NORTHFAIR

"Shit!" Elijah hisses when his car stops moving. "You've got to be kidding me." He steps out, closing his cloak to hide the gun from view. The last thing he needs is to attract the attention of the police in the middle of Northfair.

His phone rings, and he takes the call as he opens the hood of the vehicle. There's smoke coming out of it, and he curses Ezra's name. He isn't surprised that he gave him a car that's a step away from death.

"Nice to hear from you, too," a voice says in his ear, and he drops the hood in surprise. It falls onto the engine with a clash and the phone slips out of his hand and on the asphalt.

He reaches under the car and picks it up. "E," he breathes out, "I wasn't expecting you to call."

"Yeah, well, I'm calling you back."

Elijah stills. "What do you mean, you're calling me back?"

"I've had the pleasure to have a conversation with our friend in Pans about a week ago," Ezra says. "There has been... a change of plans."

He doesn't like the sound of that. "What change?"

"She has decided to betray us and run away with him."

Elijah chokes on his own breath. "What?" It isn't true—it can't be true. Alouette would never. She believes in the Revolution's cause like no one else. Hell, her father made the Revolution. She'd never go against it—they're her family. "There must be a mistake—"

"No mistake," Ezra replies. "Come back home, now. We can't afford to waste any more resources on someone that doesn't want to be saved."

"You're lying!" Elijah exclaims, and the light turns on at the window above his head. He immediately lowers his voice. It's almost five in the morning, he doesn't need people waking up and minding his business. "Something has to have happened. He must be threatening her."

Ezra sighs. "She isn't being forced to do anything. She shot at us, more than once, and she chose to—"

"She shot at you?!" Elijah has completely forgotten about his screwed vehicle now. "You met her? In person?"

"That I did."

He clenches his teeth. "Why didn't you tell me?! I could've talked to her! I could've helped—"

"She doesn't want to be helped," Ezra tells him, "so come back to me, Elijah. There are better things for you to do than chasing her."

"I think you're wrong," he replies. "I need to talk to her. And even if what you're saying is true, she still has him. We can't let her go. We must get them back."

There's a chuckle on the phone. "You know, Elijah, I've always known there was something more to you. Your parents are happy to stand on the sidelines, but you, you want more. You're a fighter, and I like that about you."

Elijah leans against the hood of the car, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"And that's why I'm telling you to come back to me. You're wasted on this job—I could have you planning a meeting instead. We must take advantage of the fact that he's missing—" Meeting. Another word for attack. Everything to avoid being flagged in calls.

"He was missing even when we met the first time, and yet it was a disaster." He shakes his head. "No, I know her. She isn't siding with him—if she was, he'd be back here already. She's seeing something we aren't."

"She's not seeing anything but treason," Ezra scoffs. "She isn't the person you used to know anymore—"

"I'll find her." His tone is dismissive, and even his leader hears the finality of it. "I've done all you've asked of me for months without saying a word, but I need to do this now. For me. For her." For Amina, because he promised her he'd bring her sister back.

"Two weeks, Elijah," Ezra says. "Do you hear me? Either come back within two weeks, or don't bother coming back at all. You've done nothing but wasting time."

Elijah has to bite his tongue to keep himself from remarking that his search has only been fruitless because Ezra didn't tell him about Alouette being in Pans. He was able to follow her out of Northfair and into Whitsen, but her traces had disappeared quickly. If he'd told her she was in the old country—

He closes his eyes and lets out a sigh. There's no need to keep thinking about what ifs, now. He has a job to do, and not much time at all. "I'll find out what happened," he says into the phone, and the call is closed.

He hides his face in his hands. He could scream. He came to Northfair in hopes of discovering something more—he'd hoped there would be voices going around about the kidnapping. But it turned out that the Palace has tried its hardest to keep everything quiet, and now he's just found out he was in the wrong place all along, because Alouette is—was—on the other side of the country. And now his car has died out, and he's stuck. And it's also five in the morning. He wouldn't be surprised if it started raining, now.

He raises his head to the sky, immediately dreading the thought, but the night is clear—though the lights of the city are too bright to see the stars.

He misses being on the roof with Alouette—watching the stars, watching Dacran. It feels like centuries have passed since they were last there together. He wonders what she's doing—if Ezra's right. A voice in his head screams that he isn't, that there must be an explanation. He chooses to follow it, because he doesn't think he'd be able to deal with the other option.

He goes over the things Ezra told him in silence. The engine of the car is cold, now, and so is the hood. He sits on it and pulls his knees to his chest.

Last week, Alouette was in Pans, but she escaped. She shot at the Revolution, so it's reasonable to think they went after her. Knowing her, she wouldn't stick around where she can be caught for long. She would find a new hiding place.

But where could she go? The Revolution has people all over the old country, but the Palace controls the rest of the country. A place where she'd be safe from both—somewhere no one knows...

A memory comes back to him.

The day he first met her.

Elijah unlocks the door to the roof and steps out. He's only seven, but his father thought to teach him that trick, in case he ever ends up locked somewhere he doesn't want to be. The door to the generator often locks itself, and his dad is sure Elijah will grow up to be just like him—and so he showed him how to break free if he ever forgets his keys.

It's summer, but the air is a little chilly. The moon is bright, but the city is brighter. It makes him happy. He hops to the railing, counting the jumps it takes him to reach it. The metal digs into his arms when he clings to it.

"How did you do it?"

He gasps and turns around. His pins slip out of his hand and fall down to the street, four floors below. There's a girl behind him—she seems to be around his age, and is looking at him curiously. "What?"

"The door. It didn't open for me," she explains. She seems nice, but Elijah eyes her suspiciously. He's never seen her before, and he knows everyone at the Revolution. Home.

"I unlocked it," he explains. "With hairpins."

Her eyes glint. "Can you show me?"

"I dropped them," he says, pointing to the street. "You scared me."

She tilts her head, but her smile doesn't fade. "Tomorrow, then."

Elijah finds himself nodding along. What a strange girl, she is. He can't figure her out. "Tomorrow."

She joins him at the railing and looks at the shiny city that can be seen in the distance. It's pretty at night. "My home's there," she says, pointing in its direction. She frowns. "I mean, it was there. Now it's here."

"You're new," Elijah says. It's a statement.

She nods. "I am, but my dad isn't. He says it's his workplace."

"Here?" he asks curiously, and she nods again.

"He said not to leave my room, too, but I got bored. I don't like being alone."

"Where is your mom?" He bites his tongue as soon as he asks.

She doesn't seem to mind, though, and points at the glittering city. "There," she replies. "She stayed there. She didn't want to come."

"Why?"

"She thinks it's dangerous, I think." She furrows her eyebrows. "My parents are always arguing about it. I don't think I understand. But my dad thinks it's safer here, for us." She shrugs. "It's alright. Mom says she'll come here every other day, and then I also can go to her if I want to."

"Do you want to?" Elijah asks.

"I don't know yet," she replies honestly. "Maybe I'll like it here. What's your name?"

"Elijah." He puts his chin on the railing. It's cold. "Yours?"

"Alouette." She chuckles. "Like the bird."

Elijah smiles then. "I can teach you to open the door tomorrow after lunch."

She beams. "Thanks." Then, she pulls out a little packet. "By the way, do you want a peanut?"

The light of an advertisement flickers above Elijah's head, and he smiles.

In time, she shared more with him—enough information for him to have an idea of the position of her mother's apartment in the city—if it's still there.

Maybe he knows where she is, now. It might be a long shot, but he can't do much else.

Now, though, he needs a car.

He dials a new number and puts his phone to his ear. He hears it ringing, and then the call is picked up.

"Elijah?" a tired voice says. "Why are you calling me now—are you okay?"

"Hey, Elodie. I'm all right, but I need you to help me."

There's a moment of silence. "Help you? How?"

"I need a car."

Elodie hums. "If you can make it to Whitsen before eight, I can make some calls."

"I'll be there."

"Good." He can hear it in her voice that she's counting the seconds that separate her from going back to sleep.

"Thank you, Ellie."

She scoffs. "Yeah, okay. Do me a favour and try not to get yourself killed." She closes the call, and Elijah chuckles.

He hops off the hood and opens it again, trying to understand something of the engine. If only he managed to make it work long enough to reach Whitsen—

Another cloud of smoke rises from it, and Elijah turns around to cough. This is a mess.

"Is everything all right?"

He turns around fast, and slips his phone in his pocket when he sees that a government vehicle has stopped beside him. This is the last thing he needs—the attention of the Palace guards. Maybe someone up above does hate him, after all.

"All good," he replies.

The man behind the wheel puts his elbow on the open window and looks at him sarcastically. "That doesn't look all good," he says, pointing to the car. "That thing looks like it's about to blow up."

Elijah tilts his head. "I'm counting on the fact that it won't."

There's a short laugh coming from the guard. Behind them, another government vehicle flares its headlights at them, and he can see that the man he's talking to has red hair. The guard rolls his eyes. "Where are you going?"

"Whitsen," Elijah replies. He knows he's starting to tread dangerous territory—it's a guard of the Palace he's talking to. But the man doesn't know who he is, and that gives him an advantage.

"I'm passing through there," the guard says. "Want to hop in?"

Elijah gives him a half-shocked look. This he wasn't expecting at all. But he isn't in the position to ignore the offer—not to say that it'd make him look suspicious if he did. "Sure."

He gets in, and the car behind them flashes its headlights again.

"Oh fuck off, Jackson, I'm going," the guard mutters, showing the person behind them the middle finger—not that they can see him, through the darkened windows of the vehicle. Considering they're likely from the Palace as well, it's probably a good thing. "Why are you around so late?"

"Work," Elijah answers easily. Working for Ezra over the past months has taught him to lie easily. "But my car had other plans."

"I can see. It's not safe to go around at this time, too. You were lucky you didn't meet anyone dangerous."

Elijah has no intention of telling him that, aside from the President, he's the most dangerous person he could meet.

"What's your name?"

"Aaron," Elijah says.

The guard nods. "We'll be there soon, Aaron. I hope you don't mind—we're a little busy."

Elijah gives him a side-glance. "I can only imagine. There are voices going around." It's only a half-truth, but he studies the red-haired guard's reaction attentively—and it's then that he realises that he seems to be a couple of years younger than him.

"Voices?" he asks, his face not giving away anything.

"About the President," Elijah says carefully. "It's been a while since the last time he made a speech."

"The President is busy," the guard replies. "All is well. There have simply been too many things to do lately, and he's very hardworking."

So that's what they're going for.

Elijah nods. "That's good to hear."

They make some small conversation, and Elijah is careful not too reveal anything, and not to say anything that will make the guard grow suspicious of him. This must be the weirdest situation he's ever been in.

After about an hour, the guard parks his car on a street that passes through the first buildings of Whitsen. "This is the closest I can take you," he says.

"Thanks again," Elijah replies, and then he gets out of the car.

The two vehicles speed away, and he starts walking.

First, he has to get a car. Then, he's going straight to Dacran.

•     •     •

OLD COUNTRY

"Congratulations, my President. You must be thrilled."

Harry's head turns to the door. Kiara is standing in the frame. Despite the teasing edge in her voice, her arms are folded and her expression is hard. She's looking at him as if she can't decide whether he revolts or intrigues her.

Harry looks away. Their last conversation is still fresh enough in his mind to make him wonder what she's doing here. He doesn't want to see her. He frowns. No, he does want to see her, but there's something in him, an urge that tells him to put as much distance as possible between them. He's a ticking time bomb, and he doesn't want her beside him when he'll finally explode. "What do you want from me, Kiara?" he asks, phantom tension in his voice, rounding his desk.

She purses her lips. "I've already told you what I want."

He inhales sharply and forces himself to clench his teeth until he's sure he's not going to say something that will hurt her. Hurting people is all he seems to be able to do, as of late. Either everyone around him has become more sensitive than usual, or he's less in touch with his feelings than he thinks. "Why must you constantly ask of me what I cannot give?" The answer seems poised enough to him, but hurt flashes through her eyes either way. There's truly no right way to go about it, anymore.

"That's not true." Kiara takes a step towards him, and it surprises him how aware of the distance between them he is. Too many things have happened as of late. She sighs. "I don't want to have this conversation anymore. I'm not that kind of girl—I can tell when I'm not wanted." She lets out a sour laugh. Harry supposes it should hurt him, but it doesn't. Ever since the afternoon his father died, it's like someone has stolen all his emotions and locked them in a box, far away from his reach. "But I'm worried about you, Harry," she continues. "Something is happening, and I don't know how to help you."

"I've never asked for your help," he says, "nor I need it. Everything is exactly how it should be."

"I don't believe that."

He turns away from her and starts ordering the papers on his desk. His father has left him with nothing but disasters to fix. It surprises him to realise he's tense, now. "Be sure to tell me if there's anything you need," he tells her. "I can take care of you, if you wish. But don't ask more of me."

"Oh, Harry." She chokes back a sob. An instant later, her arms wrap around him from behind.

Harry gasps and turns around, shoving her away from him on instinct. She stumbles back, her eyes wide, but catches her footing before falling. His heart is hammering in his chest, and his hands are gripping the desk so hard his knuckles have turned white. For a moment he can't breathe, shadows close over him.

There's blood on the carpet. It spreads and spreads and it's choking him.

There's a hand around his wrist, gripping him so tightly he won't be surprised if it leaves a bruise. Its fingers are like claws and they won't let him go.

The door is locked with a click, grey eyes pierce his. He can't escape, he can't—

He blinks and sees the lights of the office above his head. There's no blood on the floor at his feet, and from the way Kiara is looking at him, he understands some moments have passed. When he tries to pry his hands off the desk, he realises he's trembling.

"Harry?" Kiara calls him gently, but there are grey spots in his vision. He can still feel that grip on him, and how it suddenly went slack when he—

He's slumped against the desk, but she doesn't close the distance between them. He's grateful for that.

It's the place, he tells himself. His father's office always puts him on edge. It doesn't mean anything else.

He looks up. The light above his head is bright enough to chase away the shadows, and he takes a deep breath. Then another. He starts calming down, but that lingering tension doesn't leave his muscles, as if he subconsciously expects to be attacked at any second. But nobody comes for him, because the only thing after him is his ghosts, now.

"I'm sorry," he whispers out, and he's surprised to find out that he actually means it. "I didn't expect you to touch me." Not in his father's studio, where every kind of physical contact ended in pain.

Kiara observes him in silence. A moment passes, then two. He too starts to settle, stands up properly and fixes his clothes, avoiding her eyes. He feels naked—it's been his well-kept secret for months. By now all his guards know not to ever touch him without his permission, and so does Evie. But he couldn't tell Kiara, because she knows everything. Telling her would be admitting his father left a lasting mark on him. He may be gone, but he haunts every minute of every hour of every day, and Harry feels like he could jump out of his own skin. This makes him vulnerable, and he doesn't like it.

A full year has passed, and yet he can't stop himself from reacting when people touch him unexpectedly. He supposes it's an improvement, either way. Only eight months ago, he snapped at anyone that came within four feet of him—everyone but Kiara. But Kiara hasn't hugged him in months, and he wasn't even looking at her, and he truly wasn't expecting it.

She slowly steps closer, looking at him as if she's trying to read in his eyes if and when her presence will become too much for him to bear. When she's close enough for him to see the blue of her eyes, she stops. "Can I hug you?" she asks. Her voice is a little broken.

He nods—he doesn't know why. He doesn't need a hug. He doesn't need anything but the quietude of his office and a drink. But he still nods.

She throws her arms around his neck. She hugs him, tight, like she wants to make up for all the months he's spent distancing himself from her. Harry can't bring himself to hug her back. He's certain his father's death has shattered something in him, now. He'd never refused one of her hugs before.

"I hate him for what he did to you," Kiara whispers into his ear.

What he did to you. The five words send a shiver down his spine. They smell like pity. Like weakness. They bring back memories he's been desperately trying to bury for the past year—they bring back the nightmares that haunt him every night and the crimson drops on the floor of the office and the fear and the feeling of hopelessness. They all felt like an inevitability to him back then, but now they're enough to make him feel sick. He wants to scream, he wants to break something.

But he doesn't.

He puts his hands on her arms and gently pushes her back. "I hate him as well," he says, schooling his expression to say nothing at all, "but hate can only bring me so far." He gives her the phantom of a smile, one that tastes a little too sour on his tongue. One that will make it look like everything is fine. "I want to ruin him. I want to destroy everything he spent decades building and recreate it all under my name. I want to erase him, and this is how I'm going to do it, Kiara." The smile on his face doesn't feel so much like a well-kept lie anymore. "By being so much better than him."

"But I keep seeing you make his same choices," she murmurs hopelessly. There's heartbreak in her eyes, as if it pains her to compare him to his father.

Harry turns to look at the floor-to-ceiling window. "It's something I've realised," he says, without meeting her eyes. He's spent a long time reading every record, every page, everything his father left behind. He now knows the reality he's facing—his father's hate has spread out of the walls of his office, and it has stained the entire country. If everything around him is corrupted, there's only one way to stand out. "The only way to be better than him is to be so much worse." If the world is chaos and cruelty, he'll be the ruthless leader it needs.

"That doesn't sound right."

"It doesn't have to, because it's true." He hisses in a breath through his teeth. He suddenly feels foolish for letting her in like this. "You wouldn't understand." She's been by his side for so many years, but she doesn't know what it means to be in his position. He was born for this. He understands. She doesn't—she can't. She doesn't understand that feeling of powerlessness, of not being good enough, the fear that he'll be killed and replaced as soon as he lets down his guard. He may be controlling the Palace, but it isn't his. Not yet, at least. If something has to happen, it'll happen now.

He only has a few moments to establish his control over everything, or he'll die. He must show them he isn't weak—that if they were scared of his father, they should be terrified of him. He has to buy their loyalty with fear, because it's the most efficient way to do so.

"I don't like this," Kiara admits.

"I haven't asked for your permission." Harry casually rounds the desk and puts more distance between them. It's easier to think this way. A corner of his lips turns up. "You'll see. I'll build an empire. I'll make it all worth it." The pain, the heartbreak, the wasted years. Until a year ago, he despised the thought of becoming President. It was the reason behind his father's violence, behind everything that went wrong in his life. But now, he sees it's the only way to make it all have a meaning. His role in his life is to take over after the death of his father. It's why he was born—it's the reason of his existence. He can't walk away from it, and he doesn't want to anymore.

This is what he was always meant to do. And now that he has everything in the palm of his hand, he's discovering he likes it. Control is a powerful thing—once tasted, it's never enough. He likes the idea of creating his own little universe with rules of his own making. It makes him feel untouchable, invincible. As long as it stands, nothing will go wrong for him ever again.

Kiara lets out a laugh. "Aren't you being a little too ambitious, now?"

Harry puts away the papers on the desk, getting ready to walk down to the main hall. "I was just declared President at twenty years old, nothing is too ambitious for me." He purposely leaves out the little detail that it only happened because he and Kiara killed the previous one—his father certainly didn't expect that outcome when he raised him to be his successor. But it isn't Harry's fault, not truly. He shouldn't have expected him not to turn around and bite when hate and anger were all he taught him.

"Maybe you're right," she gives in. "But I need you to promise me one thing, Harry." She frowns. "No, two."

"What are they?" He half-listens to her. His attention is to the time, he's supposed to have a meeting soon. It's his first meeting with the guards of the Palace—his only chance to win them all over. He's treading the edge of a knife for now—he can't afford to slip and fall, because it's the last thing he'll do.

"Don't lose yourself," Kiara says. "I know you, how you really are. You are so much better than he ever was, and I mean genuinely better. Don't let him make you into the monster he wanted you to become." She pauses for a moment. "And take care of yourself. You're barely holding up. You know I'm here for you, and I'll always be."

Something melts inside of Harry for a short moment, and his eyes meet hers. "I know."

She clears her throat and looks at the time. "Go, now. You can't be late." When he's out of the door, she shouts after him, "and consider changing office."

Harry clenches his teeth. So she noticed. He feels like he's just accidentally let her in a little more, and he doesn't like it.

But changing office wouldn't be a bad idea—changing everything, too. He could move one floor down, and maybe his shadows won't chase him there.

He steps out of the lift and walks to the dining room. It's completely empty, and big enough to hold a few hundred people—just the ones that matter throughout the Palace. Even though he's been in his father's role for a year, only a few people on the upper floor knew. He kept the death a secret as long as he could while he was recovering from the aftermath of that cursed afternoon in the office, because they would've never accepted him when he could barely hold himself up. And so he waited until he could stand his ground and learnt as much as he could. To the lower floors, he's just taken on the role.

This is his last performance—the last act of the play of the unfortunate death of his father. Once he gets everyone to believe him, nothing will be able to stop him, and he will be clean of that stain.

He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. He only has one chance to win them over.

The room grows eerily silent in the moment he walks inside. He steps on the podium and stares at the faces in front of him. Some are looking at him warily, not knowing what to expect. Others, arrogantly. It annoys him, but he understands it. To them, he must be little more than a spoiled child.

He'll change their mind.

"Good afternoon, I'm Harry Styles," he speaks. There's no room for hesitation or mistake. "I'm the former President's son—bless his poor soul." The words taste like bile, but he forces himself to let them out. He can't let them know he's partly behind his father's death. Everything would fall apart if they found out, because his family would look weak. But the Styles family isn't weak. It has never been, and he's ready to show them he'll be a perfect match to his father. "Now that I'm in control, things are going to change here." His speech for the population was more gentle, subtle, full of reassurances. But he doesn't bother speaking like that in the Palace. No, he has to let them know he knows what he's doing. "I trust that—"

"Fucking murderer!" A man breaks out of the crowd, pointing his finger at him. "I'll never follow you, you're a fucking assassin! You kil—"

There's a gunshot and he falls to the ground with a thud. People scream and step back.

Harry keeps his gaze focused on the spot where the wall and ceiling meet at the end of the room, but he can still see the pool of blood spreading on the floor. A chill runs down his spine, he could puke.

The shot has come from someone behind him—no doubt one of his upper floor guards. He's never given permission to shoot to kill during the meeting.

Every time he blinks, the body in front of him is replaced by the one of his father, spread out on the carpet of his office one floor up. The phantom pain of the ribs he cracked that day takes his breath away momentarily. This isn't right. But he doesn't turn around to reprimand the guard. Instead, he raises a hand.

Three more guards run to the middle of the room. The body is covered and taken away, the floor cleaned. Harry keeps his gaze focused in the distance until the floor is as perfectly white as before.

He feels a little shaken by the cold-blooded murder carried out in his name, but he doesn't let it show. This is his father's legacy. This is the man he used to be, and compared to him, he cannot show weakness.

And so, he glances around the room and says, "Other questions?"

The crowd looks back at him with wide eyes. Not a single whisper lifts from them.

"Very well," he continues. "I understand this is an important change for everyone, so I'll give everyone a chance. If you do not approve of me, leave now, because anyone found in the Palace without their heart in my rule will be killed by Friday." The silence is eerie, now. "I may be young, but don't let that fool you. If you cross me, I won't show the mercy I did today." His gaze touches the spot that was just cleaned on the floor, a subtle warning. Death is a merciful way to go compared to what he'll do to everyone that goes against him.

He turns around, and as he goes he stops in front of the guard that killed the man. He's rather tall, and has icy blue eyes that would make him uncomfortable, if he believed he still had a soul he could see.

"You killed him," he whispers, the hint of an accusation in his voice. You killed in my name. I did not tell you to. A man is dead and it's my fault, because you did it for me and I didn't stop your hand.

The guard bows his head. "I would do anything for you, sir. You have my most complete loyalty, as you've had for the past year."

So Harry was right, the man is from the upper floors. He narrows his eyes, observing him carefully. He doesn't seem to be lying, and Harry has always had a talent for spotting honesty.

His reprimand stops in his throat. "What's your name?" he asks instead. It's more of a statement than a question, and the guard stands even straighter.

"Jackson, sir. Julian Jackson."

Harry considers the name for a moment. "Very well, Mr. Jackson," he then says. "I'll remember your name."

He walks past him and into the corridor. He wants to hide somewhere in the Palace and get drunk.

"Harry!"

He recognises Kiara's voice coming from behind him.

"Harry! Wait!"

"Harry."

"Harry."

His eyelids flutter, there's sunlight in his eyes.

"Harry."

He blinks a few times, struggling to make sense of what's around him. His eyes comes into focus, slowly, and he realises Alouette's face is inches away from his.

"Well, hello," she says when she realises he's finally awake, a smile on her lips. "I've never seen you sleep so deeply. I had to call you five times."

Five times? The past few nights must've caught up to him. For a moment, he's speechless. His tiredness is still clinging to him, his memory a movie in the background of his mind, and he's struggling to find a way out. Alouette crawls out of the car and leaves him to lie alone on the backseat. He sits up, slowly, brushing his curls out of his face and blinking at the light coming from outside. It must be late morning, maybe even midday, judging from it alone.

Jackson.

Harry wonders. But there's no room for faraway thoughts, so he opens the door and steps outside. He isn't wearing a coat, and the cold air wakes up that part of his soul that's still tied to his dreams.

Alouette is going through her backpack now, and he stops to look at her, tilting his head. The memories of the night before come back to him and leave him unsettled.

Harry knows all there is to know about sex. He knows what to do with his fingers, his tongue, where to lick, where to bite, how to make someone cry out, how to make them beg, how to make them worship him like no one ever has before. And, if he's comfortable enough, he also knows how to relinquish control, how to let himself be swept away in the moment.

And knowing all this, he still doesn't know what the fuck happened between him and Alouette. He's never let himself go in that way before, not even with Kiara—though he came close.

But Alouette is nothing like Kiara. To him, they're more like polar opposites. The only reason Kiara has ever fought him for was his appreciation, his love—or lack thereof. Alouette has fought him out of hate—she's come close to killing him more than once. The same things he used to push Kiara away, he's afraid of letting Alouette see.

He doesn't want her to go away.

He still doesn't precisely know what he wants from her, but he cannot let her slip out of his fingers.

He's desired, truly desired, many things in the past six years. He's desired power, influence, money, control. But he's never desired a person before. A breathing, living person. Someone who isn't afraid of challenging him—someone who isn't afraid of aiming a gun at his head and putting a knife in his hand and seeing what he'll do.

Maybe he wants to laugh.

He's spent so long hating people, because people hurt, betray others, because they can't be trusted. And now he's come face to face with the only one that wanted him dead and wasn't afraid of trying to kill him, and suddenly he is the one that can't kill her.

Not that he wants to, anymore.

Alouette puts an apple in his hand. "Take it as lunch, because we have nothing else for now."

Harry pulls out a knife and cuts the apple open under her gaze. He spies her reaction from the corner of his eye, waiting for her to notice.

Some seconds pass in silence, and then she gasps.

"That's my knife!" she exclaims, an outraged look on her face. "When did you—"

"Last night," Harry replies smoothly, putting a slice of apple in his mouth.

"Last ni—" Her voice suddenly dies out. Her eyes widen. And he's certain, now, that she's replaying it all in her mind. Her mouth on him, his moans, his taste, his touch sliding down her lower back, a moment before she pinned his wrists down. A moment too late, though, and she was a little too taken to notice him slipping the knife out of her pocket.

He feels a dark, sarcastic smile curve his lips and nonchalantly leans against the car, waiting for her to process it all. It puzzles him how she can be so innocent and the exact opposite at the same time. She intrigues him, a lot, because every time he thinks he can finally figure her out, his understanding slips through his fingers.

And she likes him.

Like. What a word. Part of him wants to ask her what is it that she likes about him—he's shown her parts of him that would've made anyone else run away, and yet, the more she sees, the more she wants to see. It's an odd kind of acceptance, hers. He can't quite make it out. If her morals are as strong as she believes them to be, how can she be so taken by him?

He knows the truth. There are shadows in her, shadows she isn't even aware of. Something alike him resonates from inside her, and maybe that's the reason why he helped her. Maybe he wanted to see what she'd do.

"You had a knife in your hand when I was...?!" Alouette hisses, shock on her face. Harry doesn't bother to let her know he technically only held a knife for the few seconds it took him to slide it into his own pocket.

"And you had a gun at your waist, I thought you were setting the atmosphere?"

For a moment, she looks ready to jump him—he can't quite tell in which way. It makes it all a little more entertaining. "I can't believe you," she mutters, turning around.

He wraps an arm around her waist to stop her from leaving. "It was simply instinct," he murmurs in her ear. "I can assure you I meant every second."

She leans into him and raises an arm. Her fingers curl around the back of his neck and maybe Harry needs a moment now, because he wasn't expecting her to pull him closer and his thoughts are rushing so fast they're threatening to jump out of his mind. His skin is warmer where her hand is touching him and he wants nothing pure nor holy. Especially when he's just had a taste of what they could give to each other.

"You know," she whispers, her breath grazes his neck, "hugging would be much more enjoyable for both parties if you weren't holding a knife."

He lifts his hand and—she's right. He did it so fast he forgot he was holding a blade—though he did have enough common sense to tip the sharp edge away from her and half-close it so that he wouldn't accidentally hurt her or himself. "It's closed," he says.

She lets out a whisper of a laugh. "It still isn't that reassuring."

He lets her go and snaps the knife open again, cutting another slice and offering it to her on the tip of the blade. She steals the knife and cuts the slice in half, putting one piece in her mouth and offering him the other. He bites it out of her fingers, and she chuckles while putting the knife away.

"I can't believe you stole my knife again," she mutters under her breath, rounding the car and stepping into the vehicle.

"I can't really use mine to cut food, can I?"

She pauses, and her gaze drifts into the distance for a moment. He has no doubt she's thinking of all the places that blade has been. But she blinks and starts the engine. "True," she says, and then they speed away.

They drive past one city, and then two. Suddenly there are street lamps on the side of the road every hundred feet or so, and Harry tenses a little. They've left the old country—she's going east. No, south-east. He remembers her taking that turn yesterday.

He knows his country better than anyone—which is why he knows that there's a camera attached to every single street lamp. It'd be so easy to pull down the darkened window and have the entire Palace come after them. But he wants to see what she'll do next—he can break free anytime, now. She'll never shoot him, and every city has thousands of cameras. Oddly enough, though, it being so easy makes him want to stay for just a while longer.

He observes her unnoticed, trying to figure her out. She wants to keep him by her side, then why is she taking him where his influence greatly overpowers hers? If he didn't know better, he'd think it makes no sense. But she wouldn't do something without a reason. It's what he likes about her—whether it be her own beliefs or a blind faith in the greater good, she's always driven by something. It's something he can understand as well—the drive. Moving towards a goal. It's one thing that makes him think they might not be that different, after all.

And then, in the distance, he sees three lights. Three towers, glinting like gold under the sun.

It suddenly clicks, and he smiles.

His Alouette is driving him straight to Dacran.

Thank you so much for the 340k reads on this story! It means a lot to me. I hope you enjoyed this chapter x
Miki