Adelaide never dared to speak when the Society all gathered like this. Her role within, though vital at times, was minor and her opinion never carried much weight when it came to the big leagues - especially not in a time of peril when they were all thrust into chaos with no proper warning. It was still so enticing to her to sit in on the madness, painted lips pulled thin, brown orbs scanning the faces of other members thoughtfully while they fought and yelled at one another with urgency lacing their tones. They were scared. The foundation of something built long ago was starting to shake, its stability terrifyingly weak as unplanned obstacles wedged their way within the visible cracks. It was almost unnerving to see. Powerful men and women nearly shaking, spitting venom as they fought for a plan, for any kind of way out of the terrible consequence that came from unthought out actions. 

There was far too much happening at once for her to truly hone in on any one member and their exposed emotions, her usual judgments held at bay as she tried to keep her mind with the problem at hand. The Heist Society was in trouble. On the verge of exposure and decimation. The beginning of the end - that is if they couldn’t come up with something to cover their ass and quickly. Adelaide had already done her part by taking a step back. Resuming her normal life as if nothing was a stake or about to crumble and it was easy. Being here now, with the very men who’d began the business that she’d happily entered into what feels like ages ago, she started to feel as if she weren’t doing enough. Given her status both within the Society and out in the world, it wasn’t like she could really contribute anything other than fake smiles and empty advice, but damn did she want to.

“You make a good point,” She spoke up, leaning forward slowly in her seat to make sure she could be seen, clearing her throat to the demand attention from the room and specifically Charles, “However, what exactly do you plan to pull off in three different places? Clearly, this is a life or death situation, so they have to be worth it and they have to be noticeable, but we also have so little room for mistakes. Not saying we are the messy types, but caution is the one thing we need to take heed of. So hotshot, what big heists do you think we call pull off in such a short amount of time without tripping up and COMPLETELY screwing ourselves”

Charles’ grey, ancient eyes widened as the younger girl spoke, his brows raised and his head cocked to the side as the asinine word ‘hotshot’ fell from her obnoxious lips. If there hadn’t been six people and a wide table between them, Charles might have slapped her. 

He felt Francis tense next to him and glanced sideways, his uncle giving him a warning look that said ‘Don’t do or say what I know you want to do or say’. It was a look he’d been given many times. Charles inhaled deeply, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose briefly before dropping his hand to look across at Adelaide impatiently. 

“Well, Miss Rothschild, considering The Beauregards will be removed from this equation due to various incompetencies, you needn’t be concerned with what would have no-doubt been disappointing involvement. You’re quite right in saying that your crew specifically would be incapable of completing a large-scale heist in a limited time-frame, which is exactly my point. Your misinterpretation of my proposal is a perfect example of the mistakes the Beauregards are privy to.” Charles retorted snidely, his eyes locked on Adelaide before he redirected his gaze to the rest of the group. 

A gleaming silver jet, sleek and silent, touches down in London, and the city shudders beneath it. Yearning or fearful? Both. Neither. Its passenger—a man, small in stature, intimidating—steps onto the tarmac; his presence breathes new life into the pavement. Dark, brooding, he strolls lazily away from the plane, late spring sunshine beating down on his broad shoulders, sunglasses drawn over his bronze face, shielding him. Masking him. Both. Neither. He laughs and retrieves a purple banknote from his wallet, flings it carelessly in the direction of the uniformed boy carrying his luggage, punctuates the gesture with a lewd wink.

“Buy yourself something nice,” he drawls in accented English, and the city trembles again, like it knows the chaos that’s been brought to it.

He slides into an inconspicuous black car and lounges against the leather seat with his legs spread and jacket thrown open, breathing in smoke and exhaling strife. He stays like this until the car creeps to a stop in front of an imposing (familiar) club, stewing in his own anxieties and methodically ashing cigarette after cigarette, until his driver glances reproachfully back at him. A signal to go. A signal he must return to a life that nearly ruined him. A signal his break is over, and now he must attend to the chaos the heist has erupted in, fear in his veins and throat. The car door swings open noiselessly, sunshine streams in, and Ciro’s mouth twists into a wolfish grin.

(Because it’s expected. Because he’s nothing if not Capecchi. Because he came back from the dead and learned no lessons from it at all.)

Still, he feels small as he strolls through the Victorian’s grand entrance, feels undeniably unwelcome as a cool wind whistles past him and the door clicks shut behind him, feels out of place even as he locks gazes with a familiar face, lurking among the velvet sofas and heady smoke and glittering chandeliers.

“It’s been awhile,” Ciro says around his cigarette, head tilting to one side. His dark hair bounces with it; it’s longer and lighter, not gelled, soft curls untamed, a laziness he’s grown used to in his weeks away from the melodrama of the heist, although the garishly colored suit stretched across his shoulders nullifies the possibility of a complete transformation. Some things simply never change, and when he continues, words spoken with playful vitriol through a tight grin, it’s clear that his brash Capecchi wit is one of them: “Miss me?”

If Charles had been a bored man, he might have counted the days, possibly even the hours, since he’d had the misfortune of breathing the same air as one, Ciro Capecchi. However, time had escaped Charles and Ciro mattered so little that it was actually about two weeks into the boy’s absence that Charles even realised he had been gone; a realisation which only came after Alessia complained about her spoilt brother’s useless ‘getaway’ to some foreign rehabilitation centre, as far as she knew anyway. 

Charles had unknowingly lived through a blissful and Ciro-less two weeks, and even upon acknowledging the smug Italian’s absence, the continued lack of Ciro in society meetings over the three weeks following simply became the very comfortable norm, as if Ciro’s disappointing presence had never existed in the first place. In a few months time, Charles would look back upon this period in his life as a simpler, peaceful moment of existence, the division being set by the encounter that was about to unfold. An uninvited encounter that, unfortunately, would bring Ciro Capecchi back into his life.

The stench of heavy perfume infiltrated Charles’ nostrils before Ciro had even stopped to stand before him. The smell carried with it a sense of doom, and not the kind Charles enjoyed, not the kind that ended lives in a spectacular display of blood and malice, but rather a disappointing doom, the kind that could bring about the end of all logic and reason. Ciro’s existence didn’t make sense, and that entire confusing concept infected in the air around him like the god damn plague.  

Up until thirty seconds ago, Charles had been sat on his usual sofa in The Victorian, leafing through business papers from his Dagger in Barcelona and smoking his fifth cigarette for the evening, blissfully unaware of how serene his life was in that moment. But now, now he was faced with the hugely inconvenient arrival of Italy’s largest pain in the arse.

Charles finally looked up, but not at Ciro, instead looking past him to the smoke-filled room to silently question why in the living fuck Ciro had stopped to speak to him out of every other patron in the godforsaken place. Unable to find an answer in the haze, Charles’ eyes dragged up to give the little shit a once over before returning his gaze to the papers in his hand.  “Like the bullet that missed your head.” Charles drawled. A joke, almost, very nearly, not quite enough for him to crack a smirk. He exhaled a breath of smoke, continuing to palm through the papers. “Don’t you have six feet of dirt to crawl back under? I can arrange a coffin if that’s what the problem is.” 

Rosie Mallory-Hayes was a strong, confident woman. At least that’s what she told herself into the mirror each morning, int he same way she’d see her mother remind herself to live the lie she’d lived for so, so many years. Rosie was stronger, she decided, and definitely more confident than her mother ( the woman who raised her spent hours upon hours critiquing Rosie’s looks, no matter how much she worked to look p e r f e c t ) yet Rosie was still afraid of a lot of things.

Charles Villiers was one thing that struck terror into her heart.

The night they’d first met, Rosie thought of him as if he were an ethereal being, just like the other members of the Villiers family. They were angels, the family plus Helena, who saved Milo and Rosie from the evils that should have befallen them.

Of course, they weren’t saints. The Mallory-Hayes name was so tarnished by now that Rosie sometimes dreaded the fact she was still forced to wear it. She understood not being perfect, knew how to stick out in the crowd, but she was never so cruel as she saw in the families that surrounded her in the Heist. They weren’t the Cappechis ( and their savagery, her brain whispered ) but still, in their own way, they were just as savage.

Rosie was still coming to terms with the fact that her transgressions were the same as the rest of the Society – were the same as her brother’s in a way. She just wished for people that weren’t so terribly frightening. The night that Charles returned with blood on his hands, Rosie truly believed her life was in danger, ran away as quickly as she could and stayed away from him as much as she possibly could. But now, now Rosie was a g r e e i n g with him.

“He’s… I think he’s right. Americans have short attention spans, I should know.”

The insult to herself pulls her addition to the top of the stack of comments quickly. She was sure even Milo was staring at her for her small outburst. She stops herself, taking a seat and sinking in as she watches Charles’ expression. She’s only a little ( a lot ) horrified. 

Charles is unwavering and ever-present whilst simultaneously a dark shadow at the back of a dimly lit room. He is composure and structure. He is threats that come from a steady tongue with a gaze trained to k i l l. Charles embodies these things and seeks associates that hold the same features. 

The Heist was opulence and decadence -- and though he had stood in the midst of grandeur since his early adolescence, Charles had never truly felt that he belonged amongst the society of grand elegance. His approach to life, and in turn, business, was far grittier, than many of his society colleagues could appreciate. He may have been right hand to the Thief Lord himself but even after all this time, Charles could not shake the feeling that it was not his place, that although he’d earned it, he would never truly feel at home in the Heist -- at least not in the same way that he felt at home leading a ragged bunch of violent misfits through the back alleys of London. 

However, in saying this -- if there was one thing Charles did feel, it was pride. That in itself was the one thing that had contributed to the steadfast loyalty he held to his family. His Uncle was the Thief Lord for a reason, their family lead many of the significant heists for a reason. They were notoriously good at what they did, the picture of class, a standard for everyone to rise to. The Villiers held themselves in a way that caused the timid masses to drop to their knees and beg for forgiveness, for even their measly existence was a sin worth apologising for. 

Charles’ most significant criticism of his uncle and aunt’s actions over the past years was their choice of employees. Charles was yet to be enlightened as to what it was Rosie, Milo and Esme contributed to the society. He’d never encountered such a waste of resources and he thanked his lucky stars that his immature past-self had not sought Francis’ assistance with assembling the Daggers all those years ago -- it surely would have been a disaster. Just as The Villiers crew currently was. As if the most recent generation of Magpies hadn’t been bad enough. 

Rosie spoke from across the room and the buzz of voices fell silent upon her poorly chosen selection of words.

And in Charles’ unwavering, ever-menacing expression - a small twitch of his eye. 

Utter disdain fell across his features. His fist clenched into a ball as he shot daggers at Rosie, you could practically see him willing for her head to just explode. 

Here he was, proposing that the Villiers take back the Heist, that they exclude their highest threats (the Capecchis and the Beauregards, both whom which had members looking to overthrow the hierarchy - this was a move that would put them in their place and stunt their activity) and prove once and for all that they were the superior crew for a reason.

And then little Miss Mallory fucking Hayes opens her big trap and brings the entire picture of power and poise tumbling down in her wake. 

Charles gritted his teeth, breaking the few beats of silence that had cut through the room and turned all eyes onto the fool who had no standing in such a place.

“If all you have to offer is utter incompetence, then I suggest you leave the room.”

Charles should have brought his Daggers back to home base as Francis advised but... business was business, there was stock to be sold and debt to be collected. So as Charles attended the many whispered meetings and kept a steady eye on Lorenzo (who he was sure would attempt to take the reins any day now) -- the Daggers continued to wreak solicited havoc in London’s gutters. 

Lorenzo’s uptight outburst back in France had been questionable at best, but as the news broke, his actions seemed quite clear to Charles. The Capecchis were not to be trusted, and Charles would have been prepared to talk Francis into breaking all ties had his own interests not been so tightly aligned with the Italian crew. 

“I say we cut the shit and lay out what we know here.” Charles interrupted Victor who was bumbling something about covering their tracks to a meeting full of people that had been ‘covering their tracks’ their entire god damn lives. Who even let him into the room? The distracted whisperings that were being exchanged during Victor’s ramblings fell silent as Charles took command of the discussion. 

“The Italian’s cannot be trusted.” There was an uproar of disagreement and Charles stood, slamming his fist on the table and then looking around the room with a fire in his eyes that said he’d murder every single one of them right then and there if he had the chance. “Error cannot be taken lightly. Now as far as I see it, the Beauregards and the Capecchis need to take a back seat while we clean this shit up. Security is tight everywhere right now, which is why I say we need another Heist. Another three. Three different locations around the world. We give enough distraction, throw them off the scent, how can one group of people possibly be in three places at once?” He raised his voice as people began to chatter beneath him.”There are other crews out there looking to sweep in from underneath us. We show them we can’t be beat, and we show the world that nothing and no one is safe. We can sit back and let them crawl over our battle lines, or we can attack. They know Italy, they know France, but they don’t know the rest of us, who we are or what we can do. I say we show them - because they’ll be so fucking blinded by it that they’ll forget who they were looking for to begin with.”

She was wounded, deep and dark red and it shouldn’t have cut her like that but it did: she had seen what people like that did. No, she had seen what they themselves did. Empirical, not hearsay, Hong Kong stood an immortal witness to the brutality of the Lohavarys’ talents, the children were gone and even with that little bit of nastiness they had she would have never said they deserved to die. In no world did Esmeralda Knight stand at the beck and call of murderers — oh. She had stood where she had been told to stand and cast a green eyed gaze colder than marble when she was told to look. 

‘You know, you know, you’ve always known,’ it was the voice from the back of her head that drove her away, away, away, into the darkest, emptiest parts of the chateau, to what, breathe? sing? cry? she had no tears, she couldn’t sob even if she wanted desperately to. ‘The Capecchis are where it began.’ The sound, the voice, almost startled her. Her heart beat hard.

“No,” Esme said, not hesitating, “Nor do I want you to.”

Charles cocked a brow with slight confusion. Esme looked very much like a girl who had consumed one two many champagnes upstairs and gone for a wander to what she probably thought was another planet. Did she know what she’d just walked into? Or who she was speaking to? A little lost lamb, her clothes hanging off her fragile and bruised figure, the absence of well... anything in her eyes. A moth that had been away from the light for far too long. Charles wondered if slipping into darkness had become a habit hard to shake. Because she stood before him, unflinching, vacant.

“You’ve taken a couple of wrong turns, I’m afraid. Party’s upstairs.” He gestured with his head, taking a drag from his cigarette and looking her over, could she even hear what he was saying? “What are you doing down here, hm? You go looking for trouble, it’ll find you.” Charles warned. 

This party was, to put it mildly… an abomination.

While Silas Beauregard could tolerate interlopers and fools, he did so under sufferance —– and as soon as he was able, would often retreat somewhere to nurse his inner grudges and complaints, venting them to empty air ( more than likely ) or, if the occasion arose, to a sympathetic ear. The first part of that equation was not to be —- someone ( probably Satan herself, Evie Villiers ) had suggested that this party take place in France… in France, of all places. His sweet country, tarnished by the presence of the Lohovarys—–  not even his home territory was safe, and to add insult to —– already most-grievous! —– injury, as the natives here, the Beauregards were expected to be good hosts. ( Even were it not true, nor declared so by the Thief Lord, Silas most happily played martyr to the idea. ) It made Silas’ lip curl to think about what his father had said during their council meetings—–  how he’d just bowed to Francis, probably agreeing with quaking hands and a disgusting simper that of course they’d be honored that the welcome would be held in France, of course his children would be there, of course of course of course.

Silas hadn’t thought it possible for the man he called sire to sink any lower in his standings, but there it was —– Victor Beauregard never failed to impress in THAT regard.

Fortunately, there was a single upside to this :: the aforementioned sympathetic ears. And while Silas was very picky about which ears were granted his private counsel, it seemed that he had no shortage of sympathizers this week :: the general feeling, from what he could discern, was that the Lohovary twins and their crew were about as welcome as an abrupt diagnosis of pancreatic cancer. ( Perhaps even less welcome —- one could hope, after all, to quash the cancer. Barring an unfortunate slip down a very long flight of stairs, the same could not be said for either the twins or their hoodlums. )

Having entertained himself by whispering nefarious things regarding the Lohovarys to Adelaide earlier in the night, Silas found himself leaving the main body of the party and strolling down a side hall. Surely the golden-haired prince would not be missed —- this wasn’t HIS party. A bottle of wine filched from the kitchens five minutes ago was his sole accompaniment, tucked under his arm as if he were a socialite with a dog whose ego far outweighed its tiny, shriveled body —– and as he stepped into one particular room, mind spinning with thoughts but body wandering aimlessly, Silas found himself face-to-face with another man, a question fired across the distance between them.

Charles Villiers. Besides seeing him in England whenever he had business ( both legal and illegal ) to tend to, Silas really hadn’t much significant interaction with the man. Well! —– why not change that now?  It was clear Charles wasn’t taken with the addition of the Lohovary twins, otherwise he’d be in the main hall, grandstanding and imbibing in champagne —– and speaking of libations, this was a terribly large amount of wine crates…

Seating himself atop one of them with a lazy smile, Silas replied to Charles’ question with ease. “ It’s just your favorite Frenchman —- easy there, Monsieur Tall, Dark, and Brooding. I’d question why you have so much wine here, but I think I know the answer… “  Placing a finger to his lips, there was a bit of a sardonic smirk as Silas continued. “ Upstairs, they’re all drinking champagne —– but champagne isn’t right for a dirge, is it. Here, one more for your collection. “

Silas held out the wine he’d previously held tucked under his arm :: a bottle of none other than  Château Lafite Rothschild merlot from 2005.

“ A gift, acquired —– with permission! —– from the cellars of my uncle. For your… collection. Or for your own private use. “  There was a slight shrug of his shoulders as he stretched his arm out, holding the neck of the bottle toward Charles.

Silas Beauregard was a smug piece of shit. Charles had never taken to the kid who was practically a cousin as far things go, Silas was annoying and spoilt and French -- three of the worst traits a person could have. Being eleven years older than the blond brat, Charles had watched from the sidelines as Silas grew from petulant child into rambunctious adolescent, to finally the downright twat he was today. Handed everything into his soft little palm, cuffs buttoned for him, titles and inheritance dropped down upon him as if he deserved the world.

Even as a teenager, Charles had despised Silas. As he went through his very first heists with the society at the age of sixteen, five year old Silas was being doted upon by every adult in their general proximity. Little Silas and little Alastair, the golden boys of the society, the heirs to every throne the world could give them. Where Silas was gold and bronze, Charles was black and violent red. There was a reason Charles had never even once considered Silas for his gang, and hell, twats like Silas were an integral part of the motivation behind creation of The Daggers. Charles needed something beyond the heist society, beyond the golden boys and the throne that would never be his. Charles needed a place where he could work with people like himself, people that knew hard work and determination were worth more than anything that could be handed to them.

Silas Beauregard was probably under the impression that being a thief made him a big bad wolf. There were times when Charles wanted to fucking sit Silas down and murder thirty people in front of him just to prove a god damn point. Silas Beauregard had not seen shit. 

There was an irrefutable look of disgust plastered on Charles’ face, a slight snarl lifting his upper lip as Silas extended the bottle of stupidly expensive wine. A gift. Fucking charity. Charles wanted to fucking spit at him. 

“You can keep your cat’s piss.” Charles scoffed, not making any effort to move towards Silas. 

“It must be hard for you, not being the center of attention. They’re all about your age, aren’t they? Potential new magpies, new inductees of the ever expanding heist.” Charles taunted, sarcasm dripping from his tongue. “I don’t think it’s me you should be trying to play nice with, I’ve made up my mind about you already, but you might actually have a chance with this lot. Who knows, maybe if you’re good they’ll even let you join their crew.”

Charles strongly believed that a thief had to earn the title, earn their place in the grand circle. Roman had not earned the coat on his back or the rings on his fingers, nor would he (or could he) earn Charles’ respect. Whilst the children of the society drank themselves into a second existence and flounced around the chateaus like untrained horses, Charles was preoccupied with advantageous activities. If he had to be in France, he sure as hell was going to make the most of it. Targeting several vineyards across the region, Charles had cut deals, handed money under tables, paid off drivers and ultimately stolen a vast volume of various wines. Three cases he had bought himself, the rest were stolen from sheds, basements and shipping containers in the dead of night, brought to him here in this room where he’d send them back to England case by case to be rebranded and resold at inflated British prices to barmen who didn’t know Pinot Grigio from Sauvignon Blanc. 

For the most part he’d completed the work without alerting the rest of the society whom which were distracted by their shiny new friends. But he hadn’t exactly gone to any effort to stop them from finding the section of the chateau that had essentially become his temporary wine cellar. He inhaled deeply as he finished his count of the cases, mentally calculating how many he’d be sending to each base back at home. His thoughts, however, were interrupted as someone entered the room. He edged past a stack of crates, looking the visitor up and down.

“Can I help you?” He condescended rhetorically. 

Charles didn’t even turn to look at her. He stood there, just pulling on his coat. His words could have meant nothing – Adeline still felt ignored, a knife twisting in her gut, icy nails dragging down along her spine. Her brows furrowed, and there was a tight lump in the back of her throat. Yes, a big part of her wanted to say. I want to apologise to you. I need to apologise to you, because I need you back in my life, I’ve always needed you and I always will. You are everything and I cannot stand the way you treat me knowing I caused the hurt. Please forgive me, Charles. I will do anything to make this better.

Another part, one that usually slumbered, one that Adeline liked to shut up; one that Jules supported, encouraged; a little voice in the back of her head that she liked to call Rebellion even if it truly wasn’t, wanted to say, No. You owe me an apology.

Instead she said neither. Adeline watched the back of her brother’s head before she took a breath and said, “I’ve a present. Upstairs. I would like to give it to you.” It seemed ridiculous now, utterly ridiculous. She hadn’t counted on this big of a fight when she went to the tailor’s – she just knew that she never knew when Charles would be home and when not, if he’d be in London during his birthday and willing to spend it with Adeline. Her gifts were always something she knew her brother would enjoy. Why she hadn’t thought of a tailored suit long before now, she didn’t know.

“Will you come to my room with me?” she tried again, hoping that Charles would soften. Even though she knew that she had triggered the fight, she could not forget the weight and coldness of the gun in her hand, the way her brother urged her own, spoke to her. The only thing it had accomplished was the drive a bullet into her skull to escape the situation. “Please.”

The image conjured by her words was Caspar’s dead body sprawled across the floorboards of her upstairs bedroom, surrounded by a pool of blood, his throat slit. That was the only gift she could give him that would be a true apology. It was the only thing he wanted. Opening the door to that scene was something he’d fantasised about all too often, and how upon Caspar’s death, he and his beloved sister would be so elated, so happy in their lives, a true team once again.

Adeline was weak. He knew that whatever present she had for him would not even closely compare to what he truly desired. He ran his tongue across his teeth, clearing his throat and turning around to look at her for the first time all night. She looked rigid, standing across the foyer, and though she directed her words to him, her body language suggested that she was doing everything in her power not to turn and run. There was no part of her that gravitated towards him like she usually would. Even now as she pleaded for him to follow her, there was no outstretched hand, no wrapping of her arms around his side to pull him upstairs. She asked for closeness but looked like she wanted nothing less.

Charles’ first instinct was to refuse her. No, I have places to be. He could have said, but it wouldn’t have been the truth. If he left now, he’d be going home to his empty apartment to drink himself into a stupor and hopefully fall into a heavily drugged sleep. He sighed, his damaged lungs rattling. “Go on then.” He replied tiredly, gesturing to the staircase and following her lead.

It had been a long time since he’d seen Adeline’s bedroom, many months, perhaps only once since the night that had changed everything. The Firetrap, he called it. Her oil and acrylic paintings covering so much of the room, oil lamps and candles littered amongst canvases, begging to engulf the room and it’s occupant in a fiery blaze. He often wondered if it was deliberate, that maybe living with that risk was something that helped Adeline sleep at night, just as living with the risks of his life and taking so many drugs that brought him to the very thin line of overdose had become a comfort in Charles’ life. If you were to be taken down in an inferno, so be it, the time had come. Ultimately you had prepared the risk, you had control until some higher power flipped the switch.

Like everything in Adeline’s life, her bedroom was a piece of art in and of itself. He’d forgotten what it was like to walk into the glow of her dimly lit sanctuary, surrounded by swirling canvases and everything that made her… Adeline. It was the first time in a long time that he’d felt at home, and it hit him unexpectedly. He stopped, three steps into her room, frozen, a sensory overload. He’d tried to push away how much he needed her, how irrevocably part of his life she was, but standing amongst everything that she was composed of presented him with just how much he had to lose.  

“I… haven’t got long.” He uttered jarringly, clearing his throat, not making any effort to move from the doorway. Charles had all the time in the world, he just feared that standing in that bedroom for too long might cause him to disintegrate there and then.

@cvilliers

He’d always been the iciness. He’d always been the distance, the cruelty, the survival-instinct, the bite or be bitten. Between the two of them, Charles had always been the stronger one, everything Adeline was not. She could always watch him treat people with the utmost caution, steps taken one at a time, only one warning given before ties were cut. It was how he operated, and how he kept them safe.

Adeline never thought she would be at the receiving end of his coldness, though.

It was a surprise to see him attend dinner, and despite the mixed feelings – the majority of them a deadly cocktail of guilt and fear – Adeline had smiled at him when he entered. She hadn’t approached him, hadn’t dared to; instead, she hoped that she could warm the silence between them before she fully dived in, head first, ready to let her skull be split open if she had to. 

And it looked like she did. Ignorance was bliss they said, but his was pain; his was a punishment for their last encounter, for letting her emotions get the better of her. The bruises on her arms that he had caused, his hands gripping her tightly and yanking her up to her feet, they were only now fading and yet, Adie felt like all this was her fault. And maybe it was.

She didn’t quite know what to say to him, how to talk to him, because she couldn’t remember making him this upset before. Still, she wanted to: she had to mend whatever she could because Charles was her brother, and he was everything. When he pardoned himself to leave early Adeline followed him, not wanting to miss her chance to make it better. “Charles. I have someting for you.”

It had been a month since Charles had last been in London, let alone anywhere near his family. Business in Birmingham had finally taken off, he had a team up there and he’d been supervising the final steps before leaving it in Cristos’ capable hands for the next few weeks until he could secure a permanent manager. Attending dinner at Chestcote was hardly on his to-do list but it was an unavoidable appointment if he wanted to retain familial ties with the only blood relatives he had left. If that meant sitting through insufferable discussion of affairs with Zephora, Francis and their conceited children, so be it. 

He arrived late. Tardiness was one of the things Charles despised most in others, yet it was hypocritically excusable for himself to arrive an hour into dinner, all without saying a word to anyone. He took a seat towards the end of the table on the left hand side of Cecily. She wouldn’t dare to speak to him like her sister may have. Francis was at the head of the table, several seats away from Charles, and Adeline was seated opposite Cecily. Charles did however, manage to completely avoid eye contact with his sister for the entirety of the dinner -- of which he only (barely) ate the main course, opting for three cigarettes and four glasses of whiskey instead of appetisers or dessert. He gave one word replies to anyone that attempted to speak to him and rose from the table as tea begun to be served. ‘You won’t stay for a cup of tea?’ His aunt asked, though her tone implied that she was seeking refusal. “No. Thank you for your hospitality.” He nodded curtly, glancing at his uncle before taking his coat from the back of his chair and leaving the room. 

Adeline. She rushed into the entrance hall and her voice brought him to a stop. He closed his eyes for a moment. He’d been avoiding this, avoiding her. She’d made no effort to make amends, made no effort to prove that he was more significant in her heart and mind than the monster he’d torn from her clutches. There was no reason for him to turn to her now, not when she had made it quite clear that she had no intention to turn to him any longer. 

“Is it an apology?” He chided bitterly, pulling his coat on without turning to face her. 

FEATURING: Scout (A dagger)

TW: Violence

“You can’t make me move to Birmingham, I won’t.”

“You will do whatever the fuck I tell you to do.” Charles replied shortly, lighting a cigarette and exhaling smoke sharply.

Her world spun, and suddenly Adeline was up on her feet. She yelped, half in surprise, half because the vicious grip her brother had on her hurt. Come morning, there would be bruises on her pale skin, spread across her upper arm like a painting of the night sky. His fingers dug in; she had set him into his rage, and it was white hot, making him unable to see that the person in front of him was his very own sister. Or maybe he did, and he simply didn’t care. She knew she had given him reason to. She had snapped under the pressure of his words and taken it out on him.

But if Charles actions did one thing, it was make Adeline even more furious. 

She was shoved, handled like a vile dog, taunted. Ever since she was born, she was a target; for their mother, years of torment that left her softer, or so she thought. It was years of neatly tucking away the monster within, hiding it from the world to see because she was better. She was better than the poisonous words, the screeching screams, the heavy blows that stung skin and shattered bones alike. Adeline was not her mother. 

No. She had nothing in common with Celeste. She was her brother.

“Don’t touch me!” Her head spun with anger, and she shook Charles off, a cornered and wounded animal he kept prodding with sticks and knives. For someone who was so reliant on physical touch, who was the one who even sought Charles out for reassurance, she was hellbent on keeping him away now. She stumbled a few steps back, cradling her head on her hands. It threatened to explode, each one of her friends screaming, her own throughts drowned out by the intensity of anger. Another step, and Adeline fell, back on her knees now, her head in her hands and body rocking back and forth. 

In those moments she didn’t know how to not feel the fire of rage.

Charles had tried to get a rise out of Adeline, but she retreated, he wasn’t sure what he’d expected, but somehow, her finally lashing out and screaming and kicking the crap out of him would’ve been better than her falling to the ground again to curl up into a bloody ball.  “Yeah...that’s what I thought.” He scoffed, spitting onto the grass and taking a few steps back, scowling at her black figure. 

“You bottle it all fucking up, hold it all against me, like I’m the worst fucking person for trying to protect you, and then you don’t even fucking care enough to admit the god damn truth to my face. If you don’t fucking want me around anymore, Adeline, just fucking say so and I will fucking leave. I don’t have the fucking time for this shit.” 

He picked up his suit jacket from the chair he’d kicked over earlier, kicking the chair across the grass and pulling his gun from the inside pocket of his jacket, dumping the jacket back onto the ground and crossing the grass to Adeline. Charles cleared his throat, opening up the cylinder and releasing six bullets into his palm, then reloading three back into the revolver, closing the cylinder and cocking the gun. He nudged Adeline’s knee with his foot, flipping the gun in his hand so that the handle was facing her.