They were a study in ruin.
In broken pieces who pretended to be whole, in lies that spun truth and facades that fooled nobody. They were in a study in not letting go, even when letting go was the better option. They were in a study in remnants, clinging to fragments of what they were but never trying to piece them back together. It was a fragile balance they had created. A push to every pull, a claw to every slice, fire to every thunderclap, a back to every forth. When the balance was upset, it was quickly restored.
Nate couldn’t claim he didn’t know how they’d gotten here, it would be lying. He knew the exact moment, down to the date, the hour and the minute that they’d gone from everything to the salvaged scraps in a storm that they were now. He’d known it was coming before it happened, too.
The war had been raging for years, hopeless and bitter and never ending when his mother sat the family down, not too long after their father’s death ( truthfully, it was not a death many of them mourned ). This is it, she had said, this is enough. Liam and Nate both bore the Dark Mark, though for different reasons, and they were soldiers for a cause nobody was quite sure of anymore. Guilt gnawed at Liam’s bones and blood dripped from Nathaniel’s once ivory fingers. Max was getting to the age where joining the ranks was expected, and the restlessness in Alexandra was unsettling at the very least. Victoria Matheson had had enough. The war had taken enough from them, it wasn’t going to take her family too.
We’re turning neutral, she declared to a room of children ( because that is what they were, even if their ages said otherwise – growing up in a war did not make them adults ). Stunned into silence, they thought she was joking. The war was going nowhere, the sides were blurring and it was simply fighting for the sake of it now, she claimed. She refused to lose her family to this war, so she ensured it would not happen – by taking them out.
Liam’s shoulders had sagged – defeat? Relief? In fear that this might be yet another glimmer of hope to be stolen from him? Was that hint of tension that never seemed to leave from anger, frustratuon, disbelief? Nate hadn’t known, then, but now he recognised the slump as tired, because Nate’s were the same. Liam had been fighting for so long, in so many more ways than being a mere soldier, and now he was finally being given a chance to rest. Little Max, barely sixteen, looked like he might cry. Nate knew his little brother wasn’t a fighter – it was why Liam shouldered the burden he did, so the others ( hopefully ) would not have to. Now there was no chance that Liam’s sacrifice might not have been enough. Anger simmered under the surface of his sister’s skin, but Nate saw the rest of it, too. The conflicted feelings of guilt, of anger, of uncertainty – did she want to fight? Was it worth it? Was the craving in her bones for the attention, the thrill, the dark enjoyment worth the risk? He knew, because while Max mirrored Liam, Alex mirrored Nate.
The first thought that had occurred to Nate, who was no longer the enthusiastic, thrill seeking reckless boy of fifteen, was Gisèle. Rousseau her name legally may have been, but she was a Matheson, adopted into the family the way Nate adopted her into his heart. He knew her better than he knew himself, and he knew that this was one place she wouldn’t follow. He knew, because she hadn’t followed when, all those years ago, Cassius turned neutral. He’d been with her, felt the bitterness she felt, the hurt that curled around her heart like a claw. It wasn’t difficult to see the fractures this would cause. Yet he chose it anyway, because really, what choice did he have?
( and maybe, he had some naive hope that one day she would come to u n d e r s t a n d, to forgive, to come back into the circle of his arms and stay. )
Nathaniel Matheson could not lie and pretend he didn’t know the cause of their ruination. He would do neither of them this disservice and deny that it was his decision.
His gaze was still on hers, always on hers, even as her bra fell to the floor. Everything was deliberate about both of their actions, even something as simple as taking Gisèle ’s clothes off. She wasn’t just taking her clothes off, she was allowing herself to be his – an echo of what they were. It wasn’t just about sex, it was about restoring their balance. They played a game, but neither could ever be allowed to win. Just as she could not break him, and he could not leave her, the game could not be won. Winning meant they were over. Holding her gaze was a reminder of this. He didn’t want to lose her, not even when all they had left were the shattered remains. At the end of it all, he still belonged to her, and she still belonged to him, and there was nothing either of them could do to change this.
“Hypothetically, I prefer the game when neither of us are winning.” His gaze dragged down her face, back to those lips he would soon claim as his own, down to the now bare breasts brushing against his chest. There was no hiding the desire in his gaze, the tightening of his trousers or the appreciative curve of his lips – nor was there an attempt to. For all the lying between them, what he thought of her body was always painful honest. It was beautiful to him, and that was never a secret.
“Is this not a prize?” He questioned, reaching out to trail his fingers down her side, skimming her breast lightly and relishing the feel of her bare skin beneath his hands. Bare for him. He could feel his heart thrumming in his chest, so loudly he almost couldn’t hear anything else. Nate wondered if she could feel it, given how close they were. He let his hand linger for a moment longer, before dropping it again. It was left to her to initiate anymore touching. Nate lifted his head to meet her gaze again. “Are you not mine? Am I not yours? At least, for today.” There was an unmistakable edge in his voice that not enough his thick desire could hide. For today, they said, even though they both knew they had never stopped belonging to each other. For today, they pretended, and they would say the same tomorrow, and the next day, and so on. That was how the game went. “I thought that was obvious.”
A girl was a ghost.
A girl was a hoax.
A girl was a lie.
And Gisèle Rousseau-Parkinson had grown up lying to herself as easily as she breathed. It was easy to hide behind false facades and constructed characters; to be a girl wrapped in a mystery wrapped in a conundrum wrapped in her armour. It was supposed to protect. To keep others from sneaking the proverbial dagger between her ribs and sinking it into the fragile tissue of her heart. It was supposed to be a flawless system: nobody could reach her heart if they didn’t know where it was — or even if it existed.
If only it had worked out that way.
Unfortunately, there were always contradictions. The first ( and honestly, the worst ) of them had been the Fulgoras shifting. She hadn’t meant for him to be that important. The kind of friends who would only confess to genuine emotional attachment on pain of death, one would have assumed that they were no more than casual acquaintances, no more than any other classmates with a joint passing interest in insulting people and flirting shamelessly. But the truth was no so simple – invisible cords strung up between them, holding them close in places they hadn’t expected – and the crossing of floors had stung. The fact that the act itself was trivialised so, seen as no big deal by most, still smarted. It had been years.
It shouldn’t even have been considered a legitimate problem. It wasn’t, not according to most people. But here, it was. As long as there were sides to the war, anyone not on their side was an enemy. And if that had to include Cassius – brash, idiot Cassius, whom she was more fond of than her own sister, who had taught her how to throw the perfect left hook – well then that was just the way it was.
It was her luck, really, that she had already gotten used to the concept. By the time the Mathesons decided to pull out, she was well trained. No protests of But we’re family! arose in her head, no shock registered and no complaints surfaced. It was fine. Just fine. It didn’t matter if the Mathesons had chosen to leave and removed themselves from the equation. Didn’t matter that Victoria Matheson was the closest maternal figure in her family, that Alex and Max had practically replaced her own younger siblings at that point. Considering them her family did not make them it. It was probably best that it had ended where it did, before it had gotten worse.
Except, if she were honest with herself, it did hurt. Gisèle did not absorb the concept as openly as most might have. To her, the most intensely black and white picture of all was loyalty: you could either have it or you wouldn’t, but there was no way to be half-loyal. That was partly why she couldn’t bring herself to accept neutrality or forgive Nate. He had known precisely what she thought of it. He had to have known that she couldn’t do this; that she couldn’t side with him, just like he hadn’t been able to side with Cassius. It had taken ages for their dynamic to settle back into normalcy. Ha had to have known that there was no other way she could see him; she would still see his choice as the final nail in their coffin. He could either be loyal to her or not. It was that simple. There was no room for interpretation.
But there was room to fight. Just because their choices had been made did not mean they were stalwart enough to lay with them. No, Gisèle and Nathaniel would not have been themselves had they lain back and allowed each other to drift. They had to hold on, unwilling to be at peace with either of their choices: to leave the other was unthinkable, but as was putting everything they stood for aside just for love. War couldn’t be so simple. Loyalties weren’t so simple.
And so, now, all that was left was the sport of it. The game was on.
Hypothetically, she preferred the games to remain strictly sexual, the only stakes stacked against each other the question of who would fold first and who would get to take control. In reality, just his eyes on her made her skin feel hot and tight, like her insides were pulling at their seams, straining to spill for him. But it wasn’t the physical reaction alone. Perhaps, if it had been, things would be easier.
No, it was every inch of her that thrilled at his perusal; desire bubbling thick and restless inside her, yes, but accompanied with the smug satisfaction that straightened her spine, gratification that he wanted her. All of her. Could scarcely keep his eyes off her. Gisèle arched her back, raising her bare breasts to his attention. It was near preening at the attention, but she couldn’t find it in her to be embarrassed when the thrill was so sharp, knowing that if she wanted it enough, he would get down on his knees and worship her body.
Her arms twined around his neck, lips brushing his ear as she whispered, throaty and victorious. “Liar.” Her chest brushed his on her inhale, skin brushing the front of his shirt. “One of us has to win and you love it when it’s either, don’t you? You don’t mind who wins as long as the night ends with our clothes dropping.”
And maybe, this was her playing him. Maybe this was as manipulative as it sometimes felt, like she was trying to puppet him instead of hear him. But if she was, it wouldn’t ache like this, would it? She wouldn’t want him equally on her side, on her mind and on her kitchen counter. Nathaniel Matheson was unspeakably important. It just so happened that this thrill was as well; that she wanted the rush that came with their game of Hunt just as much as she wanted the soft ease of the rest.
Especially because he played back. He had the power to do this, to tease her and step back, just like that. As if it was that easy to stop. Gisèle knew it wasn’t, that he was watching with bated breath, but the push-and-pull had her hooked. Was it the sharp edge to his tone, she wondered, or the thick pulse of desire the rougher voice sent rushing through her? Either way, Gisèle found herself turning around, still in his space. ( And if that meant she no longer had to look him in the eye – that she could stop trying to find if there was more desire or accusation or frustration – it was just an added bonus. )
Narrow back anchored against his broad chest, she let her head fall back onto his shoulder, tilted up to look at him. Her hips pushed back against his, the thin fabric of her skirt bunching as she twisted them the slightest bit. Four layers of fabric between them, panties skirt trousers pants, and yet it still felt too scant a barrier. She shifted again, and her breath caught on a gasp. “Mm, the only thing obvious to me right now is your interest, babe. Little eager there, aren’t we?” Again, she moved her hips. It was hypocrisy at its finest, goading him on when she was shamelessly grinding against him. And still, she could not stop. “I don’t know about being yours yet, but certain parts of your anatomy seem to have an opinion. Why, does your shame turn you on? Or is it self-hatred instead this time?”
