It took Cassie a while to get started, but he was patient and had faith she'd follow through. "When I was born wingless. . ." she began, pausing for effect. "My mother had no use for me whatsoever. I received an education apt for a princess, but mostly out of her sight or hearing and attributable to the sympathetic staff and my own initiative. My only friend was a boy about my age, Phoenix, the son of a groundskeeper. We ran and played together in many dark, mysterious places once I learned how to escape lock and key, my mother never the wiser, or so I believed.

"Still, as I grew, my mother took into account the slim chance I could be of some value to her. An arranged marriage with a foreign Royal would have had its political and monetary advantages, freeing her from the burden of my existence as well. The day I turned sixteen, she barged into my room before I was even out of bed, grabbed my jaw, and eyed my features. 'It is time,' she said. She'd chosen a husband for me: Lord Vulpecula, a fairy from Imperio del Fuego, a Spanish empire too powerful for her acquisition. Thus, they were weak allies at best. It was among my reasons to protest. And yet, she told me that if I didn't obey, she would make sure that Phoenix burned and would never rise from the ashes. I was stunned. I had no idea she even knew I had a friend."

Cassie stopped and shrugged, took a gulp and then continued: "I'd lived my whole life in the shelter of the palace, so no one of importance beyond her inner circle knew that I was not of Royal constitution. My mother had deceived the Spanish fairy lord about my deformity. When the day of the wedding arrived, fake wings were pinned to the lace beneath my dress. Bejeweled for the occasion, the wings were heavy and the lace tore, stitch by stitch, with every step I took toward the horrified groom. I kept walking despite the gasps and whispers. I was naïve enough to believe Vulpecula might marry me anyway. I wanted to be as far from there as possible by any means. So I lifted my chin and forced a smile. But he wasn't smiling back."

"I guess that explains your aversion to weddings," Chris said when she paused. She had mentioned this to Joe when he uncharacteristically brought up the march down the aisle as if it were a destination he might someday consider, assuming she was the one to join him there.

"Yes," she replied simply. "Shall I continue?"

"Go ahead. I'm listening."

"After the groom soared off in a fit of temper, I somehow managed to break away from the commotion. I intended to track down Phoenix before my mother had a chance. Phoenix and I weren't speaking at the time, for reasons you can probably infer. So, I never told him his life was in jeopardy; I suppose I thought that if I obeyed my mother, she would let him be.

"To my dismay, he was nowhere to be found. I returned to his room, a second time, about to search the grounds more thoroughly, when I noticed a marble box on the floor with its cover ajar. I wasn't sure it had been there before. I stepped a little closer and saw smudges of blood on the stone. There was a folded piece of parchment on top, which I opened first. 'Best Regards, Your Dearest Mother.' I don't know what compelled me to look inside the box. My friend's decomposing head was placed upon a bed of ashes. It was meant to be a wedding present, or a parting gift, if she was right about me and my propensity to fail her. Regardless of my nuptial status, he was dead already and had been for at least a day or two."

"Did you love him?" Chris asked.

"What? Oh. Did I love him? Yes, the way a lonely and unwanted child loves the only constant in her life."

"That's sad. I'm sorry."

Cassie stared into the space ahead of her for a moment, and then turned back to Chris. "Do you still want to hear the rest?"

"Only if you still want to tell me."

She nodded. "From there, I had to decide: live or die? To live, I would have to run, hide, struggle, find my way in a city that was not kind. It would have been easier to die, but I chose life. I went back to the North Tower, my humble abode, to shed my hideous wedding dress and pack some of my things. I lost many crucial minutes removing myself from the torn and tangled lace. It was as if I were ensnared in the wretched thing! Before I was even fully re-clothed, Andromeda hovered into my room. Her open wings cast a shadow over me. Every torch dimmed to a glowing tinder. I turned and backed away from her. Then my legs gave way. I caught myself with my hands and tried to scramble to my feet, but . . ."

"I get the idea," Chris said. "You don't have to go on if you don't want to."

She shrugged and fiddled with a loose strand of her hair.

"You survived to tell the tale. Once you escaped, things could only improve, right?" Chris asked, hoping Pyxis hadn't been as cruel to her as her mother had been.

"For the most part, yes, though I did spend a couple of weeks begging for food. When I thought I would die in an alley somewhere, a fairy known as the Banker hired me as a tutoress for his children. He was proud of the epithet he had earned but allowed me to call him by his real name, Scorpius.

"In the beginning, he was congenial, and told me what I needed to hear—I would be safe, supported, and my mother would never have to know. And I believed him.

"I considered myself lucky, and I worked hard to earn his praise. His compliments were many. I was the brightest fem-fairy he had ever met . . . I had a keen sense for politics . . . the children were making such remarkable progress. I could do no wrong. But the whispers . . . every time I entered a room, they stopped, and when I left, they started again. They were like a familiar song. I had heard them all my life, but I thought I had finally escaped them.

"Then, late one night, I heard a light shuffling outside my bedroom, too soft to be an adult, too loud to be dismissed as my imagination. I cracked open my door and saw a child from the kitchen standing there. Dusty, they called him. I asked what he had hidden behind his back. He revealed a book and his intentions. He wanted me to teach him to read, in secret. He offered all the coins in his pocket—a sad pittance, nothing more. The only payment I asked for was the truth. Why were there so many secrets?

"'There are many things the Banker would rather we not discuss,' Dusty said, and he showed me the scar beneath his ear. 'His rings leave their mark,' he warned. I listened in shock to the rest of his story. He was supposedly Scorpius's bastard child. What was worse, his mother, a scullery maid, had been beaten to death because she'd found solace in the arms of another fairy-male. Dusty saw the whole thing and was old enough to remember every detail. 'He's always kind, at first, to the pretty ones,' Dusty continued. 'Until they are round with child. Then he moves on, but both mother and child will always belong to him.'

"From that point on, I avoided Scorpius as best I could. I was determined to be the exception, not the rule. My plan backfired, however. If he failed to come across me during the day, he requested my presence in his study late at night. These meetings seemed to last forever even if the business portion of our conversation ended quickly. He showed me his extensive library, his awards, his trophies, and he gloated about his net worth. His hand always seemed to end up on my back and his eyes had this unnerving way of wandering all over me. In essence, I endured more than I should have.

"He was in no hurry—the pursuit seemed to thrill him—but day by day, his advances grew more brazen. He made it clear that I 'owed' him something."

"Jeez!" Chris interrupted. "If I'm ever in Pyxis again, where do I find this guy?"

"That's very chivalrous of you, Chris, but he never had a chance to carry out his intention." She brought her knees to her chest. One of her hands cradled her neck as she stared at the waterfall. "I was saved. That's all that matters. Dusty was my little hero. He knocked over one of the Banker's trinkets at a critical moment. I was able to sneak away. And I don't know what ever became of Dusty. . . .

"I left in the middle of the night but had no place to go. I traveled from one slum to another, and fell deeper and deeper into despair and ill health. Then one day I collapsed. When I awoke, Carina's wide green eyes were there to greet me. I had no recollection of her or her sister, but they immediately called me princess. I found out later that Vela and Carina's mother had once been one of my nursemaids back at the Aerial Palace. I was abandoned at birth, but they wouldn't let me die, then, or what was now at that time.

"When I was well again, I worked around the clock to repay my debts—cooking, cleaning, teaching, sewing. I slept on the floor with Carina and Vela's children until I could afford my own room. And in that time, I also met Pierre Delacroix and his associates. They cornered me one day and bombarded me with inquiries. At first, I hesitated to say much. Speaking candidly would have been asking for trouble, the kind punishable by death, that which I barely avoided. But once I heard some of their stories, the harder it became to do nothing. We began talks of rebellion. Given what we were up against, our efforts to organize one were almost laughable. But, then again, my mother put so many of us into a position where we had nothing left to lose. . . ." She stopped, looked down, and did not continue.

Chris threw pebbles into the waterfall until he felt her hand on his shoulder. "You're quiet. What does that mean?"

"I'm thinking," he replied.

"What are you thinking, Chris?"

He shrugged. "I'm just trying to take it all in. Take it in, and not put my fist through something."

She suddenly covered her face with her hands. "I knew I should have kept this to myself. I apologize for upsetting you."

He shot to his feet and paced away from her. "There's no reason you should be apologizing for anything!" When he turned back, there were tears in her eyes. "Hey, I'm sorry I yelled." His hand went into the hair at the back of his neck, and when he sat back down, he let out a deep sigh. "Thanks for answering my question."

She glanced at him through the heavy gloss of water in her eyes. When she looked away, she let her tears fall. "I'm glad you asked it. I feel better—liberated, I suppose. I would prefer there be no secrets between us."

She captured her tears with her index finger and thumb. Her eyes seemed to stay dry after that, but she was still visibly distressed. Her sad story was by no means over. Her mother's army was looking for her at this very moment, and they weren't going to give up until they found her. And killed her. Killed them all. . .

Chris picked up his baseball bat. He stood and hit stones into the darkness harder than he had before. His anger put some extra momentum into his swing. Soon he stopped and held the bat in the palms of his hands. Some of the best moments of his life had occurred while he was holding one, but his most recent experience in doing so now overshadowed the others. "It's hard to believe I can pick up a bat right now," he muttered.

"Why is that?"

"Because baseball is the reason Alana is dead."

Cassie moved to his side, unaware or somehow less afraid of the precipice by the water. "How so?"

"The night I was abducted, I pulled out my old bat from underneath the bed and used it to fight the Gray Coats. Alana was murdered to punish me."

"Chris, please don't blame yourself. You did what you could to protect your family."

"I know, but I still feel . . . responsible."

Chris sniffled and, for the first time since the evening he told his children about their mother, felt hot tears building in the corners of his eyes.

Cassie took him by the hand the way a child might grab a parent, or the way a friend might show solidarity. But then she slid her fingertips between his and squeezed his hand as if she would never let go. And whatever she was doing to make him feel calmer, it was working, and working well.

He could have stayed there, hand in hand with her, for a long time, but thunder was rumbling in the distance. Rain droplets began speckling the rock where they stood.

"It is beautiful here," she said as she watched the waterfall tumble over the embankment.

"What? Oh. Beautiful. Right."

Chris wasn't looking at the view. He was staring at her lips. They were slightly apart, just shy of a pucker. He forced his eyes away—rocks, leaves, vines, water, anywhere else.

As the drizzle changed over to a tropical shower, Cassie swung their connected hands back and forth. "Shall we return?"

"Why? Are you going to melt in the rain?" He lifted her arm over her head and pulled her close in a dancelike maneuver.

Her back rested against him and his arm settled at her waist. His other hand slid just below the first. She was secure in his arms. He closed his eyes and enjoyed a slow, deep breath. The scent of her hair was intoxicating. He could practically taste the sunshine. After many days and nights, his mind chock full of clouds and unrelenting darkness, she was the first ray of light to break through. He had the choice to bask in its glow or remain immersed in shadow.

Then, just as his lips were about to fall toward the soft skin between her bare shoulder and neck, there was a loud clap of thunder. With it came the memory of Andromeda's cruel whisper.

She'll unravel you. . .

Chris's arms dropped. Cassie's head turned. He slipped, they collided, and Cassie lost her footing on the edge of the rock.

He lunged for her hand as she skidded over the side. Then his feet started sliding. He glanced at her terrified face and at the water below. He tightened his grip because he knew where they were about to end up.

She splashed into the lagoon feet-first and he had to twist to the side to avoid landing on top of her. But his grip on her wrist was locked shut.

Chris stopped their plummet as soon as he could. He couldn't see much, but he could feel the waves of her panic. He yanked her closer and gripped her underneath her arms. Then, with one firm scissor kick, he brought her to the surface.

While Cassie was choking for breath, he towed her over to where he could stand. He put her head over his shoulder and pounded her between the shoulder blades with the heel of his palm.

She started coughing. He breathed a little easier, too, once he knew she would be all right.

"I am so sorry. That was my fault," he said. When her coughing subsided, she eased away from his shoulder. And Chris leaned his forehead against hers. "Hey, you're supposed to exhale, not inhale."

He lifted his head, expecting to catch her smile. But she still looked terrified. There was only one other time he'd seen her so frightened, and that had been in the presence of her mother. "Are you okay?"

Her eyes were darting all over the place. "I'm . . . not certain."

"Is it the water? If you want, we can get out." He took a step toward the shore.

"No!" Her whole body tensed around his. And then, suddenly, she eased up, overtly conscious of her hand placement, leg placement, her dress slightly askew. "It's not the water—or not just the water."

"It must be me, then. Am I really that scary?" he mumbled.

Her chin and eyes dropped as she slowly shook her head. Then she adjusted her legs around his waist. Her body came closer and her face rose to eye level. It was as if she dug deep within for some courage, and actually found some, and was acting upon it.

If only he could find some of his own. Or some good sense.

When she lifted her chin back up, those wide, vulnerable, beautiful eyes met his, encouraging his head to drift in. Their noses converged, then crossed. And then he kissed her, because he wanted to, more than anything, and because he was tired of waiting, tired of worrying about all the reasons to wait.

Oh, hell, just because!

Chris dove in, full force, and gave her everything he had to give. And Cassie kissed him back, tentatively at first, but soon her response matched his in strength and vigor. Like the water and the rain, her lips, her hands, her whole body flowed with him, around him, into him.

His hands slid up the bottom of her thighs. They would have continued on their quest for more skin, but her dress was bunched between them. He wrestled with it and felt victorious when the skirt of it floated to the surface. Then she surprised him, once again, by crossing her arms at her waist and lifting the dress over her head. She set it aside and rejoined his lips.

He had pictured her naked before on more than one occasion. He was troubled, not dead, not yet. And she was almost naked and would be very soon. The wrap-around strips of fabric she had been using for a bra and underwear were slipping loose with his persistent handling.

One thing was certain. She had been holding back, hiding under the rags, because the body she kept hidden underneath was petite yet buoyant and bursting with youth and curiosity. Her skin was smooth and flawless, and slippery in the water. And he was on a mission to free her, expose all skin.

Her hands grew more demanding as well. They were gripping his green shirt, the one she liked so much, though now she was determined to get rid of it.

Together, they pulled Chris's shirt over his head. Her hand then stroked through the hair on his chest and across muscle, like it was the first time, ever. It probably was her first touch of any man. And she liked it. Too much. She had to stop kissing him to gasp.

Had anyone ever wanted him like this before?

No.

The details were suddenly so fuzzy, but he was sure of it as he lured her lips back into the tow of his. Resultantly, there were glimpses. There were moments. It was almost as if their minds were reaching out and touching in places, too. He knew exactly where the bulk of his desire had gathered. But hers? It was heady, angelic, uplifting . . . like a pure white light, soothing and warm but not blinding.

Could he leave it, even if he tried?

He drew her closer. Her nearly bare skin was against his. His lips went to her neck. She tasted so . . . sweet? He had trouble believing she could get any more addicting. And suddenly she was mouthwatering.

Both mystified and in desperate need of more, he freed a hand to work on his belt and pants, eager to connect with her completely, if only their stubborn clothes would ever, just, fully, unravel.

There was that word again, back to haunt him.

As his pants slipped down his legs and the last of her dressing ebbed free, Chris hooked his hands under her arms and reestablished some distance.

Looking down to catch his breath, he could feel her searching his face for an explanation. He didn't have one and didn't look up when she placed her hand on his cheek, though he did spot an approaching lantern over her shoulder.

Chris didn't have to see a face to know who was there. He could already feel the burn of his brother's jealous glare and hear the ring of resentment in his remarks. And there would be many.

The frantic search for the dress and the shirt and the pants began. They grabbed at fabric and tried to determine up from down, in from out. Once they were at least covered, Chris carried Cassie toward the shore. When he set her down in shallower water, she lost her balance. He had to grab her arm to steady her and prevent her from falling under, again.

They made a last effort to reorient their sopping-wet clothes, and then lifted their faces into the blinding light of the lantern. 

⭐️⭐️⭐️

Greg Laswell. Comes and Goes (In Waves).

~

"This is for the ones who stand

For the ones who try again

For the ones who need a hand

For the ones that think they can. . ."

https://youtu.be/pEFxfVyz4Uc