Molly Parker's first morning as an employee in the Barrett household was, in an odd contrast to the circumstances that had brought her there, quiet and calm.

At least it was until Mrs. Barrett awoke at nearly the same time that Mr. Ambrose elected to come through the front door.

Molly nervously fluttered about the kitchen, horribly aware of Mr. Ambrose staring at her intently over the mug of coffee she'd given him while Mrs. Barrett screeched at Mr. Barrett on the floor above her.

She sounded like a pleasant woman, Molly thought wryly.

Her morning had been going very well. She'd awoken expecting that she'd dreamed the whole thing, and was pleasantly surprised to find that she hadn't. Her life had actually taken a turn for the better out of some very strange happenings.

She had cautiously traversed the ground floor of the house, unsure as to where she should begin her day. Mr. Barrett was already awake and in his office, looking exhausted. She'd felt a twinge of pity for him as she observed the dark, sunken hollows beneath his eyes.

"Molly," he'd said, a small smile on his lips. "Early riser like myself, I see." His gray eyes studied her with friendly interest. "Sleep well?"

She was too shy to actually answer him, and so she'd nodded like a fool. Even remembering it now, her cheeks burned a bit.

Mr. Barrett had seemed to sense that, and had very gently coaxed her into a conversation. He truly was a very kind man.

Unfortunately, he was a very kind man who was on the receiving end of screams from his shrew of a wife at the present moment.

She immediately shoved those thoughts aside. She had yet to meet Mrs. Barrett; she may be an entirely lovely woman. She mustn't judge her based upon her private business with her husband.

Molly turned and her eyes caught Mr. Ambrose. He was still staring at her, an unreadable expression on his face. He looked exhausted as well, but Molly doubted it was any worry that was keeping him awake last night – it was probably some manner of debauchery and evil-doing. She attempted to chastise herself into shoving these thoughts aside as well, and found that she simply couldn't.

There was a fine line between being judgmental and guarding your own safety. Her thoughts of Mrs. Barrett were unnecessarily judgmental. Her thoughts of Mr. Ambrose, she feared, were not.

"How was your first night, Miss Molly?" The man spoke.

"Fine, sir." She replied, attempting to make herself appear busier than she was.

He snorted. "You don't have to be so formal, sweetheart." She glanced up to see him grinning at her. "Although I do kind of enjoy it."

Those words made her skin crawl for some reason. She couldn't quite understand what he was driving at, but the way he looked at her when he said it…she knew that there was a deeper meaning to his words, and that it was meant to be offensive.

Thankfully, she was saved from any further embarrassment by the arrival of Mr. Barrett, followed by a sullen-looking redhead that he introduced as his wife.

Molly tried to keep an open mind, but that faltered almost immediately. The woman stared at her as if she was nothing more than dirt on her (expensive and entirely impractical) shoes. It was then that Abigail Barrett lost her favor forever.

"I suppose," the woman said by way of greeting, "that we'll need to feed and clothe you, in addition to paying you a ridiculous sum of money?"

"Abigail," Mr. Barrett said warningly.

Mrs. Barrett snapped her mouth shut and stormed out of the room. Mr. Ambrose glanced between the two remaining parties with some amusement.

"I thought Abigail would be happy," he said to Mr. Barrett, enjoying the hard-set line of his jaw and the ruddy flush on his cheeks and ears. "If it causes you much trouble, I'd be happy to take Molly off of your hands."

Barrett's eyes shot to him before glancing at the young girl, who looked terrified at the prospect. "No," he said firmly. "Molly is here to stay."

She managed to flash him a small smile, in spite of her roiling stomach. This morning was not turning out well at all.


After things had settled, Molly moved into the flow of working – and she was actually working; Mrs. Barrett apparently didn't believe in the notion that a home should be kept clean, another strike against her in Molly's mind.

To her great annoyance, long after Mr. Barrett had disappeared to calm his wife, Mr. Ambrose lingered. She attempted to ignore his eyes on her and found that she wasn't succeeding.

"Is there something else you need?" She finally asked, glancing up at him while she dusted a display shelf.

The right side of his mouth curled into a smile. "I just like watching you work," he replied slowly. "There's a certain sensuality to your movements that's quite irresistible."

She felt her face flush and turned away, resolving to keep quiet around him in the future.

Ambrose watched her return to her work with a false sense of concentration and barely kept his smile from spreading across his face. This was one of his favorite games – so simple, yet so effective. All he had to do was follow her with his eyes, watching as she became increasingly unsettled. He found that it spoke to a person's character, how they reacted when they were being so obviously watched.

And the one thing that had been confirmed for him about the character of Molly Parker – she was meek. She furtively glanced at him to see if he was still looking, never speaking out or telling him to stop. She had been beaten down, that much was obvious.

That fact disappointed him. It wasn't terribly amusing to torment the weak. They were entirely too easy to disarm. The strong ones, the stubborn ones – they provided more of a challenge; they required more cunning and finesse.

Much like the rest of his London experience, this girl was turning into a disappointment.

He kept his unseeing eyes focused on her while his thoughts turned to more satisfactory territory.

For the past few months, he had grown restless. He could feel it, and others could see it. He'd asked Barrett for the backing on a new venture, one that might satiate his appetite for destruction. Bareknuckle fighting was too civilized; there were too many rules. He wanted to start a brawling ring. The winner would be determined by who could still stand in the end. There would be no mercy given, and there would be no quarter for the losers.

It would, he hoped, be the solution to his dissatisfaction…if only he could get it started. Unfortunately, he truly needed Wade Barrett to put his name and reputation behind it. Barrett had been hesitant, but had agreed to consider the idea. Ambrose hoped that today would be the day he finally received his approval and began moving forward.

Otherwise…he wasn't sure what actions he would resort to taking. Sometimes, the darkness in his own mind troubled him.

His thoughts were interrupted when Barrett came in and went straight to Molly. He was being incredibly considerate of the girl's feelings, and if Ambrose didn't know him as well as he did he'd suspect something. As it were, Barrett was soft. He was probably trying to make up for the way she'd arrived here last night.

"When Sheamus arrives today, I'll have him go pick up your belongings," he was saying gently, a hand placed warmly on her shoulder.

Ambrose tried, again, to contain his grin. "Let me go," he interrupted. "Sheamus will be here in hours. I can procure Molly's possessions and be back before lunch. That way, she can have some clean clothes when she meets the good doctor this afternoon."

Barrett's eyes narrowed in reluctance as he considered the idea, and Ambrose knew that he would be the one going. He quickly swallowed down the rest of his coffee and stood up.

"No trouble, do you hear me?" Barrett said in a low tone.

Ambrose stared beyond him at Molly. "No trouble at all," he promised, flashing her a toothy grin.

It did not inspire confidence.


In a great stroke of luck, the Parker house was empty when Ambrose made his way there. Jumping the gate and popping the door open with ease, he wasted no time in climbing the stairs and entering Molly's former bedroom.

Now he slowed himself. He was holding on to the hope that Molly might not be a timid child, and he hoped to find the proof of that here.

He wasn't sure why that feeling persisted. He simply felt that there was more beneath her surface, and his feelings were usually proven right. He was curious to see if that would be the case this time as well.

With great care that would have surprised Molly, he systematically emptied the drawers in her bureau and packed them away in a suitcase. His fingers traced over the soft cotton of her underthings as he removed them from their respective drawer, but he quickly shook his head and put them in with the rest.

Not the time.

He searched through the small trinket box on top of the stand, finding nothing of real monetary value but several things that were obviously important to her in some way. A small pair of battered pearl earrings. Several dried, brittle rose petals – he guessed that they might have been red at one time. A delicate pink seashell the size of his smallest fingernail, yet perfectly symmetrical and well-preserved. And, most curious, a jagged piece of green glass. He nearly stabbed himself on it before seeing it in the bottom of the box and removing it with care.

Nothing he could decipher, although his interest was piqued. He laid the box in with the rest, making a mental inventory of its contents. Then, he turned his attention towards her nightstand.

It was filled, nearly to the brim, with books. Various novels, none of the trashy romantic variety that he'd expected. Tales of courage and valor; tales of brave knights and ordinary men performing extraordinary acts.

A small smile spread across his lips. One of the few young ladies who was drawn towards the good in men, it would seem. How unfortunate for him.

He slid open the small drawer and noted a small leather-bound volume with no title on the cover. Flipping it open, he saw flowing handwriting spreading across pages.

The realization dawned on him abruptly. This was not a novel. This was the exact thing he had been searching for – a way to get inside of that pretty little head.

He packed the rest of the books in with her clothes and trinkets, feeling a bit of pity that her whole life could be contained so easily in one suitcase.

Tucking her diary into his jacket pocket, he made his way back to the Barrett house with a new spring in his step.

For the first time in perhaps ever, Dean Ambrose was overjoyed by the prospect of spending the afternoon with a book.