Page 39 of A Vocation of Violence
“Fi,” he began, voice barely a whisper, “there’s something about me that you don’t know. Somethin’ that I’ve kept tucked away beneath my skin like a tattoo I can’t let anyone else see.”
I frowned, the taut thread of apprehension within me winding tighter, ready to snap. “You’re speaking in riddles, Darcy. Be plain. Tell me true.”
He hesitated, the muscle in his jaw working furiously before he turned his wrist to show me the little symbol inked over his pulse point. “I’m a member of the Order of the GreenCarnation,” he said at last. “Georgie isn’t just my manager. He’s my…” He did his best to find a word that could encompass all he felt.
“He’s your…lover?” I supplied.
His eyes glimmered with moisture. “He’s my everything.”
My mind reeled as I grappled with the gravity of his confession. The order was whispered about in hushed tones, a fraternity of men bound together by their shared, forbidden desires. To be one of them was to court scandal and disgrace at best, and possible time in prison.
“Sweet Christ…” My voice trailed off, lost amidst the swirling fog of shock that enveloped me. A man’s predilections were his own affair, but the revelation of Darcy’s allegiance to such a clandestine order opened up so many more variables for investigation. Avenues he was right to fear.
“Is it so hard to believe?” His eyes, usually so full of fight, now pleaded for understanding.
“No, not hard to believe,” I replied, my heart aching with empathy. “But it’s dangerous to admit, even to me.”
“True, but there’s more. It involves someone dear to both our hearts.” He paused, swallowing hard, desperate gaze boring into mine. “Flynn.”
“Flynn?” I echoed, the name of my lost brother sounding like a sacred incantation on his lips.
“Your brother, God rest him, he was…he was…he was the love of my fecking life, Fiona. My heartbelongedto him,” Darcy confessed, each word heavy with the weight of unshed tears. “Some of it still does. So much that seeing what parts of him also live in you makes me weep for wanting. But Fiona…he gave me his for safekeeping as well. And I kept it until they killed him.”
A silent sob clawed at my throat, caught between the sharp edges of bereavement and an inexplicable sense of happiness. Flynn, who had always been a beacon of strength and laughter ina grim world, had known love—a fierce, secret love—in the midst of all the darkness. It pained me that such tenderness had been cloaked in shadow, never to see the light of our cruel society.
That Darcy had to grieve his loss alone.
“Flynn?” I murmured again, the name now a lament. “Oh, Darcy. Why didn’t you say before?”
“Do you think your father would have understood? Would Finn? Or Nola?” he asked, his voice breaking. “Wehadto hide, to pretend. But in those stolen moments, we were free. He made me feel invincible.”
“Invincible,” I repeated, the word bittersweet on my tongue. I knew what it was to hold such a love, only to have it snatched away by the cold hand of death.
The alley felt suddenly oppressive, the shadows around us teeming with ghosts of secrets and lost chances. I reached out tentatively, placing my hand upon his arm. “You had to mourn him alone,” I said around hot tears leaking from my eyes. “I’m so sorry, Darcy.”
His gaze met mine, and in it, I saw a reflection of my own sorrow, a shared understanding that transcended words.
“Whatever comes, I stand with you,” I vowed, the conviction in my voice chasing away the last remnants of doubt.
Flynn had loved him. That alone was testament enough to the content of Darcy’s character.
“Thank you,” he whispered, gratitude and resolve mingling in his expression. We were two souls, bound by grief and a yearning for justice. Together, we would face whatever darkness lay ahead.
“What do you say to a drink?” I asked, the damp chill of the alley clinging to my bones. It was a tomb of whispers and shadows, each one heavy with the ghosts of our past. It was no place for the living.
We settledinto the dimly lit corner of an old pub, far from prying eyes. The hushed murmur of other patrons became a distant hum as we leaned into the intimacy of our shared grief.
“Fi, I need you to understand why I’ve come to you in such desperate times,” Darcy began, his eyes darting away before returning to mine with a tumultuous resolve.
“Speak your heart,” I said softly, but my own heart drummed against my ribs with trepidation.
“Your family… They were heroes to me,” he confessed, “and the night they were taken, a part of me died with them.”
I closed my eyes, summoning the courage to revisit that harrowing night. “Father led them out, filled with righteous fire to aid a family terrorized by those British tyrants. They left Fayne, so young and eager at eleven, in my care.”
“God, Fi…” Darcy’s voice cracked, and his hand reached across the table to find mine. “I didn’t know that.”
“Little Fayne could not be caged by fear or duty,” I continued, tightening my grip on his hand. “I put us to bed, and he slipped out like a wisp of smoke in the dark.”
