He was covered in blood. Hot, slick, and coppery—it was even in his mouth. Connor breathed in deeply, chest rising and falling, the smoke burning his lungs. He didn't know who they were, those who had fallen to his blades. Paper people. No personal lives. No family. Nothing to mark them, or remember them by. They were only numbers, information from his father's files, written over with a kill order.
Connor felt odd. It wasn't remorse, but rather the stark lack of it. He realized—he knew—what he had just done held some significance, that blotting out twenty lives, taking twenty souls was supposed to feel like…something. Shrugging, he wiped his tomahawk on a half burnt cloth, leaving behind a bright red stain. His hands looked like that, probably his face too, and his robes. He didn't know why he chose to wear the light blue ones this day, but he did know he wished he hadn't: they were ruined.
Connor's mood suddenly took a foul turn, and he wanted nothing more than to sleep. No. He wanted to watch her sleep. These days, sleeping didn't make him feel much rested, but she, on the other hand, made him feel rather divine. Although, he had noticed she was seeming more and more fatigued herself, which was good, he supposed. Those who were exhausted were more complacent, more agreeable, and Connor hadn't forgotten the promise he had made to his father. The information was still a priority. He allowed himself a small smile; he'd simply have to try harder.
Something like panic, but not quite panic itself, was beginning to set in. It had been about four weeks, Evie assumed, and the Assassins hadn't come for her. Maybe they thought her voyage had been delayed, or worse yet, that she was still in England. A cold pit of dread was forming in her stomach; if the Assassins did not know she was in the Colonies, they certainly would not know to search for her, and that meant her stay with the Templars may be prolonged considerably.
Eventually, one of the two Brotherhoods would realize, whether it be Jacob and Henry first or Achilles Davenport first she did not know, but she had faith in all of them. Her brother had told her to write as soon as possible, and if he received no correspondence he would surely know something was amiss. The Colonial Assassins were also expecting her any day now, and when Evie did not arrive in a prompt timespan they would sent word, or even better, a search team. All she had to was wait.
Which was easier said than done.
Leaning against the wall behind her little uncomfortable bed, Evie cradled her head in her hands, trying to calm the dizziness that swirled through it. They weren't feeding her very well, and the effects were starting to make themselves known. Usually, she had only one meal per day, if the insubstantial portions could even be called a meal, and sometimes not even that. Evie also wasn't sleeping much, not between the hellish dreams that haunted her during the night and the heckling Templars who haunted her during the day. Although, despite the undernourishment, the sleep deprivation, and the too-close-for-comfort oddities of a certain Templar, it seemed they honestly weren't trying very hard for the information they so coveted. Not that Evie was complaining, but she had expected days—months even—of trauma and torture, and then when she wouldn't tell them anything they wanted to know, a painful death.
It was confusing, and her situation began to blur even more where and when Connor Kenway was involved. Placing her hands on her knees, Evie looked out over the cell floor, and a small sea of white roses looked back at her. One from him, every time he came; all for her. Some were turning brown and papery, withering away, and some were still fresh, their petals velvety and bright. She could still point out the oldest one from the rest. It laid in the darkest corner, crinkly and dull, falling apart. At the end of her cot, the most recent rose of them all sat, and Evie wrapped her fingers about the stem, bringing it to her nose. It wasn't the most fragrant, even though he had only brought it to her the day before, but that delicate scent was still faintly there.
Not for the first time, Evie wondered why he bothered bringing them to her, why he bothered to do anything that he did. He was the one who tracked her and fought her—the one who beat her; who brought her to this place. And now, the very same man, was the one who gifted her roses, white roses at that. Now he was the one who visited her almost daily, the one who sat beside her, the one who tried to touch her, and the one she feared most. She feared him because she could not predict him, and he seemed so able to predict her, to know her. It angered Evie, but she also feared him because she found herself thinking about him more often than not. The worst part, though, was the fact he seemed to know that too.
"You look tired."
Evie's eyes shot up, landing on the man himself. Instantly, she wished she hadn't—he was covered in blood. Violent dried smears and spatters decorated his face like some type of random, sadistic art, and his clothing and hands were the same. The pure rose in his grasp was a sharp contrast of coloration. She sucked in a startled breath.
"What did you do?" she couldn't keep the horror out of her voice.
He smiled, drawing closer. "Don't worry—it's no one you know."
She sat frozen as he unlocked and entered the door, somehow and for some reason shocked into silence, blinking in quick repetition.
"Well," he added as he closed the door behind him, "Not personally, anyway."
Languidly, he held the rose out to her, and she saw some of the petals were marred by crimson. Her wide green eyes flicked from his to the flower in his grasp. She did not take it from him.
His mouth twitched at the corner, a dark brow arching, her scar—the scar she put there—cutting it in half. "What's the matter? Scared of a little blood?"
The implication was there: she was an Assassin; her own hands looked like his in theory; what's a little bit more.
A noise of incredulity bubbled from the back of her throat as Evie knocked the rose from Connor's hands. Slowly, he turned his head, following the movement.
"Huh." he said.
She glared at him with a vicious intensity as he returned his gaze to hers. Without blinking or breaking eye-contact, he leaned down until they were level, one of his hands finding purchase on her knee, the other grasping her jaw.
"That wasn't very nice."
She tried to turn away, but he forcefully yanked her skull back into place, his fingers digging in painfully.
"Go to hell." Her speech was muffled by his tight grip.
Amused, Connor's eyes moved about her face, scrutinizing every inch. Finally, they landed on her mouth. Coming closer, his lips brushed hers when he spoke. "You already know the answer to that."
And, once again, he kissed her. It tasted like death. She needed air almost immediately, but he wouldn't let her have it, and the smell of smoke, the kind that told of uncontrolled, violent fire, rolled from him into her nostrils. Connor's hands grasped too tightly, and, confused as to what to do with herself, Evie brought her own to his shoulders. He felt tense, a bound string about to snap, a predator about to pounce. His lips moved quickly, demanding and practiced, like how he fought. Kissing Connor Kenway, Evie realized, was a lot like fighting; maybe she needed to fight back. Moving her lips against his, she felt him suck in a breath, surprised by her actions. Feeling she had the upper hand, Evie sank her teeth into his bottom lip, and she tasted blood. She didn't know if it was his, or if it belonged to whoever he killed; either way, Connor pulled back.
His eyes were black, glinting and wildly looking at her. He held her face in his bloody hands, both their lungs screaming for air as they breathed heavily. Feeling dizzying, Evie leaned her forehead against Connor's, and felt his cool breath on her cheek. For a while, they stayed together like that, and when he finally left her, Evie was cold.
A/N: Once again, thank you guys so much for the reviews, the follows, and the favorites. I'm not the most confident about my writing abilities, but when I see a comment left by one of you beautiful people, it makes my heart soar. Never think I don't care because the opposite is true: there will never be enough words to describe how appreciative I am for your feedback.
So, once again, thank you amazing guests for reviewing, and a special shout out to MohawkWoman, the wonderful member who reviewed the last chapter. You are truly great!
