Chapter 7 – Ferrin
FERRIN
Why couldn’t she have reconsidered? In my three-plus decades on this planet, I’ve never been more at odds with myself.
I haven’t had to consider another human in anything I was doing—not in any true way—since I was a young boy when I learned the lessons of life and death and what caring for others gets you.
I did look for the necklace. I’m not a total moron.
I went through her drawers and cabinets and even her paints and laundry, where I found my knife and gun, even though I let her believe I didn’t.
I searched high and low while she was downstairs with her mother, and I came up empty.
I should have taken the gun to her and demanded she return it.
But I had a feeling she’d tell me to shoot her or stab her instead of doing the smart thing and handing the necklace back over to me, so that’s why I left them where they were.
I didn’t want to have to make that decision.
She’s right, I don’t want to hurt her. And it’s not because she’s a woman or young or beautiful. I’ve seen that wild, no-more-fucks-to-give look before, and it haunted me all night. I can’t be responsible for another death. One that’s undeserved, that is.
The man she’s seen, for the most part, is Rhys. The thief. The persona. The man who can charm anyone into anything. I’ve been him so long I hardly know where the line between Rhys and Ferrin exists. But she found it and reminded me exactly of who I am.
Yet even when I showed her the darker side of me, she didn’t shy away.
The sadness and despondency in her voice chilled me to the bones.
It’s how my mother sounded before she swallowed a bottle of pills and washed it down with a vat of whiskey.
She tied me to a chair so I couldn’t call the police to stop her, and I had to watch her die, unable to do anything, knowing it was my fault.
I was seven when she did that. Helpless and broken and bleeding.
My father liked to wail on us. Getting drunk and beating the shit out of his wife and son were his favorite sports.
He was giving it to her pretty good, and I got the idea to hit him back.
I took his pint glass and threw it at his face.
It was a brilliant shot. I hit him straight in the nose and not only doused him in his beer but broke his nose.
He was embarrassed and hateful and hit me harder than he ever had before. He left after that, even as she begged him to stay, and she couldn’t take it.
I spent ten years in the system plotting his death, and when I finally escaped that hell, I hunted him down.
He had no clue who I was. He barely remembered my name.
I spent hours reminding him, cutting him for every hit and blow he gave me and her.
That night, I showed him the true meaning of pain and loss before I finally allowed him to die.
That was the night I came to terms with the monster I am but knew if I wanted to exist in the world, I had to become something else. Someone else.
Then there’s the main part of this. Her mother. I want that tiara back, and I know she has it. If sticking to this girl is the way to do that, then I suppose I don’t have a choice.
Regardless, she needs to know who she’s spending time with.
The truth behind my lies and smiles. And though I may know and even possibly understand the look of determination on her face as a means to cover what’s happening in your soul and gain a modicum of control over your shit situation, sympathizing with her won’t get me my necklace back.
So I focus on what’s at hand.
“The sea?” I murmur. “Do you have a swimming costume?”
Her nose scrunches. “A what?”
“It’s what you swim in, darlin’.”
“No, but I’m sure I can figure that out when we get there.
” She grabs the tray with my empty dishes and goes downstairs, and I grab my knapsack and follow.
She cleans everything up without waiting for me to help.
Once that’s done, she glances around the kitchen one last time, releases a shaky breath, then exits through the door.
That’s it. No tears or hysteria. No glance back. No second thoughts.
It’s a warm day in Messalina, the sun bright and high overhead with little to no cloud coverage. It’s not exactly the type of day I want to walk any great distance in, and we’re going to have to figure out a plan for all of this.
Christ, this is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever done, and that’s seriously saying something.
She treks across the lawn in the opposite direction from where I came in.
“Do you know where you’re going?”
“It’s the entrance my mother uses,” she replies. “It’s the only part that doesn’t have an alarm, just the chime to alert me she’s here.
“That’s how you found me? I triggered an alarm?”
Her head swivels over her shoulder, and her eyes briefly meet mine. “Yes. It’s also why my mother came early.”
So she gets the alerts as well. This is quite the operation her mother has going.
We reach the hedge line, and for the life of me, I can’t see how we’ll get through this. It’s thick and as high as her tower.
She reaches her hand into it, pushing past leaves and branches. She dips her head and peers in, then seems to be punching in a code until a mechanical lock disengages.
“If you know the code to escape, why haven’t you until now?”
She doesn’t answer me as she opens the door that’s camouflaged with leaves and branches. It swings toward us, and she waves a hand for me to enter first. It occurs to me that she could slam the gate behind me, and I’d have nothing. No necklace and no way back in.
“Nah, ladies first.”
She shrugs as if she doesn’t care either way and steps through. The gate closes and locks behind us, and we’re immersed in the forest. A gasp escapes her, and she walks over to a tree, practically collapses against it, and bursts into tears.
There it is. I was waiting for something.
I don’t bother asking if she’s all right. She’s clearly not. Instead, I stand back as she sobs and wails. I fidget, edgy and itchy. I don’t know this girl from anything, but I hate seeing her cry like this. It’s fucking me all up, and I don’t like it.
“Listen, if you’re this upset, maybe you should—”
“If you tell me to go back one more time, I’m going to stab you and leave you here for dead,” she manages through her tears. “I need a moment. How about you fuck off during that?”
Well then. A smile cracks across my face. One that isn’t placed there often at the hands of others. She continues to surprise me.
I walk off, leaving her here to her grief. If she needs space, she’s got it. I’m not her friend and definitely not her lover. Comforting her isn’t on my agenda.
I lean against a tree several down, enjoying the shade as I try to figure out where the fuck we are on my phone’s GPS. It appears we’re less than five kilometers from a road that will take us into a village several more kilometers away.
If this is how we’re starting, it’s going to be a very long day, and we won’t reach it until this evening.
Ten minutes later, footsteps crunching through the grass and dead leaves alert me that she’s finally over her meltdown.
I don’t say anything, and I don’t look at her.
I push away from the tree and start walking.
I’m the one running this show. Her thinking otherwise is the illusion I’m allowing her to have.
The gun and knife are in her bag. They’re useless.
But her mind isn’t, and I need more information on her mother.
Eventually, we clear the forest and find the road, which is nothing more than a two-lane roadway lined with trees on either side. She stands here for a minute, shaking and silently crying. The road is empty, and I take a left, leading us south.
She sniffles and wipes her nose and face. “Where are we headed?”
“To a village down this way. We’ll be able to find a place to stay for the night and hopefully rent a car for your grand excursion and beach jaunt.”
“You’re making fun of me.”
I’m not actually. I’m simply defensive and pissy from her tears.
I feel like a fucking wimp because I have the strongest, most ridiculous, nonsensical urge to hug her.
I don’t hug people. I don’t even like touching them, let alone talking to them, unless it’s necessary.
It’s madness, and it infuriates me. As do so many things about the pretty blonde.
Like the fact that I think she’s so pretty.
Annoyingly, she starts to sing, and of course her voice is the kind of beautiful that would make angels weep. Because why shouldn’t everything on her be?
I’m officially in a foul fucking mood.
I want my necklace. I want my tiara. I want to sell both—or perhaps only the necklace—and move my ass to an island in the middle of blue-green waters and never look back.
Instead I’m here, sweating my bollocks off, sporting a wicked headache because we didn’t think this through and bring any provisions with us—plus she hit me in the head yesterday—and trying to ignore how my feet are killing me in my Chucks that have little to no sole support left.
“Do you have to keep singing?” I grouse when she goes from one song into the next.
She falters. “Sorry. It’s how I fill the quiet. I can’t stand the TV—you saw all that’s on mine—and music is about all I have other than books.”
Now I feel like an asshole.
“How long have you been a jewel thief?” she asks.
“Are we making small talk now?”
She huffs. “You’re right. I thought it might be a preferable way to fill the silence.
Guess I was wrong.” On her next breath, she launches into some pop song at the top of her lungs.
It’s complete with her dancing, swaying her hips, skipping in her step, and running her hands up her sides.
I can’t tell if Miss Innocent knows what she’s doing and is a fucking tease or if she’s totally clueless, which is such an annoying, frustrating turn-on.
Blood surges to my cock because, of course, it does. Why should anything about this bullshit be easy?
“Can you go two minutes without making noise or moving unnecessarily?”
I get a coy look that isn’t helping the cock situation. “No. Want me to go louder?”
Yes.
I grunt instead.
“You could simply talk to me, and then I wouldn’t sing.”
“Or you could shut. The fuck. Up.”
She doesn’t get to be sexy or innocent or sing like an angel. She’s a means to an end. A job I’m working. I want my tiara back. I want to make her mother suffer. I want my necklace too. I’m repeating myself. I know this. But it’s a mantra that will see me through.
She laughs. Actually laughs. “I could. But where’s the fun in that when I annoy you so beautifully?”
For fuck’s sake.
“I thought you didn’t want to talk to me. Isn’t that what you said? The less we talk the better?”
She shrugs, her hands going up at her sides. “I did, but I also spend six out of seven days a week by myself talking to only myself. I befriended a feral cat. At this point, I’d talk to the trees if they responded. So answer me.”
I don’t. Not right away. I’m obstinate and petulant, and fuck my life. This girl has a way about her, doesn’t she?
“I’ve been a thief for twenty or so years. I started back when I was a kid and learned that was the best way to survive when no one gives a shit if you do. I did smaller, petty crimes and slowly learned and worked my way up.”
“Where are you from? I don’t get your accent.”
“I was born in America, then was moved to Ireland when I was seven because I had an aunt there—”
“Wait. Where were your parents?”
“Dead.” I don’t elaborate, nor do I plan to.
“Oh.” She spins around and walks backward as she does a slow, whole-eye sort of blink at me with those silver-gray irises. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t cozy up to me, princess. If you want answers, turn your scrawny ass back around and keep walking. I don’t need nor want pity.”
Her jaw drops. “My ass isn’t scrawny.”
She’s right. It’s not. It’s a very fuckable, two-handful grab, I need to sink my teeth into this kind of ass. But it doesn’t matter.
I twirl my finger in the air, and somehow she does as I ask and turns back around. “Fine. Continue.”
“I lived in Ireland until I was seventeen. After that, I moved around.”
“So you speak…”
“English, Danish, German, French, and Italian.”
Because it seems as though she can’t help herself, she’s facing me again with an enthusiastic smile. “I speak English, German, French, and Italian.”
“Goodie-goodie-gumdrops for you.”
She glares. “You’re trying very hard to be a dick, aren’t you?”
“If you wanted to see how hard my dick can be, all you had to do was ask.”
Once again, that jaw drops, and now my hard dick is picturing itself inside that perfect O.
“You realize I could take your gun out and shoot you.”
“But you won’t, so let’s stop with all of this friendly, getting-to-know-you chitchat.”
I get her back, but she doesn’t stop.
“Aren’t you afraid of getting caught?”
I sigh. She’s not going to stop, is she? “Sure,” I say, kicking a rock and watching it skip down the road. “That’s part of the thrill.”
“Except you’ll go to prison.”
“Juries never indict blokes who look like me.”
She snorts a laugh. “You’re not that good-looking.”
I grin at the back of her head. “But you do think I’m good-looking. That’s all I need.”
“You realize you’re the only human other than my mother I’ve seen since I was six. Right now, even these trees are looking pretty good to me.”
I choke down my laugh. “Then go cozy up to one of them.”
“Are you good at it?” she continues, ignoring me. “You must be if you had a necklace like that and haven’t been caught.”
“I’m very good at it.” My eyebrows bounce suggestively when she falls in pace beside me, but because she’s as virginal as the driven snow, she doesn’t pick up on my innuendo. I’ve officially hit a new low.
“I don’t agree with what you do, but one day I hope to be that good at something I love.”
We fall silent—well, I’m silent, she’s singing again—and that’s how it goes for the better part of two hours until we reach the outskirts of the village.
Princess’s eyes widen as she takes in the buildings, shops, cafés, and people meandering about.
“It’s worth the risk to you,” she murmurs, her eyes round and unblinking. “That’s what you said, right?”
“Something like that.”
She swallows, her head swivels in my direction, and she kills me with her wonderstruck expression. “Then I’ve decided I’m seeing this through. No matter what. Come what may.”
Of course she is. Shit.