an undone bow tie hanging down limply from his neck.
"You have been out," Tarquin said, pleased that Castran was finally leaving the house, resuming his life after the incident with the ghost—an event that had hit his brother surprisingly hard. Castran still refused to talk about what had happened, but being confronted by one of his victims had had a profound impact on the young man. Tarquin had been worried that Castran's resilience wouldn't return. Him again finding the company of his peers was a good sign, Tarquin supposed. He'd never wanted Castran to become as isolated as he himself was.
"Yes," Castran said and walked further into the room, his footsteps silent on the plush carpet, until he settled on leaning against the large mahogany desk. "You've put her back on duty."
"Who?" Tarquin asked, knowing full well Castran was talking about Cassandra. This was Tarquin's way of uninviting Castran from talking about this incident.
Castran pinched his lower lip and glowered at him. "You kn
ow full well who I'm talking about," he smiled. "But if you want to go there, let's. The one who's probably right now touching herself while thinking of you."
"Don't be so crude," Tarquin said sharply. He was certainly not a prude, but that statement offended in every way.
Castran sighed and crossed his arms. "If it had been a few months ago, I would be astounded you haven't taken her yet."
"And now?"
Another deep intake of breath. He was silent for a while, his eyes open and watching. "You've never had a chance like this before. She loves you. You aren't deluded enough to not know how rare that is."
"A fleeting infatuation."
"No, an overused word for a very rare event."
"Castran, this is tiresome."
"Claim her," Castran urged earnestly.
"This is ridiculous," Tarquin said, rising from his chair. He was not having this discussion.
"I would give anything to be in your place," Castran called as Tarquin walked out of his study. He wasn't listening to this. "Don't let this go because of your pride."
This had nothing to do with pride. Castran didn't understand. This thing with the ghost had made Castran morose and gelastic. It would be something they would have to address. Castran had grown soft.
Tarquin entered his apartments. Tiredness stung his eyes and Castran's suggestion irked. The boy didn't understand. He lived in some rose-colored version of the world, where love existed. It was distressing that Castran had grown so… unrealistic. Even if it were possible in some massive suspension of the true nature of the world, there were still a multitude of issues, not least the damage he had caused to her life, most of which she wasn't aware of.
Would Castran paper over those issues? Gloss over them as if they weren't there, never mention that there had been another life she had been intended for? She was the child of the enemy and she had lost everything of her life and existence, her past and future because of it. To have her love too felt like a betrayal on an unprecedented level. Would Castran be cold and self-serving enough to overlook such duplicity?
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