It all starts with another job—a little riskier than Flynn is used to, but the prospect of danger only fuels his motivation. The target is Lord Taron Bennett, a corpulent Corona nobleman with too much money on his hands and too little reason to hold on to it. Flynn doesn't have much of moral compass to begin with, but any lingering trace of guilt goes out the window when it comes to stealing from guys like Bennett: overgrown brats who look down their noses at anyone who wasn't lucky enough to be born into obscene wealth.
Half the time, Bennett is away on vacation doing god-knows-what, and Flynn doesn't have to wait long for the stars to align. Once the man is off on his holiday, probably gorging himself silly in some velvet-upholstered caravan, Flynn gets to reconnoitering Bennett's manor and pinpointing where his riches are tucked away. It's almost too easy. He scales a tree and eases onto the ledge that wraps around the third floor, picks the lock on the window, and crouches down low to peer inside. The room he finds himself in is dim, lit only by the reflection of moonlight off the jewels behind glass display cases. Eureka.
He's in the middle of retrieving a diamond necklace from a broken case when a woman materializes from around a corner. "I suppose you're robbing us," she says, and he nearly jumps out of his skin. He whirls around, bristling. Nobody gets the jump on Flynn Rider.
The woman standing before him is tall, with a narrow face that tapers into a sharp chin, two black eyes that glint dangerously under the lights, and a wine-red mouth. Her dark hair is twisted into an intricate updo. She looks to be about ten years older than him—early thirties, perhaps. Rubies hang around her neck like ripe fruit on a vine. He stares at her for a moment too long before regaining his senses.
"Now, now," he says, "I was under the impression I was robbing him, singular. Wasn't aware of the beautiful woman living in his house." If he can charm her, he can get out of this with minimal damage.
She quirks one arched eyebrow. "That woman," she says bitterly, "is his wife." She spits out the last word as if it has a rotten taste. "Call me Nicola."
Flynn waits for her calm façade to break, for her to call for help—but it never comes. She stalks towards him with feline grace, her gaze burning, and stops an inch away from his lips. He smells perfume and spice. For the first time in a long time, he can't find the right words.
"Well, go on. Carry on with your thievery. I couldn't care less. It's all belongs to himanyways," Nicola hisses.
Flynn just blinks at her. "I didn't know he had a wife."
"There's a lot you don't know, young man, isn't there?" She looks at him like she wants to devour him.
Part of him wants to sputter in indignation, but the other part wants to close the inch of distance between them.
All he knows is to act on instinct, so he does.
All at once, a fistful of diamonds clatters to the ground, and those wine-red lips are pressing against his own. Nicola tastes like every expensive thing he was never allowed to touch.
The rational part of his mind melts away as his body takes over. She's experienced, and it shows in the way she writhes against him. Still, even in the delicious haze, he feels bewildered. "Hold on", he tells her between panting breaths. "What are we doing? Who are you?"
"Shut up", she says, and sinks her teeth into his lower lip.
The morning after, he's fiddling with the latch on the window when Nicola slides up behind him and loops an arm around his toned stomach. "Where do you think you're going?" she purrs. "Stay." It's hardly a question.
Under most circumstances, Flynn doesn't like taking orders, but he thinks he can live with it this one time.
As he lies in the softest bed he's ever felt, she tells him about her life, from the finishing school she attended as a young girl to her recent move to Corona. Nicola has the rare talent of talking in a manner that actually makes him want to listen. He learns that she's twelve years older than him, that she hates going by Lady Bennett, and more than anything, she hates her husband.
"It's all so tired. Arranged union, obviously," she says with an exaggerated roll of eyes. "It was supposed to put a rest to the feud between our families. Everyone wants to be born into old money, but you've no idea all the baggage it entails. I suppose that it comes at the cost of a loveless marriage. You know, I was a romantic before all this."
Flynn can't remember ever being a romantic. An idealist, maybe, but even in his childhood, he never envisioned himself marrying or starting a family. Flynn is twenty-one, and he has no business even looking in the direction of a nobleman's wife like Lady Bennett, let alone having a sordid affair with her.
Yet here he is.
The morning bleeds into afternoon and Nicola finally grows tired of lounging in the bed. "Come on, I'll take you on a tour of the gardens. Taron lets me grow whatever I want. It's what keeps me sane, really."
The garden is admittedly stunning, verdant and wild, overgrown in a way that looks intentional. He lets her lead him up the path and listens to her describe the different plants. Most of them are imported from exotic islands and rainforests, the kind of places he can only dream of seeing. She's seen so much of the world—Flynn travels a lot, but it's mostly limited to where he can go on foot or by stolen horse and wagon. Nicola, on the other hand, has sailed ships to all seven seas, journeyed to the farthest reaches of the known world, exchanged gifts with foreign monarchs and dignitaries. It's Flynn's turn to be a little starstruck, even if he tries to hide it.
He spends the next few days living at the manor, not asking when Lord Bennett will return, and not wanting to know the answer. It's the most surreal thing he's ever experienced. He wakes up every day to the promise of a hot meal, and goes to bed without worrying about being nabbed by guards in the dead of night.
During the night (and sometimes the afternoon and morning and evening), he and Nicola occupy themselves with each other's bodies. She's absolutely voracious, and Flynn returns her hunger with his own. He wonders how starved for passion she must have been when Bennett was around. Though most of the servants are away, there's a skeleton crew left over in the manor, all of whom speak very little and are eager to look the other way when they lock themselves in the bedroom. If Nicola is worried they'll speak a word of this to her husband, she certainly doesn't show it.
He's not stupid enough to believe their relationship will go anywhere, but that doesn't stop him from thoroughly enjoying their time together. It's not just that Nicola's a tiger in the sack, either; there's something about her that he truly likes. She's a far cry from the young women he's used to stringing along. Nicola is worldly and mature, if disillusioned. She seems to have seen everything, to want for nothing. It's oddly appealing.
One night, she pours them two glasses of wine and settles in front of the fireplace. This is almost the life he's dreamed of for himself, carefree and indulgent, though he doesn't actually have a claim on anything around him. It has to end sooner or later. He shoves that bothersome thought aside.
She rests her head on his lap and blinks up at him. "Tell me about yourself, Flynn. I feel like such a bore going on and on about moi."
He yawns. "Sorry, babe, I don't do backstory. What else do you want to hear?"
"What do you want?"
He runs a hand through his hair, contemplative. "Right now? If I'm being honest, nothing."
She snorts. "Everybody wants something."
"No, really." It's the truth. He doesn't even need the wine—just sitting next to her is somehow mollifying, sapping away all the urgency that lurks just under the surface of his skin until he feels gloriously, painlessly numb. "It's like… my whole life, I've had this itch. No matter what I do, how much I steal, how much glory I get—and believe me, it's a lot of glory—it's not satisfied. But here… it's gone quiet."
At this, Nicola goes silent.
The next day, they end up in the garden again, and he kisses her under the same tree he used to climb onto the window. When they circle back to the archway entrance, she puts a hand to his chest and looks up at him with an unreadable expression.
"My husband is returning tomorrow."
His face drops. "Oh."
"You have to go."
Her words burrow into his chest and settle there, cold, scampering things that scratch against his ribcage. "Nicola—"
"Come on, now. Don't make this hard. You were a distraction, Flynn. An irresistible one, to be fair," she smirks, "but still a distraction. You don't mean anything to me. You have to know that. And you used me too."
She's right, and he should say I know, I'll be on my way now, but instead he blurts out, "You know that's not true."
Her smirk falters and then dies. "Oh, Flynn—"
"I think I—" he pauses. It comes to him like a flash of gold. He doesn't love her. Maybe he's not even capable of love. But he does like her, and he can't remember the last time he really liked anyone. "I'm happy with you, Nicola. And I know you're happy with me too. Isn't that good enough? We could… make something of this. I don't know. Keep seeing each other."
For a long, terrible moment, Nicola looks like she's about to cry, all sense of composure gone from her coal-black eyes. She brings her hand to his face, and her touch is cool even as the sun beats down on the two of them. "Flynn, you're not happy here. You're pacified, numbed. Complacency isn't happiness. You can trick yourself into thinking it is. Sometimes you'll even believe it. But take it from me, Rider," she says, and her smile is soft and sad, "it doesn't last, and you know the worst part? You can't even remember what it feelslike to really want. I mean, to want something with all of your heart."
Then there really is a tear rolling down her cheek, and even though it's not for him, Flynn goes to wipe it away. She grabs his wrist to stop him. "Don't make this harder, young man." In spite of himself, he smiles at the endearment. "Just go."
(later, he'll replay the memory in his head, thinking that perhaps good enough is all he can hope for, and he'll say come on, I'm not going anywhere—)
Out of nowhere, he feels that itch spring back to life, gnawing away at the back of his skull. He doesn't know what he's looking for. Maybe he'll never find out.
But Flynn's not ready to give it up. Not yet.
Without further protest, he goes.