"Your lil' boy mocked me and you took his side," Jacques says plainly. "He is lucky, that unlike his folk, I don't deal with business that ain't my own." As it stands, Syd's mess is left there for the Cartel to clean. "But if he so much as steps foot in my land again, he ain't leavin' alive."
Hard as his exterior may be, Jacques is a good listener. Too good, even, which makes him a conductor for the city's ugliest secrets. Calm me down, patch me up, stop me from doin' something stupid. He hears her expectations, and can only conclude that those are vastly different from what all other women — or, people — expect from him. Jacques stores it for later, to contemplate about before his sleep.
Jacques turns his hand so he can actually take hers, small and lean under his touch. He's holding it as though he might kiss the back of it, but he doesn't. Instead, he kneels in front on her place on the bed, making eye contact inevitable now.
"I am king of New York City, and you could be Queen, if you were not busy with traitors and rats." What's the laundromat boy gonna do, when she needs food on the table or heat in the winter?
There is greed in the things he's acquired for himself, he won't deny it, but he shares with no discomfort. His pantry is filled and so is the fridge; the shower hot and his bed cloud-like. Sevyn's for the night.
From his place knelt on the ground, and still holding her hand, Jacques's eyes find hers. "I don't know, if I believe you that you 'didn't know'." The benefit of the doubt — his last kind act for the night. "But you do now. And you won't see the boy again, and if you do, it will only be to break things off and to break his heart."
blakekathryn
andulkaphoto
tangentwithtanner
theartofmadeline
dailybridgerton
janainaart
