Goodbye, Kate, page 25
“Ready?” I raise my voice and clap her back.
She moves into position with the target in her sights. “Grip. Stance. Ready. Aim.” She’s speaking to herself more than me. Nodding, she adds, “Ready.”
Taking several deep breaths, she closes her left eye and acquires her target.
Don’t anticipate the shot.
Concentrate on your aim.
You’ve got this.
The moment she fires is a thing of beauty. I don’t think I’ve ever been more attracted to her than I am in this moment. Inappropriately, my cock swells in my pants as I stare at her with pure admiration. She’s in complete control. Her posture doesn’t falter. Then, the second she lowers her weapon, the smile that dances onto her full lips illuminates not just her face, but the entire fucking atmosphere.
“I did it!” Ripping the ear defenders from her head, she turns to me. Her voice is filled with a mixture of shock and pride. She points to the target, noting the hole in the shoulder of the outlined body. “I mean, I was aiming for his chest, but that would take a motherfucker down, right?”
There’s my tough girl.
My own lips mirror her proud, infectious smile. “Yes,” I agree.
“Can I do it again?”
With a single nod, I take a step back. “Let’s see if we can hit that chest.”
Late afternoon, Walter brings us some fresh groceries. I sense the disappointment in Sophia, but it’s too risky to leave the house unless absolutely necessary. After thanking him, we say our goodbyes and I begin preparing dinner. There’s a storm coming, hopefully terminating the long stretch of unseasonably hot weather, the hottest French summer in forty years according to Walter, and I want us to eat now in case the electric cuts out.
Every nerve in my body is aware of Sophia’s presence as I start grating the rind of the lemon in my hand. She’s leaning casually against the large table, her arms folded across her chest. I’m not looking at her face, but I can feel her curiosity.
“Do you need help?” The words appear helpful, but her tone reads more like, ‘You must need help.’
“I’m good, thank you.”
She holds her tongue while I whisk the lemon rind with some flour and seasoning. It doesn’t last long, though. “What are you making?”
“Lemon pepper chicken and potatoes.” My answer is unintentionally clipped. I’m not annoyed, simply concentrating.
I wonder how long she’s going to hold out before she expresses her surprise. I know exactly what she’s thinking. I always do. Turns out, I don’t have to wait too long. “Okay, since when do you know how to cook?”
“Since always.” I shrug, for no other reason than I know it will frustrate her. I didn’t realise I could be such a teasing bastard until this moment.
“I’ve known you for a long time. Well, a version of you, and you never cooked. Nothing more complicated than scrambled eggs and tins of soup anyway.”
“Just because I didn’t doesn’t mean I couldn’t.”
The huff she expels makes me think I should feel guilty for antagonising her, but I don’t. She’s adorable when she gets angry at the most trivial things. “Oh, so you just let me do all the cooking because you were a lazy, selfish shit? After I’d been working my arse off around food all day?”
Despite knowing it will cause her to underline my name in her bad books, I can’t prevent the chuckle that scratches at my throat.
“Glad someone finds it funny.” She turns away from me, slamming her palms onto the wooden table, even though I wasn’t looking at her anyway.
Stepping away from the seasoning bowl, I approach her. “I find it funny that we are hiding out from high profile criminals who want to kill us and, yet, you still find the time to argue with me over whose turn it is to make dinner.” Moulding my body to hers, I snake my arm around her waist and dip my hand into her shorts, tracing the edge of her knickers.
Her back arches, pushing her small round arse into my groin, and she moans as I slip one finger into her silky soft pussy. I don’t think she can even help it. Her body betrays the anger she wants to feel. I own this pussy, and the bud of pleasure which is throbbing beneath my thumb. I own her...and she knows it.
“Who knew there was something so domesticated about being assassins on the run?” I tease, whispering right into her ear. Whether it’s my voice, or my finger sliding in and out of her slick tight cove, I’m not sure, but her hips start to thrust, riding my hand. She’s so wet, so hot…
I planned to tease her a little and return to our dinner, but my dick has swollen to uncomfortable proportions. It’s hard against my jeans, fighting to get to her, feel her close around it and work it for everything I’ve got.
“Fuck, Sophia…” I can’t take anymore. Ripping my fingers free from her pussy, I suck them straight into my mouth and almost collapse from the sweet taste of her. She’s too much. She’s cute. Petty. Delicious. Fiery. Caring. Vengeful. She’s every emotion I’ve ever tried to bury all rolled into one, and I’m going to fuck each one of them right back into her.
Tugging on her shorts, I push them down her legs, just far enough to get what I need. She squeals with both shock and anticipation as I bend her over the table and spring my aching cock free from my pants, nudging desperately at her dripping entrance. “Hold on, Sophia. I’m going to fuck you so fucking hard.”
And I do. Dear God, I do.
The storm begins rolling closer about an hour after our unexpectedly, yet pleasantly, delayed dinner. The sky has darkened, mimicking evening, and the first crack of thunder sounds in the distance. I’ve been alone for the last half hour, but Sophia finds me sitting out on the porch by the back door.
Turning my head to the sound of her footsteps, I see she’s draped a blanket over her shoulders. “What are you doing out here?” She comes to sit next to me on the rickety bench, the rusty bolts protesting with a squeak under her weight. “The rain will hit soon.”
She’s not wrong. As if they heard her, the dark grey clouds open above us. As water showers the land, the temperature drops, arousing the hairs on my arms. The downpour is fast and heavy, pounding the porch roof above our heads before the wind carries it in the opposite direction, keeping us dry. It quickly floods the ground, filling the air with the scent of fresh soil and wet grass. The earth changes colour, the wood of the trees, the leaves of the plants. Everything becomes darker, richer, glossier. It’s beautiful, really.
Another roar of thunder bellows, making Sophia flinch, followed a couple of seconds later by a glorious sheet of lightning that illuminates the sky.
“We, uh, really should go inside,” Sophia suggests.
Focused on the sky, I reach over and take her hand. “Don’t be afraid, Sophia. Storms are necessary, and quite captivating.”
“Tell that to the last guy who got struck by lightning,” she counters, argumentative as ever.
Her attitude never fails to amuse me. “You’re quite safe here. I wouldn’t put you in danger.” I want to punch myself in my own face as soon as I’ve said it. All the danger she’s ever faced has been because I have put her there. “There’s something…therapeutic, almost, about a good storm,” I continue. “It’s like it’s cleansing the world in preparation for a new day, a fresh fight. And it’s so powerful. I have no control over it. Nobody does. Some things are not ours to change. That’s a refreshing reminder, even for those of us with no soul.”
“You do have a soul,” she answers without a whip of hesitation.
I don’t reply because I don’t agree.
“Ignore me all you want,” she continues regardless. “I’ve seen it. I wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t. I’d have kept running, or trying to,” she adds with a hint of sarcasm. “Your soul is deep, Lincoln. Too deep and tempestuous to be explored by those only willing to paddle in the shallow end. But me? I dived in head first, and I would drown in there before I’d let you go.”
Honestly? I don’t know whether to laugh, restrain her, or fuck her until she can’t breathe. “I think you may be legitimately crazy,” I opt for in the end. “You know that, right?”
With a meek smile, she shrugs. “Possibly.” Finally, something we agree on. “Clearly, we are the human version of French angelfish. The sooner we accept that, the sooner all this pushing and pulling will stop.”
Suddenly, she’s stolen all my attention, the storm becoming nothing more than background noise. “Am I supposed to know what that means?” My ears have been hammered for hours in the past with her fish talk, but truthfully that’s exactly what it was – a hammering sound. Fish belong on a plate smothered in dressing or batter.
“French angelfish are one of the few monogamous sea creatures. They mate for life, working together to defend each other and their territory. That’s us. We’re French angelfish. And in France, too. Perfect.” She sounds pleased with her analogy. It’s difficult not to become infected by her cheerfulness.
A contented smile tugs at my lips. “So, angel, it’s you and me against the world, huh?”
Sophia’s lips melt into a firm, contemplative line. I don’t like that look. She’s considering something she knows I won’t agree with. “What if…well…”
“Spit it out, Sophia.” I don’t mean to sound so acerbic. Patience isn’t my strongest quality.
“What if we didn’t have to be against the world?” she says before sucking her bottom lip between her teeth.
Not again. “We’ve discussed this. They’ll never stop looking for us.”
Raising her hands, she cuts me off. “No, I know that. I do. I’m not suggesting we hide out here and ignore the world forever. I realise that isn’t an option. But…we could choose not to walk into a bloodbath. Stop all the murder and revenge. Come to, I don’t know, an agreement.”
Bless her naivety. I thought she’d overcome that side of her. “These aren’t the kind of men to make agreements with over a cup of tea. They’re out for blood. Our blood.”
“My dad isn’t…not mine anyway.”
“Sophia…” Her name seeps out amidst a strained breath.
“I’m not defending him,” she’s quick to cut in. “But he won’t hurt me. I’m still his daughter. And it wasn’t him who asked you to kill me.”
“What are you saying? You want us to play happy families?” She can’t be serious!
“No. I’m saying I could still use my father to get whatever you need to get you off the hook with Arthur. Then we can come back here, safe in the knowledge no one is looking for us. Leave them to it. Let them destroy each other. Like you said, if they’re not running crime on Europe’s streets someone else will only take their place. So…let them.” She ends her master plan with an assured shrug.
But…that’s not the point. This isn’t just about protecting her. It’s about Marcus. Harold Fletcher needs to pay for what he did. He needs to suffer.
He needs to die.
“I know what I’m asking you to do,” she adds, her voice a mere whisper in the rain as she lowers her head. “I haven’t forgotten what my dad took from you.”
Shifting in my seat, I look at her properly, my body facing hers. I regret it immediately. Seeing the conflict contort her perfect face, the pain mist her eyes…it’s softening a part of me I need to keep strong. I can’t waver on this. I can’t. For Marcus…
“I don’t forgive him, and neither should you,” she tries to explain. “I detest him for the things he’s done. I want nothing to do with him.” She grabs at my hands, squeezing all her anguish into them as she pleads with me. “You have to believe that.”
“I do,” I say because it’s true.
“But…I can’t plan his death or sit by while someone else does. I know it’s fucked up, but…he’s my dad. I-I can’t explain it. You could leave me somewhere for him to find. I’ll tell him how you betrayed me, that you took me as revenge. Then you can go to Arthur and plead your case. Tell him you can get anything he needs. I’ll get into my dad’s office. Get his laptop, files, money, anything Arthur wants.”
“Sophia…please,” I beg, though I’m not entirely sure what I’m begging for. I need her to stop before she breaks me. I can feel myself growing weaker with every word she speaks. Could I really do this? Betray Marcus. Let the bastard who ended his young life get away without a fucking scratch. Could I?
For Sophia…possibly.
Shit.
“Or Rosemary! You said she’s different, that she has a soft spot for you. You could talk to her. Once she agrees to take whatever you have from my dad and stop coming for us, I will convince my dad to let me go. And he will. I’m sure of it. We could come back here. This…” She drops my hands and motions out towards the stormy garden. “This could be it. Life. Like this, always. No more revenge. No more justice. Just…us.”
I’m going to agree, I know I am. I feel the words churning in my gut. I simply haven’t found the courage to speak them yet.
“I could get a little job. Maybe Walter knows somewhere. You could—”
“Enough.” My tone is grave as I raise my hand. “We need to discuss this further…but…” Swallowing everything I’ve ever believed in, everything I’ve ever fought for, I close my eyes while I say the words that betray the memory of the boy I considered a brother. “I’ll do it.”
She may be right about her father. Perhaps he does have the capability to love her somewhere in his fucked-up heart, making us more similar than I care to admit. Cowan, however, I remain sceptical about. I would never intentionally drag Sophia into a bloodbath, as she put it, but I am prepared to face one of my own despite her new plan. I am not forged from Cowan’s blood. He has no love for me. There are no frayed ties I can hope to repair. I am, and always have been, disposable. To spare me, or Sophia, would show weakness. The same weakness I have recently been cursed with.
If there are any deals to be made with the Cowan family I shall make them with Toff. The only negotiating I am willing to do with Arthur is over his preferred burial spot…right before I stick a bullet in his brain.
“Thank you.” Sophia lunges forwards, throwing her arms around my body.
Stroking her hair, I hold her head close to my chest, refusing to feel guilt for misleading her. I’m sticking to her plan, mostly. She doesn’t need to concern herself with the details surrounding Cowan. It would cause unnecessary worry and she needs her head in the game if she’s going to play Harold Fletcher. He may be her father, but he’s a smart man. If he didn’t demolish the lives of innocent people, I could possibly admire his brilliance. She needs to gain his trust and in order to do that she needs a clear mind. Cowan is my problem and I will deal with him in the appropriate manner. If I can’t get justice for Marcus’ death, I can and I will avenge the man trying to take Sophia from me, too.
I take only a day to finalise our plans, leaving France less than forty-eight hours after Sophia’s insane request. Insane as it is, I’m still going along with it. I inform Toff of our imminent return but keep the details close to my chest. As I said, knowledge is power, and I need to be the only person in control of how this goes down. The call ends with Toff warning me about a guy associated with Cowan, a freelancer who’s been known to work for him occasionally, potentially being spotted at the airport I was planning to travel from. It’s only a rumour, but rumours are enough to force a change of plan. Therefore, Sophia and I set off to Calais instead, heading for the ferry.
Rerouting isn’t necessarily a delay. Nobody is expecting us therefore we have nothing to be late for. If anything, it graces Sophia with a little extra time to mentally prepare. I’m not sure she fully understands how difficult facing her father again will be. The last time she saw him he was nothing but a loving dad. A role model. Now, she will recognise him for the vile man he is. I can only hope she doesn’t see past that, find something worth salvaging…like she did with me.
And then it hits me. My audacity. Being unable to bring Harold Fletcher to justice for hurting an innocent boy cuts through to my rotten core. But…we are the same, me and Harold. I preyed on Sophia, an innocent woman, and I did so willingly. Lines and rules have become so blurred I don’t even truly know the reason why I agreed now. Loyalty. Money. It’s all faded into insignificance without me even noticing. I’m always quick to tell Sophia to focus on the end goal, but what was my end goal? What did I ever hope to achieve? I never wanted to be Arthur Cowan, run his empire, like Toff. Survival. That was my goal. It seems so pointless now. On reflection, I had nothing to survive for.
Where is Sophia’s justice? She just…relinquished it. For me - the man who hurt and betrayed her. That’s who she is, and the more time I spend with her in open honesty, the more I want to be like her. The more I think I can be like her. A little, at least. I don’t have much room in my heart, especially not for her fucking father, but there is room for her. Only her. If she can abandon her thirst for punishment against me, I can abandon mine.
When that thought crosses my mind, I begin to feel vulnerable for the first time in my life. Even as a young child I didn’t feel vulnerable. Violence and anger didn’t scare me. I expected it. They were simply…life. I would describe myself as a numb child, unfeeling…never vulnerable.
But Sophia makes me weak. My life is no longer my priority. Hers is. The fact I am of sound mind and permitting her father to live is proof that I would do anything for this woman. I would lay down my life for her between heartbeats. I would, I am, going against my own intuition and trusting hers. She’s changed me, twisted my principles, my ideas and perspectives. She makes me wonder if there’s such a thing as good and bad people, or if we’re all just people who choose to do good or bad things. Maybe I could be good, like her. Maybe I simply have to choose, each day, whether my actions are for the right reasons.
She’s given me emotions I’m not sure I’ll ever know how to process, and she’s done it by simply existing. It shouldn’t be possible. Breaking someone requires thorough plotting and manipulation, yet she doesn’t have a scheming bone in her body. Though, I’m certain she’d like to disagree.
She moves into position with the target in her sights. “Grip. Stance. Ready. Aim.” She’s speaking to herself more than me. Nodding, she adds, “Ready.”
Taking several deep breaths, she closes her left eye and acquires her target.
Don’t anticipate the shot.
Concentrate on your aim.
You’ve got this.
The moment she fires is a thing of beauty. I don’t think I’ve ever been more attracted to her than I am in this moment. Inappropriately, my cock swells in my pants as I stare at her with pure admiration. She’s in complete control. Her posture doesn’t falter. Then, the second she lowers her weapon, the smile that dances onto her full lips illuminates not just her face, but the entire fucking atmosphere.
“I did it!” Ripping the ear defenders from her head, she turns to me. Her voice is filled with a mixture of shock and pride. She points to the target, noting the hole in the shoulder of the outlined body. “I mean, I was aiming for his chest, but that would take a motherfucker down, right?”
There’s my tough girl.
My own lips mirror her proud, infectious smile. “Yes,” I agree.
“Can I do it again?”
With a single nod, I take a step back. “Let’s see if we can hit that chest.”
Late afternoon, Walter brings us some fresh groceries. I sense the disappointment in Sophia, but it’s too risky to leave the house unless absolutely necessary. After thanking him, we say our goodbyes and I begin preparing dinner. There’s a storm coming, hopefully terminating the long stretch of unseasonably hot weather, the hottest French summer in forty years according to Walter, and I want us to eat now in case the electric cuts out.
Every nerve in my body is aware of Sophia’s presence as I start grating the rind of the lemon in my hand. She’s leaning casually against the large table, her arms folded across her chest. I’m not looking at her face, but I can feel her curiosity.
“Do you need help?” The words appear helpful, but her tone reads more like, ‘You must need help.’
“I’m good, thank you.”
She holds her tongue while I whisk the lemon rind with some flour and seasoning. It doesn’t last long, though. “What are you making?”
“Lemon pepper chicken and potatoes.” My answer is unintentionally clipped. I’m not annoyed, simply concentrating.
I wonder how long she’s going to hold out before she expresses her surprise. I know exactly what she’s thinking. I always do. Turns out, I don’t have to wait too long. “Okay, since when do you know how to cook?”
“Since always.” I shrug, for no other reason than I know it will frustrate her. I didn’t realise I could be such a teasing bastard until this moment.
“I’ve known you for a long time. Well, a version of you, and you never cooked. Nothing more complicated than scrambled eggs and tins of soup anyway.”
“Just because I didn’t doesn’t mean I couldn’t.”
The huff she expels makes me think I should feel guilty for antagonising her, but I don’t. She’s adorable when she gets angry at the most trivial things. “Oh, so you just let me do all the cooking because you were a lazy, selfish shit? After I’d been working my arse off around food all day?”
Despite knowing it will cause her to underline my name in her bad books, I can’t prevent the chuckle that scratches at my throat.
“Glad someone finds it funny.” She turns away from me, slamming her palms onto the wooden table, even though I wasn’t looking at her anyway.
Stepping away from the seasoning bowl, I approach her. “I find it funny that we are hiding out from high profile criminals who want to kill us and, yet, you still find the time to argue with me over whose turn it is to make dinner.” Moulding my body to hers, I snake my arm around her waist and dip my hand into her shorts, tracing the edge of her knickers.
Her back arches, pushing her small round arse into my groin, and she moans as I slip one finger into her silky soft pussy. I don’t think she can even help it. Her body betrays the anger she wants to feel. I own this pussy, and the bud of pleasure which is throbbing beneath my thumb. I own her...and she knows it.
“Who knew there was something so domesticated about being assassins on the run?” I tease, whispering right into her ear. Whether it’s my voice, or my finger sliding in and out of her slick tight cove, I’m not sure, but her hips start to thrust, riding my hand. She’s so wet, so hot…
I planned to tease her a little and return to our dinner, but my dick has swollen to uncomfortable proportions. It’s hard against my jeans, fighting to get to her, feel her close around it and work it for everything I’ve got.
“Fuck, Sophia…” I can’t take anymore. Ripping my fingers free from her pussy, I suck them straight into my mouth and almost collapse from the sweet taste of her. She’s too much. She’s cute. Petty. Delicious. Fiery. Caring. Vengeful. She’s every emotion I’ve ever tried to bury all rolled into one, and I’m going to fuck each one of them right back into her.
Tugging on her shorts, I push them down her legs, just far enough to get what I need. She squeals with both shock and anticipation as I bend her over the table and spring my aching cock free from my pants, nudging desperately at her dripping entrance. “Hold on, Sophia. I’m going to fuck you so fucking hard.”
And I do. Dear God, I do.
The storm begins rolling closer about an hour after our unexpectedly, yet pleasantly, delayed dinner. The sky has darkened, mimicking evening, and the first crack of thunder sounds in the distance. I’ve been alone for the last half hour, but Sophia finds me sitting out on the porch by the back door.
Turning my head to the sound of her footsteps, I see she’s draped a blanket over her shoulders. “What are you doing out here?” She comes to sit next to me on the rickety bench, the rusty bolts protesting with a squeak under her weight. “The rain will hit soon.”
She’s not wrong. As if they heard her, the dark grey clouds open above us. As water showers the land, the temperature drops, arousing the hairs on my arms. The downpour is fast and heavy, pounding the porch roof above our heads before the wind carries it in the opposite direction, keeping us dry. It quickly floods the ground, filling the air with the scent of fresh soil and wet grass. The earth changes colour, the wood of the trees, the leaves of the plants. Everything becomes darker, richer, glossier. It’s beautiful, really.
Another roar of thunder bellows, making Sophia flinch, followed a couple of seconds later by a glorious sheet of lightning that illuminates the sky.
“We, uh, really should go inside,” Sophia suggests.
Focused on the sky, I reach over and take her hand. “Don’t be afraid, Sophia. Storms are necessary, and quite captivating.”
“Tell that to the last guy who got struck by lightning,” she counters, argumentative as ever.
Her attitude never fails to amuse me. “You’re quite safe here. I wouldn’t put you in danger.” I want to punch myself in my own face as soon as I’ve said it. All the danger she’s ever faced has been because I have put her there. “There’s something…therapeutic, almost, about a good storm,” I continue. “It’s like it’s cleansing the world in preparation for a new day, a fresh fight. And it’s so powerful. I have no control over it. Nobody does. Some things are not ours to change. That’s a refreshing reminder, even for those of us with no soul.”
“You do have a soul,” she answers without a whip of hesitation.
I don’t reply because I don’t agree.
“Ignore me all you want,” she continues regardless. “I’ve seen it. I wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t. I’d have kept running, or trying to,” she adds with a hint of sarcasm. “Your soul is deep, Lincoln. Too deep and tempestuous to be explored by those only willing to paddle in the shallow end. But me? I dived in head first, and I would drown in there before I’d let you go.”
Honestly? I don’t know whether to laugh, restrain her, or fuck her until she can’t breathe. “I think you may be legitimately crazy,” I opt for in the end. “You know that, right?”
With a meek smile, she shrugs. “Possibly.” Finally, something we agree on. “Clearly, we are the human version of French angelfish. The sooner we accept that, the sooner all this pushing and pulling will stop.”
Suddenly, she’s stolen all my attention, the storm becoming nothing more than background noise. “Am I supposed to know what that means?” My ears have been hammered for hours in the past with her fish talk, but truthfully that’s exactly what it was – a hammering sound. Fish belong on a plate smothered in dressing or batter.
“French angelfish are one of the few monogamous sea creatures. They mate for life, working together to defend each other and their territory. That’s us. We’re French angelfish. And in France, too. Perfect.” She sounds pleased with her analogy. It’s difficult not to become infected by her cheerfulness.
A contented smile tugs at my lips. “So, angel, it’s you and me against the world, huh?”
Sophia’s lips melt into a firm, contemplative line. I don’t like that look. She’s considering something she knows I won’t agree with. “What if…well…”
“Spit it out, Sophia.” I don’t mean to sound so acerbic. Patience isn’t my strongest quality.
“What if we didn’t have to be against the world?” she says before sucking her bottom lip between her teeth.
Not again. “We’ve discussed this. They’ll never stop looking for us.”
Raising her hands, she cuts me off. “No, I know that. I do. I’m not suggesting we hide out here and ignore the world forever. I realise that isn’t an option. But…we could choose not to walk into a bloodbath. Stop all the murder and revenge. Come to, I don’t know, an agreement.”
Bless her naivety. I thought she’d overcome that side of her. “These aren’t the kind of men to make agreements with over a cup of tea. They’re out for blood. Our blood.”
“My dad isn’t…not mine anyway.”
“Sophia…” Her name seeps out amidst a strained breath.
“I’m not defending him,” she’s quick to cut in. “But he won’t hurt me. I’m still his daughter. And it wasn’t him who asked you to kill me.”
“What are you saying? You want us to play happy families?” She can’t be serious!
“No. I’m saying I could still use my father to get whatever you need to get you off the hook with Arthur. Then we can come back here, safe in the knowledge no one is looking for us. Leave them to it. Let them destroy each other. Like you said, if they’re not running crime on Europe’s streets someone else will only take their place. So…let them.” She ends her master plan with an assured shrug.
But…that’s not the point. This isn’t just about protecting her. It’s about Marcus. Harold Fletcher needs to pay for what he did. He needs to suffer.
He needs to die.
“I know what I’m asking you to do,” she adds, her voice a mere whisper in the rain as she lowers her head. “I haven’t forgotten what my dad took from you.”
Shifting in my seat, I look at her properly, my body facing hers. I regret it immediately. Seeing the conflict contort her perfect face, the pain mist her eyes…it’s softening a part of me I need to keep strong. I can’t waver on this. I can’t. For Marcus…
“I don’t forgive him, and neither should you,” she tries to explain. “I detest him for the things he’s done. I want nothing to do with him.” She grabs at my hands, squeezing all her anguish into them as she pleads with me. “You have to believe that.”
“I do,” I say because it’s true.
“But…I can’t plan his death or sit by while someone else does. I know it’s fucked up, but…he’s my dad. I-I can’t explain it. You could leave me somewhere for him to find. I’ll tell him how you betrayed me, that you took me as revenge. Then you can go to Arthur and plead your case. Tell him you can get anything he needs. I’ll get into my dad’s office. Get his laptop, files, money, anything Arthur wants.”
“Sophia…please,” I beg, though I’m not entirely sure what I’m begging for. I need her to stop before she breaks me. I can feel myself growing weaker with every word she speaks. Could I really do this? Betray Marcus. Let the bastard who ended his young life get away without a fucking scratch. Could I?
For Sophia…possibly.
Shit.
“Or Rosemary! You said she’s different, that she has a soft spot for you. You could talk to her. Once she agrees to take whatever you have from my dad and stop coming for us, I will convince my dad to let me go. And he will. I’m sure of it. We could come back here. This…” She drops my hands and motions out towards the stormy garden. “This could be it. Life. Like this, always. No more revenge. No more justice. Just…us.”
I’m going to agree, I know I am. I feel the words churning in my gut. I simply haven’t found the courage to speak them yet.
“I could get a little job. Maybe Walter knows somewhere. You could—”
“Enough.” My tone is grave as I raise my hand. “We need to discuss this further…but…” Swallowing everything I’ve ever believed in, everything I’ve ever fought for, I close my eyes while I say the words that betray the memory of the boy I considered a brother. “I’ll do it.”
She may be right about her father. Perhaps he does have the capability to love her somewhere in his fucked-up heart, making us more similar than I care to admit. Cowan, however, I remain sceptical about. I would never intentionally drag Sophia into a bloodbath, as she put it, but I am prepared to face one of my own despite her new plan. I am not forged from Cowan’s blood. He has no love for me. There are no frayed ties I can hope to repair. I am, and always have been, disposable. To spare me, or Sophia, would show weakness. The same weakness I have recently been cursed with.
If there are any deals to be made with the Cowan family I shall make them with Toff. The only negotiating I am willing to do with Arthur is over his preferred burial spot…right before I stick a bullet in his brain.
“Thank you.” Sophia lunges forwards, throwing her arms around my body.
Stroking her hair, I hold her head close to my chest, refusing to feel guilt for misleading her. I’m sticking to her plan, mostly. She doesn’t need to concern herself with the details surrounding Cowan. It would cause unnecessary worry and she needs her head in the game if she’s going to play Harold Fletcher. He may be her father, but he’s a smart man. If he didn’t demolish the lives of innocent people, I could possibly admire his brilliance. She needs to gain his trust and in order to do that she needs a clear mind. Cowan is my problem and I will deal with him in the appropriate manner. If I can’t get justice for Marcus’ death, I can and I will avenge the man trying to take Sophia from me, too.
I take only a day to finalise our plans, leaving France less than forty-eight hours after Sophia’s insane request. Insane as it is, I’m still going along with it. I inform Toff of our imminent return but keep the details close to my chest. As I said, knowledge is power, and I need to be the only person in control of how this goes down. The call ends with Toff warning me about a guy associated with Cowan, a freelancer who’s been known to work for him occasionally, potentially being spotted at the airport I was planning to travel from. It’s only a rumour, but rumours are enough to force a change of plan. Therefore, Sophia and I set off to Calais instead, heading for the ferry.
Rerouting isn’t necessarily a delay. Nobody is expecting us therefore we have nothing to be late for. If anything, it graces Sophia with a little extra time to mentally prepare. I’m not sure she fully understands how difficult facing her father again will be. The last time she saw him he was nothing but a loving dad. A role model. Now, she will recognise him for the vile man he is. I can only hope she doesn’t see past that, find something worth salvaging…like she did with me.
And then it hits me. My audacity. Being unable to bring Harold Fletcher to justice for hurting an innocent boy cuts through to my rotten core. But…we are the same, me and Harold. I preyed on Sophia, an innocent woman, and I did so willingly. Lines and rules have become so blurred I don’t even truly know the reason why I agreed now. Loyalty. Money. It’s all faded into insignificance without me even noticing. I’m always quick to tell Sophia to focus on the end goal, but what was my end goal? What did I ever hope to achieve? I never wanted to be Arthur Cowan, run his empire, like Toff. Survival. That was my goal. It seems so pointless now. On reflection, I had nothing to survive for.
Where is Sophia’s justice? She just…relinquished it. For me - the man who hurt and betrayed her. That’s who she is, and the more time I spend with her in open honesty, the more I want to be like her. The more I think I can be like her. A little, at least. I don’t have much room in my heart, especially not for her fucking father, but there is room for her. Only her. If she can abandon her thirst for punishment against me, I can abandon mine.
When that thought crosses my mind, I begin to feel vulnerable for the first time in my life. Even as a young child I didn’t feel vulnerable. Violence and anger didn’t scare me. I expected it. They were simply…life. I would describe myself as a numb child, unfeeling…never vulnerable.
But Sophia makes me weak. My life is no longer my priority. Hers is. The fact I am of sound mind and permitting her father to live is proof that I would do anything for this woman. I would lay down my life for her between heartbeats. I would, I am, going against my own intuition and trusting hers. She’s changed me, twisted my principles, my ideas and perspectives. She makes me wonder if there’s such a thing as good and bad people, or if we’re all just people who choose to do good or bad things. Maybe I could be good, like her. Maybe I simply have to choose, each day, whether my actions are for the right reasons.
She’s given me emotions I’m not sure I’ll ever know how to process, and she’s done it by simply existing. It shouldn’t be possible. Breaking someone requires thorough plotting and manipulation, yet she doesn’t have a scheming bone in her body. Though, I’m certain she’d like to disagree.
