️⚠️HTW: mentions of self harm, attempted self harm, drinking, and other topics⚠️

"APOLOGIES FOR MY BEHAVIOUR BEFORE," I handed the woman the glass of her honey toned drink, "I shouldn't have let you off so abruptly like that."

"You can stop being so formal, now," The Sinclair smiled, tipping her glass up gently before taking a sip, "No worries. Is he okay?"

"Should be," The light shone warmly against the walls. Her eyes were shining vibrant and gold, just like mine. Aside from her admirable appearance, Kezia had a very welcoming aura around her.

Making it easy to loose your guard. Not mine, yet.

"You're eyeing me," She said it as if it was something that amused her; as if she expected my trust to be absolute. "Find anything interesting?"

"Not quiet," I lied through my teeth. Her entire existence was an interest to me now, "although, may I ask a question?"

"Stop being so formal!"

"Lady, we're at an NFL match, surrounded by people who drink Acqua di Cristallo Tributo a Modigliani after a workout," I said, a flat look on my face, "I think being formal is at least in accord."

"What does that mean?"

"The water, in accord, or—"

"That," She, deciding my personal space was non-existent, poked a slender finger at parts of my naval that showed. Parts that were black in ink. On a very modest lift of my shirt, I figured it out to be a snake. A snake, smoke slithering up the line of my naval, the head in the center of my abs and the tali just flicking under the waistband of my pants.
"Didn't know you were into tattoos."

"Neither did I."

·······•✦•······

Snakes. The one animal I absolutely hate after spiders. Not because I have beef with snakes as in the reptiles, no, because of what they represent. Redemption, temptation, rebirth, healing and evil.

Mostly the Stage.

The Stage was a direct reflection of Salvatores. Every person unfortunate enough to posses that cursed blood in their veins were bound to it. In a way that caged them.

In a way that killed them.

The crown of thorns and spikes made of gold, adorning their heads as they would sit on their thrones, looking down upon the power they own.

The underworld, the mafias, the government, every conspiracy organization known to mankind—even unknown—The Stage had a grip on it. And the Beholder then so.

To wear that crown, each heir must be qualified in ways not human enough. Ruthlessness, mercilessness, the ability to use and manipulate; that was all a Salvatore needed to be to obtain the throne.

How every one of them have been. Are.

Maybe that's why the apple turned out as rotten as the tree.

I remembered something Sarina wrote in her diary—my blood is rotten and I don't have the power to get rid of it. If she was my sister, if she was me...

I think I would've said the same thing then and now.

A little ray of sunshine, with a future as bright as her golden eyes. A sick, twisted part of me pitied myself. I wished I could protect that, whatever it was, for just a while longer. Before she got poisoned with that name.

The woman in front of me I could for sure call my reflection.

The girl who's thick, wild hair, was now straightening. Thinning from restless nights as her eyes were bagging. She didn't look weak at the slightest. She looked exhausted, maybe, but not broken. Her scars were skillfully covered with discrete layers of foundation. Her ears adorned with jewelry heavy.

And yet that cursed slither was still climbing up her core..

If I looked carefully enough, it looked back at me. Hiss it's forked tongue, stare in amusements as it would wonder how much of an ignorant fool I had been to think that I could run from it. From them.

If I could blink past the wetness pooling in my eyes, I would hold make a shudder and a sob as my mind played the image of it crawling up my chest, coiling around my throat. Snapping it half.

I wanted to scream. I couldn't.

I don't think I ever admitted it. But... at this very moment, I had never been so—

"Arlene." 

Oh, right. Shattering the glass and using one of it's shards to try cut out the tattoo wouldn't be something my favourite Hawthorne would approve of.

I don't think I stopped shaking.

"Put away the glass, darling," He didn't call me doll. He knew not to call me doll.

I wanted to throw that sharp piece of crystal in my hand out of the window, and yet I only squeezed it tighter. I couldn't see anything but him in my cracked reflection. His golden, hawk like eyes. His jawline. The shape of his nose and the curve of his lips. I was him. I was him and that was horrifying to me.

I wanted that snake dead.
Even if it meant I was too.

"ARLENE!"

·······•✦•······

Oh god. What the hell did I just do?

"Arlene Amira Grambs," He held me so close I wanted to cry, "You absolute idiot." His wrists held mine.

His wrists held mine before I could stab that snake. And myself.

"Are you fucking crazy, woman?" He whispered. Low, soft, scolding and yet so frightened. As if this was the end of his world. As if this was the most horrific nightmare he'd ever witness. As if his entire life flashed before his eyes. As if, if that had driven into me, he would've died.

He was shaking as much as I was.

"A little bit..." I smiled a sob back.

And that was it before he threw the shard so far away from me or my thoughts. His arms gathered every scattered piece of my existence into them and mold me back to new as tightly and firmly as he could. His tears burned my shoulders and cooled my blazing mine.

"Never again, do you fucking hear me—?!"

"I'm sorry!" It ripped itself out of me despite of my efforts to hold it back, that wretched broken voice, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I don't know what happened–I never–I never do this to myself... I would never, I don't hate me, I–"

Don't I?

Come to think of it, how many times have a used my sister's needs as an excuse to ignore mine? How many times have I downplayed my own injuries? Just how many times have I turned a blind eye at every little thing exploding and turning my life upside down, moving on—forcing myself to do so—and not looking back at what I needed to protect myself from?

I gave that moron of a clown enough chances to take me down.

I let myself fall into the greed to give my family a better living and got trapped into whatever the hell was going on in the Hawthorne house.

I went down the rabbit hole that was Sarina Salva and found myself back to a man I wished to run away from.

I am looking for that man and the woman who tried to kill me, willingly.

So, maybe, just maybe... I do hate myself.

Don't we all, just a little bit?

Those sharp, uneven sucks of air, complied slowly, shallow and softening. The shaking stopped.

His tears were gone within seconds. And yet my mind tore itself apart when I caught them still.

"Listen to me," I didn't want to, but his finger on my lips held my words back, "You will never even think of doing that again, Grambs. Understood?"

Oh that Hawthorne. Always so strict, cold and glaring at me. And then only I could see the worry, warmth and an emotion I dare not say yet, shining in those grey eyes, ruining his facade.

"I gave you an order. I expect an answer."

"Yes, sir."

Lightness weighed on me pleasurably as his lips twitched up. Then pressed up against my temple. "You insufferably beautiful woman."

My hands slithering up his perfectly tailored suit before wrapping around his shoulders, "I'm sorry."

"I know, love," He whispered, closing his eyes. Taking in the warmth of our bodies as so was I. "I know."

His hands splayed against the flat of my stomach, "God..." I couldn't figure out what unsettled him more. The horrendous inked skin or the fact that there could very well have been a sharp object jabbed in deep, if not for him. "When did you get this...?"

"I don't know," I forced my brain to still, focusing not on the gentleness of his touch, but the matter of what he was touching, "If Kezia hadn't pointed it out, I don't think I would've noticed."

Kinda dumb to think of it, but I swear, it wasn't there last night and this morning I'd been so tired with the event, the Alisa Ortega, media, sleuth-shit and what not, I hadn't the mind to catch it.

"It's fresh," Grayson ran his bare fingers up my abdomen.

Up my fucking abdomen—

"Could you not?" My hand shot out to swat his away. I scrambled back a bit, looking away. Ignore the fact that my face was cosplaying as a tomato because of a single hand motion. "Up in my personal space, Hawthorne, Jesus."

"Quite like it there, darling. Nothing new to me."

Oh this cheeky bastard.

I should've gotten more flustered. I should've stuttered or started yelling. Instead I laughed.

And, by the shine in his eyes, I think he liked that reaction of mine the best.

This Grayson—a flirt, a worry wart, and just... so not Grayson Davenport Hawthorne—was someone that made me feel a little more free than before.

The laughter died down. His head against my shoulders, his nose brushing my neck. What a clingy man he was. Those caging arms felt more like warm blankets around me. Holding me so close, not caring how odd this posh, sophisticated, well mannered and high standard man looked, sprawled upon the bathroom floor, tangled with the heiress who stole all his birthright money.

"I made a promise to you, Arlene," He kissed my neck. Once. Then twice. "I will protect you. Not because you need me to, but because I need you."

My fingers ran through his hair, scratching softly as his shoulders slumped slightly.

"I'm not losing you again, Arlene."

Not to Salvatore, to the Stage, to Arthur, Jameson, bullets, the world or myself.

"I wont. I can't."

And to that Arlene whispered, neither would she. Neither could she.

·······•✦•······

"Someone—as creepy as it sounds," I watched his eyes gleam in focus, "sneaked into my room last night." The tightening of his fingers around my wrist told me he thought of the worst. I quickly spoke, not wanting him to go down that lane. "The only thing they had in mind was to mark me."

"Any entrances to your room that were unguarded?" Grayson wanted to argue, but he kept his mind cool, choosing to deal with matters at hand first.

"None," I shook my head. "My room had been completely closed off. Windows shut, door locked and curtains drawn. There was no way I wouldn't have noticed any breakage in the dead silence."

Grayson's brows furrowed as he got what I was implying. An inside job.

"Just how much did you tell Skye about what you brothers heard that night?"

I wasn't stupid. Sure, Grayson and I had something—don't know what— but something like a bond between us. But Grayson was always loyal to his family. He must have told at least some, if not all, of what his brothers and him heard that night, eavesdropping on us.

He looked so offended as if I slapped him across the face with a dead rat.

"Are you suggesting I have a role in this matter, Arlene?" 

He didn't sound angered at the fact that I was probably accusing him. More likely the fact that that thought even came in my head in the first place. He seemed more than confident—over and excess—that he would never be capable of causing me any harm. Ever.

And yet his mother did try to assassinate my sister.

"Answer the question, Grayson," I locked our fingers together, a little action where my words couldn't tell that I trusted him. "I'm not saying anything without evidence, but I need to know."

"Nothing." The finality in that single word made me almost not think twice at it. "I said not a word to Skye, Ms. Grambs," Grayson said, looking away, his lean shoulders taut with tension, "I can assure you, she will be no threat to any of you anymore."

He held my hand back. I relaxed.

"Alright, Miss Blue Sky can get scratched off the list..." This was confusing. How could someone just give me a tattoo while with out me knowing? Drugs? Hard to belive they would be able to sneak in through the window.

This was getting confusing and frustrating.

"How long have you kept tabs on your new assistant?" Grayson tilted his head, pacing the room. Back straight, shoulders squared, hands behind his back.

An attractive man.

"Val," I shrugged, leaning back against the wall, "doesn't need me dead. Nor would she need me back so desperately." Our eyes locked, "Valerine is an animal desperate. She'd resort to legal kidnapping if needed."

Sometime after her arrival, I told Grayson who she really was and what—as much to my knowledge—she was here for, before I told Avery.

Why? Because Avery was too busy playing red-light-green-light with a certain Hawthorne. And not literally, as you may have already figured out.

And I'm not stupid enough not to notice how silent she goes whenever Grayson and I are near.

I've made my choice. It infuriates me that she doesn't want to.

I digress.

"If you're suggesting an inside job, our options are very narrowed." The tapping of my finger against my thigh grounded me. That ring on my middle right made me breathe. "They would have to know about the Stage, the snake's symbolism, and my relation to the Salvatore bloodline. All very classified shit."

"Right," Pretty boy leaned against the wall in front of me. He reached into his coat pocket and tossed me a lollipop while he lit a cigarette. "Who could have this knowledge and the means to act upon it discretely?" The air around him flowed lazily in smoke. "The Brothers Hawthorne are negligible. We aren't enough daring to sneak into your room, and that includes Jameson and Xander."

"Oh, but Grayson is more than welcomed to."

"Tempting," Grayson fought back a smirk with all his Armani Lord might, "and will be answered to in the future. But as of now, none of us would've been able to do such, much less ink anything on your body without waking you up."

"And earning a smack in the ass," I crunched on my candy, blinking slowly as I let my mental gears turn. "Staff." The stick was tossed away pathetically. Sorry little guy. "Your—my house staff hasn't been quite fond of me. Could it be anyone of them?"

"Possibly," He stubbed his smoke in the trey. "Good motive, fair chance. But enough intellect? Preexisting information? Ability to skin art so delicately as to go undetected? Doubtful."

Scratch that too, then. Now what the hell did I have left? My security team? God?

Wait a minute.

"Does Oren know how to tattoo art?"

"I'm afraid I do not," Oren said out of thin air. My soul took a vacation to see Father Hades.

"Holy—" I blinked. Just how long had he been here. Had he seen...

"Fourty five seconds ago." He shrugged, casually reading my mind. "I just came fourty five seconds ago." He glanced at his watch. "Make that fifty."

"Well," The ever composed Hawthorne got right back on track, "I suppose you will require a briefing on the incident that's occurred?"

"Affirmative."

"Very well," Grey eyes urged mine to continue.

"Fine." I sighed, tired from lifting up my jersey for three people in one day, "Here's what happened."

·······•✦•······

I made sure to leave out details of me and Pretty Boy's... encounter.

We looked at Oren as he tapped his foot in thought. "Security was around your room most of the night, me including. Break in is highly unlikely. Nor did anyone of us enter or exit your room."

"Back to square one, then," I couldn't help but let out an exasperated breath, my hand subconsciously picking at the snake on my stomach.

"We'll get there, sweetheart," Grayson fixed his cufflinks. "I must excuse myself. Mingling is no choice of the standards."

I had no clue what that meant but I assume socializing.

"Yeah, yeah," I sighed for the fiftieth time that hour, "Alright, I should probably go do some of that too."

Oren nodded and stayed two steps ahead of me. This man could read the room well.

Grayson bumped shoulders with me, "Don't do that," He took my ringed hand away from my skin and pressed his lips against it. "It's going to go away soon. Don't worry."

My lips couldn't help a gentle curve.

They also couldn't help but give a small peck to his framed cheek. "Thank you."

It was a sight to see. Grayson Davenport Hawthorne blushing.

I couldn't hold back the satanic snickers as I tried in futile to cover my mouth.

A fond glare and pinch I received before he turned away from me to leave.

I think I liked this version of us.

That stupid smile, so persistent on my face for days, remained as I turned to follow Oren.

Before the world turned black and a hand covered my mouth.

With a poison napkin.

·······•✦•······

They really should invest in better lights.

"Ugh..." My eyelids blinked, the world spinned. Was that a dancing hippo?

"You're awake." Said the dancing frog. No wait, it was a horse. A monkey?

"What the...?" My voice slurred as I shook my head. My hands would've reached up to rub my eyes, if not had been bound much like my legs.

Smack!

Ow. That hurt.

"Come to your senses, Performer," The bear—woman—glowered at me. "You have no idea where you are or what you've gotten into."

"Gee, Im sorry, I should've read Top Ten Places To Go When Kidnapped guide book." Spat out blood but not my sarcasm.

"Sharp tongued, are you?" The woman knelt down, her dark eyes gleaming, "Wouldn't be so when it's cut off, I'm sure."

"I think I like having my tongue as it is, thank you," The room was dark. Old stains against the wall. Some red, som browns and some, I couldn't even describe the color aside from repulsive. The ceiling was low and the only source of light in the room was a few beams slipping through a barred window.

Speaking of which, when did Christmas come so quick?

"Aren't you just as sweet as I remember?"

Oh. Oh not this bitch again.

Every muscle in my body was fighting to free my hands so I could slap a facepalm on me.

"You never give up, do you?" The disdain in my voice was as cold as the air in the room. "Don't you know this behaviour is called Obessesive Ex Syndrome?"

"Puh-lease, Dolly," Arthur cooed, walking up behind me and leaning ahead. His breath against my ears made me physically want to leave my body and walk to the gates of hell. "You miss me. We're great together."

"Were." I jerked my weight back to the two legs of the chair, knocking my head against his chin, sending him stumbling back. "That too with me doing all the work while you took the fucking credit."

"Hey, that's not true! I did the killing part!"

"Yeah, and who had to chase the bastard down across the country?"

"Well, that was different, I—"

A fist slammed down onto the table. That woman was built different. Her diet probably consisted of steroids for breakfast, human for lunch and both for dinner. The table cracked. Into half.

"Enough chitchatting," She growled. She stood straight and so did the Mime. I showed no sign of the nervousness I felt when she strode upto me and grabbed me by the