Rouge: Act 3 – Scene 24

Kian

“The Mass is ended, go in peace to love and serve the Lord.”

“Thanks be to God,” I mumble as I cross myself.

The final song begins to resound from the church organ, echoing inside St. Patrick’s Cathedral in disjointed harmony with various lackluster voices singing off-key from the pews. As soon as it finishes, the congregants begin to file out behind the priests. I kneel with my hands folded in prayer until I see her coming up the aisle.

It’s been seventeen days since I last saw Lacey, and our recent empty and hollow conversations were only made worse after my visit with her father yesterday. Or rather, since I said I’d have to tell her the details in person. Again.

I think that final dismissal struck a major blow to her confidence in our scheme and I’m afraid it made her lose confidence in me. Hopefully when I tell her what I can, I’ll restore her trust.

Lacey’s every bit the Garde’s Red Camellia as she follows behind her austere mother with Monroe at her side. She’s playing her part perfectly in a black and white dress with elbow-length sleeves and a skirt that flows from her waist to her knees. My eyes narrow at her short black lace gloves, an interesting choice and not her usual style, but my gaze drifts back up to analyze her features.

Being in isolation is sucking the light out of her, but she’s poised with a lukewarm smile while her arm loops through his. The only way to tell that she’s fecking miserable is her left hand fisted at her side and the fact that Monroe is crushing her arm against him to keep her close.

My eyes zero in on the contact and anger burns in my chest.

Strike four.

Logic says I should wait with my head bowed until they pass me, but at the sight of her barely holding on, my heart demands the rest of my body rise from my seat.

Monroe’s not paying a lick of attention to me, smiling and waving at the rest of the churchgoers like he’s campaigning. Counting on him to keep ignoring me and Lacey, I stride through the exiting crowd, steering toward the altar at the front of the church. My head is straight, seemingly not looking at anything else other than my destination, but Lacey’s furtive glance flashes in my periphery.

I wind my way around passersby down the center of the aisle toward her, counting the pews between us as I go. My heart thrums in my chest. Every muscle tenses with the urge to throw her over my shoulder and flee with her. My fingers stretch at my sides, tingling even more with every footstep closer until we’re merely rows apart.

Three.

Two.

One.

Her back straightens as my arm gently brushes hers. To onlookers, it seems as though I’m steering clear of people leaving their seats. No one else sees the way my fingers graze Lacey’s soft palm. Or that, for a mere breath, her hand intertwines with mine.

She’s mine again for a moment.

Then we both take another step…

…and she’s gone.

I glance back just in time to see her give the confessionals a slight nod before refocusing on the cathedral’s entrance.

Meet me in the confessional.

That was the last message I sent her this morning. She never responded, but I prayed like hell during the sermon that she would follow through with it. That one subtle look tells me she’ll meet me if she can.

Once I get to the end of the aisle, I walk toward the votive stand and light a candle for my mother while I wait impatiently for everyone to leave. When the nave no longer echoes with voices, I cross myself and slip into the nearby confessional before drawing the long red curtain closed.

The hard wooden bench takes up half of the cramped space and the empty cubicle behind the priest’s latticed window assures me that I’m alone in here. I should sit, but I’m a bundle of nerves at the thought of finally getting to hear Lacey’s voice in person, feel her in my arms, and smell her sweet floral scent.

After only a moment, clacking high heels begin to echo against the marble. I frown at the uneven cadence, but I resist peeking through the curtain. Fifteen agonizing seconds later, the steps halt outside the confessional.

The curtain flies open and Lacey hurries inside before slapping it closed behind her. I tug her into me and all the worry, all the pent-up longing, releases as I finally get to hold her again. When she wraps her arms around me just as fiercely, the icy cold doubt that’d started to harden my heart warms into a puddle at her feet.

“Kian,” she whispers and my chest aches at hearing my name on her lips for the first time in weeks. “I’ve missed you.”

My heartbeat thuds and I squeeze her tighter, reveling in the softness of her loose strawberry-blonde curls against my cheek.

“I’ve missed you so damn much, tine.”

We’ve texted or called every day since I last saw her, but feeling her in my arms is unmatched. Ironically, she’s taken a liking to me much more quickly than if Monroe hadn’t intervened. I have no doubt a flame would’ve ignited for me eventually, but instead of a slow burn, this adrenaline and secrecy have brought us together in a conflagration.

“I don’t have much time. My mom and Monroe think I’m confessing my sins from Devil’s Night. They were both too busy courting his favorite potential donors to care.”

“Why haven’t you been messaging me back? You can’t leave me hanging when your safety is at stake. My people said Monroe got in this morning and didn’t go up to the suite when he picked you up, but I was still worried.”

She blows out a breath and the pungent smell of liquor wafts toward me, taking me aback.

“I know, I’m sorry. I should’ve replied, but when I had to change your name to ‘Roxxy’ again, it made me sad to see her name instead of yours.”

Before I can respond, she kisses me and I groan into her mouth. Taking control, I grip her neck with one hand while cupping her head with the other. She melts against me, but it’s only when I allow myself to fully enjoy her silken tongue against mine that I taste it.

The sickly saccharine sweet of sugar and booze.

It takes every ounce of willpower I have to break away from her.

“Lacey, have you been drinking?”

When she steps back to answer me, I rest my hands on her shoulders, unwilling to stop touching her yet. My eyes roam over her features, truly assessing my wife for the first time in weeks.

The combination of her makeup and the confessional’s dim light hides her freckles, sharpens the shadows on her cheeks, and further bruises the purple bags under her eyes. Her sky-blue orbs are glossy and slightly disoriented as they roll dramatically at my question.

“Chill out. It was just a morning mimosa or three to take the edge off of having to be glued to a man I hate for hours. Nothing to worry about.”

Uneasiness churns my stomach.

“It was more than mimosas. You smell like tequila.”

“Jesus, didn’t know you were a fucking bloodhound,” she snorts.

“Lacey.” I level her with a pointed look.

“Okay, maybe I’m a little drunk from my wild night in with my elephant friends.”

“Lacey, this isn’t like you. You’re drunk before Mass, for Christ’s sake. Talk to me.”

“I’m fine, okay? Even better now that I’m here with you. I need you, Kian.”

Her lips slam against mine again. Bloody hell, kissing Lacey has been all I’ve wanted to do every moment we’ve been apart. But the taste of liquor overrides everything, reminding me what’s at stake.

She’s going down a dark path that’s hell to come back from. Her light is being smothered in that tower all by herself and I can’t stand by another moment while Monroe tries to snuff it out.

When she falls to her knees and goes for my belt, I snap out of it.

“Lacey—”

“I’m on my period, so I don’t want to have sex, but I can do this instead—”

“Fuck, do I want to…” I stop her with my hands on her wrists. “But I won’t if you’re going back to Monroe’s suite. If we do this, you’re coming home. Those are your choices. Fucking me in a confessional before you go back to your ex-fiancé isn’t one of them.”

As I pull her to stand, her lips poke out like she’s about to pout. But at the last second, her face blanks and she sighs.

“What’d you bring me in here for, then?” Her lack of expression is worse than anger. At least her rebellious streak is sexy as hell, but this? Indifference is torture.

“You really think I only asked you here to suck my cock? We should talk about the things we haven’t been able to discuss because we don’t know whether Monroe’s security has audio.”

“Oh… that.” She blows out a breath that trills her lips. “Yeah, when you left me hanging again, I had to stop caring. It was easier than disappointment.”

Her pain is a punch to my stomach, but I couldn’t tell her that her father was in the infirmary, or she would’ve lost her shite. I’d planned to confide in her afterward until I saw Charlie’s nearly mortal wound and heard a grown man beg me to keep his secret to “protect his daughter.” I know he made the deal to save his own skin, but I agreed because its impact on Lacey could be disastrous. Hopefully, when this is all over, she’ll understand that I shielded her heart the best I knew how.

“I’m doing what I can out here, but I can only do that if I know you’re safe. You look like you haven’t slept in days and you’ve stopped texting me unless I threaten you. Are you okay?”

She sneers at me while she tries to tug away. “I’m fine, alright? I’m the perfect Garde wife. Set aside like a trophy on a high ledge. First for you, now the Baron. You guys better be careful or I’ll jump off.”

“Lacey,” her name rumbles low and deep from my chest, where my heart aches for her. I tighten one hand on her wrist while my other drifts to her throat to force her to meet my eyes. “Don’t talk like that.”

Holding her like this has settled her in the past, but she fights back now.

“Why not? Oh, that’s right. I forgot. I’m just a pawn in all of your games. I should just wait for one of you to push me off the ledge, right? You know, before I do something drastic like think for myself.”

“Goddammit, that’s it. This ends now.” Still holding on to one of her wrists, I let go of her throat to pull out my mobile.

“What’re you doing?” she asks, no longer tugging away from me.

“Messaging my friends. I’ll get Tolie or Merek to cause a diversion outside and I’m taking you out of here—”

She snatches the device and slams it on the wooden floor of the confessional so hard that something crunches.

“Fuck…” My hands carve into my hair as I growl, “What the hell, Lacey?”

“You can’t do that.” She turns to leave, but I grab her hand.

“Give me one bloody good reason why I shouldn’t throw you over my shoulder and carry you back home right now.”

She glares at me and jerks against my hold, but when I don’t let up, she takes a deep breath like she’s about to shout.

I clap my hand over her lips and whirl her around inside the confessional to press her against the back wall, blocking her from her exit.

“If you scream, I’ll fecking do it, I swear to Christ, Lacey. I’ll carry you out in front of God and the Garde. I’ll start a war just to get you to talk to me, goddammit.”

She harrumphs behind my palm and rolls her eyes. When she seems like she’s calmed down, I finally remove my hand and bend to her level.

“Talk. To. Me.”

“Ugh, you know why you can’t call it off. I don’t know what the Baron has that exonerates my father.”

Frustration roughens my voice. “Your father’s a grown-arse man. He made his bed in that jail cell and then sold you to a monster for his freedom.”

“You stole me for yours,” she snaps, jabbing her finger into my chest. “Are you so different?”

“Yes.” I snatch her tiny weapon and use it to draw her against me. “You were supposed to be mine all along, and you were stolen from me. Now I’m losing you again and for what? A fecked-up scheme where someone framed your father so Monroe can pretend he has evidence that can save him? Think about it.” My theories spill out of me, but I hope she catches every word. “Monroe’s goal is to become Keeper of the Garde, the most powerful man in the society, and maybe even the country. Why would he help your father get out of jail when he’s right where Monroe wants him? In there, he’s Monroe’s prisoner as much as the government’s.”

Lacey chokes a gasp. “No… no. H-he has to have evidence, right? My father said it would be enough.”

“But did either of them tell you what it was?”

Her mind works over the information, but she’s still slowly shaking her head.

The hurt on her face gets to me, and I ignore my own ache inside over the defeat in my wee firecracker. I brush the underside of her jaw with my thumb and gentle my voice.

“Your father made all the choices here, not you. As the Keeper, he scared the wrong people by trying to go straight and he wasn’t able to keep the Garde’s loyalty. Whatever pointed to his innocence has been destroyed, and all Monroe can testify to are the financial charges, not the others the prosecutor is trying to add on. You might’ve believed you could save him, but not saving him doesn’t mean you doomed him. The Keeper doomed himself.”

Her face crumples. “No matter how he got in there, if I can get him out, I’m going to try. Or I would’ve tried… but if all the evidence has been destroyed—” She stops midsentence and I tense as she realizes my mistake. “Wait, how do you know that?”

“How do I know about what?”

“About the evidence being destroyed? That Monroe can only testify to certain charges? That he was framed by the Garde? I don’t know, take your fucking pick of questions, Kian. I’ve got plenty.”

She tries to yank her hand out of mine, but I press it harder against my chest and squeeze her nape again.

Feck, this is it. I’ve got to tell her.

I lick my lips and brace myself for her reaction, which only makes my perceptive queen of diamonds flare her eyes.

“Who have you been talking to, Kian? Tell me right now, or I swear to God—”

“Your father, Lacey… I saw your father.”