13. Rook
“Your aim’s crap,” I grumble, watching Aisling’s avatar leap behind virtual cover, her shots spraying wild and wide. The controller’s unfamiliar to her hands, but there’s a gleam in her grey eyes that says she’s getting the hang of it.
“Shut it, Rook. I’m learning,” she shoots back, focus unwavering from the flickering screen where chaos reigns.
“Here.” I lean over, our shoulders brushing. “Squeeze the trigger, don’t yank it. Like you’re coaxing a secret out of someone, not demanding it.”
“Coaxing secrets now, are we?” she quips, but follows my advice. Her next burst of fire is tighter, more controlled. An enemy on the screen crumples. “Ha! Got him!”
“See? You’re a natural killer.” I smirk, but there’s no malice in it.
Just two insomniacs finding solace in the glow of the TV, the rest of the world faded to a dull hum.
“Never took you for a gaming type,” she says, tossing me a sideways glance between reloads.
“Spent enough nights like this, avoiding sleep, getting lost in pixelated battles.” My thumb hovers over my own controller’s joystick. “Sometimes it’s easier than real life.”
“Because you can restart when you die?”
“Something like that,” I admit, nudging her playfully with my elbow. “Your turn again. Keep your eyes up, anticipate their moves.”
“Like chess?” She’s goading me now, but I let it slide.
“Exactly, except the pieces shoot back.” I watch her take down another virtual soldier, her movements growing more confident, fluid. “You’re picking this up fast for someone whose tech skills consist of turning on a flashlight.”
“Maybe I’ve found my calling.” She grins. “Ruling the digital battlefield from a sofa throne.”
“Long as you don’t overthrow me. I’ve got a reputation to maintain.” I feign seriousness, but she just laughs, the sound cutting through the room’s static air.
“Wouldn’t dream of it, Rook. Where would I be without my trusty gaming mentor?”
“Probably sleeping, like normal people.” I shrug, but neither of us wants normal. Not when the night holds possibilities like these—simple, uncomplicated moments where the past doesn’t exist and futures aren’t planned.
“Who needs normal?” Aisling says, echoing my thoughts, and something tightens in my chest—a coil wound too firm, ready to spring.
“Nobody I care about,” I reply.
We go quiet as she practices, taking on an easier level than she thinks. Still, I watch as she gets better by the second—which I guess I should have assumed she would, since I’ve seen her use a gun.
“Primitive tech’s all I had, you know?” Aisling says, thumbing the controller with a grace that belies her inexperience. “No screens, no virtual reality. Just the wind and the chessboard.”
“Who taught you?”
“My grandmother,” she says. “Bronwyn Faye, fearless leader of the Garden. She was more of a strategist than I ever realized when she was alive.”
“You feel like chess taught you about the city?”
“Something like that,” she replies, her grey eyes flickering with a challenge. “I’ve always seen it that way. Pieces moving across the board, the quiet threat of war—it was real enough for me, almost as real as now.”
“Real enough to beat me at it,” I recall with a smirk, remembering the tense lines of our bodies as we faced off over the chessboard. “That night before Dreamland—you outmaneuvered me with a damn knight.”
“Surprised you?” Her lips twist up in a half-smile, the memory etching itself across her features.
“Nothing about you doesn’t surprise me, Stargazer.” I drop the controller, the game forgotten, as I replay that evening in my mind—the prelude to chaos, when she was with Gunnar and things were just starting to look like change.
“Good,” she says, her voice softer now. “I hate being predictable.”
“Predictable’s the last thing you are.” Our eyes lock, and there’s a truth hanging between us, heavy and unspoken, a moment suspended in time as profound as any strategy laid out on a checkered battlefield.
The silence stretches between us, thick as the night outside. Aisling’s gaze doesn’t waver, something flitting behind those stormy eyes that I can’t quite catch. It’s like she’s daring me to dive in, to swim through whatever’s brewing inside her head. But neither of us moves. The air is static, charged with a current that neither of us has the guts to ground.
“Did you grow up playing this stuff?” Her voice cuts through the tension, a knife slicing clean and quick.
Thank fuck…because if someone hadn’t said something, I was going to kiss her.
And that would be…
I can’t think about that right now.
I chuckle, shaking my head. “Yeah. Me and the boys would huddle around a single screen, shoot at anything that moved.” My fingers itch for the controller I’ve set aside, but I don’t reach for it. “Wasn’t much else to do where I came from.”
“Sounds…normal.” She says the word like it’s foreign, rolling it around in her mouth before spitting it out.
“I had the full pre-Mutation experience. Suburban Ireland, family of betas, not a care in the world except for what game was hot that season. We weren’t rich by a long shot—that was reserved for European Authority alphas—but we were comfortable enough.”
“Suburban…” she trails off, rolling the concept around like it’s a relic from another life. “What was that like?”
“Green,” I chuckle, thinking back. “Green and peaceful. Lots of rain, football in the streets, and mums calling their kids in for dinner.” I shrug. “Simple times, I guess.”
She sets her own controller aside and turns to face me, interest piquing her grey eyes. “Tell me more. What’s your story, Rook?”
Her question hangs there, thick as fog, and I can see the edges of her past shadowing her features. She’s heard tales of the old world but never lived them—she went straight from some hippie cult to the nightmare of Dreamland. For a moment, I see the chasm between us—not just in experiences, but in the worlds we were born into.
“Story’s dull as dishwater,” I deflect with a smirk, but she’s not having any of my usual deflections tonight.
“Try me.” Her challenge is gentle, but insistent. “I want to know who I’m sitting next to.”
“Alright then.” I lean back, one arm stretching along the back of the couch, not quite touching her. “Born and raised in a place called Cork. Middle child of five. My da was a mechanic, ma a teacher. We were…normal, you know? No omegas, no alphas. Just people getting on with it.”
“Sounds quaint,” she says softly, and there’s a hint of wistfulness in her tone that makes my chest tighten.
“Quaint’s one word for it,” I reply, my thoughts drifting. “Had my share of trouble, but nothing like the chaos these days.”
“Trouble?” The way she says it, like she’s digging for treasure in a minefield, brings me back to the here and now.
“Kid stuff,” I lie smoothly, feeling the weight of my real past lurking just beneath the surface. The night presses against the windows, an audience waiting for a confession that won’t come. “I always wanted more, so I sold drugs—just little things, weed, coke, LSD every so often.”
“Right…kid stuff,“ she quips. “Everyone has skeletons, Rook. I mean—I grew up in a commune-turned-cult. Who gets to be a kid in this world?”
“Guess you’re right,” I concede, meeting her gaze. “Anyway, I got into chemistry—because I wanted to make my own LSD at first, and then because it interested me. Figured I’d make something of myself, you know? Went to university, landed a decent gig at a state lab.”
“That’s what you said,” she murmurs. “Smart cookie.”
I laugh. “I suppose—and for a while, I played the part. White coat, safety goggles, the whole nine yards.”
“Then?” Her word hangs, poised between curiosity and dread.
“Then I fucked it all up.” The words spill out before I can stop them, each syllable tasting like ash.
“Rook…” She doesn’t finish, just gives me that look. Like she’s seen the layers peel back and found something raw underneath.
“Sold drugs as a kid, thought I was done with it,” I confess, ignoring the way her brows knit together. “But habits die hard, and when you’re in a state lab full of prototype suppressants…”
“Suppressants?” Her tone shifts, an edge creeping into it now. “You mean…”
“Yep.” I pop the ‘p’, a hollow sound in the silence. “Started shifting product on the side. Made a killing until I didn’t.”
“Shit.” She whistles low, the sound a sharp note in the room. “High stakes, high falls.”
“Something like that.” I toss the unopened soda onto the coffee table, a clatter in the quiet night. “Got greedy, got sloppy. They caught me red-handed.”
Aisling shakes her head, grey eyes flickering with understanding—it’s hard to tell. “What happened after they caught you?”
“Let’s just say I’m not their favorite former employee.” I let out a dry laugh, devoid of humor.
Her hand inches closer to mine, a silent offer of solidarity. I don’t take it, instead staring at the dark TV screen, where our forgotten avatars wait for a command that won’t come.
“Caught me smack in the middle of a handoff with the Bluestockings.” The words tumble out, reckless.
“What’s that?”
“Radical omega group,” I clarify, watching her reaction. “Had ideas about liberating suppressants for the masses. I was just the chemistry guy who saw dollar signs.”
She doesn’t say anything for a beat, studying me like she’s trying to read between the lines. Then, “Sounds risky. Dealing with them, I mean. But…you were doing something to help people like me. That took guts.”
I scoff, shaking my head. “Wasn’t bravery, Aisling. It was pure, uncut selfishness.”
“I know you—and I doubt that,” she murmurs.
But I push back.
“Craved the thrill. Craved the cash. And hell, it cranked up the volume on my otherwise beige existence.” I scratch the back of my neck, feeling the weight of old ghosts settling on my shoulders. “State custody was my wake-up call. Turns out, I’m allergic to iron bars and concrete.”
“Still,” she presses, “it sounds like you were part of something bigger—“
“Part of something stupid, you mean.” My thumb hovers over the game controller, idle. “I wasn’t trying to change the world. Just wanted to feel like I owned it for a while.”
“Rook,” she says, voice dropping an octave, intimate in the dark space between us, “I don’t think you’re giving yourself enough credit.”
I snort, the sound more bitter than I intend. “For what? Nearly wrecking my life?”
She shifts, and I’m hyper-aware of the scant inches between us. “No, for doing what you did. You could have sold anything, but you were leaking suppressants to the masses—to omegas who needed it. Even if you got screwed, you were helping people.”
“By accident.”
“By choice,” she says. “Why not go back to coke, LSD? You could’ve made money on the side, but you risked state secrets instead. And even people who are doing it for the wrong reasons can end up helping.”
I shrug, sighing deeply. “Guess you’re right.”
“See?” Her gaze doesn’t waver. “That’s what makes you a good person.”
‘Good person’ isn’t a label I’m used to wearing; even those I consider friends have described me as a selfish bastard more than once. “You’ve got a strange definition of ’good,’ Aisling.”
“Maybe I do.” She smiles, a moonbeam breaking through clouds. “But I’m pretty sure I’m not wrong about this.”
We go still. The air between us could be cut with the edge of a knife. I can feel the heat coming off her skin, sense the slight rise and fall of her chest. It’s like we’re both on the precipice, a shared breath away from tumbling into something we might not come back from.
And I can’t stop myself.
Not anymore.
My lips find hers in an uncertain dance, hesitant at first like we’re both asking questions neither of us is sure we want answered. But then the kiss deepens, and it’s no longer about questions or answers. It’s just the two of us, the give and take, the slow burn that obliterates thought.
Her mouth moves against mine with a kind of innocence that’s disarming. She’s tentative, exploring, and I match her gentleness without thought. The world narrows down to this simple act—a kiss that’s pure and sweet, like something from another life where complications don’t exist.
I’m getting a different side of her than the one I’ve been fantasizing about…and somehow, it’s even better.
Her hands are feather-light on my shoulders, anchoring me to the moment. Time twists, stretches, melts away. There’s no past mistakes, no future uncertainties, just the now—that’s all there is, all there needs to be.
We break apart, but only just.
Foreheads touching, breaths mingling, we linger in the aftermath, silent because words would shatter the magic of what’s just happened.
And for an eternal second, everything is perfect.
I pull away first, the taste of her still lingering like a secret. Her eyes, those grey storms, lock with mine, and there’s a question in them—a silent plea for more.
“Rook?” she breathes out, her voice a soft note in the hush that wraps around us.
“Hey,” I say, my voice rough like gravel, “we should—“
Aisling cuts me off, leaning in, aiming to capture my lips again. But I catch her by the shoulders, gentle but firm. “Ais, wait.”
The room seems to hold its breath as she looks at me, confusion knitting her brows.
“I want to take this slow,” I tell her, brushing a stray blonde lock behind her ear. My fingers linger on the warmth of her skin, craving to stay.
“Why?” She tilts her head, a frown creasing her pale forehead. “Not sure if you’ve noticed, but slow isn’t really my forté.”
“Look, you’re dealing with a lot right now,” I say, feeling the weight of every word. “And I want you, God knows I do. But not like this. Not with everything else that’s going on with you.”
Her mouth opens, then closes, and she pulls back. I fight the urge to close the distance again, to erase the space between us with the heat we both know is there.
“Is it because of Gunnar? Oberon?” Her voice trembles, and I can hear the layers of what she’s not saying. “You know…Oberon supports it—us, I mean—“
That comes as a bit of a shock, but I shake it off.
“I’m not even gonna ask about that—not right now—but yeah…it’s partially because of Gunnar,” I admit, shoving my hands into my pockets to stop them from reaching out to her. “I don’t want to be just another complication, Aisling. You deserve better than that. And if we see him in Oasis…”
She nods slowly, those stormy eyes of hers searching mine for something. Maybe for the assurance that she’s not just another notch. That she means something more.
“You’re right,” she whispers, and there’s strength behind that single word—a promise that she understands, even if she doesn’t like it. “With everything going on…now’s not the time.”
“Look, Aisling,” I start, scratching the back of my neck, feeling the prickly sweat there. “Life’s thrown you into the deep end without so much as a ‘how do you do?’ and you’re swimming hard.”
She chuckles, but it’s hollow, like the sound of gunfire in an empty alley. “Feels more like drowning sometimes.”
“Can’t argue with that.” I shift on my feet, trying to find solid ground. “But you—I’ve seen you. You take on everything head-on, no half measures. It’s…” I trail off, searching for the right word that isn’t too soft or too sharp.
“Reckless?” she offers, a wry smile tugging at her lips.
“Brave,” I correct her. “You’re brave, Aisling Faye.”
“Even when I don’t feel it?”
“Especially then.” I take a breath, wishing it didn’t have to be laced with this kind of honesty. “And I want—fuck, I want things with us to be right. Not rushed, not another storm for you to weather.”
“Rook,” she says, her voice a whisper that could topple empires. “I want—“
“Slow. We do this slow.” I interrupt before she can spill words that might make me break every resolve I’ve built up. “I’ve watched you get into everything so fast, dive in headfirst without checking for rocks. And it kills me because I want to be different for you.”
“Rook,” she repeats, softer this time, and it’s a punch to the gut how much I love hearing my name on her lips.
“Jesus, being noble sucks,” I mutter under my breath, but she hears it and her laughter, real and bright, fills the space between us.
“Welcome to my world, Rook,” she teases, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from her skin.
“Trust me, I’m just visiting. Noble’s not usually my style.” I grin, despite the mess we’re in.
“Good,” she says, “because I’m not looking for a knight in shining armor. Just…you.”
“Then me you’ll have. All in due time.” I promise, and the weight of it settles between us—solid, tangible, something worth waiting for.