if loving you is a sin, let me be devout

Aerion: Need your help. Urgent.

The message comes just after nine—no greeting, no context. You stare at it for a second before typing back.

You: That sounds like a you problem.

Aerion: Get over here.

A beat. 

Aerion: Please. 

Aerion: And bring that face I like.

You exhale through your nose, thumb hovering over the screen longer than it should. 

You: You’re impossible.

Aerion: I know.

Aerion: See you soon, pretty girl.

By the time you reach his apartment, the hallway was quiet as the building settled into the late hour. You stop in front of his door and knock once, barely having time to pull back before it swings open.

Aerion stands there, already stepping aside like he expected you down to the second.

"Took you long enough.”

You brush past him without answering, the door clicking shut behind you as you shrug off your coat.

"You said urgent," you reply, "not life or death."

The living room has been half-dismantled, lamps dragged into corners and blinds drawn low, the overhead lights killed entirely.

On the coffee table sits a bulky VHS camcorder surrounded by a stack of labeled cassettes, and in the corner an old CRT monitor hums faintly, washing the room in a pale greenish glow. 

Aerion moves past you toward the coffee table without a word. He picks up the camcorder, cradling it in both hands before fiddling with it.

"…What is all this?" you ask, something between curiosity and amusement edging into your voice. 

He finally glances up, gaze dragging over you and lingering just long enough to make your pulse skip, a slow smirk tugging at his lips. 

"Character study," he says. "Isolation. Routine. Subtle shifts in behavior." 

He reaches for one of the cassettes before popping it into the camera. 

"Professor wants something original." 

"That sounds like bullshit."

"It is," he agrees easily. "But it looks good on paper."

You drift closer, drawn in by the setup—the space he's arranged spare and specific, every element placed with intention.

“Stand there,” he says, nodding toward a cleared space in front of him.

You glance at it. “You didn’t say I was acting.”

“You’re not,” he says immediately. “Just… exist there.”

“So you just called me over to make me your… what, subject?”

His mouth twitches faintly at that. “Something like that.”

You narrow your eyes at him, then tilt your head just slightly. “And what do I get in return?”

That earns you something—his gaze sharpening, interest flickering as he adjusts his grip on the camera.

“Depends,” he says after a pause. “Are you here to argue, or are you going to do what you came for?”

You blink at him, then let out a small, incredulous laugh. “Wow. Bossy today.”

His mouth twitches again as if he’s trying not to give you too much of a reaction. You hold his gaze for a moment, weighing it, then move to the spot without further argument. 

The camcorder comes up and you hear the soft mechanical click of it starting to record.

“Stay right there,” he says again, quieter this time, more to himself than to you.

You let your weight settle, arms loose at your sides, and look back at him through the lens.

It’s strange being watched this intently, not uncomfortable exactly, but present in a way everyday life rarely asks you to be.

You barely shift before his voice cuts in, calm and immediate. 

"You're thinking too hard," he says, without looking up from the viewfinder.

"You're pointing a camera at me."

"I've done worse." The smirk is audible. "Relax. Pretend I'm not here."

Easier said than done, but you try, letting your gaze slip off the lens before it lands on him instead.

The way his hands work over the camcorder, steady and precise. The quiet focus in his expression, the set of his jaw in the pale glow of the monitor—and lower, where his shirt has ridden up just enough to show a strip of his stomach, a faint trail of hair disappearing beneath the waist of his jeans.

God, he looked so good tonight.

You force your attention away before it lingers too long.

A few seconds pass and gradually you start to move. Slow and aimless, the way you might cross a room when no one's watching, picking something up off the shelf and setting it back down.

After a minute or two, you pause mid-step and glance toward him, one brow lifting.

“How long am I supposed to be doing this?”

“Until it stops feeling like a performance,” he said, voice low and smooth. “Keep going. Touch your hair. Roll your shoulders. Whatever feels natural.”

You exhale through your nose, somewhere between annoyed and amused, but you do it anyway.

One hand lifts to push your hair back, fingers lingering at the nape of your neck a beat too long. You can feel the lens tracking the movement.

He stepped closer, boots quiet on the hardwood. The camcorder stayed glued to his eye, but his free hand reached out, brushing a stray strand behind your ear with surprising gentleness.

“Better,” he murmured.

The pad of his thumb grazed the shell of your ear, then trailed down the side of your neck, slow enough to raise goosebumps. 

“You’re tense. I can see it in your shoulders.”

“I’m being filmed by a man who texts like a hostage negotiator,” you shot back, but your voice had already softened, breath catching when his fingers continued their lazy descent, tracing your collarbone.

Aerion hummed, the sound vibrating low in his chest. He was close enough now that you could smell his cologne and feel the heat radiating off his body. 

The camera dipped slightly, angling down to capture the way your nipples had tightened visibly against the fabric.

A flush of heat rushed to your face as you became painfully aware of just how sheer the material was, leaving almost nothing to the imagination.

You regretted not putting on a bra earlier—though, if you were being honest, a part of you had half-expected that coming over to Aerion’s, you wouldn’t really need one anyway.

"Take a breath," he said. "Let it out slow."

You did as he said, though the exhale came out unsteady, catching slightly as your chest rose and fell under his lens.

His thumb found the hollow of your throat, resting there just long enough to feel your pulse jump.

“Good girl.”

The praise landed hot and low in your belly. You hated how easily he could flip a switch from casual to charged with nothing more than a look and a few quiet words.

Your tongue darted out to wet your lips. “This still for your project?”

“It was.” 

A slow, dangerous smile curved his mouth. “Now it’s for me.”

The air shifts with it, subtle but immediate. Your heart hammered against your ribs, the air feeling thicker, more electric. 

He lowered the camera for a moment before taking a step fully into your space, one hand sliding to your waist, the other cupping your jaw as he tilted your face up to his.

“Tell me to stop if you want,” he said against your lips, breath warm and mint-tinged. “But I think you like being watched.”

You didn’t answer.

Instead you rose onto your toes and kissed him. Slow at first, testing, then deeper when he groaned and pulled you flush against him.

His tongue slid against yours while his hand drifted down to grip your ass, squeezing hard enough to make you gasp into his mouth.

When he broke the kiss, his lips brushed your ear.

“How about we make this a little more exciting,” he whispered, voice rough with want.

“Strip for the camera. Slow. Let it see everything.”

Your heart hammered against your ribs. He pulled back, just enough to look at you—whatever he found in your expression seeming to satisfy him—then stepped away before raising the lens and finding you again, and this time there was nothing clinical about it.

Your gaze drops without meaning to, catching on the front of his jeans that pulled taut, the outline of him pressing against the denim in a way that made your mouth go dry. 

"Go on," he said quietly before stepping back and angling the lens towards you once more. 

You held his gaze for one second, then reached for the hem of your shirt, peeling it up and over your head.

The cool air hit your skin, nipples pebbling instantly under the camcorder’s indifferent stare.

Aerion’s eyes tracked every inch like he was memorizing you. 

“Fuck, look at you,” he breathed. “Keep going.”

You hooked your thumbs into your waistband next, pushing your pants down your hips, stepping out of them until you stood in nothing but your underwear.

The lace was already damp, and you knew the camera would catch that dark little spot when you turned just right.

Aerion made a low, appreciative sound. 

Without breaking eye contact, he sets the camcorder down on the coffee table. The red light keeps blinking, angled just right to keep both of you in frame. 

Then he closes the distance again, his hands finding you. He cups your breasts, thumbs circling your nipples until you arched into him with a soft moan. One hand slid down, slipping beneath the lace to find you slick and aching.

“So wet already,” he murmured, two fingers gliding through your folds before circling your clit with firm pressure. “All this just from me pointing a camera at you?”

You bit your lip, hips rocking instinctively against his hand. “Aerion…”

He kissed the corner of your mouth, then your jaw and down until it reached the sensitive spot beneath your ear. 

Suddenly he pushed two fingers inside you without warning, curling them just right, and your head fell back on a broken moan.

The wet, obscene sound of his fingers pumping in and out filled the room, accompanied by the faint mechanical hum of the camcorder still recording every second.

Aerion’s mouth found your throat, sucking a mark into your skin while his thumb kept working your clit in tight, relentless circles.

“That’s it, pretty girl,” he praised, voice dark and filthy. “Let the camera hear how pretty you sound when I touch you.”

Your legs trembled making you grab his shoulders for balance, nails digging in as pleasure coiled tighter and tighter in your core.

He pulled his fingers free suddenly, making you whimper, before bringing them up to his mouth and sucking them clean with a low groan.

He looked at you with a smirk, his eyes dark with heat as he licked the last traces from his fingers.

Without breaking eye contact, he undid his belt before shoving his jeans and boxers down his thighs in one smooth motion, freeing his cock. 

It sprang out, thick and heavy, the flushed head already glistening with a bead of precum. He wrapped a hand around the base and gave one slow stroke, his thumb smearing the slickness over the sensitive tip as he watched your reaction.

Then, softer but still commanding, he spoke with a wicked little smile, “On your knees, baby.”

The command sent a shiver down your spine.

You sank down without hesitation, the hardwood cool against your skin. Aerion moved closer, one hand tangling gently in your hair as he guided the head of his cock to your mouth, tapping it against your lower lip once, then twice.

“Wanna show the camera how good you use your mouth?” he murmured, the words dripping with filthy promise.

His thumb brushed your cheek, almost tender.

“Open up for me, pretty girl. Let it see how deep you can take me.”

Your pussy clenched at the words. You looked up at him through your lashes, then parted your lips before taking him in.

The first slide of his cock over your tongue drew a deep, guttural groan from his chest. He was thick—stretching your mouth in that perfect, slightly overwhelming way.

You hollowed your cheeks and sucked, tongue swirling around the head before you sank lower, taking as much of him as you could.

“Fuck,” Aerion hissed, fingers tightening in your hair. His hips twitched forward, pushing another inch past your lips. “That’s it… just like that. Look at the camera while you suck me.”

You turned your head slightly, eyes flicking toward the blinking red light.

The knowledge that it was recording every second, your spit-slick lips stretched wide around his cock and the way your throat worked when you took him deeper, made you moan around him. The vibration pulled another curse from Aerion.

He kept one hand in your hair as he started to rock his hips, fucking your mouth in slow, controlled thrusts. 

“Gods, you look so perfect like this,” he rasped, voice strained with pleasure.

His gaze kept darting between your face and the camcorder.

“All sloppy and eager… taking my cock so well while the camera watches. You like knowing it’s filming how wet your mouth gets for me, don’t you?”

You hummed in agreement, the sound muffled and obscene. Drool had started to slip from the corners of your lips, dripping down your chin but you didn’t care.

You bobbed your head faster, one hand coming up to stroke what you couldn’t fit, twisting gently on every upstroke the way you knew he liked.

Aerion’s head tipped back for a moment, a low, broken moan escaping him. His stomach flexed visibly under the hem of his shirt, and his cock throbbed against your tongue.

“Shit—slow down or I’m gonna come too fast,” he warned, but he didn’t pull away.

Instead he looked straight at the camera, lips parted and cheeks flushed, his signature arrogance melting into raw lust. 

“So fucking good with that pretty mouth… that’s my girl,” he groaned, violet eyes half-lidded as he stared back down at you.

He pulled out suddenly, strings of saliva connecting your lips to the glistening head of his cock.

You gasped for air, lips swollen and shiny, and he immediately tapped his cock against your tongue again, letting the camera catch the messy sight.

Aerion cursed under his breath, the sound raw and reverent.

“You’re going to be the death of me,” he muttered, thumb brushing away a tear that had slipped down your cheek.

His voice dropped even lower, thick with lust.

“But first I’m going to fuck that tight little cunt while the camera records every second of you falling apart on my cock.”

The words hit you like a spark.

You looked up at him, lips parted and shiny and you barely had time to respond before he was hauling you up off your knees with strong hands under your arms. 

He spun you around and bent you over the arm of the couch in one smooth, possessive motion, your stomach pressed against the soft fabric, ass raised high for him—and for the camera.

He shifted the camera slightly so that the lens was perfectly positioned, capturing the curve of your back, the way your tits hung heavy and swaying, and the slick shine between your spread thighs.

Aerion stepped up behind you, one large hand smoothing possessively down your spine before gripping your hip hard enough to bruise.

His other hand guided his cock, dragging the thick head through your soaked folds, teasing your entrance with slow, deliberate strokes that made you push back against him desperately.

“Eyes on the camera,” he reminded you, voice a dark rumble.

He leaned over your back, lips brushing the shell of your ear as he finally pushed inside slowly, allowing you to drink in every inch as he stretched you open.

A broken moan tore from your throat the moment he bottomed out, buried to the hilt in your tight heat.

The stretch was perfect, almost too much, the slight burn only making the pleasure sharper.

“Fuck… so wet,” he groaned, hips flush against your ass.

He gave one shallow thrust, then another, letting you feel every thick inch.

He started moving faster, each snap of his hips driving deeper, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing obscenely through the quiet apartment.

One hand stayed anchored on your hip while the other reached around to rub tight circles over your swollen clit.

Your mouth fell open on a silent cry, eyes locked on the blinking red light as he fucked you harder, the couch creaking beneath you with every powerful thrust.

The pleasure was already spiraling, sharp and relentless, but Aerion wasn’t done with you yet.

Without warning he pulled out, the sudden emptiness dragging a needy whine from your throat.

Before you could protest, his hands were on you flipping you onto your back in one fluid motion.

Your shoulders hit the couch cushions, legs splayed wide as he loomed over you, silver-blond hair sticking to his forehead, chest heaving.

“Much better,” he murmured, voice rough. “I want to see your face properly when I ruin you.”

Aerion reached for the camcorder on the coffee table, scooping it up with one hand. The red light never faltered.

He held it steady, angling the lens down as he knelt between your spread thighs, framing the shot perfectly—your swollen, dripping cunt, the way your chest rose and fell, the desperate look in your eyes.

He stroked his cock before spreading your arousal along his length, then pressed the thick head against your entrance.

The camera captured every second, closer this time: the slow push as he sank back into you, inch by thick inch, stretching you open again with a wet, obscene sound.

A low groan tore from his chest the moment he bottomed out, buried to the hilt in your tight heat.

“Fuck… still so perfect. Gripping me like you never want me to leave.”

He started thrusting immediately—deep, rolling strokes that made your back arch off the couch.

The camcorder stayed in his grip, pointed shamelessly between your bodies so it could record the way his cock disappeared inside you over and over, slick and shining with your combined wetness.

“That’s it,” Aerion growled, voice strained with pleasure.

“Let the camera see your face. Show it how pretty you look getting ruined. How your eyes roll back when I hit that spot riiiiight…there—”

A broken moan tore from your throat as white-hot pleasure exploded behind your eyes from the new angle.

Your back arched sharply off the couch, legs trembling uncontrollably while your fingers clawed desperately at the cushions beneath you.

“Oh fuck— Aerion!” you cried out, voice cracking as another precise thrust sent sparks shooting through your veins.

The coil in your belly tightened viciously, threatening to snap at any second.

He groaned deeply, the sound vibrating against your skin as he leaned closer, lips brushing your ear.

“Listen to those sweet little sounds you’re making for the camera. You’re squeezing me so fucking tight, baby. You gonna come already? Gonna show the camera how beautifully you fall apart on my cock?”

“Gonna watch this later,” he snarled, slamming in deep with a brutal thrust.

“Gonna stroke my cock raw to the way your greedy little pussy clenches and milks me.” 

Another vicious thrust.

“Gonna cum so hard to the sight of you falling apart while I flood…” thrust “this…” thrust “tight…” thrust “sloppy fucking cunt.”

Your moans grew louder, more desperate, the pressure building fast and overwhelming under his relentless pace and the wicked swirl of his fingers on your clit.

The camera kept recording, merciless and intimate, capturing every twitch of your face, every bounce of your breasts, every slick thrust as Aerion fucked you closer and closer to the edge.

“Cum for me,” he demanded, voice breaking with his own impending release.

“Cum on my cock while the camera watches. Let it see how good you look when you’re mine.”

The coil snapped.

Your orgasm crashed over you violently, walls fluttering and clenching hard around his thick length as you cried out, eyes squeezing shut for a moment before you forced them open again, staring straight at the red light like he’d ordered.

Your whole body shook with the force of it, a broken sob of pleasure tearing from your throat.

Aerion groaned loudly, hips stuttering as your pussy milked him.

“Fuck—yes, just like that—”

He fucked you through it, kept the camera trained on your face through it all as he chased his own release with deep, punishing strokes until, with a guttural moan of your name, he buried himself to the hilt and came hard.

You felt every pulse as he spilled inside you, hot and thick, filling you until it started to leak out around his cock with every shallow thrust he gave to ride it out.

He stayed buried for a moment, both of you panting, bodies slick with sweat. Then he leaned down, pulling out just enough for the lens to catch the thick white cum leaking from your swollen pussy before he pushed back in, fucking it deeper with lazy rolls of his hips.

Finally, he reached over and stopped the recording, setting the camera aside on the coffee table with a soft click.

He looked down at you, eyes still dark but sparkling with mischief, a cocky grin spreading across his face.

Death was supposed to be clean and final, meant to take what it was owed and leave nothing behind.

That day, it should have taken you too.

And yet, as everything slipped away you found yourself waiting. Because they say that when you die, your life flashes before your eyes. So you waited for it.

For the rush of memories. For familiar faces. For some undeniable proof that you had been here at all. 

But nothing came.

No light or montage of moments, nor the gentle unraveling of the past. Only the echo of what had come before. 

The last thing you remember was the chaos. Shouting tangled with the sharp crack of gunfire, your heartbeat hammering so violently it drowned out everything else. 

Then the world split open. 

Fire roared as the shockwave knocked the breath from your lungs, heat scorching your skin before everything collapsed into bright light and pain.

Time lost its meaning after that. 

You drifted in and out of awareness, suspended somewhere between something and nothing.

Darkness pressed in, thick and endless, broken only by flickers of light that stung your eyes, distant voices that rose and faded, and a dull ache threading through every limb. 

Figures also lingered at the edges of your mind but were never clear enough to hold. Most slipped away as soon as you reached for them. But one remained blurred and soft, carrying a warmth you could not place.

You didn’t understand it then, but this wasn’t the end.

Somewhere beyond the darkness, your lungs were still drawing breath. The world was still moving forward, even if you could no longer feel it. Your body was fighting in quiet, stubborn ways, refusing to let go.

The first thing you heard was the low murmur of voices, distant and indistinct.

Pain followed—sharp behind your eyes, coiling along your spine, radiating outward in slow, relentless waves that made every breath feel wrong. You swallowed, and even that small movement sent a protest through your ribs.

Your eyelids felt impossibly heavy, but they lifted anyway, fluttering open as shapes began to pull themselves from the shadows.

The room was dim and rough, its wooden walls leaning, scarred by age and neglect. You lay on a narrow cot beneath a thin, scratchy blanket that did little to ease the ache in your bruised, stiff body.

A lantern glowed weakly overhead, its flame guttering inside the glass and casting wavering shadows that crawled along the ceiling. 

As your gaze moved, slower now, the details settled into place. The room offered no comfort. No personal belongings. No sign that you had ever chosen to be here.

You searched for something familiar but nothing surfaced, only a hollow stretch of silence inside you, vast and echoing.

And with that realization, a chill crept beneath your skin, deeper than the cold.

You were alive, but your mind was empty.

The door burst open without warning, slamming hard enough to set the lantern swaying overhead. A lanky man strode in carelessly, his boots heavy against the floorboards.

You forced yourself up on your elbows, pain flaring through your ribs at the effort. It wasn’t much, only enough to stay upright.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” he muttered. “She’s got some life in her yet.” 

He paused near the foot of the cot, eyes trailing over you as a crooked smile slowly took shape before turning his head toward the open doorway, raising his voice just enough to carry.

“She’s up, finally,” he called lazily over his shoulder. “Told ya she weren’t dead.”

A few seconds passed before his attention drifted back to you, tilting his head as if studying you like an odd curiosity.

A shiver ran through you—part fear, part defiance and part exhaustion before a second man appeared in the doorway, broader and rougher.

“She awake?” 

“Awake enough,” the first replied. “Look at her. Think she knows where she is?”

The second man chuckled and came further into the room, leaning down slightly to study you.

“Reckon she’s still rattled. Blast like that’d scramble anyone.”

The first reached out as if to grab your chin, prompting you to lean back on the cot, every inch of you bristling as you glared at him before another voice cut through the room, halting his movement.

“Leave her.”

The sharp voice cut through the room, calm and full of authority that made both men straighten immediately.

“We weren’t doin’ nothin’,” the first said quickly, stepping back. “Just checkin’ she’d wake.”

Slow, deliberate footsteps echoed across the floor as another figure stepped fully into the lantern light.

Tall and lean, coat hanging neatly from his shoulders. He removed his gloves, one finger at a time, eyes sweeping the room before finally settling on you.

“Checkin’, is it? Patting her like she’s a newborn calf?” His gaze lingered, sharp and amused. “And here I thought the girl might have a backbone. Guess we’ll find out soon enough.”

With a slight nod of his head, the men muttered under their breath before they shuffled back toward the corners, grumbling as they went. 

“You look… worse for wear,” he said finally, crouching slightly, careful not to startle you. 

You blinked at him, throat dry and mind fogged. You wanted to ask something. Anything—but no words would come. 

He tilted his head before his gaze flicked over to one of the men. “Go on, fetch her somethin’ to drink.”

The lanky man hesitated, then scurried forward. You struggled upright as best you could, wincing as pain flared through your body, and took the tin cup from him, hands shaking slightly as the water sloshed. Each swallow burned your throat but grounded you just enough to feel a small measure of relief.

You set the cup down slowly, unsure of what to say or do next. After a moment, you forced words out, low and uncertain.

“What… what happened?”

The man’s eyes flicked toward you as he let out a short, quiet chuckle. 

“What happened?” He leaned back slightly, letting a faint smirk linger. “Someone decided to make quite the mess on one of my camps. Not very polite, is it?”

You blinked in confusion, hands fumbling against the thin blanket as you tried to steady yourself.

The man’s eyes lingered on you for a heartbeat before he spoke.

“You took a hell of a hit from it. Blast went off right where you were—didn’t think anyone’d actually walk away from that one. Knocked you clean out… almost a week, I’d say.”

“A week?” you repeated, voice trembling. “I don’t… I don’t understand… What… how—”

“Well, aren’t you in a hurry to panic,” he said, a short, dry chuckle escaping him.

You swallowed hard, blinking as your mind scrambled at fragments that refused to form. Nothing made sense.

You didn’t know why you were here, didn’t recognize the men in the room, and couldn’t piece together any sense of what had happened.

After drawing in a breath, you forced yourself to speak again, the question scraping its way past the tightness in your throat.

“Who… who are you?”

He stilled for a fraction of a second. Then a slow, almost entertained smile touched his mouth. You didn’t know it, but he’d learned your face long before, from one of his men—Arthur Morgan’s girl. 

For a moment, there was a flicker in his gaze, just noticeable enough to make you hesitate. 

“Well now, you lookin’ at me like I’m some man you never laid eyes on,” he said lightly, tilting his head.

“That’s a curious thing, considerin’ the sort of company you keep. I’d have thought my name might’ve come up once or twice. Name’s Colm O’Driscoll—rings a bell, does it?”

Your brow furrowed. “No… I don’t know,” you said, the admission thin and uncertain. “I don’t… remember anything.”

Colm let out a short chuckle. “Now that’s a mighty big claim.”

“I mean it, it’s just… blank.”

“So you’re tellin’ me you don’t know who we are. Don’t know how you ended up here.”

A faint, humorless smile tugged at his mouth, as if he didn’t quite believe a word of it.

“Funny… I’d’ve thought someone like you might remember at least a face or two. That’s either the worst luck I’ve ever seen… or the finest act.”

“I’m not acting,” you said, a tremor slipping into your voice despite yourself.

He leaned back slightly, folding his arms as he studied you.

“See, most folks wake up confused. Maybe shaken. But they remember somethin’. A name, a face… you got nothin’ at all?”

You met his gaze as you shook your head. Silence stretched long enough to make your pulse throb in your ears.

“Well,” he said at last, tone smoothing out again, “that does put us in an interesting position.”

He uncrossed his arms and stepped a little closer, gaze sharpening. “Let’s try this another way… What’s the last thing you remember?”

“There was… noise,” you said slowly as you searched through your mind. “Shouting. Gunfire.” Your fingers tightened unconsciously in the blanket. “An explosion.”

His brow lifted slightly. “Mm.”

“That’s it. After that—nothing.”

He watched you closely as if searching your expression for cracks. Instead of suspicion, a faint note of appreciation touched his gaze.

“You don’t remember who you were ridin’ with?” he pressed lightly. “Or who might be lookin’ for you?”

A flicker—something warm, just out of reach—brushed the edge of your thoughts, teasing at a memory you couldn’t hold. You drew a slow breath, forcing your expression to stay calm, hiding the strain tugging at you.

“I don’t remember,” you said evenly, letting the words settle between you.

Then, after a brief pause, your voice sharpened slightly. “And even if I did… why would I be tellin’ you?”

That earned a genuine chuckle.

“That’s a bold thing to say for someone lyin’ half-broken in my bed.”

You forced yourself to meet his eyes, even as your heart hammered.

“If you know somethin’, then say it plain. Stop talkin’ around it.”

“All right, all right, fair enough,” he conceded. “Let’s just say… you got caught up in the mess of things. That’s enough truth I know for now.”

He let his eyes roam over you, noting the way you held yourself despite the aches and confusion. 

“You’ve got spirit, I’ll give you that.” His smile lingered. “Most folks wake up scared senseless. You’re sittin’ there tryin’ to measure me instead.” 

You met his gaze without flinching, shoulders squared as best you could. “I’m not tryin’ to measure anyone, I just… want to know what’s going on.”

He took a slow step back, eyes narrowing just a fraction, curious now.

“Alright. You remember an explosion. That’s honest enough.” A pause. “Tell me, at least—do you even remember your own name? That much should stick, I’d think.”

The question hung heavy in the air. Your brow furrowed as you searched inward, desperate for a spark of memory.

Instinctively, your hand rose, fingers brushing the base of your throat, though you didn’t know why—it felt like you were meant to find something there.

Silence pressed around you, thick and unyielding.

You dug deeper, straining past the haze and ache, straining for a fragment—any sound, any syllable—that might answer the question. To no avail, your hand slowly fell back to your lap before shaking your head.

“Not even that,” he murmured.

“No,” you said, firmer now despite the hollow feeling in your chest. “If you know it, you can say it.”

“Oh, I could,” he agreed lightly. “But seems to me a name’s a powerful thing. Best you come to it yourself.”

His gaze lingered on you a moment longer than it had before, shifting from teasing to something quieter, more measured.

He studied the way your fingers fidgeted with the blanket, the tension in your shoulders, as if weighing how much you could handle.

“That’s alright,” he said after a beat. “No sense in hurtin’ yourself tryin’ to remember. Rest. No sense tearin’ at stitches that ain’t ready to hold. We’ll see what comes back to you in time.”

“And if it doesn’t?” you asked.

“Then it doesn’t,” he said simply. 

“We’ll take care of you here,” he continued, tone measured, almost reassuring. “Give you time. Let you find your feet again.”

You studied him warily. “Why?”

A faint curve touched the corner of his mouth—not mocking this time. Calculating, but warmer.

“Sometimes,” he said quietly, “a clean slate’s a gift. Not many people get one.” His eyes didn’t leave yours. “Gives a person the chance to choose who they want to be.”

He straightened, shoulders shifting as he stepped toward the door, letting his gaze sweep over the two men still lingering in the corner before it returned to you.

“Take your time, we’ll make sure you’re looked after.”

The plan had been simple: capture you, break you, make the Van der Linde gang pay.

You were the perfect pawn—someone to use against their enforcer should he come sniffing for revenge, a bargaining chip soaked in pain.

But when Colm looked into your vacant eyes, he realized something far more valuable. You weren’t just a tool to be bent to his will. You were a blank slate. No memories, no loyalties, no weight of the past to anchor you.

A weapon unshaped.

The kind of weapon that could be molded, trained, and trusted. Every instinct, every decision, every ounce of influence he exerted could steer you. And that—more than vengeance or payback—was power.

So he did not rush it. That was the key. 

The worst of the swelling along your scalp had faded, though the stitches still pulled with every sudden movement. A deep bruise wrapped around your ribs, aching whenever you drew a full breath.

The doctor—if he could even be called that—said it was a miracle the blast hadn’t shattered bone. 

“Head took a bad knock. Blast like that rattles the brain. Memory loss ain’t unheard of,” the doctor said as he changed your bandages and checked your pupils with blunt fingers. 

No one shackled you. No one pressed you too hard. They let you recover, giving you time to rest and gather yourself.

They said they’d found you after the smoke cleared, their men sweeping the area, counting bodies, checking the treeline—until one of them spotted you pinned beneath splintered beams and ash.

Told you if they hadn’t, the wolves would’ve found you by morning. That the men responsible for the whole commotion were long gone by the time they circled back. Left you there.

Alone.

You searched yourself for outrage at that idea, though there was nothing to grab onto. Maybe you’d been riding near their camp when the explosion went off.

Maybe you’d been hired by someone who ran when things turned bad. Maybe you’d crossed the wrong men.

Soon, you were well enough to try moving on your own. The first steps were uncertain, but they came all the same.

At first, they didn’t trust it. Didn’t trust you.

Some of the men watched too closely. Others didn’t bother hiding their doubt, muttering under their breath, their eyes lingering like they were waiting for you to slip.

Colm was always near enough to be felt, though he kept his distance, letting you test your legs, your senses, and your surroundings without interference. He watched with that same calculating gaze he’d held the first time you woke, studying how you adapted and how you handled yourself.

Like he was measuring something only he could see.

And as the days stretched on, something else began to surface.

Even stripped of memory, you moved with instinct. When danger brushed too close, your body reacted before your mind could catch up. Quick steps, balanced turns, hands steady where they should have trembled.

When a door slammed downstairs, your body tensed before your mind understood why. When boots moved too fast behind you, your weight shifted, balanced and ready.

One of the men grabbed your shoulder without thinking. He hit the floor just as quickly.

You stared down at him, confused. “I don’t remember learning that.”

A few of them laughed, not kindly or cruelly. Just impressed.

“Whoever you were,” he said, pushing himself up, “you weren’t soft.”

“Or she’s playin’ us,” another muttered. “Wouldn’t be the first time someone tried.”

The air shifted, subtle but sharp.

For a moment, no one moved.

Then Colm spoke.

“That so?”

It wasn’t loud, but it cut clean through the room all the same. His gaze flicked between them before settling back on you, calm and certain.

“If she was playin’ you,” he said, almost mildly, “you’d already know it.”

No one argued after that.

You didn’t understand why that mattered, but you felt it. The shift.

You believed them, because nothing else made sense.

Colm noticed all of it.

Once you were comfortable and healed, he began testing you in small ways. A knife left within reach. A loaded gun passed into your hands as if by accident. Tasks that required speed, awareness, precision.

The first time it went wrong, too fast.

You hesitated, just a second too long. The gun misfired in your grip, the sound too loud in the confined space.

Someone swore. Another stepped back.

Your hands steadied after, but the damage was done.

“Careful,” one of them snapped. “Or don’t touch it at all.”

Heat rose sharp and unfamiliar in your chest. Shame, maybe. Or something close to it.

Colm didn’t scold you. Didn’t step in right away.

He just watched.

And the next time, your hands didn’t shake.

You didn’t hesitate.

Steel felt familiar. Weight, recoil, balance. Your body remembered what your mind could not.

And that, more than anything, unsettled you.

And yet, despite the skills you were beginning to reclaim, a shadow of doubt lingered.

You had glimpsed the way the gang moved, the ruthless efficiency, the cold disregard for anyone who stood in their way. The way lives were measured, used, and discarded with casual precision.

Instinct warned you that a man who commanded like this might be no different. Part of you wanted to pull back, to escape, to trust nothing at all.

But every time doubt flickered, it was met by something different.

Colm never raised his voice. He never demanded more than you could give. He treated you with measured care, guiding you without cruelty, watching without pushing too far.

And worse, he was patient.

With no past to anchor yourself, no memory to warn you otherwise, hesitation slowly gave way. You had no choice but to trust him—or at least, you told yourself it wasn’t trust, just survival. And in a world you could barely recognize, that was enough.

One evening, as the firelight flickered across his face, he spoke clearly for the first time about the world around you.

“We move together,” he said, measured. “You’re part of this gang now.”

O’Driscolls.

A gang that didn’t pretend to be anything else. They robbed trains clean. Ambushed stagecoaches. Took what they needed and shot anyone who stood in the way. 

They had numbers. Camps scattered through the Heartlands and the Cumberland forests. There were rules. There were lines. There are enemies—and the Van der Linde gang is at the top of that list. 

“You’ll see them soon enough. They won’t hesitate. You must be sharp. Watch them. Trust nothing you think you know about them. Every member is dangerous. Every single one.” Colm explained.

“Bunch of self-righteous bastards,” someone muttered. “Like to think they’re better than the rest of us.”

No one said more than that.

Day by day, he refined you. Your agility sharpened. Your reflexes tightened. He never called it training. He called it remembering who you were meant to be.

And as he watched you move—quick, capable, dangerous. He knew his patience had been rewarded.

You weren’t just surviving.

You were becoming exactly what he needed.