The kiss was far from what she expected.

He was gentle, too gentle in fact.

And then, he was rough, a crazed man out of his cage.

And his kiss would turn tender again, confusing her, playing with her senses.

Aliya needed to feel more of him and she never expected that from herself. Her first gentleman waited nearly a year to kiss her and a few more months to get her to bed.

Oliver St. Vincent, on the other hand, had cracked her bones; stalked her from Coulway and into a cheap inn; talked to her in a garden party on a winter afternoon; found her villa, found her in a café and invited her to meet his mother who bluntly asked how much she was worth; came to Birth and asked to study the case of a dying woman.

That was all she shared with the man, but those moments were oddly satisfactory and prophesized this moment. Somehow, in some weird way, she knew she was going to kiss Oliver St. Vincent.

She stripped him of his shirt, pressing her body against his, urging him to be needier. She needed to feel his muscles clench and jump at her touch.

A growl rumbled in his chest; his arm pulled her closer and in a swift motion, swept her off her feet. He swiveled her around and she crashed against the window, the panes in impact. His teeth grazed her neck and along her jaw before returning to her mouth, opening hungrily, feeding on her breath, stealing it with a groan.

Her fingers raked through his hair and closed into fists; her legs parted as wide as her skirts would allow and wrapped around his hips.

They were driven by raw instinct and intense desire. It was explosive and they barely even started. Her gown was still intact and so was his trousers.

"Just a kiss," she rasped in his ear as he nibbled on the pulse of her neck. "Just a kiss."

He leaned back and looked at her, panting. Although he was smiling, his eyes were dark and expressed something intriguing, a mystery she wanted to uncover for later. Aliya moistened her lips and she swore she could still taste him there. She cupped his face and pulled his head for another kiss.

"Just a kiss, Ali," he murmured against mouth, biting her lower lip.

She whimpered, allowing herself one more dive into his mouth; one more taste of him to last her a day or two because prudently speaking, her mind and body would surely pursue for more in the coming days. She would lie awake in bed dreaming of this moment. She would spend her waking hours absently thinking of his mouth, his hands, and the cold press of the windowpane. Her fingers would tingle at the memory of his hair, and she would no longer drink brandy the same way again after having had a sample of it from his mouth.

She knew she just doomed herself.

But she had been doomed for years, was she not?

At where she was, Oliver St. Vincent was the harbor in her sea of catastrophe.

Finally taking the courage, she gently drew away from him and leaned against the windowpane. She ran her hands down his arm, smiling at its contour.

"We should scold your mother and your butler," she whispered with a smile.

"Jason. That is the name of my butler. He needs to have a word with you."

"He was the one who welcomed me into your villa?

"The very one."

"Do you pay him handsomely?"

"Yes, of course."

"Then he must be scolded." She ran her hand over his arm again and felt them clench. "Although I wonder where you got the muscles."

"Brandies can be quite heavy. Lifting and pouring bottles a couple of times a day is the trick."

She narrowed her eyes.

"And fixing bones. Cutting flesh, stripping bones of flesh. There are many ways to get muscles." His arms wormed around her, lifting her against him before putting her back down on the floor. "And this is one of them."

She laughed. A soft smile tugged at his lips. "What?" she asked.

He shook his head. "I will tell you tomorrow."

"Tell me what?"

He bent down and kissed the tip of her nose. "The day after tomorrow."

"You said tomorrow. What is it?"

"Then three days from now."

She narrowed her eyes.

He shrugged. "The delay will keep coming until you stop prodding."

He held her shoulders and made a deliberate step back. Their eyes met and she saw him struggle. She wanted him to lose and pull her back, but he shook his head and turned her toward the door.

"Good night, Ali," he said behind her.

*****

She laughed. It took fourteen years to hear her laughter again and just as he suspected, it brought him back to that cruise; those days when they had nothing to do but run around, causing havoc with the monkeys; escaping their cabins at night to look out into the dark abyss of the ocean and night sky.

She was still the Aliya he knew. She must be.

Oliver went to bed that night, utterly awed and thankful that she tricked him here. He must be the only fool to feel that way, but he always knew Aliya was an exemption. He would always base his perceptions of her and her actions on that fourteen-year-old girl he met.

And that might just be his downfall.

If he was wrong.

But Oliver St. Vincent was rarely wrong.

*****

Oliver was formally introduced to Lady Hartcaster the very next day. He learned that she was three and fifty, that she never bore children and that she had led an adventurous life.

Lord Hartcaster asked as many questions as Oliver. Could it be that she got the disease during one of their travels to Egypt? India? Could she have caught a microbe?

"Our recent studies on this condition, if she indeed has it—and which I believe she does, is that it is not acquired from being infected."

"You mean to say that she developed it?" Aliya asked.

He met Lady Hartcaster's blue eyes. She had a ghost of a smile on her lips as they all waited for his answer. "Yes. Recent studies suggest that it may be a problem with the blood, which might be supported with the enlargement of her abdomen where her spleen is." He smiled and added, "I would not bore you with a lecture on the human body. You only need to know your chances, yes?"

"St. Vincent!" Lord Hartcaster roared.

"It is all right, dear," said Lady Hartcaster with a chuckle. "He is speaking the truth." To Oliver, she said, "Thank you for being truthful, Doctor."

St. Vincent shrugged. "Anytime. Although I cannot tell you when you are going to be defeated by this illness, my lady."

Lord Hartcaster was fuming behind his wife, casting Oliver a murderous look. Aliya was looking at him with horrified eyes, her mouth hanging open.

Ah, no one ever liked death be discussed with the dying and it always baffled him, for who would give death better justice than the one who is at its door?

"Oh, I love surprises," said Lady Hartcaster with a laugh. "Do we not all?"

"No," her husband gritted out. "I think you are done for today, St. Vincent."

Oliver shot to his feet. "Of course. I have been waiting for the perfect time to respectfully excuse myself. I need to go and exercise."

"Exercise?" Aliya asked.

"Yes," he said, turning away. "I enjoy going on a run."

"In this weather?"

He stopped beside her to whisper, "Shirtless."

She choked on her laughter and he turned to exit the room, hearing Lady Hartcaster say, "I heard that."

Oliver did not truly enjoy running, but he found that since he was killing himself with his problematic drinking, he might as well give his body a little help by keeping his heart healthy. He was not a complete traitor, after all.

He would often run during the evening whenever he was in Strait or Coulway, but since this was Birth and a prime vacation destination, no one would gawk at a giant man running down the beachside, shirtless. He ran barefooted because a teacher in India once told him that a man should remain connected to the earth.

The wind was a biting chill that morning, but as soon as his body gathered heat, he found it soothing as it blew against his skin.

He took the time to think as well.

Should he tell her?

Of course, he should.

An hour later, the same question was running around his mind. He found Aliya waiting for him by the wide balcony, her mouth pursed as if she was trying not to smile.

Could he kiss her again?

Perhaps not today. Her mien was guarded.

"Good morning again," he greeted, panting for breath.

"When I said you are not fat and that your belly is not bulging, I did not say you can display your torso in the daylight," she said, grabbing his dress shirt from the chair where he left it and threw it at him.

"My mother and my butler should truly hear your sentiments about my torso, Ali."

He slumped into a rocking chair and spread his legs out before him. Neither of them uttered a sound for a while as they listened to the gentle waves in the distance. "She will not see summer," he said in a deadpan voice.

Aliya dropped on the chair beside him, her face hard. He cursed himself under his breath. "Ali, I did not mean—"

"No, I know she will not make it, but to have you confirm it..." Her voice trailed off.

"I did not know you are attached to her this much."

"She is a friend."

He nodded, his eyes returning to the view of the ocean. He was back to that ship with her beside him, a monkey on her shoulder, staring at the horizon, arguing how far it was or if they could walk over that line where the ocean met the sky.

"Lord Hartcaster and I have reached an agreement. I shall serve as his wife's companion and receive payment for it."

Without taking his eyes off the ocean, he nodded. "I have heard that Belles and their gentlemen sometimes have different arrangements."

"We do. One Belle I know had to pretend to be her gentleman's dead daughter."

His head snapped toward her. "You must be jesting."

Shaking her head, she replied, "No. There are more bizarre stories, but I am in no liberty to get into details."

"That is interesting. And Belcourt is aware of this?"

"No, not all the time. So long as we follow Belcourt's laws, we can do anything we wish."

"And so long as you succeed in your missions?"

Her eyes narrowed. "You are trying to pry, St. Vincent. I will not fall for it."

He let the silence linger for a while before asking, "Why do you need the money from Hartcaster?"

"For my gowns, of course," she said with a wicked grin. "I need a drink." At first, he thought he heard himself say it, but when she stood and disappeared back into the villa, he scoffed.

He did not feel like drinking now. He just sat there, getting drunk in the memories of those five days on the cruise. Remembering those moments now were new to him for the memories were coming in bright as they were when they happened; so far from how he would remember them last year because before he was permitted to approach her, he always remembered those days as the days that led to the darkest moments of their lives.

Did she know what he did?

Did she ever realize that he was part of the reason why she was driven to Belcourt?

He did not know his part of the tragedy until it happened.

His mother said he was not to blame; his father agreed with his wife; his sister claimed he was stupid to even think it was his fault.

But were they right? Were they only saying those things because they knew he lived with the guilt for years?

He was startled when Aliya returned with a glass of wine in her hand. She did not offer it as she settled back beside him.

"Did you have many lovers? Or do you?" she bluntly asked.

Blinking in surprise, he frowned. "Why do you ask?"

"You as much as told me last night that women helped you build your muscles," she said, staring at him boldly. "Or did I misunderstand it?"

Oliver started to shake with laughter. "No, you did not." He turned and found that she was still waiting for his reply. "I had a few lovers, yes. I have none at the moment. I would not be pursuing you, Lady Aliya if I am keeping a mistress. That would not be the honorable thing to do."

She blinked a few times. "You are saying you are pursuing me."

"Is that not what I have been doing?"

"You have been stalking me, Doctor. That is not pursuing a lady."

"Ah, but I do not have much experience in courtship."

Aliya was taking a sip from her wine as he spoke and she sputtered the contents in her mouth at his last word. "Courtship?"

"That is the main goal of my purs—stalking."

For a very long, quiet moment, he just stared at him, her face blank and unreadable. "I suppose you do have the same problem as your mother, Oliver St. Vincent. Your brain does not communicate well with your tongue!"

"You very well know from last night, Ali, that my tongue can function the way my brain dictates."

Her face flushed.

Before she could throw a rebuttal, he said, "Now, since we are on the topic of lovers, I would like to ask how many have you had?"

"One," was her fast reply. "My first gentleman."

"I assume Hartcaster is not that gentleman."

"He is my third and he would never touch me. My second was short-lived."

"And you were a willing lover to this first gentleman?"

"I was not forced if that is what you are trying to ask. He waited until I was ready and the experience was wonderful."

*****

They should not be talking about lovers, Aliya thought. But they were because it was comfortable. Her first lover was kind and generous; he made her feel wonderful and she would never deny it.

As she stared at him, his face glowing from his run, and his hair softly blown by the wind, Aliya had a feeling that Oliver St. Vincent would be different and it was all from one kiss. He did not make her feel as though she wanted to please him. Last night, he made her feel that she wanted to please herself and please him in return. She wanted to receive as much as she wanted to give.

But would she dare find out?

Of course, she would. She did not care if she would be keeping a secret from Belcourt.

But could he keep a secret?

A kiss was harmless. Countless of Belles had been kissed by men who were not their gentlemen. But to take a lover outside of Belcourt, without Belcourt's knowledge, was a ground for punishment.

She had heard rumors of Belles enjoying a tumble in the bed with other men, but it was all just rumors. A few Belles had gone missing in the past and everyone just easily assumed they were banished to the island for disobeying Belcourt law.

Looking down at the wine stains on her dress, Aliya got up and said, "You must be wondering if I am considering taking you in as a lover."

His brows shot up, his face lighting up with excitement. "Would you?"

She narrowed her eyes at him, enjoying the harmless teasing. "Consider? Yes."

His smile disappeared. "But not while you are a Belle."

A bitter taste lingered at the back of her throat and it was not from the wine. "No." There is too much as stake. She could not disappoint Belcourt now.

"But what if I rescue you from Belcourt?"

She blinked and then scoffed. "You would go that far?"

"I did try to be a gentleman of Belcourt three times."

Aliya frowned. "You cannot mean it was all because of me. You just met me."

He got up with a loud sigh. "Would you like to go for a walk?" He slipped his arms through his shirt and started to work with the buttons. Leaving it untucked, he descended into the sandy beach below.

Aliya emptied her glass and placed it on the table.

Noting that he was barefoot, she unlaced her slippers and joined him out of the balcony, her feet digging into freezing sand.

She shivered as the cold traveled up her spine, aggravated by the wind. She was having second thoughts about the walk when Oliver wrapped his arm over her shoulder, tucking her close to his side.

Never mind, she thought to herself. It was still chilly, but she would endure it.

Walking with this man was not at all similar to walking with a friend or a lover. She was simply walking with a man she was enamored with and it brought about a skittish, titillating feeling she never experienced before.

Looking up at his face, she asked, "When will you grow your beard back?"

His broad shoulder lifted in a shrug. "I do not know. I am a lazy bastard, so I must be soon."

"Last night, you said you will tell me something."

He pressed her closer. "You are impatient, Ali."

"With you, I am, St. Vincent."

He chuckled and stopped walking. With the movement of his arm, he turned her to him.

It was spontaneous, the kiss. She knew it was coming before he even stopped walking. Her nerves had been telling her to be ready and she was. She knew she would receive the kiss before he bent his head.

It was the same kiss. Strong and soft; tender and hungry. The wind blew stray waves of his hair against her face. She brushed them away by running her fingers through his scalp, cupping his bristled chin while she angled her head. He tasted like wine, but that was her wine.

Their breathing was opposing the gentle breeze of the ocean, the soft flapping of her skirt. Theirs were labored, heavy... needy.

She could stay here for a while longer, she thought as his hands went to her waist, pulling her against him, unapologetically making her aware of his arousal; shameless for his need of her. And she wanted more of this unapologetic, confident, and unorthodox man. He was not within her standards. He was simply a unique standard of his own.

When he finally tore his mouth from her and rested his forehead against hers, he said, "I truly hope you never went to Belcourt, Ali."

There was something in his words that froze Aliya. It was not the mention of Belcourt, but the notion that he seemed to know how she came to be there. "What do you mean?" she asked, leaning back to look at his face.

His eyes were closed and when he opened them, something in her stirred. A memory she could not point out, a voice she could not hear but knew was there, simply being drowned by a hundred other voices.

*****

It was time, his mind said.

What was the use of trying to keep it from her? It was just a memory. A few days on a ship.

He should not wait for his mother to do it for him because he knew for certain that the woman would do it sooner or later and would be brutal about it. She would tell Aliya everything all at once, something he did not plan to do.

"St. Vincent, what did you mean when you said you hope I never went to Belcourt?" Her voice was filled with anticipation. Was she hoping it was innocent—that he would burst out laughing and say that he wished she was not a Belle so he could take her to his bed? Yet her eyes were telling him she sensed he meant something else.

He stepped back, letting go of her, suddenly afraid of how she would react. If she reacted badly to this, how much more to the parts he was guilty of?

"The ship?" he asked. She continued to frown in confusion and he wanted to kiss her again. "You were fourteen."

She blinked as though he was talking nonsense and for one passing moment, he doubted himself. Surely, he got the right woman? And then he saw it. He saw how her eyes finally unfolded a time in her life that was not in Belcourt—the confusion, the struggle to remember, and then the moment she did.

Her beautiful golden globes blinked and rounded.

"The surgeon's apprentice..." she began and Oliver swore he could have survived the winter waves of the ocean if he jumped in. "O—Ollie?" His name rolled out of her tongue in a whisper, seemingly remembering a dream and confusing it with reality.

He just smiled and it was the answer she needed. Her wide eyes cleared and her mouth fell open with a loud gasp. "The cruise from Herst to Dockerly!"

He began to chuckle in relief. She remembered. All these years, she remembered.

But she was not too happy as her well-kissed lips curled into a snarl and she punched his arm. "You were that boy?" She punched him again. "That lanky, crazy boy?"

He blocked her attacks with one arm and a laugh. "Ali, wait—I did—You were an equally crazy girl!"

"Why did you not tell me sooner!" She pursued as he backed away. He looked over his shoulder to make sure he was not heading to the ocean. "You bastard!" Her eyes were not furious but rather filled with mirth, glimmering with remembrance. "You bloody bastard! I should have known!"

He laughed, catching her hands. "I am surprised you remember."

She loudly sighed. She pulled away from him, stumbling back in disbelief, looking at him with wide eyes as if seeing him for the first time. "I cannot believe this. I should have remembered you. I should have known—It must have been the beard, but no, of course not for you lost the beard. But... I should have known!"

"What we should have done in the first place is to know each other's name fourteen years ago."

"But you know mine."

Her father's pained face flashed in his mind and he fought hard not to show it so he smiled. "Yes, I knew your full name."

She lurched toward him again and attempted to push him away. She failed. She laughingly scoffed until she burst out laughing; disbelief and bafflement dancing in her eyes. "You must have been enjoying your time stalking me around while I was so ignorant!"

"Of course. And you should have known I enjoyed it from the very first moment I cracked your bones."

She groaned and another snarl curled her lips. "You always liked playing tricks, Ollie. Oh, God, you are no longer Ollie. You are—you are a grown man!"

"I am still Ollie," he said, tone serious.

Blinking multiple times, her brows fusing, she inquired, "How did you find me?"

He shrugged. "I knew you went to Belcourt."

Something flashed before her eyes—fear and shame. "You knew about my father then."

"My uncle, the surgeon, identified your father during the cruise."

"Uncle Carl? That uncle?"

He grinned. "You remember him."

"Of course! He was equally crazy! He told us about the monkeys, of course, I remember him."

His smile mellowed.

"Where is he now? How is he?" she asked.

He shrugged. "He passed many years ago."

"I'm sorry to hear that, Ollie. He was a wonderful man," she murmured, her face suddenly solemn.

"Yes, he was."

"And he knew my father?"

"Everyone knew about your father then, Ali. Even until now."

"He has been reduced to folklore."

"A scary one at that," he tried to jest.

When she did not laugh, he sighed and prepared himself for more questions.

She tucked stray strands behind her ear. "Why did you look for me?"

He stiffened. Now, that was one question he could not answer for now.

"Ollie? Why did you look for me?"

He blinked, thinking of a way to tell her the truth without giving her the full truth. "I want to take you out of Belcourt."

She frowned. "You think that I need to be rescued from Belcourt." It was not a question, but he still said, "Yes."

She shook her head. "No."

His face hardened. This was not how he expected their reunion to turn out. "Ali..."

"I do not need you to tell me what to do." Her voice was cold. "We may have been friends for a short while in the past, but we are very different people now. Can we not just remember those days on the cruise without you meddling with the life I now have?"

For the first time where Aliya was concerned, Oliver started to feel annoyed. And it was rare for Oliver St. Vincent to feel such emotion. "You are then telling me that you will stay in Belcourt and be a Belle forever?"

Her jaw tightened. "You speak of my being a Belle with judgment, St. Vincent. I do not like the sound of it."

He was back to just St. Vincent. He should have bought more time, he thought with regret. But he did not have the time to slowly change her mind for he was expected to take her out of Belcourt soon.

"I am judging the institution that made you one," he snapped.

She scoffed, tore her eyes off him, and looked at the sea. Strays of hair flew behind her clipped hair. "I would have loved talking about how our lives have been after we parted ways, but then I realize it would simply lead to me telling you about my years in Belcourt which would then lead to the same conversation we are having now."

"I am not judging you, Aliya. I only want you out of Belcourt."

*****

Aliya wanted to be out of Belcourt, too. She was planning to escape Belcourt, but not this way. Not by dragging him along with her.

And could she even trust him?

If she said yes, and if she said she needed his help, what would he demand from her then?

He would want the truth.

And Aliya could not give him the truth.

She just met him after fourteen years. How could she trust him to help her?

She had her allies. That was enough for her.

Placing Oliver St. Vincent into the dangerous game she was playing would not do them good. He would be another conscience for her to carry.

"I have my plans," she said, voice shaking. "Long before you even resurfaced. And I know that you have other plans other than taking a woman who had once been your friend on a cruise out of Belcourt. We have different goals now and they should not include each other."

"Aliya, you had different dreams when I met you. You cannot achieve them while—"

She laughed bitterly. "That was fourteen years ago, Ollie!" she cried out in contempt. "We both failed our dreams, have we not? You said yours was bigger than Sutherland, but it seems to me it has been reduced to the size of a brandy. Is that why you have been following me around? Because you feel sorry for me? Because I ended up in Belcourt? Because I had such a cruel fate? Did you hear from your uncle how the Gambler ruined his life and that of his family? I am telling you, Doctor, that I am where I am because I had no one else to run to when a group of men hunted our entire family down all for a man who never even bothered to think about us when he murdered those people." She was breathless now. "Whatever I do now will not be with anyone's help either."

His jaw tightened, his face grim, but what was difficult to see was witness the laughter in his eyes die.

Aliya wanted to reach out and apologize. She wanted to tell him it was all right, that she had a plan, that she was to escape Belcourt. And if he could wait, they could restart their friendship.

But for now, her plan was frail with a slim chance of success. Lives depended on it. Telling someone outside of Belcourt, let alone a man who could not even control his drinking, was an ingredient for disaster.

What she had with Oliver St. Vincent was premature. Their friendship grew and died in less than a week. They met again and shared two kisses, barely knowing anything about the other after nearly two decades.

That was not enough for her to trust him.

He could be a part of the Circus, the last thing she needed at this stage and it would be even worse if he were because Belcourt may find a way to use her against him. Just like how they did with Sasha.

She lifted her chin haughtily, her tears stinging at the back of her eyes.

She did not care if he was just an ordinary doctor, nor did she care if he was part of the Circus. She just wanted him spared.

She hated how this day was too long for events to badly develop as they did now. In less than twenty-four hours, Aliya found a possible lover and a long-lost friend; and lost both at the same time.

Oliver nodded, turned, and walk away. And she hated that, too.