They called him crazy before: insane, mad, deranged—a raving lunatic. Connor was beginning to believe it. Every time he thought about what he had done, about why, his mind tripped itself. He turned against his Order, his beliefs—his own father—and why? An Assassin.
When he put it that way, Connor felt sick to his stomach. It was almost enough to make him sit down. Maybe he could go back, let her go, pretend she escaped. Say it was a moment of weakness, a result of fever. Say it was something, anything other than the truth: that he couldn't bear to see her die. That knowing he would never get to have her, hold her, make her his own, made disownment, exile—being a traitor—look like nothing. That he would rather be hunted to the ends of the earth by those he was once allied with, friends and family with, than face one single day without her in it.
Swallowing, Connor ran a hand down his face. He'd made his choice, and now there was no going back, only forward. Risking a glance at the Assassin's sleeping form, Connor gathered his thoughts. After they'd escaped the facility, he took them deep into the forest, and although horses were much faster, they were also easier to track, so he'd left them behind. At first, he could tell she was too stunned to protest the fact he was dragging her along—truth be told, so was Connor—but soon her fight returned, like he knew it inevitably would. He didn't savor having to hit her, not anymore, but she'd been sleeping peacefully ever since.
She laid against a mossy rock, curled slightly on her side. Looking her over, Connor noticed she still held her wrist close to her, protecting it from further injury even in sleep. The shirt she wore was white, or rather, it used to be. Now it was stained in blood and grime, and for that too he felt guilty—or what Connor assumed was guilt; the sensation was fairly new to him. The top rode up on her hips, exposing a pale bit of the creamy flesh of her stomach. A red line caught his eye.
Silently, Connor moved to her, and with the utmost gentleness, he raised the crimson spotted cloth. His eyes widened. Across what used to be flawless skin, an angry red Templar cross was carved. The incisions appeared to be fairly deep, and some of them still bled sluggishly. He'd wager the wounds had been there about three days, dating them to the same night he left. Connor swore beneath his breath: his father had deliberately sent him away so he could torture her.
Fists clenched, Connor rocked back onto his heels, biting his tongue to keep from voicing his displeasure. He should have known, and he supposed he did, seeing as how he'd come back. He felt pure rage, hinted with just enough remorse to make him uncomfortable (he couldn't remember a time he truly felt ashamed before having met Her). His Evie had suffered at the hands of his father, and Connor was livid—how dare Haytham mark what didn't belong to him.
His Evie. Evie.
Connor bounced her name around in his mind. He didn't use it much, and he'd never said it aloud. Something about saying it made him feel vulnerable, as if she'd be able to know exactly what he thought and felt if he did. It felt…intimate. But what was the worst that could happen? She was asleep…
"Evie." He whispered. To Connor's alarm, she stirred, long eyelashes fluttering softly against her freckled cheeks.
It was a kaleidoscope of emotion. When she woke up with Connor looming over her, Evie's mind leapt to fear, that instinctual feeling of recognizing danger, of sensing a predator. But that feeling went away, followed closely by a pleasant familiarity, of warmth. That too ebbed, slipping easily into an even more familiar anger.
He looked surprised to see her awake, and she surmised that was because he was the one who put her to sleep to begin with. Evie sat up, the aches and pains she'd earned over the past few days reacquainting themselves with her body. The back of her skull throbbed, a reminder and she froze.
"What twisted little game are you trying to play with me?"
watching her closely, Connor said nothing.
"You beat me to a pulp. You kidnap me. You kiss me. You claim you're not going to hurt me, but that's all you have done."
He angled his head to the side, mouth pressed tight, eyes slightly narrowed.
Evie continued, face contorted into a furious sneer. "You leave me. You let your father torment me. You then help me escape, but only to entrap me once more. So allow me to rephrase—what the bloody hell do you want from me?"
Connor scrutinized her features, eyes dark but otherwise expressionless. Finally, just when Evie had had enough of his convenient silence, he spoke.
"I don't want anything from you, Evie. I want you."
She blinked, torn somewhere between surprise, horror, and incomprehension. He raised his eyebrows, awaiting a response.
"You…you cannot have me." She didn't know what she meant, she didn't know what he meant, but it was all she had for that.
Glancing down, Connor laughed, a sound of genuine amusement. His gaze came back to hers, head still tilted.
"I don't recall asking for permission."
Evie's skin flushed hot with fresh infuriation. For a moment, she couldn't even pinpoint exactly what expletive she wanted to shout at him.
"Why you pompous, atrocious—," she bit her tongue and breathed in. It was always best to approach any situation with a cool head, no matter how ludicrous. "You do not own me. I am not yours. Whatever is wrong with you, and trust you me, something surly is, I will not be a part of it.
He grinned, white teeth flashing—a lupine smile that sent shivers down her spine. "If you are not mine, then why are you still here?"
A cool head was not easy to keep about Connor Kenway. "Because you will not let me go!"
"How many have you killed? How many did you kill just at the facility alone, and while injured," he leaned forward, drawing dangerously close. Evie pressed herself against the stone behind her. "You're more than capable of fighting me—perhaps my only equal on the battlefield—but you haven't even been trying."
"Do you want me to kill you? Is that what you want?" She asked, voice shaking.
Connor cupped her cheek, his hand cold against her warm skin. "No. I'm just trying to prove that's not what you want either."
They were nose to nose, sharing the same breath. Evie felt sick to her stomach.
"I want to be free." She whispered. He placed his lips at the very edge of her mouth, kissing her softly and trailing them down her cheek, down her neck.
His voice tickled her ear. "There is no such thing as free."
She placed her hands on either side of his jaw, bringing his face back to hers, pressing their lips together. Chills danced down her arms, but it burnt wherever they touched. He tasted like a thrill; he tasted like how she felt when she killed; he tasted like so much more than that. She bit his lips and slid her tongue inside. Where Evie ended, Connor began: she was death and so was he—that's what he had always wanted her to see. He had her by the hair, but she didn't mind. Pain was simply part of it; it was part of them. He was wrong—freedom was real, but it had to be fought for and earned.
Evie ran her hands down to his waist, pulling Connor's tomahawk from its sheath at his side. She had it at his throat before their lips had even parted. One of his hands were still buried in her hair, but the she felt cold sharp steel resting on her own neck. They both breathed rampantly, knees weak but hands steady.
"Well, look at us." His voice was strained, husky and low.
"Indeed." Hers was similar.
"You won't kill me."
"How can you be so sure?"
"Because I know you now. We're the same, and it's been proven I'm not capable of killing you."
"Do not overestimate my self-control."
He smiled, so darkly he smiled, and leaned into the blade at his throat, red dripping onto it.
"You and I—we have no self-control."
And closer still Connor came, the tomahawk cutting deeper into his flesh. Her hands were becoming slick.
"What are you doing?" Evie asked, panicked.
"Proving a point."
Her hands shook, and with a jerk she threw the weapon to the side. Evie pushed him back to the ground, and Connor laughed triumphantly even though he had virtually slit his own throat. She ripped a section of cloth from his outer robes, pressing it to the wound. Her grasp trembled as she held it there.
"Insane. You are insane." Evie muttered, concentrating at the task at hand. Her brow furrowed, and Connor liked to think that she was worried.
"This is positively moronic!" Jacob had had enough, tossing his hands into the air, eyebrows raised high onto his forehead.
The Assassin woman known as Aveline de Grandpre looked to Henry, an expression of silent judgment marking her features. The Indian smiled, a forced uncomfortable smile.
"One moment, if you do not mind, Miss Grandpre."
She frowned, checking an invisible watch. "Be my guest."
Henry took Jacob by the arm, and the younger Assassin, in a rare show of compliance, allowed himself to be led away and sat at a small table covered in indeterminate sticky substances.
"What are you doing?" Greenie whispered, voice akin to a hissy cat, as he seated himself across from Jacob.
"What am I doing? What are you doing? That woman just said we are to wait here in Boston an entire week before embarking to this magical Homestead I've heard so much about simply because they're afraid of some Templars—the very same Templars, I must remind you because you seem to have forgotten, who took Evie."
Greenie sighed, shoulders sagging, mouth downturned. "This is their Brotherhood, Jacob. We must abide by their rules."
"And she is MY sister!" Jacob roared.
Aveline glanced over wearily, torn between minding her own business and interjecting. She chose the former.
"Keep your voice down," Henry looked nervously around the decrepit hovel lovingly dubbed the Green Dragon Tavern, "You don't know who could be lurking about."
Jacob leaned forward, eyes cold and menacing. "I do not care who is lurking about. Whoever they are, let the know Jacob Frye is here, and he will happily slaughter any who stand in his way."
Aveline strolled over, taking another chair from a nearby table and seating herself at theirs. She eyed them both, genuine concern in her gaze.
"I understand where you are coming from, Monsieur Frye, and my heart goes out to you, but—"
Holding up a hand, Jacob interrupted. "I don't want your heart. I want your help."
The Creole woman scowled. Greenie cleared his throat.
"If I may—" he began a bit timidly.
"And you may not."
"Jacob, you are being exceedingly rude."
"Look," Jacob said, "I apologize if I'm stepping on your little Assassin toes, but we do not have time to go through this formal bullshit—Evie is out there somewhere, and I have to find her."
Once again, Aveline leveled him with that look, and then, after a few moments, she breathed in.
"Alright. I will help you, but Achilles will not be pleased we bypassed him in this. Do not make me regret it."
Jacob went silent, having prepared a mental argument to persuade her when she said no. It appeared Aveline's was not as strong as his sister's.
"Thanks," he said, nodding in gratitude.
Henry looked relieved the tension lifted, but still kept giving Jacob withered glares.
"Now," Jacob said, ignoring Greenie, "tell me, Aveline de Grandpre, where do we begin?"
A/N: I am so sorry for the wait, but enough with all that. I'm trying to get back into this, and the best way to do that is to go forward without dwelling on the past. Now I'm going to compromise: some people wanted the chapters spaced out, but others wanted them all at one time, so instead I'm going to upload them in consecutive days, if I can. So this one, one tomorrow, and then one the day after tomorrow. After that, I'm afraid to say I don't know when the next update will be, but I will try for it not to be too terribly long. Thank you guys so much for sticking with me.
And to MohawkWoman, the wonderful, amazing fanfictioner who sent me the most beautiful pm—thanks for the support, MW. You are the best; there's not enough words to describe my appreciation. I was really afraid everyone would be eating me alive for the wait, but you eased my fear and helped me realize this is my story, and that I shouldn't have to dread writing it. Thank you again.