Archive of Our Own

The Bridgertons are the enemy.

That was the first truth Kate Sharma ever learned. 

They were the enemy. Nothing else mattered.

It had been written for so long, their feud dragged through so many generations, that few could remember how it had begun. Everyone agreed that it had spawned from a once great friendship. The two original patriarchs, a Bridgerton and a Sharma, had been childhood friends who grew into business partners, and then they’d ruled the city’s underworld together. Until, some calamity brought it all crashing down.

Most believed it was a business deal gone sour. One or the other, depending on which side you were on, had grown too greedy. Taken liberties with the generosity of the other. Stolen their wealth for himself.

Others claimed it was a theft of the heart. A rumour had reached Kate once that her great-grandfather had been betrothed to a beautiful girl who he had loved deeply. Only, when he introduced his fiancé to his best man and business partner, the latter saw the soulmark upon the girl’s arm. A perfect match to his. An undeniable love. The two soulmates ran away together and wed, leaving Sharma alone at the altar with a broken heart - and a vendetta.

Kate was not the type to hold much significance to soulmarks. The pathetically romantic, woefully archaic, and increasingly rare concept was laughable, if you asked her. She scoffed at even the idea that there was some poor fool walking around the earth searching for her. A wasted effort on their part. 

Kate was far too busy keeping her family business running to even pause to think of them, whoever they might be. Negotiating deals on the black market, controlling a volatile network of enforcers, settling debts, and doing all of this under the ever-present threat of her rivals - and the law - took a focused mind. Kate had no space for love.

Her own mark - a pristine white lily, stark against an inky blue night sky, dotted with golden stars that shimmered upon her skin - was as bold and obvious as they come. It stretched from the top of her left breast all the way up to her shoulder, a few stars even scattered upon her neck. It was larger and more intricate than any other she'd seen.

Her father's had been a silvery crescent moon, no bigger than a two-pence piece. Mary's - unsurprisingly not a match to her husbands, given their tempestuous marriage - was a muted pink rosebud wrapped in thorny leaves. Just the year before, on her eighteenth birthday, Edwina's had appeared. The sepia-toned pages of an open book sat delicately upon her wrist.

At first Kate had been horrified by the size and clarity of hers. She suffered sleepless nights wondering what was the significance. Why was she cursed to wear it so blatantly when others could covers theirs should they choose? Did it mean something that for weeks after it first appeared new stars kept appearing when everyone else’s remained static? Why did the constellations glimmer and shift beneath the moonlight, like the image breathed its own life? 

Luckily - if you could put it that way - the untimely death of her father a few weeks after it appeared stripped her mind of any fanciful imaginings. In a moment, her mind was consumed by nothing but her family's survival in a world of warring families and violent streets. 

That night, when both patriarchs of the two rival families succumbed to mortal gun wounds - grave gifts they bestowed upon one another - the city had fallen silent. Some hoped the deaths would finally quell the anger between the two factions. Others feared mighty vengeance. Hope and fear bated the breath of every citizen as they waited for war or peace.

It was war.

Kate’s step-mother, who had barely tolerated her husband in life, decided to mourn him with a theatrical fervour. As she donned her black mink and over-sized sunglasses, she lamented to anyone who would listen that the Bridgerton's would pay. That her children would take up the mantle of hate and burn Bridgerton House to the ground.

At home, Mary stoked the flames of discontent further, feeding her vehemence and hatred to her eldest daughter until the fire burned brighter than ever.

Not that Kate needed a match. 

Long before her father had met his end, long before her lily has bloomed upon her skin, Kate had been a tinderbox of hatred for the Bridgerton's. Above all else, she hated the eldest son. The one that had toyed with her, humiliated her, made her more vulnerable than she had ever let herself be again. 

It took nothing at all to light the kindling beneath Kate Sharma and set her on a path to avenge her father's death.

……

Summer was scorching the city. Long days of unforgiving heat dragged on and on. Even now, with the sun dipping behind the skyscrapers that blighted the horizon to the West, the heat did not relent. It hung heavy and thick around her, each breath she took felt like an effort.

"We're early," Tommy spoke over his shoulder, his eyes glued to the innocuous warehouse on the other side of the street.

"We wait," Kate confirmed, folding her arms across her chest. Resting herself back against the wall behind her, she winced. The rough bricks were hot to the touch, baked all day by the sun. "Don't want to look too keen."

But she was. Very keen. 

If this went well, it would be the deal of the century. The man inside the warehouse - he called himself The Lord, the pompous arse - had promised to undercut her current suppliers with what appeared to be a far superior product. It was almost too good to be true - which was exactly why Kate had made sure she was early. Though she had an army of men and women who would have staked out this building for her, she didn't trust them. Not for this. She couldn't risk this deal going south.

In the five years since she had taken the helm of her father’s business, Kate had fought relentlessly to step out of his shadow. She worked harder, risked more, expanded further - determined to prove she was worthy of her position.

She had a fiercely loyal inner circle, but loyalty was a fickle thing in their world. Vultures were always circling. Agatha Danbury’s attempted coup the year before had caught her completely off guard. It had taught Kate to trust no one. It was a bitter lesson, but one she wouldn’t soon forget.  

With so much infighting within her own ranks, the Bridgertons themselves had become almost a secondary threat. Almost. They were still there at every turn, ready to snatch away any deal she tried to make, controlling half the city’s supply with ruthless efficiency. But the violence had lessened. 

Kate had lost count of the times she had found herself cornered by a Bridgerton henchman, only to escape unscathed, when she knew only a few years ago she’d have been a goner. Either Anthony Bridgerton was growing soft, or more likely, he didn’t see her as a threat. Kate preferred the former, but either way it gave her something to prove. And there had never been anything she wanted more than to prove that smug, conceited arsehole wrong.

For now, the warehouse stood still, wilting beneath the heat. She scanned the window for movement. Nothing. No cars were parked nearby. It was quiet. Strangely quiet. Rather than that being comforting, Kate felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand to attention. Something wasn’t right.

"Time?" she asked Tommy, and they both looked at his watch as he flicked it free from his shirt sleeve. The wing of the swallow that fluttered upon his forearm showed too, though she knew Tommy Dorset was as unsentimental as she was when it came to soulmarks.

"Eight forty-five," Tommy confirmed, even though he knew she'd seen it herself. Still fifteen minutes before their meeting. 

Kate was about to suggest they did yet another loop of the building, when she heard a crunch of metal against metal. They both watched silently as the double doors of the warehouse were cranked open to reveal two figures. Both tall, one dark-skinned and broad, hair cropped short. Simon Basset. The Bridgerton’s closest ally. Beside him, unmistakable in his sharply tailored suit, top button always fastened, despite the sweltering heat, stood Kate's mortal enemy.

"Anthony Bridgerton," Tommy cursed under his breath. "What the fuck is he doing here."

"Same as us," Kate swallowed down her disappointment. She'd known something was up, nothing ever got served on a silver platter like this deal, at least not to her. The Lord had played them off each other.

The two men were conversing, heads huddled together as they walked away from the warehouse. Luckily, they were headed in the opposite direction. 

Though this part of town was mutual territory, that didn't mean they were safe. Kate could clearly see the holster sitting snug at Basset's hip. Nowhere was safe in this town. They would be safer still if they kept quiet and hidden until the two men were far out of sight.

Just as Kate turned to say as much to Tommy, Anthony stopped still. Frozen in place. Kate watched, in horror, as the man's shoulders stiffened beneath his dark jacket. Then, agonisingly slowly, he turned his head. 

And looked right at her.

Kate’s breath caught in her chest. Even from this distance she could see the sharp lines of his jaw, the dark furrow of his brow, the soft curls of dark hair upon his head. Her body reacted, her pulse quickening.

Their eyes locked together.

For that long, dangerous moment, time stood still. The city around them disappeared. It was just them. The two rivals.

She hated him. 

Hated everything about him. Hated the way he was looking at her, the way he always looked at her. Even that first time. The simmering intensity that seemed to rip her apart and make her whole all at once.

Damn him. 

A strange look passed across his face. Not the anger or fury that she was sure had been on hers five minutes ago when she saw him fucking up her deal. It was something very different. Something she'd seen before. In another lifetime.

"Fuck," Tommy was grabbing her arms, yanking her behind him. "They see us, we better get out of here." 

Neither of them were carrying tonight, it had been an agreement with The Lord, though clearly he'd not had the same deal with the Bridgerton. Kate watched Simon follow Anthony's gaze, and his hands move whip fast to relieve his gun from its holster.

Everything happened so quickly then. Tommy and Basset surged towards each other, right up in each other's faces, hurling insults and age-old quarrels. 

Kate was aware of it all, and nothing. She and Anthony were yet to move. Kate poured every ounce of hatred she could in the returning glare she shot him, and just hoped he suffered beneath her wrath like she did his. 

"If you think you're taking our deal, you've another thing coming." Tommy, never one to back down, even when outmatched, had brandished his favourite switchblade - a gift from Kate last year to thank him for his loyalty to her family. 

"Your deal?" Simon spat. 

Anthony had awoken from whatever trance it was that had kept him frozen and now moved to flank his friend. It stirred Kate, too, and she backed Tommy up, side-by-side. 

"Yeah, our deal,” Kate continued, hands firmly planted on her hips, determined to make her slim stature as imposing as possible. “We've been negotiating for weeks. You can't possibly believe you have the capital or the balls to handle what he's offering."

"Oh, we've got the balls,” Basset scoffed.

“Not from what I’ve heard.” Kate retorted, and delighted as Basset’s eyes grew dark in anger. 

Only, before she could really relish the win, or even draw another breath, the muzzle of his Desert Eagle pressed blunt and cool upon her forehead. 

Kate froze.

Simon’s voice was cold and worryingly calm. "Reckon it’s time to shut that mouth of yours once and for all, Sharma." 

Everything went very still. The silver barrel glinted in the dying light of the evening, and Kate couldn’t take her eyes off it. In her chest, her heart pounded, hoping against hope that they were not its final beats.

Then, the pressure was gone. 

A body slammed into Basset, pushing him back so he was stumbling into the road and cursing angrily. Anthony stood between them. His chest heaved, breath ragged and violent, as if it were his head that the gun had been pointed at.

"What the fuck," Simon roared, straightening himself back up. "You and you stupid fucking rule, Bridgerton. You'd rather let one of us get killed than her. Makes no fucking sense."

"The rules are the rules," Anthony bit back furiously, his voice hoarse with his anger, even though it was his man he was speaking to. "You don't touch her."

Kate stared at him, a thousand questions whirled in her mind but none could breach the ache in her head. Her hand rose to her forehead, pressing lightly against the now throbbing spot where the muzzle had been. It would bruise, there was no doubt. 

Anthony’s eyes followed the movement. Then, they glanced down, trailing across the lily on her shoulder, then picking out every single star, a slow and careful study. It felt obscenely intimate with him standing so close to her.

When he looked back up, that strange expression was on his face again. The one she knew. The one she didn’t understand. Only, she didn’t have time to question it. There was that noise once more, the crunch of metal against metal, and the warehouse doors were opening again.

This time, rather than two figures, there were half a dozen. And they were all in black. With POLICE emblazoned across their chests.

"Shit," Tommy shouted. "It was a sting!"

Damn it. Hadn't Kate known it was too good to be true? Though she has no time to celebrate her instincts, as the six figures lifted their rifles, poised and pointed, shouting urgently in their little group's direction.

"Run!"

Kate didn't even know who shouted it, but all four of them, united for once, started sprinting in the opposite direction of the encroaching police.

The first shot had them all ducking, cursing, pushing, shoving. The second whipped by so close to Kate's ear the sound burned. This was bad. Very bad.

As a unit, they screeched around a corner, then another. Footsteps and more gunfire were close behind. There was no time. No time to think or plan or reason her way out.

Hands landed on her arm, yanking her forward. "This way, Kate. Come on." 

Tommy was pulling her after him, but she realised she was grounded to the spot. Her other arm was held by an equally firm grip. Anthony’s.

In sync, they looked down and their hands, then back up to each other. Both equally suprised that they were holding on to each other.

"Bridgerton, move it." Simon yelled

"Kate, now, come on." Tommy echoed. Each man pulled at their boss, urgently, the advancing footsteps thundering so close to them now.

Anthony's lips began to form a word, but Kate didn't hear it. A crack of gunfire split the air and both their heads jerked to follow the sound.  

Then it was like slow motion. 

The smoking gun was pointed directly at her chest. The bullet suspended in the air. Her name etched upon its silver casing. 

Of course, later, she'll know that it was impossible. That time did not stop. But that's how it worked in her mind and in that moment. She’d swear that she watched every single millisecond of that bullet soaring through the air. Heading straight to her heart.

………

It’s a peculiar thing, where the mind goes as it faces inevitable death. For Kate, it was not what she expected. 

She did not go back to those early blissful childhood days in India, the love of her mother as warm and intoxicating as the tropical air. 

She did not go back to many, many wonderful moments she’d shared with her beloved sister. The only place she really felt at peace these tumultuous days. 

Kate went back to her seventeenth birthday party. The worst night of her life.

While that bullet soared through the air, Kate stood once again atop a grand staircase, looking down at the opulent masquerade ball her father had arranged for her. 

London was mostly foreign to her. Her father had allowed her a quiet childhood in India, until her mother had passed. When she was sent to England, he ushered off to boarding school as far from his own warring London as he could. It was only as she reached ‘womanhood’ at seventeen that he welcomed her to his world, and introduced her as his protege and successor.

This party was to be her debut. Not a penny had been spared. Excessive bouquets of roses and lilies graced every surface, their perfume dancing in the air. Silver and gold balloons bobbed happily amongst the streamers that hung from the ceiling. Elegantly dressed guests mingled and laughed, clinked champagne glasses and looked up in anticipation as Kate hovered nervously above them. 

All day she had been pampered and primped. Her hair was a cascade of dark curls, topped with a silver halo crested with diamonds. A white lace and silk dress was adorned with two beautifully feathered angel wings, handmade in one of her fathers factories, at great expense, so he kept telling her. Though nothing was too much for her father’s perfect girl. His angel.

At least that’s what he wanted to show the world. His perfect little family. A doting father. A beautiful daughter. As with everything about her father, it was just a front.

For Kate, her father had only ever been some distant presence. On the rare occasions they had been together throughout her childhood, he was cordial. But that was it. No more. 

Now they were in the same city, in the same house. He was no longer cordial. He was demanding. Exacting. Expecting. The pressure already felt insurmountable. Add to that this show of a birthday party and already Kate was sick to the stomach. 

As she descended the stairs to an echo of oohs and ahhs from the guests - hollow flattery clearly aimed more at her father than her, Kate wondered how she would ever survive this new world of hers.  

Until him.

He’d been watching her every step since she’d arrived. Kate had felt his attention before she’d even spotted him. A warm tickle of awareness at the top of her spine spreading not unpleasantly through her.

He was a knight, his silver armour gleaming beneath the vast chandelier above them. The mask that covered his face was tied with a sky blue ribbon, and other than the sharp, angled jaw all she could make out on him were his eyes. But that was all she needed to fall.

Golden brown orbs that warmed the air around her. They turned the crowds to dust until it was only he and her in that room. Of the hundreds of guests, it seemed like he only saw her. Her. Not her father’s daughter. Not his successor. Not a threat. Not a prize. But her. Kate. And he watched her with such intensity that Kate suddenly found it hard to breathe. 

He’d sauntered over, all the confidence of a boy, almost a man. Effortless and self-assured. A smile that would win and ruin a thousand hearts. Kate, much to her later embarrassment, lapped it up.

Now, all these years later, she doesn’t remember what he said, or what she said. There are only snippets. Fragments of their time together before it shattered. 

Like the first time she made him laugh, and his real smile - rather than the teasing smug one he tried to wear - had burst through and almost blinded her. 

The way his fingers had touched her elbow so lightly as he guided her to the sides of the room so he could lean in close, his voice a warming rumble in her ear, the scent of him so potent she could swoon. 

The soft, sweetness of his lips as they pressed against hers. 

Of course, that was all before. Before her step-mother found them, her red painted lips snarled in disgust. He’s a Bridgerton, she’d hissed as she dragged a distressed Kate away, don’t ever talk to him again. The Bridgertons are the enemy.

As Kate had been exiled from her own party, Mary degraded Kate for her foolishness. Of course he had tried to woo her, of course he’d flattered her. What better win for those awful people than to string out the daughter of their enemy. He’d have set her up for some mortifying falll. Kate should be glad Mary had saved her. And she was, in the end. Kate couldn’t bear to think of how close she’d come to humiliation under his hands.

For weeks and months, and years after, Kate could only think of the shame. The mortification. And her fury. How low he would stoop to make her look such a fool, to trick her with those false promises and his pleasing smile.

Though, now, with the bullet mere inches from her, it’s not the shame that surfaces like normal. Not at all. It’s the way he had looked at her that is burned brightly across her last moments on this earth. The way he’d looked at her across that dance floor. The way he always looked at her. 

Like she’d hung the stars just for him.

………

There was an almighty thud across her chest. Solid, firm and blunt. 

The force of it threw her backward, and she hit the rough concrete with a grunt of pain. Instinctively, her hands flew to her chest, searching for the bullet hole, the blood, the imminent death. 

But nothing.

More shouting, more cursing, and a blur of movement. Basset was shooting back now, each crack of his gun like a physical thing. Her body floundered on the ground, hands scraping in the dirt to try and get back to her feet.

The other voices were receding. Sirens wailed in the distance. The storm of gunfire became scattered shots. 

This time when hands grabbed at her, she let them drag her away. They limped away as a foursome until they stumbled into the blissful quiet of an empty warehouse.

Behind her, Tommy forced a thick metal bar across the door with an almighty screech, locking them inside. They huddled low and quiet. The other side of the door, a thunder of bodies and a crackle of radio static had them all tensing, until the sound dispersed, And then silence.

Kate’s eyes adjusted to the dim interior. The cavernous space was largely empty except for an old, sagging sofa and a few broken office chairs. The air was thick and stagnant, sticky on Kate’s already overheated skin. 

Beside her, there was suddenly a flurry of movement.

“Ant, fuck, what the hell.” Basset’s urgent whisper was frantic. Then he was dragging a limp body towards the sofa, and the mass grunted as it was deposited on top of it.

A bitter taste filled Kate’s mouth.

“Shit, shit, shit.” Basset held his hands against Anthony’s chest, a horribly bleak expression on his face. 

“S’fine.” The voice was weak. “‘‘Tis a scratch.”

“A scratch, are you mad?” Basset had removed Anthony’s jacket and was using it to mop up the blood - and there was so much blood. “I think it’s stopped bleeding but fuck man, what were you thinking. You can’t go anywhere like this. I’ve gotta go get help.”

“God.” Tommy had made his way over to the pair, his face turning pale. “You need to be quick.”

There was a discussion between the two standing men then, hurried and panicked, but Kate hardly took it in. Her eyes were fixed on the slumped form on the sofa. On the tiny, shallow breaths. And on the deep scarlett circle seeping into his previously crisp white shirt.

“Kate? Kate?” Tommy was beside her, though she hadn’t noticed him move. Clearly he’d been calling her a while. “Did you hear me?”

“What?” She shook her head. “No.”

“We’re going for help. We need reinforcements.” Tommy glanced back to Basset, who was pacing anxiously, then lowered his voice just for her. “Despite my better judgment, we can’t let him die. Not when the cops saw us here. It’ll be bad. We’ll have to work together. I’ll go with Basset to cover him, you stay here and make sure that bastard doesn’t die on us. We’ll be back soon. Okay?”

Kate nodded blankly. 

“Okay?” Tommy asked again, his voice sharper.

Kate forced herself to look away from the sofa, straight at Tommy. “Be quick.”

Another flurry of movement as the two men made their plans, arguing throughout, before they finally crept out into the now quiet alleyway and disappeared into the night.

Sliding the creaking metal bar back into place behind them, Kate left her fingers hanging on the warmed metal a few more moments, as though it might steady her. Her hands were shaking. She hadn’t noticed before, but now the tremor was running through her. 

Around her, the warehouse was eerily quiet. She let the false calm wash over her,  hoping it would calm her frayed nerves enough to face what was to come - whatever that might be. 

Kate was always aware of Anthony Bridgerton. Whenever he was near there was an unpleasant but unstoppable buzz of connection between them. Self-preservation, she told herself. Now, though, the weight of that awareness was suffocating.

Overloaded by sensation, she felt her legs trembling beneath her. Her mouth was dry. Everything ached. Her head couldn’t catch up with the chaos of thoughts tumbling around in her mind. 

"Are you okay?" A voice cut through her cycle of panic. As if he sensed she needed it. 

"Me?" 

“Yeah, you.” His voice was weak, a husk of its normal timbre.

Kate forced herself to move, walking over to one of the rickety chairs near the sofa. It creaked as she lowered herself down, but her wobbling legs were thankful for the reprieve. “Yeah, I’m okay. But I wasn't the one who got shot."

"Right," he nodded, but the effort made him grimace.

It was bizarre. This was the longest they’d spent together, the most she had heard him speak since…since they first met. Could that be true? 

He’d tried a few times, she remembered. There’d been a few calls she ignored. Letters she’d burned. He’d even turned up at the house when her father was still alive - Kate never quite knew how he’d managed to escape with his life. The fact he thought she was stupid enough to fall for his ruse a second time had just inflamed her already burning hatred of him. 

That hatred was still there, still simmering away. Only it felt tempered here.

"Are you alright?" She asked in a voice she barely recognised.

"Not really, I got shot, remember Sharma?"

“Are you seriously wasting your breath to try and make jokes right now?"

Despite the intended harshness of her point, Anthony just laughed. Only it was a pained, gargled sort of sound that had him grimacing again.

Surely she should be enjoying this. Her worst enemy writhing about on a filthy sofa in a dusty warehouse floor in immeasurable pain. Though there was no joy to be found.

"Let me look," she offered, shuffling a little closer to him. The broken wheels of her chair squeaked in protest, but she was near enough him now to see just what a bad state he was in. His usual bright eyes were dull, his skin pallid. His shirt clung him, blood and sweat making it almost see-through. There was a dark blue spreading out around the bloodied red, possibly internal bleeding, though it felt too early to bruise. If she wanted him alive, she really needed to do something. “Please.”

"No," he snapped. "You'll probably pour salt in there or something."

It was Kate's turn to laugh. "You think I carry around salt shakers in case I spy an enemy with an open wound?"

Anthony glanced up at her, eyes narrowed. "I wouldn't put it past you, Sharma."

"I promise, I don't have any salt. Or pepper. Seasoning free. Just want to make sure you're not about to drop dead. I don't want to be having to answer to the cops about why I was found lying next to a dead Bridgerton."

"Ah," Anthony nodded and grimaced again at the movement. "That makes more sense. Don't give a shit if I die, you just don't want to get arrested for it."

Kate shrugged. 

Anthony took a few laboured breaths, and they really were laboured. Each rattled horribly as they escaped his lungs. His pain radiated through the air and Kate found herself clenching her jaw as if to help him breathe through it.

"Just let me look,” she tried again.

"No."

“Please.”

“No.”

That stubborn arse. "Fine. Suffer. Just do it quietly. Your death rattle is irritating."

"Oh, I'm so sorry my taking a bullet for you has inconvenienced you so much."

Kate froze. 

The bullet. The one with her name on it. It hadn't hit her, she knew that, but this was the first time she realised why not.

"You pushed me." The realisation hit her as hard as she'd hit the ground. It flashed back now. His body moving in front of hers. His face determined and then whitened in pain. "You pushed me out the way, and then.. then you took the bullet."

Anthony said nothing. His eyes were closed. In the soft light of the moonlit warehouse, his skin was ghostly pale. And he was so still. So very still. 

Her lungs seized up in panic. 

Shit. He’s dead.

"Bridgerton? Bridgerton!”

"Please don't shout,” he complained as he opened his eyes. “I've just been shot."

Kate breathed out in relief. She wasn’t ready to let it go though. "You took the bullet," she repeated, but still he ignored the accusation.

And it did feel like an accusation. Her mind scrambled through all the reasons why he would do it, save her and harm himself, and could only land on him having some master plan to screw her over. Though, looking down at him now, he didn’t seem like a man with a plan. He looked like a man without much time left.

When she spoke again, it was softer than before. "Let me look."

"No!" He slapped away the hand she reached out to him.

"Fine, die for all I care," she shouted. Stubborn idiot. 

She let a moment of quiet pass, let him fall back into his comfortable stillness, before slowly and silently reaching over to tug at the edge of his shirt. His hand wrapped around her wrist in a second.

"Don't touch me, Kate." Her name on his lips surprised her. So did the burning panic in his eyes.

"I'm just trying to help, what's wrong with you." 

"I don't want your...argh." As they struggled, his face blanched. The claret red stain on his chest, that had been static until then, started to grow, and get brighter. He was moving too much, speaking too much, and it was opening the wound again.  

“Be still, please, let me help!”

"Kate, no, please." He begged again, but it was weak now, and when he tried to bat her hand away now he just didn’t have the strength to do it. 

Kate stood up, before kneeling as gently as she could beside him on the sofa. Slowly, carefully, she started unbuttoning his shirt.

He still muttered his protests, groaned as if her every touch was agony, but she ignored him until his shirt fell fully open.

And then it was her who blanched.

There, right on his chest, was the angry, swollen and almost perfectly round bullet-hole, blood oozing too quickly from it. But that was not what made Kate reel. Made the blood in her veins freeze. Made her heart stop beating entirely.  

The bullet-hole pierced a white lily, now tinged an angry red with his blood. 

It sat right in the middle of his chest, which was covered in the familiar inky blue of a midnight sky. His golden stars were peppered all up his torso, a constellation the perfect mirror image of her own. 

"I told you not to look," he said, before his head rolled back and his eyes closed.

…….

It was a while until he stirred again. 

Kate was flooded with relief - confused relief - when she heard him groan beside her. She'd done her best to stem the blood flow, pressing his shirt tightly against him until at last the blood stopped pumping out. The whole time her eyes had been tracing those stars, studying the blue, looking desperately for something to prove that his mark was not exactly the same as hers.

A futile effort. She knew every inch of that night's sky. Every curve of the petals. It was undeniable

"Kate?" His voice was gravelled and strained.

"The bleeding's stopped,” she said quickly, all business. Not ready to face this. To face him. "Bullet must have missed an artery or anything important, but you've still lost a lot of blood. Try not to move. Try not to speak. Basset and Tommy will be back soon, I'm sure."

"Kate?" he said again, as if oblivious to what she'd just said.

"Don't speak."

"Please. Kate.” It was a plea now. “Say something."

Every inhale was an effort. She wasn’t even the one who took the bullet but her world was crashing down around her and she simply didn’t know how to stop it. She needed answers. 

"How is this...What does this...why…why…" Clearly she couldn’t even manage the questions, let alone accept the answers. "You?”

"Me," he replied, quietly, and then - the cheek of the man - he smiled.

"It doesn't mean anything.” Kate floundered. “They're not the same. It's not you. It's not you. It can't be you."

With some effort he shifted to lift himself up on one elbow. Kate moved to stop him, but there was a determined look in his eyes that made her stop. "I promise you, when there isn't a bloody bullet hole in this lily, they are the same. It's me. And it's you."

Kate shook her head. "No."

"Yes."

Still she shook her head, but the word seemed futile now. His chest was turned to her again, and she could not deny it. It was written all over his skin. They were matched. Soulmates. Destined.

"How long have you…,” Kate swallowed hard. She couldn’t believe she was having this conversation. With Anthony Bridgerton. “How long have you known?" 

She felt sick. Stupid. Vulnerable, again. Like before. He'd known all this time and he'd been playing her. Hiding his truth when hers has always been there for all to see. How dare he.

"Always," he said calmly, gazing up at her with a far too wistful look on his face. The colour was coming back, Kate noticed. His cheeks had a hint of pink, his eyes were sharper as they pierced through her. "I always knew. From the first moment I met you."

Kate scoffed, relieved at his mistake, at this proof of his lies. "You can't have known then, I didn't have a mark when we first met."

Anthony just smiled. "You didn't need a mark for me to know. I fell in love with you the moment I first saw you, Kate."

A treacherous thud in her chest made it hard to speak. "Liar."

"Your hair was longer. Curlier. And you had this white dress on, with lace along the collar. Do you remember?"

She remembered, but she didn’t trust herself to speak. 

“And those wings. Can't forget the wings.” The smile he wore was far too bright considering the wound in his chest and the way he was ripping her world apart.

Kate looked down and picked at her nails. She felt seventeen again. “I was meant to be an angel.”

“Oh, you were, my darling.”

Kate's stomach plummeted at the endearment. What game was he playing?

“I didn't know who you were at first, only that I couldn't take my eyes off you. You were the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen. You still are. And then you let me dance with you. Let me hold you. Let me kiss you. My god, I’ve played those kisses back a million times in my head.”

He hadn’t taken his eyes off her the whole time they spoke but now he closed them, the muscle in his jaw clenching as if he’s fighting the memory. “But then my brother told me who you were. Even then I didn’t care, but I saw it… saw you…the moment your mother told you who I was. I saw the way you were looking at me change. And I lost you.”

Kate remembered it too. It was no less painful now. “You were my enemy.”

“I know. I don’t blame you,” he paused, taking a few slow breaths.  

Kate should stop him, he was doing too much again and he’d open the wound but she found she couldn’t. She had to hear it. 

“I tried to write to you. Tried to speak to you, so many times, but you never even let me in for a second. So I told myself I was wrong. That I’d forget about you. That we weren’t meant to be, but then, the day they.... the day they killed each other. The cops dragged us all to the crime scene, remember? They gave us that lecture. And there you were again, as beautiful as ever, even in grief. Only you were...you were marked. The same mark as me. Exactly the same.”

Kate remembered that day all too clearly. The grief and the pain and the hate she felt for him that he wouldn’t stop staring at her. It had felt like an insult then. Having his eyes on her was like a betrayal to her father. She hadn’t understood. She wasn’t sure she understood now.

“But you hate me.” 

He shook his head sadly. “No.”

“Yes, you hate me,” Kate insisted. “You hate me. I hate you. That's the way it is.”

“No. You hate me, maybe. I wish you didn't, but I know why you do. But I never hated you, I could never…”

When Kate’s silence dragged on, he continued. “It wasn’t easy for me, you know. I was brought up to hate the Sharma’s. Trying to accept that my only love sprung from my one true hate was not easy. I’ve had a lot of time to think about it. To try and construct some reality where I am not destined to be yours. That it’s wrong. That we would be awful together. But none of them stick. Because the truth is, Kate, I didn’t need this mark to see that we are right.”

Still she stayed quiet.

“We’re right, Kate. Together we’d be…we’d be everything. The way I want you, Kate, it’s … you amaze me. Your strength. Your grace. Your intelligence. The way you’ve made yourself so much greater than your father in all the best ways. They way every single one of your men loves and respects you. I’m so in awe of you.”

Kate shook her head. It did nothing to help the jumble of thoughts. Nothing made sense. 

“But all these years, we've been..." she stopped herself. 

They flashed by her then, the memories. Like fragments of glass, awkward and sharp, they move this way and that as their jagged edges come together to form a new version of the same picture.

How many times had she been sure the Bridgeton’s would try to thwart a business deal, only for it to sail through without a challenge.

How many times over the years had one of his men had the chance to end her, or her sister, or even her mother. But they never did. 

Ever since their fathers had died, the raw violence had lessened. It made sense to Kate, because she never wanted that side of their life. Never wanted bloodshed. Those unloyal followers saw it as weakness, but Kate knew she could carve a new way, a more profitable way, to survive in this world without guns and blood. 

Until now she had never questioned why she could do all that unchalleged 

She’d thought it was just different after their father’s died. Less violent, less cruel. She’d thought her rivals just had less to retaliate too.

But that wasn’t why. The reason why was laying before her with his heart and chest bare to the truth of it. 

He’d stopped fighting. For her.

I had never fit. What she knew about him, his reputation. The violence that had always been associated with the Bridgerton’s. Why hadn’t he brought all hell to the streets to avenge age-old wrongs? It had never made sense to her. Until now. 

He'd been protecting her. All this time.

“Why didn't you just tell me?”

He looked at her plainly. “Because you hate me, remember? I didn't want… I still don't want you thinking you owe me anything, or that you have to be anything for me, just because of these.”

His gaze drifted from her face, down to her shoulder. Tentatively, he raised his arm, his fingers hovering just above a golden star that seemed to glimmer within his shadow. She watched his jaw tense, his lips part in a silent question. Kate nodded. She held her breath as he let a single finger trace along the edge of the lily’s petal. A featherlight touch, barely anything, but goosebumps scattered across her skin.

“I wanted you to choose me for me,” he said, as breathless as she was. “Even though I knew that would never happen.” He looked up at her, his eyes so round and full of a fragile hope. “So I just….waited.”

His fingertip brushed over a star, then another, gliding softly across the constellations on her skin. She had to force herself to breathe so that she could speak. “Waiting for what?”

His eyes softened. “For you, Kate.”

Lifting his hand from her mark, he gently cupped her face. His touch was warm, comforting. His thumb brushed along her cheekbone, his fingers soft at her temple.

“This is too much.” Kate felt panic rise. The intimacy was too great. Though she didn’t pull away. She made no attempt to move or to stop him as he drew their faces closer. “It’s too big. It can’t…it can’t be.”

“Forget about everything outside of this,” he asked softly. “That’s a world we didn’t choose. Think about when we met. That first time, when we were nobody to each other. What about then? What did you feel then? Was it just me?”

There was a part of her, perhaps the part that still wanted to please her father, that told her to lie. To deny it all. To pretend.

Though, as she let herself fall into him, ever so slowly, and with so little resistance, that part of her was receding. Instead, something was growing. A truth. A real truth. One she decided for herself. 

“No,” she replied. A single tear fell, and he wiped away gently with his thumb. “No. It wasn’t just you. I knew then. I knew. I know.” 

The smile that crept across his face was the same as that boyish grin she’d seen all those years ago. Brilliantly bright and captivating. His fingers were buried in her hair now, gently caressing as he edged her closer and closer. 

It was slow, as if he was waiting for her to stop him. As if he couldn’t believe she was allowing him this either. The first brush of his lips on hers was electric. Reviving. Renewing. 

Kate leaned in, pressing herself to him. If there was any doubt, any at all, it would have been entirely obliterated by the sheer ecstasy of his kiss.

When they pulled back, they were giddy and giggling, like teenagers again. 

“This day is proving to be quite unexpected,” he laughed, lifting his other hand to cup her face and pull her in for another kiss. One she went to oh so willingly.

Outside, a scuffle sounded. Footsteps and arguing voices. Basset and Tommy were back. Her desire to stay locked here in his arms and in this new world they were building was outweighed by the knowledge that help was near. Thank god.

Her relief was short lived as her mind whirred to the next problem. “Do they know? About your mark?”

“No, nobody does. I’ve kept it hidden. Only you know.” 

The way he still held on to her made her realise it wouldn’t stay that way for long. The others hollered from the other side of the door, banging to be let in, but he seemed in no rush to let her go. Instead, he pulled her back into one more beautiful, lingering kiss.

“So what do we do now?” she asked him, when he finally released her, though she found she was equally unwilling to move from his arms.

He smiled that smile again. Shrugged as though it would be easiest thing in the world, to untangle this age-old web of violent feuding.

“Well, Kate Sharma,” he ran a finger along her kiss-bruised lips, “we rewrite the stars.”