Chapter 10
TEN
Harry
Flashback
My cheeks and my stomach ache, but in that fucked-up way where you laugh so hard your entire body hurts and you feel like you’re about to piss yourself.
Life used to be drowned in misery, money shortages, and constantly watching over my shoulder for the next obstacle to rip my life apart. Now I spend my days reeling in a kind of happiness I’ve never known.
Who would’ve thought murder – something I used to fear so intently – would make me so fucking happy?
It didn’t come easy. It took months of training, an initiation, then taking the life of an innocent man in front of an audience. All small prices to pay for the benefits I now reap. The feeling is toxic, otherworldly, and fucking addicting.
Jack punches the wheel three times, each hit sending a screeching honk into the evening rush-hour traffic.
He swerves around motorists, racing down the hard shoulder to bypass the busy streets of London.
The music blares, a tune by the Killers tearing through the speakers as he pushes further against the pedal.
Hands wrap against the back of my headrest as Andy leans between the two front seats. “Fucking turn it down, will you?”
A grin spreads over my face. Despite his command, he wears a smile just as wide.
It’s that intoxicating revelation after a successful heist. A bank robbery and a side assassination en route home that we were paid money for.
A lot of fucking money – a detail that camouflages any regret I’m supposed to feel.
Jack laughs over the shrieking speakers, turning down the volume a few notches. He rests his elbow leisurely on the door of his Jaguar, half-balancing out the window.
“Tell me,” Andy says from the back seat. “What was up with you and that redhead earlier?”
“Who – Poppy?” A smirk stretches over the lower half of his face. “Don’t know what you’re talking about. It was nothing.”
“Didn’t look like nothing,” Andy says. “She was fucking smitten.”
“Smitten?” I bark a laugh. “Didn’t you see her punch him?”
Jack rubs his jaw, a smoulder hidden behind his palm. He throws his hands in the air and confesses, “I’m fucking in love with her, lads—”
“The fucking wheel!” Andy shouts.
Jack slaps his hands back on the wheel, hitting it with such force the car barks its horn again. “It’s love, I tell you,” he emphasises with another three hits of the wheel.
The laughter rumbles in my chest, and I pinch my nose to try to rid the image of Jack and Poppy. I barely know her, though I’ve seen her around plenty of times. She’s been in the field far longer than us, especially Andy and me. And now, much to my surprise, Jack is supposedly obsessed with her.
I snicker at the memory of him trying to sweet-talk her into dinner, only to receive a fist to the face.
It didn’t stop his persistence though. Poor lad.
She plays hard to get with him, though I notice her sidelong glances in the cafeteria or on the field when he handles a gun with precision or slashes a knife with a confidence I aspire to.
“I’m passing home to change before we head out.”
It’s tradition that we bask in the adrenaline after a successful heist. Richard tends to rent out the most extravagant venues in London, keen to revel in the dark side.
Through my busy schedule, Greg continues to cause chaos, and Richard helps to clean the mess, sparing no expense to wipe his record and clear the crime scenes.
Though he hasn’t gone as drastic as murder since Dad, thankfully.
He’s even helped manage the payments on the house – a factor I’m grateful for, and I’m yet to return the favour.
“That all right with you both?” Jack asks, pulling me back to the present. “Just need to change out of these bloody clothes—”
FUCK.
Of course he’d need to get ready. It’s as simple a statement as any, but I didn’t understand the weight of it until now. Didn’t realise it would mean I’d potentially see her again.
I’ve spotted her a few times since my first visit. Nothing more than pathetic desperation as I hid around corners and just silently … watched. But the simple act of witnessing her is enough to make my heart race.
I highly doubt Jack would appreciate me fantasising over his little sister.
Christ, she doesn’t know my name. I don’t even know her name.
But I don’t have to. I’ve learned very little about her since I first entered the Thomas family home, but I know enough.
She’s kind, alluring, but also unreadable and complicated as hell.
“Oi,” Jack barks, giving me a quick once-over. “You all right, lad?”
I force my throat clear. “Fine.”
I catch the hike of Andy’s brow through the rearview mirror and brush it off, trying not to think about where we’re going too intently. Jack pulls up outside his house, and I make an excuse to step out the vehicle to stretch my legs, while Andy opts to stay glued to the back seat.
We step inside the home, and he waves his hand dismissively towards the downstairs. “You know where everything is. Just make yourself at home.”
I’ve only been here a handful of times, but it’s enough to know the layout of the home. Where they store the coffee, where the downstairs bathroom is. But I’m more interested in the secret spaces where I can hide, and the corner bedroom on the first floor.
I linger at the bottom of the staircase, waiting until Jack has entered his room before I quietly trail up the steps, missing each creak and weak spot in the floorboards I’ve come to memorise through my visits.
The room with the chipped painted door calls to me.
I linger outside of it, listening for signs of movement.
The last thing I want is to waltz in there and give myself away. Though, thinking about it, if she was changing, I wouldn’t mind—
What the fuck is wrong with you?
I’d slap myself across the temple if I weren’t so petrified the sound might give me away. Instead I divert my attention to twisting the handle and stepping inside.
The scent of her perfume washes over me, sweet and feminine, but there’s something stronger too as I close the door behind me. Her en-suite bathroom door remains closed, yet steam slips through the cracks. The scent of shampoo, conditioner, body wash, and … roses?
Yes, that’s it! Roses. She smells like fucking rose petals. I haven’t quite been able to put my finger on it until now.
Pocketing the thought for later, so I can scale the supermarket shelves for the scent, I sweep my gaze over her room.
I address the details: the quilted bedspread hanging over the lower half of the mattress, the photographs lining her desk, even the fairy lights draped over her bed frame.
Typical shit a girl would have, yet the last thing I would do is call her unoriginal.
A flash of pink hangs leisurely out of her drawers, and my heart practically lurches at the sight. Is that her underwear?
Fucking jackpot—
The door to the en suite flies open. I have a split second to throw myself inside the wardrobe and pull the door closed behind me before she moves further into her room.
The slats in the wardrobe door allow me an obstructed view of the white towel tucked underneath her armpits, giving way to smooth olive skin.
Her feet pad against the rug in front of the full-length mirror.
She’s everything I remember and everything I don’t.
She hums something under her breath as she pulls her hair up off her neck. The quiet sound hits me far harder than it should, invoking a dark madness within me. I ache to grab a fistful of her hair, twist it around my wrist, and yank her head backwards so I can look deep into her eyes.
She isn’t just pretty; she’s otherworldly, vaguely threatening, and capable of undoing me with just one breath.
People would have to tear the Circle from my cold, dead hands before I’d willingly turn the other way. I love killing. I adore money. I crave the darkness. But I know the only thing that could convince me to turn the other way would be her.
Call me delusional. Call me fucking psychotic. Christ, call me anything. But just promise me that one day you’ll call me hers.
She rises onto her toes, reaching towards the matching pink silk pyjama set draped over the top of the mirror. Steam from the shower fogs the edges, distorting my view, but not before she drops the towel to her feet.
Die. That’s the word that impales me.
I’d happily fucking die right now if it weren’t for the simple fact I can’t touch her.
I grip my jaw hard to conceal the smirk I can feel spreading dangerously fast across my mouth.
I don’t even know her name, but I know what her body looks like.
The curve of her waist. The way her long legs stretch into the roundness of her ass.
She bends over to slip her feet into the silk shorts, giving me a direct view of her perfect—
Fuck my life.
It takes everything in me to stay still, and I restrain myself, wrapping my fist around the doorknob from the inside. I can feel the resistance of the wood against my palm from the pressure, but I just want to fucking hold her.
I close my eyes for a moment, trying to clear my head of the image that will be forever ingrained in my memory. But it lingers. The shape of her hips, the dimples in her spine, the small sounds she makes as she moves to slip on her pyjamas.
I brave my eyes open. Clothed now and arms lifted, she stretches slightly, the dip of her waist disappearing into loose cotton shorts. Her skin catches the lamp’s bulb in places. The back of her neck, the line of her collarbone, the soft curve of her back …
My desire for her isn’t just want – it’s something deeper.
Longing, confusion, and need all bleeding together.
Like I can’t decide exactly what I want.
To touch her, fuck yes. Christ, if I could just get my hands on her— No.
That’s a dangerous thought when I’ve just seen her naked and I’m rocking a hard-on in her wardrobe. But just to understand her.
She isn’t doing anything, just being herself. But that’s what makes it so difficult to look away, causing friction to rise in my throat.
She pauses, eyes suddenly lifting and glancing at where I stand.
I freeze.
She’s staring in the mirror as if she can see straight through me. But she doesn’t move. Doesn’t call out. Just tilts her head slightly as if she heard something. Then, after a breath, she looks down again, adjusting the strap of her top, and slips back into the bathroom.
That was close.
Too fucking close.
Despite my body screaming at me to chase after her, I silently slip from the wardrobe and step out of the room. With a soft click of the bedroom door, I take a moment to rest my forehead against the wood, keeping my breathing shallow. She merely looked towards me, yet the truth hit me fast.
I’ve never craved attention until I tasted a glimpse of hers.
With composure washing over me, I take a step backwards and turn—
A woman stands at the other end of the hallway, her head slightly tilted as she gives me a long once-over. Even from my passing glance, she’s the spitting image of Jack and his sister, with thick dark hair and piercing brown eyes. Her expression is unreadable, but it’s as obvious as ever.
Their mother has caught me red-fucking-handed.
Wanting the ground to swallow me whole, I run my shaking hand through the front of my hair.
“Jack’s looking for you.”
I nod. “Right.”
She cocks her head towards the staircase. “He’s downstairs.”
I duck my head, keeping a strong gaze on my feet to ensure I won’t trip from utter embarrassment. I slip past her with a quiet, “Sorry,” and descend the stairs, each step quicker than the last.
“Please.”
The woman’s voice freezes my steps. Her bottom lip wobbles, and her hand hovers over her mouth as if she’s trying to stop herself.
“Don’t hurt her. Not like that boy who—”
“Don’t tell me about him.” I cut her off. “I don’t want to know.”
The woman’s eyes flare, as surprised as me at my confidence. But I’m truly a pathetic man when it comes to the girl at the end of the hallway.
“Things are complicated.” Her mum passes a glance towards the room I just exited, keeping her voice low. “She doesn’t know what Jack does. She wouldn’t be able to cope with things in the way he has. She’s strong, but not in the ways you might think.”
“Oi, lad!” Jack calls. “You coming, or what?”
I smile uncomfortably at his mother. “I should go.”
She nods, and although her mouth is closed, she appears shackled with silence.
Perhaps the absence of my own mother has me unknowingly aching to protect the peace theirs might be struggling with.
I understand the guilt of wanting nothing more than the best for your family.
Whether as a parent or a brother, it’s all the same.
As it’s the peace she longs for, I promise, “I would never hurt her.”
There’s a telling silence before she says, “I can sense that.”
Another impatient call from Jack forces me to exhale a tortured breath. My fist curls around the banister, aching to leave. Instead I push forwards, to the top of the staircase, and offer her my hand.
“I’m Harry, by the way.”
Her mouth moves around a genuine smile as she shakes my hand. “I’m Maria.”
“It was lovely to meet you, Maria.”
“You’re a good man, Harry. Your mother would be very proud.”
A sudden sting slashes my heart like a hot knife. Not Dad. Not family. Your mother.
I cough to mask the emotion behind my eyelids. The pain has me rubbing my chest to ease the sensation, but I withdraw my hand just as quickly, suddenly hoping it stays.
With a pained smile, I whisper, “I hope so.”