scar your minds

BRYCE EVANS-BENTON.

     Not long after the investigator had left, another tech came into her room to inform her that they had taken Kingston to surgery — and to ask her if she’d like to come along and wait. She obliged, following them down the hallway to a room that was presumably adjacent to the operating room, comfortably furnished in the same style as the rest of the floor. The whole building, really.    “What are they doing, specifically?” she asked as she sat down in a gray velvet sofa that stood along one wall, crossing one leg over the other at the knee.      “Give me a couple of minutes,” the tech replied, then left, abandoning her to the quiet — to settle in for a wait. Bryce wasn’t worried; she knew Kingston would be fine, but she regretted that they had allowed this to happen in the first place, ruminating as she sat there on whether she should bring it up again or wait for him to do it on his own. Probably the latter; she’d harped about it enough.

     Some five minutes later the tech returned, relaying the simple terms of the procedure to her and the recovery time, along with an assurance that he would receive the platinum treatment. The unprofessional language set Bryce’s lips into a slight frown, a point of distaste toward a doctor she’d never even met, and she was fairly certain everyone who was important enough to get treated at HQ were given the same resources — they were the Government’s own, after all — but it didn’t matter. She gave the tech a nod and was left alone again, wondering if they’d make it home before sunrise.

BRYCE EVANS-BENTON.

     After a preliminary check of her wound and any other, less visible injuries, Bryce was given a wound strip and a gauze pad, to staunch the bleeding until they reached either HQ or a hospital — whichever was closest. Because of the nature of the incident, she assumed it’d be headquarters. A pasty but kind-eyed med tech with a patchy beard escorted her to the ambulance, where Kingston was waiting with his colleague. Bryce climbed in and let the woman buckle her to the seat next to him before they set to work fastening a splint to his forearm.

     The ride was taken up by the standard questions about the inflicted damage — an assessment that would be passed on to the doctors at HQ, along with the readings from their trackers, for more efficient care. Bryce’s answers were clinical, almost robotic, a strange detachment in her voice when she told the tech she was pregnant. She’d been trained to keep calm in any situation; they were in the right hands, now — all she could do was keep her heart rate down, keep her breathing even, and believe that the baby was unharmed.      At headquarters, the two med techs accompanied them in the elevator on the ride from the garage to the medical floor, silence overlapped by the almost imperceptible rumble of the car rising. The doors opened on a reception area dimmed to evening lighting, black and white and spotless. Bryce found comfort in the clean lines, the elegance of the design and the sleek minimalism of the equipment, the statement of the room so inherently professional that she felt taken care of already. It always looked different at night, she thought, following the techs down a short hallway lined with rows of identical frosted glass doors, room numbers glowing a faint blue at eye level in the wall next to each one. In the extended quiet, their footsteps sounded muted and soft, but resolute.      The next couple of doors were open, and that was were they parted ways, led into the two adjacent rooms. She could see Kingston was about to protest, but shot him an entreating look, her expression mostly blank as she tilted her head the slightest bit, and he acquiesced, letting the tech with the tight, auburn ponytail herd him through the doorway on the right.

     Luckily, luckily, everything was in order. Every test and scan had good readings, and Bryce felt herself relax, even though she’d thought she’d forced herself to do so already. After a cleaning and a quick laser disinfection, another tech coated the puncture in her shoulder with a growth stimulating wound adhesive that would help both skin and muscle heal, then sealed it with a fresh pair of strips, and she was practically good as new. Kingston, on the other hand…      “Agent Benton?”      Bryce looked up. She didn’t know how she’d missed the faint hiss of the door opening, but now there was a clean-cut, middle aged investigator standing on the room’s threshold with a tablet under his arm, looking polite and apologetic, like he was intruding. She didn’t know him, but she thought the disarming act was overkill, considering they were colleagues. He had to know that she was usually the one asking the questions, even if it wasn’t as an interrogator. Maybe it wasn’t an act.    “Come in,” she said, indicating a chair near the bed she was seated on the edge of, wishing she could go home and change out of her dress and heels. Refusing to show how tired she was. “Sit.”      “Thank you.” He came in, the door sliding shut behind him, and took the offered seat, waking his tablet. “Agent Richard Sargent. I’m sure you know how all this works, I just need to ask you a few questions.”    “I was feeling queasy,” she began, deciding not to wait, “Kingston accompanied me to the garage for something to ease it, but we were ambushed before we got there. Our attackers were dressed for the party, and they fought like they’d had military training. Kingston was worried about me and the baby, and we unfortunately lost control of the situation. It was a man and a woman, the woman around my height, dark hair, light skin, local accent. The man… about six foot, also sounded like a Battery native. No defining characteristics or markers. They left when I called for backup. I didn’t see their vehicle.”      “The shards on the floor, and the object you were stabbed with… pieces of a mask.” The investigator looked up from the screen, where he’d been watching a transcript of their conversation appear — almost in real time — on a blank page. “Whose was it? You didn’t see their face?”

   “It was his. And no, he had a hood on underneath.”      “Why do you think they attacked you?”    “I don’t know. Whatever they were trying to do, I don’t think they accomplished it. We’re both still alive, and nothing has been taken from us. Maybe we walked in on somebody else’s trap.”      “Maybe. And you’re sure there’s nothing else you remember about them?”      Bryce sighed, “If I did, I would’ve told you along with the rest. I’m sure the footage will reveal something I missed, seeing as I was busy trying to keep my family from harm.”      “There is no footage.” Agent Sargent prodded her gaze with his own. “The past two weeks from the entire building, gone without a trace.”    “I guess they’ve been planning this for a while, then.”      “So it would seem.”

     More questions came, despite the fact that she’d covered everything useful already, in the first minute of their conversation. She told him the same things she’d told him then, only in the form of answers this time, expanding on what she could when his inquiries called for it. She gave him the full course of events, details of the fight included — for what little good that did him — and eventually he stood, thanking her for her time. Offering a nod in return, she watched him leave, the door shutting behind him once more, and wondered whether he was on his way to talk to Kingston, or if he had already. She hoped for the latter, because more than anything, she wanted to go home.

     “We’ll inform your wife about the surgery,” the doctor concluded as they tucked the tablet under their arm, giving an apologetic nod to the investigator for interrupting. They were practically finished, with Kingston glimpsing at the forms that circled around them as they attached nodes to his chest, and with one final question — Is there any other details you can recall? Even the most minuscule? — interrogation was over, with Kingston insisting if there was, he’d have already stated it. It was his training, after all. He asked about Bryce once more, assured she was taken care of and the baby was well, a sharp prick yanking his attention to the medic who was inserting an IV into his arm. A minute later and he was instructed he’d be receiving pain medication and that the discomfort should subside shortly, Kingston keeping himself still to save himself further searing bursts of pain.      He stared at the stark white ceiling as bodies continued to scurry around him, fingertips brushing idly over the crisp sheet beneath him, and he hated being prone in public; he hated being prone at all. It was a weak position, comfort found in the fact that Kingston was anything but. It didn’t matter if he was where he was supposed to be, in the hands of the right people, he didn’t trust any of them. He didn’t even trust the system he worked for. He trusted it served him and that was good enough, because it also served people like his father, like Ulrich Falke, and there was no denying there was a certain evil that was born from prizing those who took from others. But remorse was another weakness and it wasn’t one Kingston entertained. He stood by his actions, no matter the outcome, and it was with that quiet, cold pride that he laid in the room, noting every sound, every sight, instinct forcing him to prepare himself without even thinking. He did it everywhere, with everyone, even in his own home. Even with his wife, whom he loved. Everyone was a suspect. Everything was a possible trap. Getting comfortable was stupidity. And his own voice melded with his father’s, because they weren’t all that different; he’d made him, hadn’t he? And for all Gerard’s malevolence, he’d reached his position by undeniable skill, a puppeteer, fingers dancing and arms swaying as he conducted his plans. 

     “We’ll be transferring you to the OR, Dr. Shah is on her way in.” This time when they spoke, Kingston realized the morphine had taken effect, lifting the fingers on his broken arm off the mattress to test its strength. It was difficult to move them at all, though he wasn’t met with the searing pain he’d experienced in the garage, and their voice sounded far away, Kingston’s eyes narrowing slightly at the nurse as he absorbed his words, the man stepping to the side of his bed to unlock the wheel mechanisms, another appearing at his other side as they began rolling him out of the room.       “I’m capable of walking,” he stated flatly, florescent squares above his head blinding him at intervals as they flitted past. 

     “We’re sure you are, Agent Benton, but it’ll be easier for everyone if you just let us take the wheel.” A woman’s voice — hadn’t they both been men? — answered him in a soft, tranquil tone, and when he tilted his head back to get a better look, she was smiling at him, genuine and gracious. He sneered, the drugs eating away at his filters, disgusted by what he’d call fake niceties, some sugar coated bullshit meant to make people feel at ease when really they should be looking the world dead in the eye. She wasn’t wrong… but with how he’d been raised, Kingston would’ve preferred being told straight out. Lay down. You’re just going to make it harder for us. You’re drugged out and injured. Take a fucking seat. 

     So, he relaxed, letting the morphine do its job, his surroundings bleeding away into pure whiteness, shapes of doors and lights passing by, blue scrubs a startling burst of color in a monotone corridor. One of them swiped a keycard, double doors swinging open to reveal a more open room, and then he was met with another woman, scrub cap covering her brunette hair, “Hello, Agent Benton. I’m Doctor Shah. We’ll have you out of here as quickly as possible. Just going to administer some anesthesia…” She explained as she situated a nasal cannula on his face, glancing up as a medical technician caught her attention. Her fingers were cold beneath rubber gloves and he could smell it so distinctly, mingling with the subtle bitterness of antiseptic soap. They said something Kingston didn’t hear, and the doctor answered them, bringing to life a series of images, flashing in his head as she explained the procedure. “Tell her we’ll be realigning the bone and implanting wires to keep the bone in place during the healing process.” He saw the inside of his arm, red, torn tissue and the splintered edges of bones. He saw plates of metal and wires, the bone shifting on its own to restructure, two pieces fitting together perfectly, like a children’s puzzle. “Since he’s Black Ops, he’s getting the platinum treatment, best materials we got. You can tell her he should be almost fully healed in about two months, unless his body resists the treatments.” He saw cartoonish lightning bolts before the bone snapped again, the disturbed muscle pulsing as if it was going to swallow the bone altogether. Morphine.

BRYCE EVANS-BENTON.

   “I know you are,” Bryce said, relaxing a little more now that he’d actually stopped moving. Refraining from bringing up the fact that she could’ve broken the phone for him; she knew he knew, and she was injured, too. “It is what it is.” There was nothing else to say, and she wasn’t one for empty placation, nor did he need her to cushion whatever remorse he felt regarding their circumstances.

     His story made sense. It was simple, like she’d asked, but the specific course of events hadn’t really been the part she’d wanted to clarify. She wasn’t as familiar as Kingston with Gerard’s rules, and could only guess at what he’d want when it came to Queenie. Arin was a different matter. Wanted by the Government since the age of… eighteen? Nineteen? When he’d been brought in by a reformed rebel turned special agent for gang activity, in the same group the agent had come from — a gang which, according to their intel, he’d later come to lead. Now, he was protected under Queenie’s umbrella of untouchability by association alone. It was wrong; all of it, both of them, Gerard — criminals, all three, allowed to remain so because of the Benton family’s status and power.

   “So we’re saying it was them?” she asked, watching him. Her shoulder throbbed. “You’re sure that kind of attention is desirable? It could end up in the news. And if it does, it’s not only us it’ll affect. A pair of outsiders successfully infiltrating an event like this could send a message to other rebels — make the Government look sloppy. Might be better to name a couple of traitors with prior involvement on our side.”

     His mouth was dry and tasted like copper, blues focused on Bryce as they waited for the medical team, and if he didn’t move and he steadied his breathing, it was manageable. It was always manageable. And Kingston had a mantra of sorts for these very situations. Him, as a child. That red-faced, wet-cheeked child whose wails only lasted a few minutes before they were silenced by his father. Kingston thought about how unmanageable the pain had been back then, he examined every single detail of the memory, and it removed him enough from his present reality that he could arrange the discomfort. He peered over at his arm and he couldn’t see much past the fabric of his shirt, but he could see the discoloration past the white fabric. He turned his gaze back to Bryce, though his mind continued to wander momentarily. A little boy. Shuddering breathes. Rocking back and forth. Trembling limbs. Vomit splashing against white tiles. He imagined it until he went partially numb, seconds that felt like minutes, time slowing as Kingston rearranged his surroundings. No longer that child… one on the way.

     His chest lifted slowly as he inhaled, his eyes falling closed as he exhaled, and he didn’t need to ask Bryce to assess the injury when medics were on the way. They had other, more pressing topics to address. “No. We’re saying we didn’t get to identify the culprits since they didn’t remove their masks. Although I do agree we should name those with prior involvement.” His voice was low, hoarse, and behind Bryce a trio of EMT’s dressed in blue coveralls appeared, Agents behind them who spread out to begin scanning the area for evidence. One of the EMT’s spoke to Bryce, directing her to come with them so they could examine her, while the other two knelt at Kingston’s side, immediately cutting his sleeve to investigate the wound, one of them calling over a stretcher, to which Kingston rose his good hand, his fingers twitching as he shook his head. “I can walk perfectly fine.”      “Yessir,” a woman’s voice responded, one of them placing a hand on Kingston’s back as he sat up, and it fell away once he was standing. He didn’t like being touched, but he also wasn’t the type to make a scene, certainly not when someone was simply doing their job. Kingston gave them a tight smile, attention straying to the Agents surveying the scene, his expression nothing more than cold neutrality. He could already see his father’s face, disappointment and disdain, and it stirred nothing in him when he knew he’d made a sacrifice for the well-being of his child. He knew that he’d fucked up and Kingston didn’t wallow in his failures or his problems. He rectified them — and it was beginning to seem as though his father was going to be one of them.

     The back of the ambulance was open, diagnostic equipment attached to the interior, the screens black, all light coming from a bar of florescence angled toward the center of the interior. There, in the center, was the empty stretcher Kingston had no use for. He didn’t wait for instruction, entering the back of the van and taking a seat in one of the chairs situated against the wall, and the woman followed, helping him get buckled in with no resistance when he didn’t have proper use of his right hand. Arin Melnikov had taken the opportunity, as he should have, and while Kingston harbored no real animosity for the man outside of his criminal status, he was a pain in his ass that had to be dealt with. “We’ll put it in a splint now, but of course it’s required we take you in for a full asses—”

BRYCE EVANS-BENTON.

   “Kingston!” Rushing over to her husband, Bryce sank to her knees, the expensive fabric of her dress scraping against the concrete underfoot as she scrabbled closer and put her hand on his chest. “Don’t move.” Her eyes darted to his arm, but underneath his shirt and the jacket she couldn’t see much beyond the odd angle… and the skin near his wrist turning purple. Backup would arrive in a minute. Two. Five, at the most. She could keep him in place until then.      Whatever damage had been done by the initial break had to have been doubled during what followed, and any jostling risked making it worse — a chance she wouldn’t let him take. Imagining his pain, the throbbing sting of the shoulder of her dress digging into her still bleeding wound turned into something immaterial; worse when she moved her arm — so she didn’t, letting it hang at her side as her uninjured one rested over his heart, listening to the sound of help getting closer.

     This had to be enough, didn’t it? There had to come a point where what Gerard wanted no longer mattered — and it had to come before one or both of them were dead. There had to come a point where letting the law take its course and getting the burden off their backs was a better option than Gerard’s games and whatever tantrum he would throw when they were spoiled for him. There had to.      … Right?

   “The footage from the security cameras…” She spoke softly and without emotion. Ultimately, it was Kingston’s choice, and he already knew her thoughts on the matter. “Someone will have to take care of that. And we’ll need to coordinate our statements. Something simple. Airtight.” Bryce paused, looking thoughtfully toward the garage’s entrance. She couldn’t see it from where they were, but she knew which way it was. “Believable.”

     Kingston laid on his back, allowing himself a moment for a single slow breath before he was pulling his phone from his pocket, unlocking it quickly and punching an icon from his contact list with his thumb. A single ring and there was a click, nothing else. Bryce was above him, drawing a subtle smile on his lips, and he nodded at her, a quick jerk of his head, keeping eye contact with her as he made his call. He spoke in monotone, staring at the cement columns above his head, pausing between every statement. “Current location. Camera wipe. Complete. Princess. Alive. Alpha, kilo, echo, sierra, echo, five, four, lima. Over.” With that, he slammed it against the pavement — once, twice — bits of plastic skittering out before he threw it at one of the pillars, snapping off a chunk before it landed on the pavement. After that, he kept himself still, not wanting to further aggravate any of the damage done. Pain had never bothered Kingston; there was always something more pressing at stake. He managed his arm, breathing evenly, disconnecting enough that it wasn’t the focus. The first time he broke his arm, it’d been “training” with his father, and he remembered crumbling on the ground, he remembered wailing in agony, heat blazing through his entire body, tears rolling down his cheeks. He remembered the grip that came after, strong and heavy on the uninjured side, a threat that he could make the other one match. It could be worse. Now, it was almost nothing. Not when you knew what to do with it. 

ARIN MELNIKOV.

     One-armed, Kingston couldn’t block all his punches. Arin would’ve beaten his fist bloody, and Kingston’s face with it, but he felt legs clamping around his waist, both the agent’s hands pushing into his chest before he had time to react.      His back hit the floor, and Kingston was in pain, he could hear it, malicious satisfaction rolling through him at the sound that ripped its way free of Kingston’s throat before the man’s hold slackened. Not a lot. Enough.

     Arin grabbed him by the back of the neck and wrenched his head toward the floor, flipping him onto the concrete, then snatched his broken arm and twisted it. Rising to a knee, he locked the broken, manipulated limb in place over his thigh and under his arm, pulling it, delighting in the fresh growl of agony that Kingston put an admirable effort into stifling.      “Arin.” Someone, somewhere, called his name. He didn’t register it. Sirens howled, pushed to the back of his consciousness, and when had they gotten so close? Doesn’t fucking matter. Kingston’s good hand was wrapped around his ankle, one shove after another attempting to push him off balance. Arin inched his knee toward the agent’s neck, his focus already so beyond narrowed that the only thought in his head was ending Kingston’s life.

BRYCE EVANS-BENTON.

QUEENIE BENTON.

ARIN MELNIKOV.

     Queenie. Gorgeous, consummate, masterful, flawless fucking Queenie, and he didn’t know why he ever went anywhere without her, his knuckles colliding with Kingston’s cheekbone so hard that he could feel the sprain already. Distracted. Arin drew his fist back for a double tap, bone hitting bone at the agent’s temple this time before he felt a hand on his shoulder and was shoved off. Another punch meant for his eye came in retaliation; he raised his block higher and twisted his torso to the side, stance wide, letting Kingston’s fist skim past him. Instinct did the rest.      His right arm hooked around the agent’s wrist, trapping it on the inside of his elbow, and he pulled, hyperextending the joint. Simultaneously — and with all his force — he pushed into his left forearm where it was wedged against Kingston’s upper arm, an abrupt jerk with the weight of his body behind it.

     Better than hearing it, Arin felt the ensuing crack all the way to his fucking fingertips; a release like he’d popped a particularly stubborn kink in his neck… only on speed and cranked up to a fucking thousand. Only he’d broken Kingston’s arm in his grip. A breath rushed out of him that he wasn’t quite sure was a laugh or something he’d held in concentration, but he didn’t care, tightening his grip and centering his weight again, adrenaline surging through him in an uncontrollable, intoxicating current.

   “You feel that?” He lowered his voice, looking Kingston in the eye as he exacted further pressure on the agent’s arm, hoping splintered bone would burst out of his fucking skin, “That’s fucking up.”

    Arin said something and Queenie tried to tune in, refusing to break focus with Bryce for one second should the cunty agent decide to make use of it. She’d heard enough; enough of the tone to know he was satisfied and that meant she was. Almost. Almost because something sparked up in her at the realization that Arin could have Kingston where he wanted him, and she glimpsed back, giving the fucking bitch enough of an opening for her kick to land, and right after stinging pain shot through her foot when Bryce’s heel crashed down on it, Queenie scuffling back as a burst of air puffed out her cheeks, its escape obstructed by gritted teeth. That spark became a flame, because she wanted to break Kingston’s fucking arm, and Arin had earned it, weeks spent in whatever fucking hellscape they’d created for him. Because of her.       More fuel in the fire, jaw throbbing with rage, and she couldn’t even feel the plastic biting into her skin anymore, droplets landing with wet smacks against the pavement as her other hand came around to snatch a handful of Bryce’s hair. She slammed her head back into the column, the bleeding hand propelling forward at the same time to drive the plastic shard into her side. Stimuli began falling away behind the growing need to take away something of Kingston’s; sounds became warbled vibrations, color muted into shades of grey, and her foot dimmed to a dull throb as instinct directed her toward the areas that could do the most damage.  Arin. His presence cut in at intervals, reminding her there were more important objectives at hand; like them getting out of there alive. None of it mattered without Arin. None of it mattered if anything happened to him. None of it mattered if anything happened to her; their lives intertwined, oxygen sourced from each other rather than the earth, nonexistent without the other half. None of it mattered. None of it mattered except the flame licking at logic, at emotion, burning away layers and leaving Queenie with almost nothing but anger. Nothing but memories. Childhood. Apartment. Sleepless nights. Restaurant. Vet. Martin. Gerard. Kingston. Fucking Bryce, you stupid fucking bitch. You joined the wrong family.

     Queenie’s grip on the mask shard had been so tight that when Bryce kicked her off it was ripped from her shoulder, no longer restricting the flow from the wound. She tugged the strap of her dress over it — and before she could do anything else, fingers tangled in her hair, pulling hard enough she thought it would rip from its roots, and her head smacked into the cement behind her. A blood-slicked hand grasped for Queenie’s wrist when the knife came in again, dangerously close this time, and though she didn’t manage to keep her grip, she’d stopped the blow, and that’s what was important.      More jabs followed, everywhere somewhere deadly, incapacitating, movements Bryce had practiced over and over and over for years saving her life. Saving the life growing inside her — and she needed to get to a hospital, and soon.

     Damn Gerard and his orders. Damn the warrants out for the two fugitives in the garage with them; right now, their baby was what was important. As long as the baby was safe, all the other chips could fall where they may. She’d heard bone break. She’d heard Kingston’s grunt of pain and after that, his suppressed, labored breathing. The movement of the fight in her peripheral had stagnated. She couldn’t look, but she didn’t need to, because those observations came together into an almost certain fact: Arin had gained the upper hand, and had immobilized her husband by whatever means. To what degree, she didn’t know, and Kingston was a force to be reckoned with, but she wasn’t willing to take any further risks. To allow the situation to potentially get worse. If only she could find a way to give herself a window. If only she’d worn her comm, or even brought it.

     Out of nowhere, Kingston’s arm hooked around Queenie’s torso, and he threw her around to the other side of him, creating the exact break she’d been searching for. She wasn’t going to get another shot. Darting to the other side of the pillar, she saw Arin on Kingston’s heels, rushing to Queenie’s aid, but she had to believe her husband could contain them, just for a minute… One-handed.      Bryce snatched her phone out of a hidden pocket underneath a seam and a ruffle at the back of her dress and punched in the high priority internal emergency code as fast as her fingers would work at the moment, following up with the call-button. Someone answered in less than a second.      “HQ.”

   “Palace Hall, parking garage, fifth floor. Requesting immediate backup. High-value targets engaging. Need medical.”      “Copy that, Agent Ev—”      Bryce was already putting the device away, hurrying out from behind the column to get eyes on Kingston again. To see if he needed her. To do… what? Pregnant. Bleeding. And she saw now that his arm was broken, hanging limp at his side, bent outward at an unnatural angle.

     Thankfully, they were downtown, and she could already hear the wailing sirens in the streets outside, echoing closer.

     Air hissed through his teeth as searing pain rocketed through his arm and Kingston barely registered Arin’s words behind his concern for Bryce, eyes narrowing with furious tenacity as he unknowingly mirrored his wife, stomping a foot down on Arin’s as he swung his uninjured fist into his gut. He didn’t stop — Bryce, the baby, Bryce, the baby — and if there’d been one thing his father had been good for, it was teaching his son to endure pain, the wrenching electricity of the fracture stretching all the way to the tendons in his neck, a sting that pocketed orbs of darkness in his vision before the crown of his skull slammed into Arin’s nose. Space. Finally. Inches that gave him enough room to maneuver away, the broken limb hanging limply at his side as long strides carried him closer. The pain dulled, replaced by pressure that climbed to his left temple, and it was all background noise: the sounds of the fight, of Arin coming up behind him, the throbbing in his limb, the absolute failure that was being distracted. None of it meant anything when Bryce and their child was in trouble. It was all banished to the recesses of his mind — to be dealt with later — minor pulses and twinges ricocheting through his form as he wrapped an arm around Queenie, spinning his weight to whip them away from Bryce, continuing the spin to push her away from both of them. 

BRYCE EVANS-BENTON.

QUEENIE BENTON.

ARIN MELNIKOV.

     White flashed in his vision for a blinding nanosecond, his body working on instinct so he didn’t miss a beat — the dim garage returning so quickly it was like it hadn’t been gone at all — even though numbing pain radiated from his cheekbone and across the entire side of his face. A follow-up blow from Kingston was blocked on his forearm, Arin’s grip curling around the agent’s wrist and yanking the limb toward himself as he threw a punch in return, one he couldn’t lean away from.

     Kingston turned his head, but Arin still caught him near the jaw, the exquisite throb in his knuckles that followed sending another thrill through him, pulling his parted lips into a curve. More jabs, more blocks, one taking a step back and the other following before the dance reversed, and Queenie was gone, but he could hear her, feel her near, catch glimpses in his peripheral, and he knew she could more than handle herself, so he didn’t shift his wrath to fucking Bryce just yet.      He aimed a curled fist at Kingston’s throat — collapse his fucking trachea and let him choke — deflected with a wrist, but he tried again, rewarded with another swipe at his feet from the agent. Whipping his head to the side, he felt the air of a fist that would’ve fractured his fucking eye socket whip past his temple, and hooked his forearm behind Kingston’s guard, bringing an elbow up toward his face and using the motion to simultaneously force the man’s hands further down, away from his head. A knee crashed into his side, reflex curling him in on himself, then he felt hands at the back of his head, and — sure the next would smash into his nose — ducked underneath Kingston’s opposite arm and straightened up, crashing his shoulder with almost all his weight behind it into the agent from behind to knock them apart before following up with a reverse roundhouse kick. Every remnant of thought in his head that wasn’t geared toward the fight echoed Queenie’s sentiment: fuck yourself— and more; fucking die. Rot. Maggot. Fucking piece of shit. Besides Gerard, there wasn’t a single being drawing breath he’d ever wanted to snuff out with a more fiercely blazing hatred. Die. Die. Die.

     It’d have been nice if Queenie could say there was nothing she wanted more than to obliterate the lives of Gerard and Kingston Benton — only that wasn’t the truth. Arin; always Arin. More than anything else, she wanted him safe, well, and happy. More than anything else, she refused to allow them to ever get their hands on him again. But it was up there. Like, really fucking up there — and while Bryce fucking Evans-Benton wasn’t Kingston or Gerard, she was close enough. You fuck with mine? I’ll fuck with yours. It shone through in her glare, the pale hue of blue practically glistening with ice, fucking bitter, biting. She hated Bryce by association, jaw hardened with the determination to end this fucking bitch who was stupid enough to sign a contract with the fucking Bentons. She could sense her brother behind her, and Arin… but she couldn’t let herself tune in enough to give Bryce any advantage. These weren’t fuckers in the basement of some fight night; they were trained, an entire existence spent honing their abilities. They weren’t fucking losing this time. 

     Her jab made contact with Queenie’s jaw when she turned away, jerking her head at an awkward angle that made her stumble back a step. Then, she struck with another elbow toward Bryce’s face, the joint slicing across her cheekbone as the Agent leaned away from the bulk of the blow, and then Queenie went low, sweeping a leg out to keep Bryce at a distance and give her the space to swipe up a shard from Arin’s mask. No fucking weapons and what a fucking joke — but it was long enough, sharp enough with enough force… and the plastic cut into her palm as she she made a large swing toward her sister-in-law, another move made to force her back until Queenie was upright. 

     A fist came at her and she cut her forearm across to block it, grabbing the other woman’s arm to yank her off balance, and Queenie was quick to come down with her makeshift weapon, her own blood dripping down her wrist as she kept a firm grip, chopping at Bryce’s throat. She knocked Queenie’s assault off its route with an elbow of her own, knocking Queenie in the ribs and making it so the pointed plastic lodged itself in Bryce’s shoulder. “Hey, big bro!” She hissed above the scuffle of fighting, grunts and low thuds playing bass, and she committed, putting all her weight into forcing it deeper. A low growl rolled out of her as Bryce pushed back, a hand slamming down on her forearm as she twisted, charging further in an attempt to force Bryce against one of the large, cement pillars.

     It was more difficult to fight when it wasn’t herself she was defending anymore. Never in her life had she been more aware of how fragile a human body was — her body — and having all her focus on keeping her abdomen clear while simultaneously refusing to reveal that fact to Kingston’s sister was bordering on making her overthink — something she hadn’t had to tackle much in the past. Bryce had always had good instinct, and if she had followed it… well, they wouldn’t be in the situation they were in. She wasn’t angry — at least, not at anyone but Gerard and his ruthless, dynastic ambitions — she just regretted that it had come to this.

     Queenie had armed herself with a triangular, jagged plastic shard from the floor, and Bryce, for one disorienting moment, had the sinking sensation in her stomach of having unwittingly played into someone else’s hand. Arin’s words echoed in her head: You think you can keep both of us off her? And of course he’d made threats, but were they more than that? It forced her to entertain the possibility that she and Kingston weren’t the ones ambushing, but the ones being ambushed. What had he seen in the ballroom that drew him here? Why had he followed them? Had they wanted him to see it?      The two rebels had stopped when they’d been called after, instead of running. They’d let Kingston get close, instead of running. They’d revealed themselves. Arin had threatened Bryce’s life, then he’d created a weapon to do it, and the two of them had incapacitated Kingston long enough that Bryce had come to his aid. They had to have known she would go for Queenie. They had to have—      A hand clutched around a black mask fragment came flying at her, Bryce’s rapid analysis of everything around her falling away in an instant as she jumped back to avoid the swipe, her heart beating hard against her ribcage. All she could do now was try to render Queenie defenseless –– as quickly as possible. She aimed a fist at the younger woman’s temple, blocked, saw the counterattack, deflected it… and then noticed nothing but the searing pain in her shoulder and the warm, wet sensation of blood trickling across her skin. A raspy scream tore its way free of her throat, distorted when she clamped her teeth shut against it, and both her hands snapped to Queenie’s on instinct, wrapping around it to push back and keep her from driving the shard deeper.

     She felt herself backpedaling, the pain wiping rational thought away until a cold cement pillar slammed into her back, hard enough that she almost cried out again from the extra impact it gave the plastic embedded in her skin. Think. Breathe. Her hands were slick on top of Queenie’s, and it was hard to maintain a grip with all the blood, but maybe that was a good thing; and maybe the high heels were, too. Face twisting with pain, Bryce stomped on Queenie’s foot with all the strength she could muster, lifting her leg higher when she raised it again — restricted by her dress, but still high enough to plant the push kick she was supporting herself against the pillar for directly into Queenie’s stomach.

     Kingston already knew Arin could fight; in fact, it was his sister’s moves he’d seen less of, and at the moment, his concern couldn’t be with his family tangling only feet away, but with the blond in front of him. Tango number… three? Every time the man became better and better; and every time Kingston expected it. More than anything else, he’d noted the determination present in the both of them, blazing in their gaze, tightening their fists, sharpening their tongues. Postures strong, movement precise, even an articulation he found surprising given their upbringing. Well, given Arin’s. All attributed to hatred, to stubborn resolution; all of which they used to hone their abilities. They made use of their baggage and it was a shame the two of them had been driven down the wrong path. Queenie’s had been all Gerard’s fault and, without Queenie, who exactly would Arin Melnikov be? Who would she be without him? Dead, he realized, remembering the time they’d spent years ago in that tiny apartment. Or maybe with us.

BRYCE EVANS-BENTON.

QUEENIE BENTON.

ARIN MELNIKOV.

     He regretted taking the fucking gloves off. Impatient, always, and if he’d just waited until they got to the fucking car… Now, they were made, Kingston was grabbing Q, and fury flared up in Arin again as he took an instinctual half step forward, enough to put himself between them if need be. They’d fucking tried. He was tired of playing the game; of showing the rats in front of him even the faintest semblance of civility, and if they really were surrounded — or about to be — he had nothing more to lose. The Bentons wanted Queenie alive, and as long as he drew breath, he wouldn’t let them touch her. An electric thrill raced through him, brief but exhilarating, at the thought of turning Kingston into a fucking pulp.    “I will break every single one of your fucking fingers,” he said, his voice strangely calm, and he’d been itching to fucking speak, if for no other reason than not having to listen to the two agents’ thinly veiled bullshit a second longer. “Your fucking wife’s, too, motherfucker— touch Q again.” With deliberate emphasis, he turned his head toward Bryce, then back to Kingston, illustrating his point since his eyes were hidden. Don’t be a fucking prick. They could get out of this, still. Maybe. “You give a shit about her?” He paused. “You think you can keep both of us off her?” Again. “Knock her on her ass, stomp a heel through her fucking eye — dead. You like your fucking odds? ‘Cause—” Arin hooked a thumb underneath the chin on his mask and pulled it off, dropping it on the concrete next to him, and it felt like he could fucking breathe again, a malicious smile curving his lips.

   “—I got some shit I’ve been meaning to fucking make up to you.”

     Every time she saw their eyes move to Arin’s hand, dread rooted itself further in her gut, its trunk growing larger and stronger the closer Kingston got; an immoveable, solid life-form that took up so much space her lungs had no room to expand. Instinct kicked in the second he touched her, Queenie yanking her hand away as she felt the giant structure crash down inside of her, a profound shudder ricocheting through her entire form. She remembered the apartment, how weak she’d felt, the restaurant, there too, and then the vet, her weakest, and the memories gnawed at bone and muscle, wearing down her defenses and making it all the more difficult to bury her emotions. So she let the easiest one win: rage. She let it burn up the dread and the disgust, fingertips gripping the front of her mask as she took it off, letting it fall next to Arin’s on the pavement. 

     He was threatening Kingston and the sound of his voice, the sight of his face — it felt like it’d been so long already — ignited a warmth inside her that didn’t burn like her anger. It melted. Trepidation and horrific memories smoothing so she could think a little clearer… but it didn’t change the ultimate goal. Arin’s well-being. Queenie refused to live through what she had with Rowan, before that, when they’d first met Kingston, after… when he was gone for weeks. She’d rip them to shreds. They might have her — blood and flesh and mementos — but she wouldn’t give them a single strand of him. She wouldn’t let them take any-fucking-more. 

     Arin brought their attention to Bryce and Kingston didn’t falter, staring him in the eyes as he made his threats, and another blossom of affection billowed in her chest, blues never leaving Kingston even if she wanted to look at Arin more than anything else. She wanted to get the fuck out of here. They were in their territory and odds weren’t in their fucking favor. Her body remained still, tense, ready, and her stomach sank with nausea when Kingston’s smile didn’t falter, confident neutrality lounging on his features. 

     “What makes you think she can’t keep you off her herself? Hm?” A tsk, paired with a shake of his head, “Always so arrogant. You’d think it’d have gotten knocked down a few pegs by now.”       She’d been waiting, waiting for the opportunity to run, the opportunity to give them an upper hand, only now all she could see was red, all she could taste was blood, and she stepped forward, faking a punch toward his abdomen which she stopped before it could make contact, her other hand flying from the opposite side to slap him in the side of his head. At least, that’d been the intention, fury rolling over in her stomach when she felt Kingston’s fingers clutched around her wrist.       “What’d I just say?”      “Fuck yourself,” she spat back, driving a knee up to collide with his ribs.

     If there had been any lingering doubt, it was dispelled when Arin Melnikov spoke, and though they’d never crossed paths, Bryce had seen enough of his interviews to recognize his voice — even his… colorful manner of speaking. Queenie hadn’t said a word in an undisguised tone yet, but she looked just as defiantly nonchalant as he did, and Bryce didn’t find it surprising in the least. Had the two of them been dealt with by the book, the problems they caused would’ve been vanquished years ago; both having spent time in either the Government or Gerard’s clutches, both having gotten away all but unscathed, again and again. If it had been Bryce, if she’d been taken by the Resistance and either escaped or been released — no matter the thought behind it — she wouldn’t have taken it seriously, either. And there was no lockdown, no search party surrounding the perimeter, just Kingston, and her — pregnant, wearing heels and a dress.

     Shit. In a flash, Queenie was attacking Kingston, shifting past Arin who had placed himself halfway between them, and Bryce took a step forward in alarm, then stopped. Only if it’s absolutely necessary. The first punch was a feint, and Kingston caught the second blow, Queenie’s true voice sounding in response to him, angry and just as coarse and spiteful as her partner. Bryce experienced another pang of regret — or sorrow — seeing such loathing displayed between family, and she wondered, briefly, if Kingston felt any sympathy at all for his sister, or if the path she’d chosen in life erased that.      The young woman’s knee came up, and though Kingston twisted away, it made contact, a dull thud sounding along with a huff of air. Arin had picked up his mask again, and before Bryce could react, he was smashing it over Kingston’s head, hard enough that it broke, shards of black and red plastic flying everywhere and clattering to the floor. He aimed a punch, a kick, but he was fighting a four-armed, four-legged unit, and both were blocked. The two were impressively in sync, comparable to recruits in a squad who had trained together for years, or to perfectly matched up partners; there was even something familiar in the military influence she could see in their fighting style. Together, seemingly without any form of planning, they charged at Kingston, one arm each on his chest, one leg each behind his ankles, and a hard combined shove sent him to the floor between them with a grunt. Arin was smiling. Queenie looked determined. Bryce leapt into action.

     She thought of her baby, of rest, and of Kingston, and she couldn’t let anything happen to him, so it was a risk she’d have to take, even though it sent her heart into her throat. Working off instinct, she went for Queenie. They were the same size… and that was about the extent of her knowledge, well-ingrained training kicking in when she wrapped her arms around the younger woman from behind and wrenched her off Kingston.

   “You’re surrounded,” she said, tightening her hold as Queenie fought to break free, “don’t—” An elbow to the ribs cut her off, pain throbbing in her side, and Queenie was pushing her arms over her head, twisting free and spinning into a kick that hit Bryce’s upper arm, her stance wide to absorb the impact. She moved in, propelling her hand heel first into an upward jab at the girl’s chin.

     Satisfaction. That’s what flushed through him when he finally heard Arin speak — because he hadn’t been wrong, and that meant he knew how to spot them even when they were disguised. He could practically feel Bryce’s dismay crawling up the back of his neck and she’d already voiced her concerns regarding their family. She wasn’t wrong. But that was the thing of it, wasn’t it? Gerard and Kingston didn’t want them arrested, for two very different reasons. For his father, it was the need to keep his family’s affairs under wraps, the desire for complete control, and to keep what he considered one of his finest creations within grasp. For Kingston, it was about retribution, in part. Deep down he knew Queenie had been through enough and whatever she was now was the result of neglect and abuse, all caused by the man who raised him. He thought of his mother; what would she have thought? And there wasn’t a single ounce in him that believed she’d have approved of any of it. The older Queenie got, the more she looked like her, and the harder it became for Kingston to be motivated to harm her. Punish her. And the idea of handing her over to his father was equally as unfavorable — but it was better. And better than that would be to kill her; save them all the misery. Except he thought of his mother. He thought of Queenie’s talent; how killing her would be snuffing out a member of the family to be proud of. All she’d done was make the wrong decisions. All wasn’t lost.       And then there was Arin Melnikov; apparently the love of her life, ex-Lost Boy leader, and a man who was just as capable as his sister. Another talent wasted and a life worth less than his partner. Arin was a price that had to be paid for access to Queenie; Arin was a promise. Hurt him and expect her wrath. The only question was whether he’d be worth more alive or dead. Which would be the best tool to drive Queenie into their corner? Did he even want to? Which would be a better distraction from his own unborn child? Kingston didn’t ponder much on his sister when she wasn’t right in front of him — and perhaps that was a mistake, because now certainly wasn’t, a fact (quite literally) hammered into his skull when Arin slammed his mask over it. Then it was a flurry of limbs and Kingston wasn’t used to being this outnumbered since his training, emotions shutting down behind black blisters on the inside of his eyelids when they charged him into the ground. He became robotic; everything a flashing series impulses and logic that could give him the advantage, built into his nature. Automatic. 

BRYCE EVANS-BENTON.

QUEENIE BENTON.

ARIN MELNIKOV.

     You dropped something. What a fucking line. Hearing Kingston’s voice again made rage boil up in Arin, memories of his cell — of the things he and Gerard had done to Queenie — rising to the surface, almost blinding in their vividness, and he had to channel everything he had into not turning around and doing what Q had done that day they’d met her brother.      They’d both come to a stop either way, their eyes grazing each other — Q finding his even though they were completely obscured — before looking back, virtually in unison.

     The heels Arin had heard clicking against the stone floor in the stairwell belonged to Kingston’s wife, half a step behind him as he edged closer, and she looked innocuous, but a piece of information courtesy of Matt Hagen said she wasn’t. To the public, she appeared as some type of diplomat, with an important-sounding but empty job title. In reality, she was a special operative — just like her husband, only working in intelligence; a fucking spy.      Glad for a second that he was wearing a mask, Arin let his attention pass from the blonde to Kingston, feeling his lip curl into a scowl, and the man had to know — but what if he didn’t? Either of them spoke, and they’d be done, more likely than not, so Arin lazily gestured at the ground behind him and Q, then shook his head with a half-shrug. Universal fucking language: where? He stopped at that, adding the rest in his head instead of giving any outward sign of agitation. I don’t fucking see it, motherfucker. And if I’m dropping shit it’s gonna be your severed fucking head at Gerard’s feet.

     Fucking fucker fuck. Queenie thought the next time she was around Kingston, she’d be filled with pure, absolute rage, and she was, but more than that, completely overpowering, was the need to keep Arin out of her family’s clutches. That meant she had to stay out of it too. Arin remained quiet, signaling at the ground and Kingston raised his mask, narrowing his eyes as he began to slowly move closer. “What was that?” His brow furrowed in confusion, convincing enough in appearance if Queenie couldn’t feel the dread rising up from the concrete under her feet. He had to know. He had to know something. And she felt her muscles tense, ready for her brother to leap into action, a red, silky piece of cloth falling from his palm. “I couldn’t hear you.” Closer… and closer… Queenie’s breath caught in her throat and she fought against the urge to clench her teeth, to bare them before they were used to rip out his fucking throat. He stopped a few feet away from them, lifting the handkerchief in offering, “This is yours, isn’t it?”

     If they didn’t say anything, it’d look even fucking weirder, and she’d opened her fucking mouth on that dance floor already. At the very least, Arin didn’t have to say shit. She did her best to not sound too fake, giving her voice a raspy edge she paired with an apologetic smile — and that sure as fuck was an expression she never wore — resting her fingers against her throat. “He doesn’t speak. I can’t yell, you see. Just getting over a cold.” Her eyes dropped to the stupid fucking cloth because really, who the fuck carried that type of shit? “It’s not ours.”      “Hm.” Closer and she felt her tendons stretch like springs, ready to pounce, ready to snap. “I could’ve sworn…”      Queenie shook her head and Kingston nodded, seemingly content with her answer, pocketing the square before he undulated his fingers, extending them as if he were about to offer his hand. “Well, sorry to bother. It’s a pleasure to meet you… ? Unless we’ve met before. Some people’s disguises are better than others tonight.” And she could fucking feel his eyes on her as they combed over her form, a chill rushing along her spine and raising goosebumps on her skin. “Quite a get-up.” He glanced back at his wife, offering her a subtle smile that held a hint of kindness Queenie had never witnessed on him, “Don’t you think so?”

   “I do,” Bryce agreed, nodding slowly before canting her head to the side, wearing a friendly expression. Her tone was light. Casual. Smalltalky. “It’s funny, you almost look like my sister-in-law.”

   “You see it, right, Kingston?” Still relaxed in her body language, she watched the couple for any visible reactions; a tightening in the jaw or lips of the woman, a shift in stance or the curling of a fist from the man — even the merest twitch of a finger. She got nothing. One of his hands was in his pocket, the other was resting on the small of the woman’s back.      If they were going to do this, she’d rather get it over with as quickly as possible, and if the pair wouldn’t reveal themselves willingly, her and Kingston’s two options were using force or catching them in a lie. The latter was less messy, on the off chance that they were mistaken.      Though a little rusty, Bryce focused on the man’s mask and raised her hands in front of her, hoping he was looking back — she couldn’t see his eyes — and signed.    You’re a lovely couple.      A beat passed, maybe-Arin maybe looking at her, and Bryce waited expectantly, mildly surprised when he abandoned the touch to his partner’s spine and signed back at her one-handed, curt and quick in his movement.      Not deaf.      Of course, she’d known that, seeing as he’d responded to Kingston earlier without having watched him speak. She nodded as if she’d understood, thinking at the almost featureless mask staring back at her: I know you’re not mute, either, unless probably-Queenie was talking to herself in a man’s voice in the stairwell earlier. She had to acknowledge the slim chance that there had been someone else, but at this point it was unlikely. Then there were the tattoos on his knuckles… she couldn’t make them out. Even when he caught the woman’s attention and signed something else: we’re late. There was nothing hurried about the motion, but he was too brief, his hand returning to her back before Bryce could read the letters stamped in ink on his skin. They were letters, though; of that she was certain.

     “Hm. I do,” he answered, his lips stretching a bit further as he stared at who he assumed was her sister-in-law, blues glued to her form, searching for the slightest giveaway. There was none — not really — only a minute hitch of her chest that smoothed into the rest of her inhale, indiscernible if he wasn’t looking for it, and a huge tell when he knew that his sister housed an all-consuming rage that he was sure his presence awakened in her. 

     When Bryce signed at the man, Kingston’s attention diverted and he knew his wife had seen the ink printed on his knuckles. He’d spent enough time with Arin Melnikov in his possession and he remembered the tattoos well, committing every unique feature to memory so he couldn’t miss him if they ever crossed paths again. They key to Queenie. Kingston could feel Gerard’s pride at his daughter’s composure in the face of the enemy — if this was her — and he met the woman’s icy stare, the two of them locked in a standstill before her partner stole her attention with another signal. We’re late. 

     Between his suspicions, her features, and the tattoos on his hands, Kingston was certain this was them, and as Queenie gave the two of them a nod, taking a step back, Kingston stepped forward, closing the tiny distance she’d tried to create between them. “Regretfully, there’s been some fugitives on the loose that have been causing some trouble. We heard they might be visiting tonight and since you two seem perfectly reasonable, I’m sure you won’t mind taking off the masks.” The friendliness faded from his tone as the last statement landed flatly in the air, his smile tightening with hostility, “We’ve already called in back-up to surround the perimeter and make sure not a single person leaves without being checked. We’d be happy to move things along for you both and do it right here.” His gaze flickered to Arin, satisfaction bleeding onto his features, cushioning the ire that molded his face moments before, “I would hate for something unfortunate to happen as the result of a misunderstanding. Mute and all…”

BRYCE EVANS-BENTON.

QUEENIE BENTON.

ARIN MELNIKOV.

   “Yeah, I fucking bet.” Arin grinned back at her, remembered she couldn’t see his face, and turned his attention back to the stairwell they were climbing, still with the white fucking floors. Somebody was at the bottom of it, too — he heard heels clicking against the stone; muted, but still distinct, echoing slightly. “Fuck’s that?” He frowned, not really expecting an answer. The event was far from over, though, so was it really somebody else leaving, or had they been followed? They pushed through a metal door and into an ordinary (if cleaner than usual) parking garage, concrete dimly lit in fluorescents. The Mustang would’ve fit right in with the other cars parked there, but in case of cameras, in case anything went wrong, he’d brought a different vehicle — some electric blue pony car Ivan had already sold to a shrimpy douchebag with new drug money and that he’d been instructed to return without a scratch. Without any plainly visible ones, at least; no bullet holes, no broken windows, no scrapes along the sides. If it came with a little heat, however… well — it wouldn’t kill the little cunt. At least, not right away.

     Halfway across the floor of the second section of vehicles, the two of them cutting across diagonally toward theirs for the night — or at least where he thought he’d spotted it; fucking valet — they heard the door open quietly somewhere behind them. Instinctually, as soon as the clunk of the bar handle shot across the empty space, he grabbed hold of Queenie’s wrist, pulling her closer as he slipped behind a concrete pillar they were passing, out of sight of the door.      As it opened the rest of the way, the same footsteps from before emerging from it, he leaned out the slightest bit, trying to catch a glimpse. He knew Q was looking, too — he could feel her close — so he didn’t bother announcing what he saw, using his voice, not even a whisper, for something else instead. You fucking prick. Queenie, kissing him in vexation and relief. This is not the fucking time. Queenie, charging at Kingston across an empty street in broad fucking daylight. Thank you, Arin. Gerard. Fucking Kingston. He was right fucking there…

   “Should get the fuck out before this turns into a fucking shitshow.”

     Arin was pulling her behind a column and her first instinct was to kiss him, to shove him against that pillar and begin clawing at his clothing. It started, fingers curling over his belt as she began to lean in, but the footsteps reeled her back to the present, reality, and the fact that her brother was at the party… and now… there he fucking was. It couldn’t be a coincidence, could it? He’d seen something. She knew it the moment she caught his body language, unable to hide the readiness of his tense muscles, blues darting around the parking lot, no longer disguised by a mask. Her heart rate increased, knocking against her chest and reverberating through her ribs. It wasn’t fear. And it was. A version of it. A version that was close enough to make Queenie’s stomach turn, and then she was gripping Arin’s forearm, tugging him away from their cover. 

     If Kingston was looking for them, there was nowhere to go, nothing to do except try to get out of there as soon as possible. Every footfall of his climbed along the walls, sounding off all around her, and it flooded her mind with memories of the last time she’d seen Gerard, the first time she’d met Kingston, and all the weight the two of them had piled down on her ever since they made their introduction. It got snagged on barbs that split from her bones, making it feel as though she couldn’t move fast enough, act fast enough. Be better. Be better. This isn’t the time. Get the fuck out before it turns into a shitshow. So she didn’t look back at him, forced herself to keep her eyes glued to the blue car, because looking at Kingston would give away their identity if he was unsure. 

     Here comes the fucking shitshow. Dread, gnawing at her intestines, scraping at her stomach lining. Dread, when she thought of Rowan, of Arin’s pale face, the back of their SUV, all the blood. Dread, when she remembered thinking Arin was dead after Kingston, before she’d even gotten to tell him how much he meant to her; when she was just growing a fucking heart. “Fucking hounds,” she muttered under her breath, “Like they fuckin’ smell it on me.” She wasn’t speaking to Arin; she wasn’t speaking to anyone really, frustration leaking out from between clenched teeth, her grip on his arm constricting enough that her nails began to dig into his skin. 

     Despite her persistent misgivings, they continued in their pursuit, Kingston’s suspected infiltrators upstairs and into the parking garage. She’d asked him in the stairwell if it wouldn’t be better to call it in, to damn his father’s orders and to let the law run its course — the right way — but he’d simply said that for the Bentons, family took care of family, an answer she would’ve pressed him on had they been in a less precarious situation. There was none besides yes that would’ve truly appeased her, and she’d hardly call what Gerard had done to his children taking care of them — especially Queenie — but she could understand the hesitance to disobey him; a whole lifetime of conditioning.

     When they passed through the door, the parking garage appeared empty, but they’d heard it open in the stairwell, and there was nowhere else the two could’ve gone, and no cars had started or gone anywhere, meaning they were there somewhere. Probably hiding. Bryce followed in Kingston’s tracks, listening intently, her eyes darting around searching for movement in the shadows.

     She wondered what he planned to do. Wondered how angry he’d be with her if she sent out a silent alarm, or what his father would do if he found out about it. Two wanted fugitives, and instead of stacking the odds almost insurmountably in their favor, they were sneaking around a parking garage on Gerard’s de facto orders.      Hearing a quiet scuff, she changed directions, Kingston doing the same because he had, too, and there was no space to think about anything but their pursuit anymore — she had to stay sharp; alert.

     Family takes care of family. When it came to the Benton’s, that meant a lot. It was practically the foundation they built it on, forged in blood-stained metal, and if the flesh was too weak to hold it, they made sure no one would ever have to see it. They arranged and shifted until the image was pristine again. Martin was a perfect example, tucked away with a more than generous allowance that sewed his mouth shut. Queenie, another. Only her failings had nothing to do with her abilities; she was exactly what Gerard would’ve wanted, and he hadn’t even had a full hand in it. Abuse had made her flourish, according to Gerard, and it was troubling to know his father had witnessed it first hand, given justification for his actions. Torture made soldiers and tempered the steel. Now, they had a child of their own on the way, and Gerard was nowhere near his end. Now, his sister was around every corner and Kingston was regularly reminded of how they’d abandoned her for wolves to raise. Now, she wasn’t a child anymore and he could see his mother’s face in hers, giving birth to something protective that rioted against the orders Gerard maintained. Except for one part of it: family takes care of family — and there was no way Kingston was ever going to hand her into the Government. Theirs, even in death, because public executions were beneath them. Public anything was. It still didn’t detract from the obvious advantage back-up would give them against two capable fugitives. Only that was the thing of it, wasn’t it? The Benton’s were always supposed to be better.

BRYCE EVANS-BENTON.

QUEENIE BENTON.

ARIN MELNIKOV.

     Not surprisingly, his warning had gone unheeded, and he really wouldn’t have it any other way — but the mask made it difficult to reciprocate, and a touch any lewder than his hands sliding a little lower on her waist would probably be noticed, frowned upon, so he settled, his grip tightening a little. Queenie decided to blend in even more by spouting some satirical Government dialogue, a smile curving her lips before she let out a laugh. Arin’s enjoyment of the sound was soured by the disgusted flip his stomach performed at the thought of even a fake kid, and he realized he’d never considered the fact that Q might want one at some point, simply assuming that she’d share his opinion because they always did. She pinched him, her smirk still firmly in place as she jerked her chin at him, and he forgot about it, bumping into her on purpose so they fell out of step, then pulling her close again as he synced back up to the rhythm of the cockroaches surrounding them.

     They were close enough by now, so he slipped a hand into his pocket, pressing the stupid button sequence that initiated the program, then returned it to Queenie’s waist. The phone gave a couple of short vibrations, confirming it had worked; now all they had to do was stay in proximity until the copy was complete.      Letting muscle memory do the work of moving for him, Arin lost focus on anything but Kingston, a bloodlust rising up in him that felt impossible to suppress. He wanted to blow his brains all over the pristine, white fucking floor — one drop, two, three, crawling in dizzy patterns — watch the blood spatter his fucking wife, hear the other guests fucking scream. He’d end up dead or in custody heartbeats later, but fuck, it was fucking tempting, and it’d be so fucking easy. The thing was, so would Queenie. The thing was, even if it was only him… And he’d already walked that line recently. Uninvited, Rowan entered his thoughts, not helping the fury that was working its way up to a blaze through his veins.      Later. All of it. When they had the fucking advantage. As long as there was the promise of another fucking time, he could wait.

     Again, the device in his pocket buzzed; a longer one, this time, letting him know it had completed a copy, but the wife could have a phone on her too, and there were other people nearby, meaning they needed to wait for at least another copy. They needed to be sure — or at least as sure as they could get, because — come hell or fucking high water — he was not leaving here with nothing. The plodding pace of the music was grating on his nerves, too, impatience seeping in now that they were almost fucking there, but he could hold it off. Another buzz, another copy, and one more right in the wake of it, then nothing for a long while. The song dragged to an end, the pianist hitting the keys slower and slower until there was nothing at all, a lull encapsulating the dance floor. By that point, there was no way they hadn’t gotten what they came for, so it seemed as good a time as any to get out of there.

     Looking at Q, he subtly tipped his head toward their planned exit point; a more roundabout way than where they’d come in, through one of the back doors, to avoid attention. Together, they left the dance floor — the party and all its despicable cunts behind with it as they stole out of a door near the back, emerging in a hallway leading to a stairwell.    “I can’t wait to take this fucking thing off,” Arin grumbled, tugging off the uncomfortable black gloves he’d had on and shoving them into a pocket in his jacket.

     As they walked, he pulled the phone out, glancing over the copies, hoping it’d be immediately evident who they belonged to — pictures, texts, call logs, something — triumph drawing a smile onto his face when he spotted the name Bryce in the log on one of them.    “Hey.” He stopped, showing the screen to Queenie.

     Queenie focused on Arin as she became acutely aware of Kingston’s form so close to her, she could feel his every moment, when he turned, when he muttered under his breath to his wife, when his head dipped lower to exchange the words closer, and when their dance brought them mere inches apart. She focused on Arin, because she was beginning to see that room. Not just one. Four. The apartment Kingston kept her in years ago. The restaurant where she’d first met her father. The white room modeled after the house she’d grown up in. The vet and the threat of taking away everything. She tried to focus on Arin, but he was fading from view behind harrowing memories that gave birth to worms in her stomach, and she could feel them fucking slithering, climbing on top of one another to form a mountain of squirming insects. Her arms tightened around his shoulders and she refused to turn her head to even grace her brother with a glance. All she had to do was stay close. To Arin. All she had to do was wait for the phone in his pocket to copy the information. All she had to do…      I want to fucking kill him. The inclination cut into her anxiety, repeating on a mantra, and her fingers began digging into Arin’s muscles, her jaw clenching as she fought the urge to spin around and grab him by the neck. She lost herself in it, in the war waging inside herself, on sensations she didn’t want and the quickest ways she could dispose of them — and then Arin was tilting his head. They were leaving and the moment they reached the corridor, Queenie took a deep breath, slowly exhaling as blues darted to Arin as he spoke, dropping to his hands as he removed his gloves. Suddenly, she grabbed it, hunger to feel the warmth of his skin ever since they dressed up for the stupid fucking affair jerking her body into motion. She laced her fingers through his, pulling his knuckles to her lips so she could kiss them, punctuating it with a nip at his knuckles before she let go. 

     She’d almost lost herself again when Arin’s voice drew her back, attention drifting to the glaring screen where she saw Bryce’s name, and she hadn’t even needed to see that to know it’d been him. She felt it; his fucking presence seeping into flesh, slipping into her blood, attaching itself to her bones. She’d felt him and while she wanted to chalk it up to their fights and that apartment, maybe it was blood. Maybe it was thicker. And the writhing pile of maggots in her gut reawakened, growing in size, making her nauseated. But they’d done it. Mission… nearly successful. All they had to do was get out of there. 

     “I can tell ya a few things I can’t wait to take off.” 

     The end of the song felt like waking up from a pleasant dream, the ballroom fading back in around them. Where Bryce had only heard piano music, the chatter of the party was suddenly everywhere, as if someone had turned up the volume — countless voices speaking to each other in unison, all unintelligible. With her trained ear, she could pick out conversations in the mix: eavesdrop, survey, gather information, but she didn’t care to, leaving all her attention with Kingston instead. She hugged him, her palms flattening on his back for an affectionate squeeze as a thanks for the dance before she pulled back, linking her hands at the small of his back, fingers wrapped loosely around her wrist.

     Underneath his mask, the warmth she had seen on his face was gone, replaced by something more serious… or focused, his focus across the room. She followed his gaze as best she could under the circumstances, trying to see what he was looking at, but coming up short.

   “What is it?” Keeping her voice low, a tinge of mild concern in her tone, she let him go, one hand lingering on his arm as she watched him inquisitively, hoping somewhere at the back of her mind that Gerard hadn’t decided to grace the event with his presence.

     The semblance of normalcy was broken when others began closing in and Kingston looked at those around him, wishing they’d give them some space, and one half of a couple was dipping his hand into his pocket, a gesture that always caught the blond’s attention. Too much time around his father. Around rebels. And he was always waiting for a weapon or, in his father’s case, a piece to psychological warfare only Gerard Benton was capable of. It was only Gerard Benton who could make Kingston’s heart stop, frozen for a moment as it registered a blip of anxiety, then… gone. When it came to others, suspicion was the only emotion he felt, and he gave them both a slow once over, blues crawling along their forms. The man was unremarkable besides the fact that he was completely covered and the woman seemed to fit in perfectly, sparkling paths drawn over her skin, curling up to her neck… her jaw. Now, it wasn’t his heart freezing but his body, muscles stiffening as he examined the feature. Then her lips, pressed into an aggravated line, and it wasn’t Queenie who he recognized first, but his mother, and that was enough to stop his pulse cold. Now, it made sense why her partner was covered, and before he could act they were departing, Kingston watching their strides and finding familiarity in those as well. 

     “I think Queenie and Arin are here,” he responded, his volume matching hers as he took her hand to tug her along with him as he began to follow, his steps becoming quicker the further away from the dance floor they got, and he’d forgotten in the heat of it… she was pregnant. She was pregnant and he was chasing down his sister and her boyfriend; calling them dangerous seemed like an understatement when he knew what they were capable of, especially when he and Gerard had made them targets for years. He didn’t want to leave her, and if they stopped they might lose them, only she was pregnant… only she was capable. “If it is them… if things get… difficult….” He trailed off, knowing he didn’t need to finish the statement. Bryce was going to be an excellent mother, a trait he knew had already kicked in the moment she found out she was carrying. She’d put their child first and he’d put them both there. 

BRYCE EVANS-BENTON.

QUEENIE BENTON.

ARIN MELNIKOV.

   “Don’t… fucking start,” Arin warned, amusement and affection warming his tone. Her voice that close to his ear was enough to stir something in him, and he knew if it weren’t for the fucking mask he would’ve felt her breath, the graze of her lips. A suggestive jibe about her use of the word suck was right on the tip of his tongue, but he refrained, knowing it wouldn’t do either of them any favors as far as restraint was concerned. He couldn’t even drink; not that he wanted to, as there was no fucking point without the alcohol, but Queenie’s comment had reminded him that he hadn’t had a cigarette since before he’d showered at home (because showing up at an event like this smelling like smoke was a quick and imbecilic way to fucking get made) and if he couldn’t have one vice, he would’ve liked to have another. Alcohol. Cigarettes. Queenie. All off the fucking table.

     Being patient would’ve been easier if there hadn’t been people crowding around everywhere, of the kind that made his thoughts return to a shotgun and a box of slugs. Minutes dragged on as they slowly circled the party, doing their best not to draw anyone’s attention. They passed a couple of candidates, but neither was the man they were looking for, and minutes turned into something around an hour, the levels of Arin’s impatience climbing with the clock.      Sticking close to each other, they kept going, never stopping long enough to be approached by anyone, but still moving slow to avoid being noticed for unusual behavior. Glasses clinked and polite laughter and conversation made a constant burbling around them, tuned out in search of something more familiar.

   “Hey.” After a quick double take at a figure across the way, he leaned closer to Q, lowering his voice. “Dance floor. Behind the bitch in yellow.” When he glanced over, she was looking, too, giving a faint nod before he turned back, watching the couple he’d spotted. Right height. Right build. Right hair color. With Queenie’s agreement, he was as good as certain, but even should it turn out not to be Kingston — for the third fucking time — it was at the very least worth a closer look. They approached, stopping near the edge of the floor to fucking dance so they’d blend in, an activity Arin had never attempted and never felt the slightest need to attempt — rather an aversion to it. A crash course at home just in fucking case had taught him that it wasn’t difficult, really, sharing certain traits with the skill he’d honed the most: fighting. It was mostly footwork; mirroring, flowing, cooperating instead of competing, and there was no person on earth, past or present, he was more in tune with than Q.

     Grabbing her by the waist, he tugged her close — closer than the people around them were, but fuck it, he didn’t care — her hand landing in his as he took the lead. It wasn’t hard to appear engrossed in her, because he fucking was, but he steered them toward Kingston and his wife all the same, a natural path that wasn’t out of place among the rest of the crowd. The cloning software was installed on a phone in his pocket; one click, and it would copy every device within a couple meters radius.      All they had to do was get close enough.

     It sucked. It sucked that this outfit was wasted on this bullshit and that the only person she’d put it on for with even an atom of desire to wasn’t able to do anything about it when they were in the middle of a Government clusterfuck. It sucked that she actually liked dancing and that now, they were dancing together, except they weren’t able to be themselves, and they were in the middle of a Government clusterfuck. It sucked that the entire fucking thing was being used to get close to her asshat brother and his stupid fucking wife and that she couldn’t just stab him in the neck right here and now. It fucking sucked and Queenie’s mouth became a tight line of aggravation, her attention shifting to Kingston and taking her away from Arin, which is where she really wanted to be, especially when he was the one with the device in his pocket and what the fuck else was she supposed to do? 

     Instinct made her begin to lean in for a kiss, only when her trailing gaze landed back on him she remembered his mask, and that it was probably considered bad form to do that in public — and fuck, she really fucking hated being here. Queenie remembered his warning from earlier — don’t… fucking start — but she was getting restless, and bored, and frustrated, and she knew she needed to focus, except… her thigh slid between his, a hand lifting from his shoulders to dust her fingertips down his spine, and now her lips were curved in a mischievous grin, her elaborate mask hiding the matching glint in her eyes. They were getting even closer to the couple, Arin taking the lead, and it wasn’t that risky, because who was looking at her legs? And these people couldn’t be so fucking dead a little light touching was inconceivable. That, and she didn’t really fucking care. Maybe that’d always been part of her problem, 

     “Well, there’s obviously only one choice to make when it comes to preschools.” Now that they were in the thick of it, drifting closer and closer to Kingston and fucking company, genuine conversation was out the window, and so was the type of heavy petting Queenie was itching to take part in. No booze, no pot, no cigarettes, no Arin, no bullshit, no jokes… well, mostly no jokes. Because one way or another, she’d take every sliver of entertainment where she could get it. “And we’re getting that pink frilly dress for the interview. You can’t let her spill a single drop of grape juice on it, got it?” Her smirk was taking up all of her visible features and she couldn’t help but snicker, because even though she couldn’t see Arin’s face, she knew the topic of a child, even an imaginary, never-gonna-fuckin’-happen one would stir up the kind of nose scrunching disdain that she found absolutely adorable. It didn’t matter if she couldn’t actually see it because she could in her mind, and it wasn’t enough to just imagine it, she wanted to know it was there. 

     She paired it with a cheeky butt pinch before her arms settled around his shoulders again, tilting her chin up flirtatiously and looking quite pleased with herself.

     On the dance floor, Bryce allowed the remainder of her lingering worries to melt away so she could be there, in the moment, with Kingston. The slow music ebbed and flowed around them, carrying them with it, and it was meditative, almost, how she could float, led gracefully across the floor by her husband. Other couples danced nearby — a pair of harlequins, an owl and an eagle, a fox and a man in a full mask, a pair of robots, a blue bear and a pink dog — drifting in and out of her vision, sometimes appearing in her peripheral. They were immaterial, but they added to the atmosphere — her and Kingston alone in the middle of a party.

     Fondly, she recalled their wedding, how they’d danced that night, celebrating a lifelong commitment that they’d both had to take on faith and hope for the best. Hope it’d fulfill them, better their lives, bring them closer to the future they wanted. Hope for love. Compatibility. Trust. She’d been nervous then too, but for very different reasons. Now here they were again, at the cusp of another life changing event, and there was still that ever-present what if? The possibility of things not turning out as they planned — but at least it was them, now, and not just her anymore. Not just doing everything, chasing everything for herself alone. Double the smarts, double the competence, double the security. If anyone could take on everything that faced them with the arrival of this child, it was them. Both of them had already overcome every obstacle to get here, and she had no doubt that they could handle whatever came next.

     It was moments like these that made it easier to forget the world they lived in; moments where they were reminded of the comforts, despite the horror their job could at times entail. Kingston never thought twice about his life and what it could’ve been, not until he was faced with his little sister, all she endured glistening viciously in her stare. Most of the time, he chalked it up to his ability to make better decisions, and if Queenie had utilized the training she’d been given in a different manner, she could’ve used it to better herself. He couldn’t blame her for most of it; he’d been with Gerard — the monster that he was — and Queenie had weathered a more unpredictable beast, with revolting tendencies that marred their grooming. It all began with their father, after all, who’d given her up at birth as punishment for taking the one person Gerard had loved. Or rather, the closest his father could get to the feeling. When he grew older, Kingston thought it hadn’t even been that, it’d been his need to possess, and their mother was just another thing he decided he wanted, so he took it, and her rebellious nature made him tighten his fist, boarding up every exit. He never remembered his mother seeming weak or scared. Instead, she seemed to thrive off it; at least, that’s what he gathered. Back then, he was only a child, and children understood more than adults thought they did, but they still didn’t know a lot — and what had he even known?

BRYCE EVANS-BENTON.

QUEENIE BENTON.

ARIN MELNIKOV.

     Even with the mask on — red and black plastic and mesh covering his entire fucking head, a sleeve of dark fabric pulled down over his neck, covering his telltale tattoo — walking into the venue felt like putting a drop of blood into a shark tank. Arin knew they wouldn’t be recognized, but there were too many people for them to constantly keep an eye on who was watching them, let alone accomplish what they’d come to do — and though slim, the chance was always there.      Some suited up assclown with a fucking flower on his lapel scanned the invitation Matt had forwarded them at one of the doors, inviting them in with a polite smile and just enough servility that it tipped over into nauseating, making a grand gesture with his hand as he waved them through.      “Mr. and Mrs. Novak, welcome. This way, please, and have an enchanting evening.”

     The disgust only grew stronger as they entered the main room; huge, bright, ostentatious, and filled to the brim with people he would love to decapitate with a fucking shotgun.      Not tonight.      Hatred be damned, they walked like they belonged, pride and superiority on display that stemmed from a different place than that of the Government (or adjacent) fuckers around them. The event was in full swing already; a hundred voices speaking at once packed the air into something dense, and underneath it piano music was coming from somewhere, but all Arin heard was Queenie playing, his hand resting a little more firmly on her lower back when they slowed to a stop somewhere out of the way of the main flow of guests moving around.

     Arin let his eyes wander the crowd, searching for anything familiar in the sea of ornate masks. Kingston— or his wife, who he’d only seen pictures of. The former would be easier, but there were a lot of people, and every single face was some degree of hidden, making other markers like height, coloring, and body language easier to spot on first glance. Twice, he caught his attention on Queenie in his peripheral, his hand drifting mindlessly, up, down… then with clear intent around her waist so he could pull her closer, pressed to his side. She was beautiful; distractingly so, always, and he knew this place had a coat closet or a secluded hallway or a fucking bathroom somewhere, but — again — not tonight. Tonight, they were after something else… and at least the mask served the purpose of making it impossible for him to dip his head and kiss her neck.

     She barely recognized herself as she passed a glance at their mirror on the way out — and she didn’t even have the mask on yet, a fox elaborately painted, black, gold, and red to match her dress, with glittering makeup that coiled around her arms and chest to hide her tattoos. Her hair had been temporarily sprayed black, bundled into a relaxed bun at the base of her skull, loose strands slipping free to frame her face. Queenie imagined she’d be dolled up like this far more often if she’d remained in her family’s clutches, and even though she knew she looked fucking fantastic, even though she had Arin at her side, there was the threat of Kingston ahead, and memories from her childhood that refused to unfasten itself from her bones, leeching into her muscles so they worked off instincts she’d long buried. Buried, and uncovered by Gerard, who clawed furiously at the dirt until he revealed the parts he wanted to see, breathing new life into them.

     Arin’s own mask hid his entire face, his neck, the suit covering every inch of skin so that upon first glance, his identity was indiscernible. Of course, that was the point, but she was already missing the sight of him, wishing she could, at least, see his eyes, to catch glimpses brimming with affection, his determination, and the hateful disgust they both shared for her family. She needed to see it, because while Queenie had never been scared, there was dread threading itself into her intestines, turning her saliva acidic — and she didn’t need to see it, because she was better than that, and he was right here. 

     A slow, even breath lifted her shoulders when she felt his hand at her waist, his touch firm and reassuring, even if he couldn’t detect the storm brewing within. She was sure he could; no one read her as well as Arin, and she wouldn’t have it any other way, especially when words tended to fail her more often than not. Queenie moved into him, fingertips dusting down his spine as she searched the crowd for any signs of Kingston — and fuck the mask, because she was already getting annoyed at the way it hindered her vision. Not enough to be a problem, enough to be irritating, and if it wasn’t for the fact that she knew Arin was getting some joy out of her dress, she’d feel the uncontrollable the urge to rip the fabric from her body. Scrape off the glitter. Stomp on the fucking mask. 

     Momentarily, her attention got caught on the piano, the music, how she’d gone years and years without running into one and now there’d been two in a matter of days; two, and Kingston, and memories, and a desire she forgot she even had, one that made her all too aware of where she came from. She turned her head, whipping her focus in another direction, and with all the masks it was hard to distinguish who was who, with Queenie tuning into body language, pausing to listen to the cacophony of voices surrounding them, in hopes she’d pinpoint his familiar tone. 

     “Fuck,” she breathed out quietly, “These fuckers make me wanna suck down an entire pack. Smells like fuckin’ pig in here.” Her features contorted in revulsion beneath her mask, the sneer on her black painted lips the only visible bit, and she watched a tray of drinks parade past, knowing full well it was some non-alcoholic bullshit. She leaned closer, murmuring close to his ear, “You know… last time we had a closet prelude.” It wasn’t an option tonight, not yet, at least, and she knew that, but frustration had a way of forming nonetheless, making him even more irresistible than he already was, if that was even possible. “Guess I’ll settle for virgin champagne and—” her tone fell flat with boredom, “—all this sparkling fuckin’ company.” Sparkling because their personalities were anything but, and almost everyone reflected light, diamonds and gems shimmering across the entire room, and Queenie wasn’t any fucking different, making her force another breath from her lungs as she straightened her posture. 

   “I’m fine, Kingston.” Bryce turned to him, flattening her hand on his chest. She was a good excuse to use to bail out of an event like this, but she wasn’t there yet, and leaving early could raise eyebrows — or worse: questions. Better to see things through until the day came where she actually couldn’t, if it did at all. She’d noted his use of the word when, but she wasn’t some frail thing, and a sedentary pregnancy would be just as bad for the baby as an overactive one.

   “But it’s sweet of you to worry. I’ll let you know if anything changes.”

     Despite the concealment of the masks, it wasn’t long before they were found by somebody they knew — a well-respected delegate with a doctorate in social science and his husband, a nuclear physicist. They worked more directly with the former than the latter, though had met both at other occasions like this one. Though polite, they didn’t make for what Bryce would call riveting conversation, so after some pleasantries and courteous inquiries into each other’s respective fields of work, the four of them split, Bryce and Kingston starting a slow crawl through the party. 

     One person recognized another, and another recognized the first, so after their initial encounter, more acquaintances trickled in, and soon they were mingling as though it were any other event, discussing work, the news, the Government, and the cause that was being aided with the evening’s donations.      At one point, they excused themselves from their present company to make an appropriate one of their own. Bryce felt her heartstrings tugged as she studied a monitor that was playing an informative video near the glittering, holo-projected goal meter — orphans, hiding in derelict buildings or running around the streets in the slums. Drone footage of tarps and burning barrels. Numbers. Graphs. Every number in those statistics is a child, she thought, the sinking of her heart made deeper by her subconscious acknowledgement of her own, yet to really exist.

     It was a worthy cause. If the Government could feed, shelter, and foster those children the streets would be safer, and a new generation of disadvantaged, misguided rebels prevented — because if illegal substances didn’t claim them, that’s where they ended up. Battery City’s orphans didn’t deserve to suffer for their parents’ crimes; they deserved a shot at a safe, honest life, like everyone else.

     After stopping a waited for an icy glass of lime and cucumber water, Bryce strolled arm in arm with Kingston through the guests, admiring the venue, the music, the extravagant fashion of the guests… most of all though, she was enjoying his company, a comforting warmth spreading through her when it was just the two of them. Soon to be three.    “You look very handsome tonight, did I tell you that?” She glanced at him, her subtly reddened lips turned up in a smile.

     The social aspect bored him the most and he was thankful for the mask, because it meant others couldn’t see it in his features. Bryce told him not to worry and of course he would a bit, but these sort of things weren’t his cup of tea. He hated being surrounded by people; it was a trait he inherited from his father and he recognized it every time it came to light. Most people were beneath him. Most people were failures. Most boring. Most ugly. Most unremarkable in every sense of the word. And he could hide it in a poised tone, apathy read as polite neutrality, of proper upbringing and good breeding. The cause, in truth, meant little to him, because admittedly, he only cared about two other people: Bryce and his unborn child. Outside of that, it was all noise. He could view something as just and right. That was it. No emotion behind it. No ambition to serve a cause outside of himself. He wondered how much of his father Bryce could see in him; maybe a part of his role in her life was serving as a means to an end. He wouldn’t blame her in the least. 

     They circled the party, and Kingston ran on automatic, repeating the same responses from one conversation to the next — because he’d been right. Boring. He was thankful when she drew him away to get a drink, the two of them gaining some privacy along the sidelines. When she complimented him, he could feel his lips stretch, the muscles stiff and unused in this setting, making the expression seem odd until he allowed himself to get lost in her gaze. “You didn’t,” he remarked, his smile growing, “But I certainly like to hear it.” The grip on her waist tightened as he brought her closer, tilting a head toward the dance floor. It’d bring them back into the center of the crowd, but he enjoyed dancing when it was with her, their proximity allowing the lesser surroundings to blend into nothing.

BRYCE EVANS-BENTON.

QUEENIE BENTON.

ARIN MELNIKOV.

     Feeling a hand on his ass, Arin quirked a brow, glancing over his shoulder to smirk at Queenie before getting down, where she slid her arm around him and he ran his down her side to pinch her (half undressed) ass in return. Glad for a chance to finally get out of the stiff, uncomfortable clothes, he changed back into his own before doing anything else, the tailor rushing over to slip the fabric from his hands just as he was about to toss it over the back of an armchair. After draping the jacket over a headless, limbless mannequin and putting the pants on a hanger, she returned to Q, and Arin sat, lighting a cigarette.      With the flick of his lighter, the tailor’s attention was on him again, her voice sounding after he’d let the first pull seep between his lips and was taking a proper drag.      “Put that out! Or take it out back.”    “Tell me you don’t have a fucking air filter,” he countered, wisps of smoke accompanying every word before an exhale out of the corner of his mouth.      “Half of these pieces belong to my clients! I am not handing them over smelling like an illegal substance, so unless you want to pay for them all, go outside, or get—”      Arin crushed his cigarette out in a golden cup on the side table next to him that held an unlit tea candle, widening his eyes again at the tailor, who turned back to her work.

     His attention followed, to Queenie, the red fabric hugging her perfect, lithe form. He remembered a different occasion, a different dress, crimson lace creeping up her back, bunched around her waist, his hands on her thighs, her legs around his waist, her voice sighing his name into his ear. Her hair, its natural sandy blonde then, pinned up. The weight of a razor sharp hair-stick in his pocket, coated in blood. Her hands ripping a deeper slit in the fabric so she could move more freely, shattered glass raining down on a ballroom floor and the deafening chaos of gunfire.

     With no backup, this time would have to be quiet all the way through — and if they didn’t get to Kingston, well… they’d at least get some information off him that would lead them closer; to him and Gerard both.

     Queenie did little to hide her amusement at the exchange between Arin and the tailor, features cracking into a smirk as she stepped toward the edge of the platform, intent on stealing a drag for herself when Arin obliged — albeit begrudgingly — and snuffed it out, marring the white wax with black smears. Of course, she thought of the last time she’d worn a dress such as this — red just like this one — and while most of the night was a blur of exhilarating violence, that was never the part she remembered most. It was Arin’s arm firmly coiling her waist as he led her away from the crowd, the sensation of his breath on her neck, fingers clawing at the material of her dress, scraping along her thigh. It was his name. The very first time she’d called him something other than a snarky nickname or Melnikov. 

     She cooperated during the fitting, because she was already restless — and maybe it was the smart thing, getting their clothing ahead of time, but now she was thinking of him in his suit and how desperately she wanted to rip it off him. Then a swift kick in her chest, her heart rioting at a memory Queenie wasn’t acknowledging yet: Arin’s pale features, sweat slicked across his forehead. Blood. They were going to walk into a Government party and if he got hurt in the middle of the night in some fucking park, then what was stopping it from happening at an event where they were walking directly into their clutches? She’s never been nervous before — and was that what this was? — and maybe she wasn’t, but she was something, and that something was ping-ponging between her ribs, spurring the aggravated question, “Are we fucking finished?”       They were. Almost. Iona cinched the fabric and pinned it in a few places, then stood in front of Queenie, helping her slip the silky fabric from her shoulders so she could step out of it without disturbing the alterations she’d marked. They agreed upon a pick-up — rather, Queenie demanded a specific time — and then they left, with her immediately lighting a cigarette as soon as they got outside, her other hand slipping into the back pocket of Arin’s jeans for the tiny duration it took them to walk to the Mustang. And the tension hadn’t dissipated, so Queenie insisted on a detour to feed the growing hunger; the demand to spend more time with him, in case she wouldn’t get the chance. In case… in case… some bullshit mantra that she’d never given the time to pace her mind the way it was now. It was infuriating, the aggravation being exorcised when they fucked on the hood, hidden in a cluster of trees, teeth and nails hooking into him, to taste and anchor, to keep, because just in case…

     She didn’t even want to separate long enough for the drive home, though she didn’t have much of a say in it when she drifted to sleep in the passenger seat, her body leaning toward his, a hand resting on his thigh. Physical activity rarely wore her out, but mental? Emotions became marshes, demanding she wade through the deep muck she’d neglected, the mud beneath the surface threatening to suck her under. Emotions were the most exhausting thing Queenie Benton ever experienced, and the best remedy was always unconsciousness. And when she couldn’t be that, there were other drugs to help. Except for this time. Queenie wanted to make sure she had the clearest possible mind when she faced her brother again. You aren’t getting away this fucking time. I’m taking something with me.

     After what felt like an eternity of vaguely menacing pleasantries, and a quiet, contemplative car ride home, walking through the door felt like relief. Some of the weight on her shoulders lifted, but Bryce still felt tense, so after slipping out of her shoes, she passed Kingston with a gentle squeeze of his elbow and a smile.    “I’m taking a bath.”

     The faint dizziness lingering in her head dissipated a little when she sat in the warm water, the lights in the bathroom dimmed, candles with calming scents burning on the edge of the tub. She allowed herself to feel weightless — willed the sensation to seep into her skin and dissolve her worries, too. What will be, will be, will be… A hand drifted to her stomach; though there was nothing really there to feel, it was the knowing — life growing inside her, more precious than anything she’d ever known, and she was scared and excited and happy and… scared.      Even if we tell you that Gerard’s is not the way… that it’s not what’s right, you will ask us why we let him teach it; and we won’t have an answer better than ‘that’s the way it is.’ A candle flame wobbled almost imperceptibly, perhaps stirred by her breath. You will think that one of us is wrong… and maybe it won’t be him.

     Maybe you will think… if we love you, how can we put you through that? Maybe… It was complicated. Unfair. A political, psychological minefield that would make no sense to a child until they were grown, already marred by it. Like Kingston; like his sister — and Bryce, even, affected now, though she’d grown up with nothing of the sort. And the fact that it made logical sense didn’t make it right. Didn’t justify exposing their child to a man like that, no matter the circumstances. She sank further in, the water rising to her neck, to her chin, a tiny ripple caused by the motion. Don’t worry, she thought, more to herself as she rested her head against the porcelain brim and let her eyes fall shut. We’ll protect you.

     It’s all a show. It’s always a show; whenever anyone else was around — even sometimes when they weren’t — Kingston was a reflection of himself, a finely tuned image that took no effort to maintain. It’d been molded into him, or he’d been molded from it, certain parts of his personality tucked away depending on the company. Colleagues. Shareholders. Business partners. Family. And he never felt the pull of strong emotion, never was spurred into action by his feelings, every one of them muted, quieted for so long that they lost some of their volume, their voice rarely more than a whisper. Until dinner the other night. Until his father’s words and memories from his childhood coagulated and climbed up his ribs, coating his insides in a tar-like substance that went up in flames the moment he met Gerard’s gaze. If anyone was going to have control over his child’s life, it’d be him. Gerard had his children, had his chance, and Kingston refused to raise a child who’d turn into a psychopath like Queenie. Like Gerard. And Martin. And every single other Benton except for his mother. His mother, who wasn’t really a Benton. His mother, the one who should’ve survived. He promised he’d keep her memory alive in a child of his own, if he ever had one, and while no one would have ever claimed she’d been a kind woman, Kingston had seen a side of her no one else had — and he missed it, when he’d never missed anything in his entire life. 

     Tonight, it’d be no different, Kingston escorting Bryce into the venue, both of them poised in their entrance, pausing so Kingston could step behind her and help remove her jacket. He passed them off to the coat check attendant, then gracefully offered his arm to Bryce, looping it through hers as they walked further into the venue. It opened up to a balcony overlooking the vast ballroom, the wall directly in view nothing but glass, showcasing the sparkling city lights, a glittering landscape against a brilliantly lit room, made all the brighter by white marble floors. They descended into the main room, immediately met with a server who presented them with a tray of appetizers, mere moments passing before one with champagne circled their way. Kingston accepted neither, blues focused on the congregation before him, taking note of important attendees he had to make sure to carve some time out for. 

BRYCE EVANS-BENTON.

QUEENIE BENTON.

ARIN MELNIKOV.

     Arin watched Queenie still as she twisted on the chair, and remnants of fury flared up in him, flashing in his eyes, but the tailor was too busy with her pins to notice the expression flitting across his face, and Queenie was watching the keys as he was taken back to another time, another room, another fucking mirror. Tell me something you liked. Silence stretched through the dim, richly decorated space just as it had at the vet, a hand reaching for a button that would wipe everything away, her name an increasingly stern warning. Queenie. The rage solidified, hardening into hatred when he thought of the man who’d spoken it. Back then, it had mixed with cold, helpless fear; what if she doesn’t answer? It wouldn’t have mattered. He’d have gotten her out of there no matter what. Then, her voice. Piano.      This time, it was the strings that broke the quiet. He hadn’t thought she would, but she was playing — in front of some inconsequential fucking stranger — the full, heavy tone of the piano’s lower register imposing on the stillness and his thoughts both.

     In his mind, he could see the younger Queenie from the video with Martin, sitting at an instrument like this one, ten times her size, some stiff tutor looking over her shoulder; Martin waiting for her outside, or at home, sitting on furniture that would end — years later — in a white cell in a concrete facility somewhere in the woods. The younger Queenie; absent, hollow, breaking, letting the music take her somewhere — anywhere — else.

     The only instrument he’d heard her play before was Julian’s guitar, not with as much skill, and on those occasions they were usually drunk, too, singing along to some stupid song or duet, showing off to each other, reveling in their combined ability as Arin watched and drank or smoked — usually both. The crease between his eyebrows smoothed out, his expression softening further as he picked up the low hum she breathed into the air underneath the rise and fall of the notes, his focus zeroing in on the barely perceptible sound, warmth swelling in his chest.      Queenie; perfect, beautiful, unbroken — and a pensive, sorrowful melody that pulled at him, drawing him to her. That familiar hook in his flesh, embedded deeper every time he looked at her, and he wanted to touch her shoulders, her neck, her hair, feel the pressure of her head on his chest, the silkiness of her skin beneath his lips, but he remained in place, simply watching her in the mirror. Her lashes fanning out over her cheeks, wavy strands of lavender hair falling across her face… the neutral look she was wearing that he could read a thousand things in. The sooner they got this over with, the sooner he could go to her — appease the ever-present need to be close. Closer. One.

     She’d forgotten; what it was like to play, what it really felt like, and now she was so aware of how it differed from when she was a child, how it was the same. Now, she was confident. Then, she was scared. Now, it crept in at the edges, a menacing haunt. Then, it breathed over her shoulder, a present threat. Every time, it was a rebellion and submission. This time, she had Arin. Arin. Queenie stopped, fingers hovering above the keys as she glimpsed at him in her peripheral, fingertips falling lightly — soundlessly — on the keys before sliding off into her lap. The music continued to vibrate through her fingers, burrowing into bone, and she realized then that she’d missed it. For all it reminded her of, from the horrific place the talent was born, Queenie had missed one of the Government’s most favored instruments. One of Martin’s. Gerard’s. And that wasn’t the only thing she held onto from her past, a realization that had come the moment she’d met her father.       Still, she’d missed it, and a part of her wished they had one of their own; that she could mold its memory into something new, something of her own. Where she could welcome whatever joy it brought without being tainted by Benton torture. When she turned to face him again, he was dressed, and she caught her own reflection in the mirror to his right, driving her attention to the shape of his legs the second she met her own gaze, blues crawling their way back to his features, where she found him looking back at her, and she knew he’d been watching her the entire time. The outfit was so very un-Arin but, of course, he was still breath-taking, and no matter how uncharacteristic his attire, he was the sexiest thing she’d ever seen, a slow grin drawing her lips upward as she stood, meandering closer. 

     “Fabric seems flimsy,” she commented, looking at him in the mirror as she bent at her hips, leaning far to one side in a dramatic examination. Before straightening, she gave his ass a firm slap, her grin breaking into a large display, “Could take it in a bit more back there too.” Iona looked unamused and Queenie sure as fuck didn’t know the first thing about a proper fit; Queenie was being Queenie, and in turn, poking to chip away at the boredom of being in someone else’s company.       “Step up,” Iona ordered, ignoring Queenie’s jests, and Queenie shamelessly began unbuttoning her jeans, pointing her chin toward the dresses hanging against the far wall. As Arin stepped down, Queenie caught him by the waist, nipping playfully at his jaw.       “Red,” Queenie ordered right back, barely turning her head to acknowledge Iona before yanking her jeans down her legs and stepping out of them one at a time. Next, she shed her tank, dropping it into the pile of black fabric she’d abandoned next to the platform. This time, when she caught her reflection, her head tilted in appreciation, twisting her body to the side to admire her profile before stepping up.

     I wonder what your sister would think of the news. Bryce adroitly concealed her surprise, years of practice making it so that not as much as a twitch broke her expression or negated her relaxed body language. She didn’t think Gerard had ever mentioned Queenie in front of her before, and now seemed like an especially cruel time to do so, considering he’d all but cast Kingston’s little sister out. Not our child.      The whole thing made Bryce sick to think about, and she regretted — even though she’d had no personal involvement in it — how thoroughly both the Government and Queenie’s only living parent had let her down. The two institutions that were supposed to support her and keep her safe had abused and neglected her instead; it was no wonder she’d rebelled. Bryce knew there wasn’t a speck of truth to Gerard’s statement about the young woman’s excitement, so she ignored it, responding instead to what pertained to her. What was directed at her.

   “We’d love to meet with them,” she said, still smiling. Kingston had let go of her hand, or she would’ve squeezed it — so she hoped he felt her thoughts go to him instead, a warm touch to be carried out later. “And I am resting. Office work only.”

     Queenie, as always, was being used as a tool; a means to remind Kingston of his place. He was testing Bryce too, Kingston watching Gerard’s expression carefully, because he knew what glossing over the statement meant for his wife. She’d failed. She’d given away discomfort. And now Gerard knew that if there were any issues regarding Queenie and the secrecy surrounding her, Bryce would be a first hit. It was an announcement: I’ll have a hand in your child’s life whether you want it or not. How it all goes is up to you. His entire life, Kingston looked at his father with cold neutrality, and beneath that, a looming desire to make him proud, one that had fizzled away the older he got, becoming less about pride and more about obtaining a position he could thrive in after his father was gone. Even now, as his father discussed his child to be, Kingston was unreactive, offering a quirk of his lips in response to Gerard’s words. He didn’t need or want to hear Kingston’s opinion on any of it, let alone Queenie. He’d already read his son years ago and continued to every day. He could have it; it was nothing but water rolling off his back. Kingston had played this role his entire life. 

BRYCE EVANS-BENTON.

QUEENIE BENTON.

ARIN MELNIKOV.

     One foot through the door, and Arin was ready to leave. Getting fitted for a fucking tux was high on his list of shit he’d rather not be doing, though he hadn’t known it needed to be there until the tailor started circling him with a length of yellow measuring tape. First his shoulders — and had she fucking asked? Then, after a brief exchange with Queenie that heightened his vexation to a visible scowl — Yara, familiar, insight; cunt-ass fucking Toy Soldier — his arm, her slender fingers wrapping around his wrist to hold it away from his body like he was a fucking rag doll while her others pinned the end of the tape to the base of his neck.    “You fucking mind?” he snapped, yanking his hand back.      “Just a second.” Opening her arms, she closed in; Arin took a reflexive step back. “Hold still, please,” she said, reaching up to wrap the tape around his neck. Then, loosening it, around his upper torso, letting it drop right after to his waist. “Arms out.”      He lifted his arms out of the way and the tape constricted, let go, lifted to his chest, tightened again. Arin had his eyes fixed across the room, on nothing in particular, but he could see in his peripheral that the woman was biting her lip in concentration as she worked, a slight furrow between her brows. Finally the measuring tape snapped free, the tailor lowering the end toward the floor before he felt the poke of her fingers at his hip, a manicured nail folding the tape off before she raised it closer to her face to read the number, nodding to herself. So much for saving fucking measuring time. Arin absentmindedly rolled his shoulder, taking in the room more closely — habit — his attention landing on Queenie at the piano.

     In a flash, the tailor was back, carrying three jackets on hangers — the first of which she proffered with a flourish, raising her eyebrows.      “I’m assuming white is out of the question…?”      Arin stared blankly at her, not even sparing the jacket a glance.      “Right.” She presented the next, a vibrant crimson that she looked even more hopeful for than the white.    “I’m not trying to fucking catch eyes,” he barked impatiently, snatching the last jacket from her — black – when she held it out with a neutral, faintly pleasant expression on her narrow, angular face. One arm at a time, shifting his grip on the hanger, he shrugged out of his bomber jacket, dropping it on a low, padded stool within reach, then slipped the tux one on over his t-shirt.      “How does it feel?”

     Arin huffed out a sigh, “Like a fucking suit jacket.”      “How’s the fit?” The tailor tilted her head, fixing him with a look.    “Annoying.”      “Does it pinch anywhere? Too tight? Too loose?”      He widened his eyes at her, shaking his head in a minuscule motion that said he didn’t know and didn’t care to find out. The woman turned away, returning with a black pair of pants that she handed over, pointing him toward a changing room in the corner.      “Put these on and come stand in front of the mirrors. I’ll find out where we need to make alterations.”

     Doing as he was bid, he changed and came back to stand on the slightly elevated platform facing the full length mirrors by the far wall, his reflection staring back at him threefold while the tailor fussed at the fabric on his lower back with a set of pins. Biting back a vague threat regarding his skin and any accidental needle pricks, he forced himself to remain still, his gaze flicking to Q once more now he wouldn’t be interrupted. She met it, and one corner of his mouth quirked up, accompanied by another slow, barely-there shake of his head, a glimmer of amusement in his eye that promised retribution. Who’s first? He could still see her grin. Oh, definitely him.

     Arin’s annoyance was beyond evident and while Queenie didn’t revel in his discomfort, she’d have been lying if she didn’t admit she found it endearing, her grin softening as she watched their exchange with affectionate amusement. Though she couldn’t say she was exactly fond of witnessing some stranger handle Arin, lifting limbs and pinning the tape against him. She disappeared momentarily, Queenie’s gaze meeting Arin’s before it was interrupted by her reappearance and another exchange. With it, another powerful surge of fondness, her smirk taking on more snark when he put on the jacket. Annoying — and her attention was fixated on his features, absolute love nearly stealing all the oxygen from her lungs, blues dropping as he stripped down to put on the pants. 

      She almost turned to distract herself as restlessness began to settle in when Arin locked eyes with her again, and she recalled how she’d volunteered him first, knowing he was waiting for a chance to poke her back. Queenie met it with a wink, kissing the air in his direction before spinning on the polished bench to be met with familiar, ivory keys. Her fingertips danced across their surface as she did her best to ignore the darkness she felt seeping in at her corners, the instrument a clear reminder of her childhood, her family; the very reason there were here right now. For all the hatred she housed for those years, music had been a tiny spark of light, an escape when she needed one — when she was allowed one. She never uttered a single word about her preference, knowing as soon as they were aware it brought her any joy, they’d snatch it away. And as she thought about that, those years, those people, she mindlessly began playing, muscle memory spurring a slow melody. 

     The tension leading up to the charity event fell away under the tune, Queenie losing herself and her surroundings to the music, to the smooth keys beneath her touch, fingers deft and delicate as they skimmed over them. She couldn’t see Iona glimpsing at her with contained surprise before returning to the task at hand, didn’t look over to see Arin’s reaction, didn’t even allow herself to register the opinions of others — not that she ever did. A soft, barely audible hum rose up her throat as she continued, unaware of the sound she was making, unaware even of the fact that she used to do the exact same thing as a child, when she forced down the music, restraining her voice for fear it’s freedom would draw Martin’s attention. 

     We’re pregnant. A light thrill danced through her — accompanied by the girlish comfort that holding Kingston’s hand brought her. Squeezing it, feeling love fill her. The first time they’d told someone, and it was Gerard. It had to be. Joy and excitement mixed with apprehension, a cold, serpent-like wriggling in the pit of her stomach, promptly ignored so she didn’t tense when he put a hand on her shoulder. Bryce pictured telling her own parents, later, pictured her father in Gerard’s place and smiled, forcing herself to be warmed by the touch.

   “Six weeks.” Is it too soon? Should we have waited? At her age complications needed to be taken into account, and this early, they could still lose… No. She refused to even think it. They had Avalon’s best doctors at their disposal, and she’d been waiting for this baby her entire life. For Kingston… For a family. She wouldn’t allow anything to happen. More girlish thoughts; she could only control how she looked after herself… and how she handled Gerard. “You’re the first to know.” He’ll enjoy that.

     Kingston’s attention was glued to his father, acutely aware of his own steady breathing as he searched for telltale signs he expected from Gerard. Pride. Excitement — only not for them. Not for a child. For his own legacy, blues glimmering with possibility; the possibility to mold another in his image. He knew Bryce was aware of his father’s tendencies and could only guess the kind of storm brewing within her; fear when one knew their fate was in the hands of a monster. That, at the very least, he’d have a hand somewhere, guiding, forcing. Gerard wasn’t looking at Kingston, gazing at Bryce with joy, tinged by the venom that ran through Gerard’s veins. 

     “The first?” Briefly, his focus leapt to Kingston before returning to his daughter-in-law, “I am honored, my dear.” His eyes dropped to her stomach, “I’m sure at your age the doctor’s have advised you to rest? If they haven’t… then, well, I am.” He was practically beaming and Kingston couldn’t recall a single time in his life where he’d mustered that expression out of him. Queenie couldn’t say the same, the acid in his gut becoming sharper as it ate away at stomach lining, sizzling in its wake.       Kingston didn’t answer, knowing full well whatever he offered wouldn’t be good enough when it wasn’t coming from Bryce herself; the person carrying the child. And he hated the way he was staring at her, hated that she was forced to endure it because of his blood. Because he hadn’t done… something. With the bitter acidity, there was violence to add more heat, to transform his innards into a wasteland of animosity and concern, consuming all healthy, pink tissue until it was just red and raw. It’d pass. Kingston knew that much. It’d pass and he’d be met with the decision he’d been chewing on ever since he’d found out Bryce was pregnant. He’d do whatever was necessary to keep his family safe. 

     “I wonder what your sister would think of the news,” Gerard added, and Kingston was looking at his plate, but he didn’t need to face his father to feel him staring. It wasn’t an actual question. It was a warning. If she finds out… after all you’ve done… what do you think she’ll do? What will you do? His jaw tightened, imperceptibly, a tiny twitch along the bone before he carved a bite of chicken off the cut in front of him, taking it between his teeth to replace any answer.

BRYCE EVANS-BENTON.

QUEENIE BENTON.

ARIN MELNIKOV.

     Queenie was lying on the couch with her head in his lap reading a book when his phone rang, vibrating tunelessly on the cushion next to him. Though he had no plans to pick it up, Arin glanced down at it — and was given pause for a heartbeat when he spotted the initials on the screen: MH. His fingers abandoned their languorous journey through her lilac hair to pick the device up, thumb swiping to answer.    “Yeah?”      “Arin.” The agent’s voice was hushed, a quiet but clear murmur. “Are you with Queenie?”    “Why?”      “I have news for both of you.”      Exhaling soundlessly, he turned the speaker on and placed his phone flat on Q’s chest, his hand returning to her hair.    “Talk.”      “At the end of the week, there’s going to be a charity masquerade gala at Palace Hall. Downtown, seven-thirty on Saturday. Queenie, your brother and his wife will attend.”

     Arin’s fingers stilled and his gaze shifted, meeting Queenie’s with a meaningful look that said more than he could’ve conveyed with words in a fraction of a second. Matt went on.      “I’m sending you an invitation with which you’ll be flagged as investors from a weapons and technology manufacturing company out west called Militech, along with what I could find of the building’s layout. Use it or don’t, I don’t need to know — but whatever you decide, be very, very discreet. You’ll be surrounded.”      There was a short pause; nothing on the other end of the line.    “Alright.” Arin picked his phone up and ended the call, then watched the screen as the files the agent had mentioned ticked in with a short buzz each, one after the other.

      Queenie had been perfectly satisfied until Matt’s call, eyes drifting closed between paragraphs as Arin’s fingers combed through her hair — then a vibration, and they were gone, his voice replacing the touch. She lowered the book face down on her stomach, features tightening as Arin placed the phone on her chest and Matt spoke. Blues rose to meet Arin’s as the agent continued, dormant anger regarding her family encompassing her heart, scorching it. Then the conversation was over and Queenie was sitting up, frowning as she closed the book and tossed it onto the low table in front of the couch. She leaned forward as she propped her elbows on her knees, running her hands over her face before she sat there, stilled, seconds passing before she dropped her hands to retrieve her own phone. Finding Yara’s number in her contacts, she stood, pacing into the kitchen as the other line rung.       She lit a cigarette, supporting her lower back against the kitchen counter as she spoke to Yara, wisps of smoke trailing out between syllables, and the conversation wasn’t long, with Queenie putting her phone screen down on the surface next to her before hopping up to sit on it, bare legs dangling over the edge as she finished her smoke. The rest of the night fell into normalcy, despite the quiver of anticipation, of knowing she’d have the opportunity — maybe — to punish her brother for being the fucked up prick he was. They ate, Queenie gathered more information about the place they could go to find proper attire, and ended the night the way they almost always did: tangled up in each other, littering kisses along the other’s skin, marked by lips curved in contentment and light bursts of laughter.

     Thursday came and they were driving to the store — after hours — parking behind the boutique before they were lead in the back door by a dark-haired woman, locks tightly gathered in a bun atop her head, and wearing a sleek, tight-fitting, navy dress that was, in Queenie’s not-so-humble opinion, boring as fuck. She looked just like the type of people who would be at the event later, perfectly manicured and the picture of upper-class. Heels clicked against the polished, dark wood flooring as they followed her deeper inside, the main room of the shop darkened, racks of clothing lining the walls. They turned before reaching it, entering a larger, back area with three long mirrors where a platform was raised in front. Warm lighting illuminated the space, tape measures hanging from hooks beside the mirror, along with a few scraps of material, and a pair of finished jackets positioned neatly on hangers on the opposite wall. The other side housed a shiny, black, grand piano, lid propped open to reveal a golden interior surrounding taut strings; the ones inside herself pulling to match, drawing her in while making her sick.

     “I’m Iona,” she turned to them, folding her hands in front of her as she looked between them, “Who’s first?”

     Amusement glimmered in Queenie’s eyes as she looked at Arin, lips stretching into a broad grin. “Oh, definitely him,” she nodded, retreating mindlessly toward the piano to sit on one corner of its bench, draping one leg over the other. “He’s probably a forty-one, if ya know, ya wanna maybe just grab some shit, see if it fits, save us the measuring time,” she mentioned as Iona adorned her shoulders with measuring tape, throwing Queenie a mirthless glance, to which she responded with a large, forced smile she was tempted to punctuate with a middle finger, but decided she didn’t want to make the experience any more painful than it already was.       “You’re probably right,” Iona responded as she stepped behind Arin, lining the measuring tape along the back of his shoulders, “I already picked out a few pieces. Your pictures aren’t hard to find.” One more glance at Queenie before she continued, “Well, his aren’t. Yara seemed familiar enough with you to give me some insight there. If you want to see your options, they’re hanging over there—” she gestured loosely to the wall behind Queenie, “—you can see what fits your style.”       She peered behind her, noticing a red option, a blue, and a white, the latter she already decided absolutely fucking not, because she never wore white, hated the fucking purity people corresponded with it, and hated the dresses she had to wear when she was younger, at Martin’s behest, white and pretty and the ideal image of an immaculate Government family. “Fuck white.” Iona’s features clenched at the curse, unnoticed by Queenie as she continued, “So might as well knock that shit off the option board.”

     The dinner table was quiet. Gerard had excused himself for something or other — a phone call, a bathroom trip, Bryce didn’t know — and she was too preoccupied to piece together the moments leading up to his departure as she finally let her mind wander, now he was out of sight. The news they were there to share with him were happy news, but the thought of actually speaking the words — of hearing Kingston speak them — woke a fierce sense of protectiveness in her. Picturing the look on Gerard’s face, what he might say, made her stomach turn, and she could picture, for the hundredth time, a bleak and rigid upbringing that she had little to no control over. Psychological and physical abuse.

     As much as she loved Kingston, there was no denying that his childhood had left its marks; that his father still had a certain power over him — and Queenie had been treated worse. What if I have a girl?      Gerard had power over Bryce, too; even hadn’t he been her father in law, he outranked her, and she owed him deference if she wanted to remain in good standing at her job. She didn’t want their child growing up in his overbearing shadow, but as things stood, they didn’t have a choice. Could they counteract it? Could they loosen the knots on the strings he’d tie around their baby’s limbs, or would they be forced to watch the dance?

     A gentle brush of a touch near her knee drew her attention, and Bryce looked up, snapping out of her abstraction to offer Kingston a soft, apologetic smile. Just in time, too — she heard footsteps approaching, gathering herself fully until there was nothing left in her manner but relaxed pleasantness as Gerard reappeared.

     Some part of Kingston always knew this day would come: he’d have a child and that child would be at the mercy of his father, just as he had. He’d resolved early on to do anything in his power to keep that from happening, knowing that if he didn’t find a wife of his own, it’d be arranged, as it had with Bryce. He’d lucked out, learning that love could actually exist for him, in its purest form, unadulterated by his family’s demons. Sometimes, he thought of Queenie and Arin, how despite her upbringing, it seemed his sister had also found it. The very thing they’d been taught was a weakness, would kill them, would unravel all their finely tuned training that made them the perfect weapons they were. One would think the Benton company produced artillery with how they treated their children as if they were unfinished products to be polished, and in a way, it wasn’t far off. The weapons they produced were simply for the mind, to tear it apart slowly and painfully until they achieved the desired result.       He knew Bryce felt it too, and once she’d found out about Queenie’s childhood, Kingston knew it’d weigh heavier, brows knitting together as he noticed her distraction, a finger brushing gently along her thigh in an attempt to give her some comfort. He returned her smile, gaze pulled away as his father reentered the dining room. Kingston’s smile fell out of habit, because Gerard only enjoyed his own smiles, expression falling stoic as his father reclaimed his seat at the table.