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And carv'd in iv'ry such a maid, so fair, As Nature could not with his art compare.
Bass caught the sword as it stabbed at his heart and deflected it, punching Charlie in the face at the same time. She dropped back, sucked blood from her split lip and spat a gob of bright scarlet on the polished floor. Her eyebrows were pulled together, a crease folded in the fine skin, and he really should let her know about the way it relaxed just before she moved.
One day.
She thrust low, aiming for his thigh, and got close enough the point of her sword caught the seam of his trousers. Good try, but she'd over-committed. Bass slapped her shoulder and cheek, the razor edge of the sword laying open a hair-line scratch on her pale skin.
'Dead.'
She heaved a frustrated sigh, her lower lip flirting with a pout. 'You win.'
'Again.'
That earned him a wry, half-smile as she tucked her sword under her arm and pulled her gloves off. She wiped her thumb over her cheekbone, smudging the neat line of blood. 'Again,' she acknowledged. 'I'm never going to be as good as you.'
There was hero-worship in her voice, not aspiration. A good teacher would nip that in the bud. It had been a long time since Bass was a good anything. He caught Charlie's waist and pulled her close, her body curving sweetly against his.
'You don't need to be,' he said, kissing the penny-salt taste of blood from the corner of her mouth. Her hand curled around his neck, pulling her up onto her toes. 'Just be better than everyone else.'
Pleas'd with his idol, he commends, admires, Adores; and last, the thing ador'd, desires.
He sprawled on his stomach in his over-sized bed, one arm hooked around a pillow, and pretended to be asleep. Charlie was a willing lover, pliant and eager, but she rarely initiated. He was General Monroe, or sir, and she was always mindful of the boundaries of authority.
She never touched him without invitation – except when she thought he was asleep.
Warm, silky skin pressed against him from shoulder to thigh, her chin tucked against his neck and her breasts soft against his back. Slim fingers played with his hair, tugging at the short-cropped curls with lazy amusement.
Their guns lay together on the bedside table, loaded and within reach. An odd sort of domesticity.
He'd taken her so Miles couldn't save her, poked and pried until he found the fracture points to snap her apart. Except Charlie was resilient. She still woke up whimpering from nightmares – clinging to him for comfort from the horrors he'd inflicted – but the seams of scar tissue holding her together were strong. Given no other option but to accept his world, she'd adapted flawlessly to it.
It was mad, of course, and vaguely narcissistic, to love a girl you'd broken and remade in your own image. Only how could he not? She was perfect and she wanted him and loved him, just as much and in all the ways he'd always needed.
She yawned against his throat, breath warm and damp, and her hand slid down his shoulder and over the hard slab of his ribs. Her fingers tucked into the dip of his hipbone and her knee nudged between his thighs.
Maybe she wasn't entirely convinced he was asleep. Bass rolled over, already hard, and they fucked lazily in the rumpled sheets. His fingers left bruises on her hips and he licked and suckled at her throat and breasts, so that there was nowhere Miles could touch her that he hadn't been first.
It caught the carver with his own deceit: He knows 'tis madness, yet he must adore.
His sisters used to collect trading cards, shiny backed and stored neatly in boxes with butterflies and ponies on them. When their friends came round they'd have 'very serious' haggling sessions that revolved around both getting cards and stopping the other girls from getting a better pack than you. He'd never got it. The only toys he'd ever been that interested in were guns and war games and he'd shared them all with Miles.
Except now here he was with the full set of Mathesons – the ones still alive anyhow. Of course, some of them you just had for completion's sake, not because they were any use on their own. Bass unlocked Danny's door and let himself in. The boy bolted to his feet and glared at him, eyes fierce under the shaggy crop of blond hair.
'You monster,' he said. 'Sick bastard.'
The monster was familiar, the sick was new. 'What makes you say that?' he asked.
Colour scalded the boy's face. 'Charlie told me. About you and...about you raping my sister.'
A cold, clear anger and dark hurt pushed at Bass – if Charlie had played him for a fool...
'Is that what Charlie told you?' he asked, voice pleasantly precise. He saw the lie in the twist of the boy's mouth as he turned his back. 'No, of course she didn't. You should ask Charlie about believing too many of your mother's stories.'
Danny jerked his shoulders. 'Why can't you leave her alone? You got me and Uncle Miles now, Mom will do what you say. Let Charlie go.'
'You're not my type,' Bass said. It wasn't entirely true. He'd considered breaking the boy too, but he didn't think he was as...capable of adapting as Charlie. Break Danny and he'd shatter – assuming the asthma didn't get him first. 'And she doesn't want to leave.'
'She doesn't know what she wants,' Danny said, hunching his shoulders up. 'She wants to go home. That's what she'd want.'
It was a risk, but...'Ask her,' Bass told him. He'd always enjoyed the quivery thrill of putting something you couldn't afford to lose – your paycheque, your future, Miles' car – into the pot. 'If she wants to go, I'll let her.'
The thrill was even better when you were the house and could renege if you didn't like the stakes. 'In fact, why not do it now? Charlie would love to see you. She missed you.'
That took the starch out of the boy's spine. He slumped, rubbing his hand through his hair, and nodded agreement. Bass snapped cuffs on him and escorted him through the halls to his mother's private park. No Rachel today, she was working, but Bass had left Charlie with Miles. He was a bit disappointed that the most inappropriate Miles had gotten was a hand on Charlie's hip. Not exactly avuncular, but Miles moved it so quickly that Bass doubted Danny had noticed.
A shame, if the boy thought Bass was a sick freak, what would he make of his uncle?
Then Charlie turned around and smiled, a huge, crazily joyful grin that lit up her whole face from chin to big blue eyes. It was completely artless and it took Bass' breath away, until he realised it wasn't for him.
'Danny,' Charlie crowed, flying into her little brother's arms and squeezing him enthusiastically.
Once she'd done that she glanced at Bass, giving him a hesitant, grateful smile. 'Thank you, Sir. Can we...?'
She gestured at the park, cocking sandy brows curiously, and got of permission to take her brother out of earshot. Hand in his, Charlie dragged him away – with Bass watching them and Miles watching Bass.
'She's just glad to see him,' Miles said carefully, coming over to stand at Bass' elbow. 'Bass, all she wants is to please you.'
It would please him if she smiled at him like that, like he was the best thing in the world.
'I'm fine, Miles,' Bass said, his voice pleasantly false. 'I know how much she loves her brother.' And how frightened she was for Danny 'earning' one of her old punishments. 'She practically raised him.'
Miles nodded, looking relieved, and drew him away to talk about the rebels and strategy. Bass nodded and consulted the maps, and in the back of his mind wondered when he could afford to kill the boy. He needed him for now, a hostage for his mother's good behaviour, but once the amplifier was completed... He couldn't trust him, and he couldn't trust Charlie when anything but him could make her smile like that.
A tragic accident, a flicker on inspiration changed that to a Rebel caused tragic accident, and dead-Danny would just tie Miles and Charlie more strongly to him.
The offer of revenge could be an even better hostage than a family member
He kisses her white lips, renews the bliss, And looks, and thinks they redden at the kiss.