#assassain reader

The homestead was quiet when you and Connor returned. Too quiet, almost. After the clash of musket fire, the shouting of redcoats, and the stink of gunpowder clinging to your hair, the stillness was almost suffocating.

You pushed the door closed behind you, sagging against it for a moment as your braids slipped over your shoulders, feathers brushing against the front of your chest. The faint chime of your jewelry followed the movement—silver cuffs at your wrists, the layered necklaces at your throat. Your cropped top and skirt were spattered with grime, streaks of mud marking the fabric in places where you had dropped to the earth for cover.

Connor had already stripped off his weapons, setting the tomahawk and bow against the wall by the hearth. He stood near the fire now, shoulders tense beneath the layers of his tunic. The orange glow limned the strong cut of his jaw, the furrow in his brow, the heaviness that always seemed to hang from his frame after battle.

“You are hurt,” he said without turning, his voice low but edged with command.

“No,” you answered, though your tone was softer than you meant it to be. “Not badly.”

His head tilted toward you, and in the firelight you saw his eyes sweep over your figure. The scrutiny was sharp, yet not unkind—searching for wounds you might be hiding. You lifted your arms slightly, letting the fringe of your sleeves shift as if to prove yourself unscathed.

“Sit,” he said after a moment, gesturing toward the table. “I will look.”

You raised a brow, a teasing smile tugging at your lips. “You’ll look? You sound more like Achilles every day.”

He turned fully at that, his expression as serious as ever—but the faintest twitch of his mouth betrayed him. “Sit,” he repeated, though his voice carried less command this time, more… concern.

With a quiet laugh, you obeyed, perching on the edge of the table. The wood was cool beneath your thighs, your skirt brushing against your boots. Connor fetched a small bowl of water and a cloth, and when he returned, he stood close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from him.

He dipped the cloth into the water, wrung it out, and pressed it lightly against a scrape along your arm. The touch was gentle, careful in a way that seemed at odds with the man who had cleaved through soldiers only hours before.

“You could have been killed,” he murmured, his gaze fixed on your arm.

“So could you,” you countered softly. “But here we are.”

His hand stilled for a fraction of a second before resuming its work. He said nothing more, but his silence was heavier than words.

You watched him, the way his dark hair fell loose around his face, the set of his mouth as though he carried every burden in the colonies on his shoulders. You wanted to say something—something light to break through the weight between you—but the words caught in your throat.

Later, when the wounds had been cleaned and the hearth’s warmth had softened the night’s chill, you found yourselves outside again. The moon was high, painting the homestead silver.

Connor handed you a wooden staff, its length smooth beneath your palms. “You need to train,” he said simply.

You arched a brow. “After what we just did? You think I need more?”

His gaze held yours, steady, unwavering. “You are skilled,” he admitted. “But there is always more to learn.”

Something in his tone—equal parts respect and challenge—made you smirk. You twirled the staff once, feathers shifting in your braids. “Very well. Show me.”

The sparring began slow, the thud of wood against wood echoing through the quiet night. You moved lightly, skirts swaying with each step, jewelry chiming faintly as you spun and blocked. Connor was precise, each strike measured, each parry controlled.

But as the minutes stretched on, the rhythm shifted. Your strikes grew sharper, your movements quicker. He matched you blow for blow, the clash of wood sparking something almost electric in the air.

When he swept low, you leapt back, laughter spilling from your lips. “You’re holding back.”

“I am not,” he said, though his tone betrayed the faintest hint of amusement.

“Yes, you are.” You lunged, the end of your staff grazing his shoulder. “You think I’ll break.”

He caught your next strike easily, the strength in his arms halting your momentum. For a moment, you were locked together, staff pressed between you, faces inches apart. His breath brushed against your cheek, warm against the night air.

“I do not think you will break,” he said quietly, his eyes locking onto yours. “I fear what will happen if you do not stop.”

Your chest tightened, your heartbeat thundering louder than the clash of staffs. For a moment, neither of you moved. Then, with a sharp twist, he disarmed you, the staff clattering to the ground.

But he didn’t step back.

Instead, he stood there, chest heaving, eyes dark and unreadable. The silence stretched, heavy with something you couldn’t name.

Later still, the two of you sat by the fire inside, the silence softer now, less strained. Connor sat across from you, his hands resting on his knees, his eyes occasionally flicking to the flames, then back to you.

“You fight well,” he said finally, voice low.

You smiled faintly, tilting your head. “You sound almost surprised.”

“I am not surprised,” he corrected. “Only… reminded.”

“Reminded of what?” you asked, leaning forward.

His lips parted, as if he might actually answer—but the sharp rap of a knock at the door cut through the moment like a blade.

Connor was on his feet instantly, hand going to his tomahawk. You rose as well, your braids swaying as you crossed the room. When he opened the door, a scout stumbled in, face pale, breath ragged.

“British patrol,” the man gasped. “They found the bodies at the outpost. They’re moving this way. Dozens of them.”

The words dropped into the room like stones into water. The warmth of the fire, the almost-confession still hanging in the air—all of it shattered beneath the weight of the news.

Connor’s jaw tightened, eyes flicking to you for the briefest of moments. And in that single look, you saw everything: the tension of what had almost been said, the danger pressing down on you both, and the silent promise that whatever had just sparked between you would have to wait.

✨ End of Chapter Five ✨