TRIGGER WARNING!

(Mild) — Knives, Tattoos, scars.

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Y/N 💥

Saturday, 10:46pm

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SOMETHING'S WRONG WITH ME.

No, I shouldn't say that, because then my paranoid mind will begin to think something actually is. And nothing's wrong. It's just that meat-head Louis Partridge that's screwing up my perception of life in the worst way.

Staring at the dim light of my burner-phone, I pursed my lips as I read our previous messages back for the millionth time.

Not as much as I wish I did, he had said, speaking on the subject of knowing each other.

I wondered if I took it the wrong way, and he really did mean just as enemies. It was the only reasonable excuse, I would think, but I couldn't help but wonder why it suddenly felt awkward to speak to him—or to know he existed. Mind games. That must be it. He has to be playing mind games with me and I just don't know it.

Yesterday, I showed up at his apartment with the excuse that I was bored and needed something to do. It was only half-true, but the real reason was that I couldn't stay away from him—I found it strangely satisfying whenever I won one of our arguments.

But then he actually fought back for once.

And Hell, that changed something.

I'd been playing with fire my whole life, but the fire in his eyes that day was something I didn't know how to control. It was wild, uncouth, and brilliant. I was impressed to say the least. But that wasn't the only thing.

In the week we've known each other, I had always been the one to make the move. I'd put him in a spot where he was vulnerable—tied to a chair, threatened by a sniper, not even in the room as I flirted with his partner—but this time I gave him the opportunity to actually fight.

And I lost.

Hip-bones pressed into the marble counter of his kitchen, my hands trapped under his grip, and his side pinning my waist to the point of immobility—it was humiliating, and I had to resort to acting tactics in order to regain the advantage. But that wasn't what made me so confused; the unexplainable, was the way it felt for him to hold me there, not as an enemy, but something more than that.

It felt almost like a hug.

Ash? He'd said, what are you doing?

And for the first time I didn't know.

So I ran. I said my words, and I ran, leaving his apartment behind as I fled through the waking streets of London, worried that I'd turn around and he'd be right behind me. Maybe I wanted him to be right behind me. I was the one who asked him to chase me, after all.

He was just doing his job, and I led myself to think it was something more than that.

It wasn't.

"You brought a knife," a voice said from behind me, "I thought we agreed on no weapons?"

I spun around, looking at Louis Partridge leaning up against the side of an abandoned trailer, looking almost unrecognizable. I'd really only seen him in his SIS-commissioned suit—and his jim-jams that one time—but he seemed to be dressed differently.

"What knife?" I lied innocently.

He sighed. "Don't play dumb, Ash, I can see the sheath-belt on your skirt."

I ignored his comment, hoping he'd let it go. I decided to focus on his new look instead. A navy jacket over a plain white shirt, the British flag enrested over the left lapel, and black jeans. Oh.

"New outfit, Partridge?" I said, clearing my throat.

He shrugged. "It's a Saturday night."

"I suppose you were dressed up for a better occasion, then."

Not that I cared, but I wondered if he was dressed so sharply and classy for a night on the town. Maybe a pub or a skate park. Or maybe he had a date when I decided to spring this fight on him so suddenly. Pfft, scratch that rubbish thought, there's no way Louis Partridge would have a date, hah!

"No, I dressed for this one," he said, approaching me, "and besides, you've never seen how I dress on a Saturday."

Maybe I should start causing chaos on the weekends then.

No, what the hell am I thinking?

It must have been a trick of the moonlight, because even as he stopped inches away from me, I couldn't take my eyes off of him. His hazel eyes looked much deeper in thought than usual, and the structure of his face seemed more defined. He looked grown, maybe. More mature, less 'I'm an arrogant son of a gun' in a sense.

Maybe I should have worn something else, other than my usual black tank and skirt (with shorts on underneath, I'm not bloody stupid, jeez). For intimidation purposes, of course, and to throw him off.

"What are you thinking about, Ash?" He said, titling his head to stare harder at me.

I blinked. "None of your business."

"Technically it is my business, if you're staring at me with a strange look on your face while you 'think'," he laughed under his breath, "are you judging me, criticizing me, or hating me this time?"

"What if I said all three?"

"I'd believe it."

Good.

At least he knows the truth—I need to figure out why I'm suddenly losing my grasp on life, at the present moment. Maybe I'm just worried I'd lose again once we started fighting. He was certainly better at combat than I was, but I would rather die than to give up, so I had to train as much as I could.

"Shall we?" I coughed out, taking a step back.

He was getting too close to me, and I needed to make sure he realized we were still enemies. Did he get chummy with all of his targets? I'd hardly think so. It didn't seem normal for him to be so comfortable pressing his face inches away from someone he hated.

But he held out his hand.

"Give me the knife, Ash," he said.

I scoffed. "Are you bloody mad?"

"You said no weapons, yet you brought one."

"Because I don't trust you."

He wiggled his fingers as if it would hypnotize me into handing it over. "But I showed up without defense, so that should say something at the very least."

"It shows that you're a daft idiot," I smirked.

"No, it shows that I trusted you," he said, tilting his head, "to a small extent, I'll admit, but still some."

He was definitely playing mind games.

Why in the Hell would he trust his enemy? The person who was set on killing him if he couldn't catch her. Something was wrong, and at first I thought it was me, but now I think it's him. Does he know something I don't?

"Fine," I said, "turn around."

He furrowed his brow. "Are you going to stab me in the back?"

"Nice pun, but no," I smirked, "I do have to lift up my skirt to get the knife though, so be a decent bloke and avert your eyes."

He let out a soft laugh under his breath, shoving his hands in his pockets and turning around. And for a moment, I just watched him, not moving as he hummed a tune under his breath and began to rock on the balls of his feet as he waited.

He really did trust me, didn't he?

It may not have been a lot, but here he was, blindly trusting that I wouldn't kill him when I had the perfect opportunity. This wasn't a mind game—this was fact. Feeling something surge in my chest, I tried to ignore that thought, grabbing the handle of my dagger and sliding it out of its sheath. I tossed it off to the side, readjusting my skirt. It landed by the abandoned trailer a few ways off.

"Thank you," I said, trying not to sound awkward, "I'm now weaponless."

Louis turned around. "Are you sure you want to fight?"

"What else would we bloody do?"

He didn't answer, giving me a strange look.

"Oh for God's sake, Lou, I didn't mean it like that," I scoffed, "stop getting soft, and actually pretend you still hate my guts."

"I do hate your guts," he smirked.

"Then act like it, you git."

"As you wish."

Before I could process his words, he grabbed my wrist, spinning me around and locking my arms behind my back in a matter of seconds. Finally, we were getting somewhere. Digging the heel of my boot into his foot, I shoved him off of me, immediately going for a punch.

He caught it.

How does he always catch it?

I'd made a few good attacks in the minutes following that moment, but he managed to get more in. It was ridiculous. He was living up to his 'Miracle-Rookie' title, and I found myself wishing I hadn't underestimated him all this time.

"Tired already, Ash?" He laughed, dodging a round-house kick.

I stumbled backwards. "Shut up, Partridge."

He didn't shut up, instead throwing out more taunts to keep me flustered. I wanted to win. I wanted to be able to read his fighting patterns, but that was a skill I didn't have, and it was proving to be a huge disadvantage in this very moment. Not to mention, he was definitely much stronger than me in certain respects.

Dumb Agent muscles.

I ended up getting pinned to the gravelly ground, staring up at a smug-faced Louis hovering over me, who just couldn't seem to believe he'd won again.

"You suck at hand-to-hand combat, Ash," he laughed, "I'd offer to teach you, but I like having an advantage."

"Oh, piss off, Partridge," I spat out, trying to hide my smile.

I half-expected him to let go of me, or at least attempt to catch me for the first time, but instead he didn't. He just stared at me, eyes blinking, and hair falling over his face as the gears in his mind started to turn.

But then his gaze trailed away from my face and towards the wrist he had pinned down.

The Tattoo.

"Don't," I said, trying to wrench my arm away, "I'm serious, Louis, don't."

His grip was too strong, so I couldn't move my hand away, even as he slid his palm to the back of my wrist so he could see my tattoo completely in the dim light of the London Sky. I felt a surge of panic rise through me, but I couldn't do anything.

He knew my tricks, I couldn't act my way out of this.

I was stuck.

"Louis, stop," I said, my voice starting to shake, "don't look at it."

His eyes were trained on the ink marked into my skin. "Ash, what is this?"

"It's nothing, leave it alone."

"Is that what I think it is?"

"For God's sake, I don't want to talk about it."

"Ash, talk to me."

"No."

"Ash—"

"I don't have to talk to you about anything!" I yelled, tears stinging in my eyes, "just because you think you know me, doesn't mean you know more than what I let you see, Partridge."

I felt violated.

I had every right to be, and even though it was clear his curiosity was a result of his own human-error, I suddenly felt nothing but pure anger towards him. He saw the one thing I hated most about myself, and it made me feel vulnerable.

Kneeing him in the stomach, I pushed him off of me, scrambling to my feet in panic.

"You knew I didn't want you to see it," I scowled, my whole mind flustered, "I made it bloody clear that day in the alley."

Louis didn't understand. "Ash, it's not bad, I just—"

"It's an insignia, Partridge," I spat out, "you don't have a right to tell me if it's bad or not, because you didn't have it marked on you before you could even walk."

The Ash insignia was a mark of ownership. It held power over the crime syndicate, and anyone who had it marked onto them belonged to my family. When I was born, my parents decided to compartmentalize the union, leaving only the three of us as pillars to our name.

But that came with a price.

When I turned 16, I was allowed a companion to keep me company while the rest of my family escaped to live their lives elsewhere. They brought in Millie that year, and she was all I had until a few days ago.

But even though my parents were elsewhere, they made sure to remind me that I was not my own person. I belong to them. I was a point in their plan, and an object of negotiation if they ever got themselves into trouble. I was never their daughter.

I was their meal-ticket.

"But the words," Louis said, slowly rising to his feet, "what do they mean?"

I glanced down at my wrist, staring at the three words. A triangle—three lines representing three family members—a flame, representing our name—and three words.

Representing an oath.

Together we burn.

"It means I belong to them," I spat out, my blood boiling with fury, "together we burn, until together we die."

It was a smudge on the skin I lived with. It was poison seeping into my veins and keeping me stuck to a family I didn't care for. An insignia reminding me that they had power over me, and if they decided they didn't want me around, they could kill me off without so much as a simple hesitation.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Louis asked, his voice fading.

"Because we barely know each other, Partridge," I said.

"Were you ever going to tell me?"

"No."

"I wouldn't have told anyone."

He didn't get the point.

It didn't matter if it was on purpose or not, he was minimizing my pain just because he didn't understand. He didn't know what it was like to be kept locked away in a room, wondering if other kids existed. He didn't know what it was like to learn to love fire, because I constantly dreamed of setting my house ablaze just for a chance to escape.

He didn't know, and he didn't even try to.

"If it helps, I have a tattoo on the back of my neck," he said, lifting his hand to point out the spot on his nape, "all agents get their number marked when they get recruited."

"Are you being serious, Partridge?" I scowled.

"I just don't see how that's any different than yours."

"Oh, darling, there's a difference." I scowled.

He looked confused. "Care to tell me what it is?"

Taking a few steps back, I scanned the area for the trailer I had noticed half-an-hour ago. A soft glimmer of light told me what I was looking for was still lying there safe in sound. I ignored the boy at first, approaching my target with one thought on my mind.

"The difference," I began, bending down to pick up my knife, "is that you chose to get that tattoo, just like you chose to be an Agent."

I flipped the dagger in my hand.

"So since you think we're equals, I'll demonstrate for you," I spat out, "remember when you said this was our fight, and our fight only?"

He didn't say anything, staring at me with a sharp gaze.

"So, in a sense," I continued, "you're mine to kill."

Reeling my hand back, I chucked the blade towards him, watching as he bent backwards to dodge it, falling to the stone ground seconds after. The knife lodged itself into the rusting metal of a trailer behind him.

"Ash, calm down," he said, his eyes wide with panic.

I ignored him, planting the sole of my boot against his chest and shoving him back down. I pulled out my dagger with a sharp tug.

"Shut up," I spat out, staring down at him, "but since you're mine now, I guess that means I have every right to mark you as mine, hm?"

I shook his head. "No, you don't."

"Then why do you think my parents had a right to mark me?" I said, "don't you ever compare what I went through to your perfect, little life."

Bending down, grabbed his chin with my left hand, holding his head in place as I traced the blade of my knife against the skin of his cheek. It was only a tiny mark, barley even scratching the surface, but I knew it would scar. That's what I wanted it to do.

"Be grateful it's not your throat, Partridge," I frowned, standing back up, "and I've changed my mind."

He didn't say anything, so I continued.

"You only get three days left."

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