Ace’s boots crunched over the snow as he walked away from the bar. The buzz was beginning to settle into his bones. Ace wasn’t drunk, not even close. Just warm. Loose enough to feel the edge of it creeping in despite how little he had to drink. He could still handle himself, always could, but years of being the sober eye in a room full of chaos had lowered his tolerance significantly. While his brothers were knocking back shots and lighting cigars with bills, he’d been posted outside the Velvet Vixen, eyes on the alley with a switchblade in his boot and gun tucked into his waistband. Tonight was different. Tonight, for once, no one expected him to keep watch. He walked slower than usual, his head tilted back just a little, letting the stars blur as he blinked up at them.
Maybe it was the beer. Maybe it was Ocean. Whatever it was, Ace was walking through the night less wired. He was allowing himself to be comfortable in unfamiliar territory. Not parties – he had been to plenty of them, mainly to give people their fix of vicodin and cocaine – but being a participant. While the ball dropped for everyone else, fireworks lit up the sky and couples counted down with champagne breath and warm hands. Ace was somewhere in the shadows, earning his stripes or tangled in motel sheets with a girl whose name he’d already forgotten before the clock could strike twelve. Even reminiscing now, aside from Jordan and his tattoo artist, Rue, he could barely remember a letter belonging to those women. He’d convinced himself that was better, anyhow. The high of the chase, the heat of skin, the distraction. No expectations, no questions. “Kissing during the ball-drop” was never a thought that crossed his mind until tonight. Chances were, he was already kissing another set of lips at the time. He doubted anyone would count that. Oh well.
“So you really don’t talk when other people are around,” Ace spoke to Sloane as he approached her. It wasn’t hard to notice her after spotting her earlier. Ace wasn’t sure what to expect after seeing her full winter get up, but the ladies were definitely putting on a show tonight. Between her and Ocean, he feared he would go cross-eyed from trying to stare them both down.
Ace didn’t move to sit yet. He just stood over her from behind, hands resting in his pockets. From above, he tilted his head slightly, eyes sharp under the shadow of his brow. That crooked half-smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Makes me wonder what you’re sayin’ when no one’s listenin’.” He gave a headnod to Rocco as if he was just another person. “Sup, Roccstar?”
The bustling and noise of the party drowned out any quieter sounds Sloane might have noticed, like Ace’s approaching steps. Her mind was elsewhere, replaying the tiff Anatoliy and the dark hair girl had gotten into. There was a brief moment she contemplated checking on him but she had spent enough time around angry men, like her father and brother, to know better than approach men while they were still heated. She didn’t know him well enough to predict how he handled his anger, but she wasn’t keen on finding out.
Sloane was still a bit on edge after her conversation with her brother, so when a deep voice spoke to her from behind she flinched, startled at the new presence. Her free hand pressed to her chest as she sighed, quickly realizing the voice was not her brother’s… Thank the Gods. She adjusted how she sat, turning slightly to glance over her shoulder and found Ace looming over her. “I’ve talked to two people since getting here,” she corrected while holding up her index and middle fingers. “Well, one was my brother, which probably doesn’t count, but…” Her voice trailed off and she shrugged. Technically, her entire situation with Anatoliy started before the party, but that was semantics and Ace didn’t need the specifics. Either way, he wasn’t entirely wrong. She chose to sit by the fire because it was empty and one of the last places people were interested in, which was perfect for her. She came to the party, that didn’t mean she was going to bounce around and mingle like Nelly.
“Only really special people are privy to that knowledge,” Sloane replied to his second comment. “Like Rocco,” she added with a soft playfulness in her tone and slight smile tugging at her rouged lips.
Speaking of the boy, Rocco’s ears perked up at Ace’s arrival. Without warning or invitation, he hopped up onto the log beside Sloane to put himself at a more optimal height for attention. “He hasn’t been pet in like five minutes, so he’s obviously being neglected,” she mused before holding up her plate, offering him the honors of giving the pup the final cocktail sausage.
“Two people,” he began to joke, “now ain’t that ambitious? You might burn out if you keep up at that pace.”
A soft chuckle escaped her lips. "I might need a nap soon," she agreed, playing along with his teasing.
Ace shifted, one hand still in his pocket while the other reached for the plate she held up, but not before shooting Rocco a look. “Five whole minutes, huh?” Ace crouched down just enough to be eye-level with the eager pup. “Can’t be havin’ a little guy like you suffering out here,” he said, giving Rocco the sausage with two fingers and letting the pup gnaw it out of his hand. His calloused knuckles brushed against soft fur for a second. Ace's hand moved with a gentleness that contradicted his rough exterior. His touch was careful, almost reverent, giving the pup a slow scratch behind the ears. He ran his fingers down the back of Rocco's neck, then gave a slow, steady stroke along the pup’s spine, all the way to the tail.
While the boys amused each other, she let some of her tension subside as she took a sip of her wine. Having someone else around her made Sloane feel safe from her brother’s machinations, if only temporarily. While charming, Ace had a dark and foreboding air about him, even if she couldn’t quite put her finger on why. Part of it could be his devil-may-care demeanor. Certainly arriving at camp with a black and blue face added to that persona, whether or not it was intentional. Whatever darkness he may have hidden away, she felt comfortable around him and he didn’t make her skin crawl like her brother, which was always a good sign. It was a low bar, but if she felt better around him than Sylas then… He, at least, wasn’t that bad.
As Rocco demanded his dog tax, Sloane’s gaze took in Ace’s appearance, no longer half hidden behind a damp hood. His curls looked just as wild as they had when they met earlier that day. The bruises were still deep adding to the dark circles and contrasting the faint pink of his sclera. Even so, there was a dangerous, maybe even unsettling handsomeness to him, like the way his lopsided smile was warm against his sharp features and dark eyes. Her gaze studied the rest of him, subtly looking him up and down while he was otherwise distracted. Ace was still in all black, or nearly, but without the threadbare hoodie, a new layer of him was revealed. The charcoal shirt hugged his torso emphasizing his slender, yet muscular build. Everything about him was the exact type of guy fathers warned their daughters about… Well, except hers.
But what really caught Sloane’s attention were his arms. No longer hidden behind long sleeves, Ace’s pale skin revealed a canvas of intricate black ink turning simple arms into pieces of living art. Her gaze unabashedly followed every curve and line. She made note of the subtle variations between the different skulls, their facial expressions and the links in the chains that connected them. As she moved to the other side, her free hand reached out and gently took hold of his wrist. She slowly rotated his arm and tilted her head slightly to get a better view of the different patchwork tattoos that painted his skin. One in particular caught her attention more than the others, a coffin with a mirror inside.
Ace didn’t say anything at first. He just watched her, the way her fingers had wrapped around his wrist with that quiet curiosity, the way her brows subtly drew together as she studied his ink. The flicker of the bonfire cast a golden glow across her skin, catching in the angles of her face. The sharp cheekbones, the delicate slope of her nose, the full curve of her lips. Her features danced between ethereal and grounded. His eyes followed her without apology. That soft mouth, those pale eyes that had studied him with more curiosity than judgment. Sloane was beautiful in the way someone looks when they don’t realize they’re being watched, when the world’s too loud and they think no one’s paying attention.
Realizing how invasive she was being, Sloane cleared her throat and released his wrist. “That one’s my favorite,” she spoke softly while pointing at the coffin tattoo. She didn’t know what it was about that particular marking that captivated her, but there was something that was different from the others, more introspective.
A bit embarrassed at her lack of respect for his personal space… again, Sloane’s cheeks began to flush as she smiled coyly. She kept her body still turned toward him, but her attention shifted to the bonfire. She adjusted, shifting her crossed legs so her left was now on top rather than her right. Her hand lightly brushed the wrinkles from her skirt making the fabric unbunch and lay flat. Anything to keep her mind and hands busy to avoid any more impulsive tendencies.
When she let go, his arm lingered in place for just a second longer before he dropped it to his side, flexing his hand once like he could still feel the warmth of her touch on his skin. His eyes dipped to the tattoo she’d picked out, the mirror inside the coffin. “Most people don’t even notice that one,” he said quietly, his voice losing some of its usual grit. “they go for the skulls, chains, you know… the loud shit.”
Ace caught the movement out of the corner of his eye, the subtle shift of her legs as she crossed them the other way. The gentle brush of her hand smoothing the wrinkles from her skirt. Something about how unintentional it was made it worse. There was nothing performative about it, she wasn’t trying to be seductive, which made it more seductive. His gaze dropped, just for a second, and then lingered slow and unashamed. The firelight played tricks, tracing the line of her thigh beneath the fabric, the soft sweep of her fingers across her lap. That small, delicate motion made his jaw tense. And the look in his eyes? It wasn’t subtle. There was a hunger there, controlled, but undeniable. His tongue slipped over his bottom lip like he was about to say something, but didn’t. Instead he let his gaze travel back up, slowly following the line of her body, over the curve of her waist, up her throat, pausing just beneath her mouth before finally meeting her eyes again.
The fire held her attention long enough that when she looked back up at Ace she only caught his gaze moving from her lips to her eyes. It was faint and fleeting, but enough that a small alarm chimed at the back of her mind. Was he checking her out? Sloane couldn’t recall the last time anyone spared her more than a passing glance, and Liam? Well, his eyes were always wandering… After everything. Her eyes squinted just a touch as her passive presence subtly became more attentive. "I’m not most people." Her head tilted to the side slightly with a soft enigmatic smile. "I prefer the nuance of the quiet shit," she mused.
Then, he dropped onto the log beside her with the kind of careless, heavy, ease that only came from years of sitting on bar stools and bike seats. Close enough that his shoulder brushed hers, but not pressing in. His legs spread, booted feet planted wide, as if he didn’t know how to sit properly unless he was taking up space. Compared to Sloane’s careful posture, her legs crossed, her skirt smoothed neatly over her knees, he looked like sin lounging next to grace.
Rocco jumped down just before Ace filled the space beside her. The log jostled slightly from the casual and tactless way he took a seat. Sloane’s gaze drifted to the corner of her eyes, glancing down at his shoulder as he sat close enough for his shoulder to brush her own. Already on the edge of the seat, she couldn’t give them more space even if she wanted to. She hmm-ed to herself at the predicament he put them both in. Her coy smile never faded, but her gaze rose to meet his… curiously.
“You want the story?” Ace asked, his voice warm and low, “Start here.” Ace gently reached for her hand. His rough fingers curled around hers before he brought her palm back to his skin.
When he fingers enclosed around hers Sloane tensed and withdrew her hand. This time Ace invaded her space and touched her without consent. Her cheeks flushed out of frustration and embarrassment at her knee jerk reaction. His touch wasn’t abrupt or forceful, but the way he took her hand made an image of Sylas flash before her eyes. The twins stood in the marbled floor foyer of their Manhattan penthouse waiting on the elevator. She couldn’t remember what they were arguing about, she never did. She only remembered the pain. The way he grabbed her hand as she tried to walk away and how his other hand came crashing down on her face with so much force she saw stars.
Sloane cleared her throat and shook her hand trying to stave off the memory. "Sorry," she whispered, not meeting Ace’s gaze. Before he could ask, she put her hand back under his, letting him continue. "Muscle spasm," she lied.
Slowly, deliberately, he guided her fingers over the tattoos, tracing them like a story written in ash and memory. He rested her hand just above his wrist where the smoke-wreathed eye sat, watching the world in perpetual silence. “Eye is for paranoia. Back when I was always watching for undercover cops, set ups, gang ambushes… back when I was always lookin’ over my shoulder. I still do, if I’m being honest. Smoke’s for the shit that clouds the truth.” His voice was lower now, intimate, like the fire was the only witness to what he was saying.
He slid her fingers up to the half-open coffin, the one with the mirror inside. “This one’s personal. Came to me in a dream, or a nightmare… hard to tell the difference most nights. This is the part I try not to think about too much. You ever look in a mirror and not recognize who’s lookin’ back?” His thumb brushed her knuckle. “It’s not a coffin for a body, it’s for who I used to be.”
She let him guide her hand along the mural of various macabre imagery. While her eyes were focused on the art, every so often Sloane spared a glance up into his dark eyes. She wasn’t entirely sure what she expected tattoos to feel like. It wasn’t like she made a habit running her hands along people with them. She knew it was technically a scar, so a small part of her expected it to feel raised like braille or those puffy stickers she collected as a child. But no. It was just skin, rough and calloused. There were small valleys that concaved between his muscles and rivers of veins that twisted and forked along his forearm.
Sloane hung on his every word, a genuine curiosity taking hold as each picture revealed another piece to the puzzle that was Ace. Her gaze fixated on the ornate mirror peering out from beneath the shadow of the coffin’s lid. "And… Who did you used to be?" she asked quietly, almost like speaking too loud would break the illusion of the bubble they were in. Her hand lingered on the edge of the casket, pausing what might have been his scripted story for deeper insight into the image that initially caught her attention.
His jaw shifted slightly as he moved her hand again, letting it hover over the tattoo of the lovers. Their exposed spines twisted like barbed wire as they fell endlessly into darkness. “They’re not dying, well, not exactly… They’re fallin’ backwards, blind, holdin’ each other like they’ll survive the drop.” He paused as the image of Jordan flashed in his mind. He got this the day after they broke it off for good. The day after ‘the promise’ was made. “It’s about love that hurts. Love you hold on to, even when you shouldn’t.”
A soft sigh escaped her lips. A love you hold onto, even when you shouldn’t. It had a sort of poetic irony. Sloane felt the pang of familiarity in her chest, seizing her breath for just a moment. It wasn’t a thought she cared to linger on. Not that night… not then. She was tempted to ask, but knowing how much she’d hate someone she barely knew turning the same question on her, she remained silent. For another time perhaps.
Then, slowly, he guided her hand to the bleeding nun. Her folded hands clutched a mechanical heart that looked far too real. “This one’s about faith,” he said, voice barely above a breath. “The kind that gets twisted. She sees everything, but still prays. Still bleeds for it…” Ace let go of her hand, but her fingers remained where he left them, resting lightly on the inked skin like they belonged there. "I let the needle express what I felt when talkin’ just wasn’t cuttin’ it."
"You’ve explained it all fairly well, so far. Perhaps a bit vague… but..." She shrugged her shoulders as her voice trailed off. "Can’t divulge all your secrets. We’ve just met," she teased, slowly withdrawing her hand, her fingertips absently trailing along his skin until their touch broke.
He smirked faintly, but it was a tired one, like the stories had been with him too long. His gaze found hers again, this time slower, more weighted. “Feel free to touch whatever you want next time. I won’t flinch.”
Sloane’s brows rose at the brazen offer. She leaned forward just an inch or two as her gaze held his with a sharp intensity. When she could no longer hold the false serious expression, she snorted as a chuckle broke free. "Does that actually work?" she asked. It was a bold move. He had her with the tattoos and stories and the way he guided her fingers to trace every line of ink. But ’she could touch whatever she wanted’? Really? A grin tugged at the corners of her lips as she laughed hard enough she felt it in the pit of her stomach and her eyes closed. Sloane couldn’t recall the last time she laughed. Not a small chuckle at her own expense or a giggle from flattery, but a hearty laugh where her eyes watered and her sides hurt.
When Sloane leaned in with that sharp, mock serious look in her eyes, Ace raised an eyebrow sensing the shift immediately. He held her gaze, matching her intensity for a beat, like he wasn’t sure if she was about to call him out or kiss him. But then he caught the twitch at the corner of her mouth and that was all it took. Ace let her laughter roll over him as his smirk cracked into something more genuine, more alive. He leaned back a little on his hands, watching her with something caught between amusement and awe. He hadn’t expected that kind of joy to come out of her and definitely hadn’t expected to be the cause of it. “Alright, alright, alright,” he said through his grin, “I’ll admit it, yeah, that line usually works.” His tone was teasing, but not bitter. If anything, he sounded amused by his own failure. The tattoos usually did most of the heavy lifting, Ace just showed up. It was rare for a girl to respond like he just offered her a half-eaten gas station burrito, let alone calling him out on his crap. Ace chuckled at first but the way she doubled over with that raw, unfiltered, laughter was contagious. He tried to hold it back, to keep that too-cool grin plastered on his face, but the moment and his own line cracked him wide open. The chuckle deepened into a real laugh, from the gut. Ace glanced at her again, seeing how hard she was still laughing, and that only made it worse. His laughter pitched louder, rougher, until he was wiping at the corners of his eyes and sucking in a breath like he’d just run a four-flat. As the laughter finally began to subside, Ace stayed leaned back on his hands, chest still rising with the occasional breathy chuckle, eyes shining from the remnants of it all.
She had no idea how Ace would react to her, quite literally, laughing in his face at his horrible pick up line. It wasn’t like she could control it. Seeing him in good spirits, not only admitting it was totally a line but falling victim to the fits of laughter, made the whole situation more amusing. Sloane’s legs uncrossed as she doubled over, pressing her free hand to her chest. Where, at first, she had a hearty chuckle, now it was so deep she barely made a noise. If it wasn’t for the rising and falling of her shoulders or the soft wheezes that escaped between silent chuckles, it’d be easy to assume the bout had subsided. At one point her hand tapped his knee, not in some flirty way like she was trying to make a move or take him up on his offer, but like friends did in the ease of each other’s company, a subconscious and natural touch.
“Damn…” he murmured, wiping his eyes again with the heel of his hand. “Been a long time since I laughed like that.” His voice was quieter now, like the truth had slipped out before he could decide whether to dress it up or not. “Didn’t think I still had that in me.” There was no sadness in the words, just a worn honesty.
"Yeah," Sloane mused, nodding her head in agreement. She had forgotten what that was like, the joyful discomfort of a good laugh. The last couple years of her life had replaced whatever happiness she had with a despondent zombie-like state. Just when she had nearly clawed her way out of the dark hole, fate stepped on her fingers and knocked her back in. The brief ray of sunlight from their laughter caught her off guard. "I missed that," she admitted, letting the words slip out before she had a moment to overcalculate and keep that truth hidden.
She used the tip of her middle finger to dab at the tears under her eyes, trying her best not to make her mascara run or smudge more than it was probably already doing. Sloane looked over at him with a sad fading smile as the high slowly died. "Do I look like Marilyn Mason now?" she asked, motioning to her face. She didn’t think to bring a purse or compact because, let's face it, she didn’t expect to be doing anything beyond sitting alone for most of the night. Especially not laughing to the point of tears. While a little messed up makeup was nothing to most people, Sloane unintentionally strove for perfection. Her clothes were never wrinkled or stained, she never had a hair out of place and her makeup, while always subtle, never smudged or ran. She was a porcelain doll, on display and never touched.
Ace glanced at her through the lingering smile, the afterglow of their shared laughter still softening his features. But as he sat up a little straighter, brushing his hands on his jeans, there was a flicker of seriousness beneath the grin. Maybe it was the alcohol settling in more, but he felt the need to clarify. To draw a line between the 'charm' and the truth. “Look,” he said, voice a little rougher now, "That line one hundred percent was a move and I’ve used it before. Doesn’t always end in laughter, though, but hey — I'm glad it did." His tone was more sincere now, low and steady. "But the stories were real. Every one of ’em. I wasn’t feeding you some fantasy just to get my stick wet.”
Sloane’s gaze had fallen to the remnants of crimson liquid in her glass. The fluid slowly rocked in circles as her fingers idly swirled the wine around. When his voice broke the silence, deep and rough, contrasting the levity of their fleeting laughter, she let her gaze slowly drift over to meet his. There was a small tug at the corner of her mouth as he cut through some of his Casanova act to be honest with her, if just for a moment. "I appreciate your candor," she replied softly, keeping her voice low and their conversation a bit more private like it had been before their little outburst. While Ace was being honest with her, it might have only been because she called him out for trying his seduction techniques on her. It didn’t work on Sloane, but she wasn’t going to out him to the entire camp. What he did with his time and other women was his business.
She swirled the wine around once more before bringing the glass to her lips and drinking the remaining sip. "I will admit though," Sloane started while she rolled the stem of the glass back and forth between the tips of her fingers. "I would have been a bit disappointed if it was just some clever ploy."
Her right hand shot up into the air, pointing her index finger at him in an accusatory fashion. "Before you try another one of your moves on me," she said with squinted eyes as she held his gaze. "I don’t have any tattoos or body piercings. So, no, I cannot show you them," Sloane mocked him with a little bob of her head.
"I only have my ears pierced," she added. "And there’s no way you can spin that." Sloane started to look back at the fire but paused. That little alarmed chimed in her head again. She quickly turned back to Ace and held back up her index finger once again. "Scratch that. I don’t trust you," she laughed softly. The last thing she needed to do was taunt him into trying to make a move on her, even if it was with something as basic as her ear piercings. He seemed like the type to take that as a challenge and she wasn’t going to leave that door open.
Ace tilted his head when she pointed at him, that slow burning grin threatening to return but dulled by something more grounded. He chuckled when she called out his potential spin on her ear piercings, his dark eyes glinting with amusement, but he didn’t bite. Not this time. Instead, when she turned back toward the fire, then quickly back to him with that last finger wag and laugh, he didn’t jump in with another comeback. Ace let the silence breathe. The flames cracked in the space between them, and he just sat with it. “Sorry, I’m not ignoring you. I just…” he said, voice quieter now, stripped of all charm, “... was actually thinking.”
“About when you asked me who I used to be?” He glanced over at her, eyes softer but unreadable. His expression didn’t change, but his eyes did. A slight, haunted flicker crept in, like they’d brushed against something locked in the dark. For once, there was no smirk or clever remark. Just the sound of his breath, low and steady as he tried to find words for something he hadn’t even admitted to himself yet.
Sloane didn’t say anything, worried that one word might cause him to shut down and lock away whatever thoughts he might have been having. Instead, she remained quiet and attentive. Her body shifted on the log, turning to face him until her knees pressed into his lightly. Her gaze held his, not with a harshness or judgement, but patience and curiosity. She was patient enough to wait for the answer… if he was willing to share it with her.
Ace looked away for the moment, his gaze shifting to the flames, the flickering light dancing in his eyes like it might reveal what he wanted to say before he vocalized it. “I don’t know how to answer that without sounding full of shit.” His jaw tightened slightly. “I used to think I had it all figured out, though. Stay loyal to the crew, stay sharp, keep your head down, and you survive. That was it.”
There was a beat of silence before he spoke again, “With The Crimson Pistons, it didn’t matter where you came from or what you didn’t have. You didn’t have to ask questions about family, or gods. Now I’m at this camp with kids that can create fire out of thin air, and talk about their god-parent like it’s been part of who they are their whole damn life.” Ace shrugged one shoulder, the movement small. “I met mine last night... I think I used to be simple, and now when I look in the mirror I don’t know if I see that Ace or just another fuckin’ bastard.”
Ace looked at her again, a faint crease between his brows, unsure if he’d said too much. His jaw clenched as the silence stretched, and the weight of his own words started to settle on him like the hangover he hadn’t earned yet. Ace hated this. Rawness. Honestly. Disgust curled in his gut, not at Sloane, but at himself. At the way he’d let the wall slip, even for a second. Ace wasn’t the kind of guy who shared things. Not with strangers. Definitely not with someone who could see through his bullshit so easily. He dragged a hand down his face, scrubbing along his jaw, then ran it back through his hair with a frustrated huff. “Shit,” he muttered under his breath, more to himself than to her. When he finally looked back up at Sloane, there was a flicker of that old mask climbing back into place, a half-smirk that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to dump that on you. Must be the damn beer. I’m talkin’ too much…”
It was a lie. Ace knew it. Sloane probably did too. But it was the only excuse he was willing to give himself for being open, and seen. Ace needed to believe it was the alcohol loosening his tongue, not the firelight… or the softness in her gaze, or the way her silence didn’t feel judgmental, just present. No, it was definitely the beer. So, he looked away again into the fire as he retreated into the quiet wanting to pretend like the moment hadn't just happened. He wished he could tuck it all back where it belonged, under the mask.
She noticed his rising tension from the clenching of his jaw to the way his hand tried to rub the disbelief from his face. She watched as whatever vulnerability he let escape got quickly repressed and hidden behind the smirk he always seemed to wear. Her brows furrowed and her crossed leg bounced lightly. "Beer," Sloane echoed his words with a whisper of disbelief. Her body slowly turned to face forward once again, the gap between their once touching knees growing until they both sat like they had before.
Her fingers idly toyed with the hem of her skirt as she mulled over if she should say anything, or let the conversation die with the roar of the fire. "We’re all bastards," Sloane said, finally breaking the silence with her soft but truthful words.
A bitter huff of breath escaped Ace. “Yeah,” he murmured, “ain’t that the truth…” His eyes flicked over to her, studying her profile in the glow of the flames.
"I can’t recall what my life was like before I found out about my mother. But for better… and much worse, this is my life now." She shrugged her shoulders and let her hand fall to pet Rocco’s head that rested lazily on her thigh. "Our parents made us and are part of us, but we aren’t them. It’s important to remember that." A small smile crossed her lips as she looked down at her puppy who had half melted against her legs.
"Also," she added while her thumb mindlessly stroked Rocco’s fur along his nose and up his forehead. "I like this Ace better." Sloane’s head turned slightly to look over at him from the corner of her eyes. He might have put his mask back up, she saw a glimpse beneath it. "The one that talks too much and laughs… Not the smirky, lady’s man Ace. I’ve had my fill of fake, two-face men." In a strange way, it reminded her of her brother. They both were charming and capable of getting nearly anyone they wanted in bed. But underneath it all? They were entirely different men. She could only hope his true self wasn’t like Sylas’s. She didn’t claim to know who he truly was but the crack she saw was better than the act he put on. Authenticity was far more attractive than pretending to be whatever people wanted.
Ace didn’t answer her. Her voice, soft, unpretentious, and honest, dug deeper than he expected. “I like this Ace better.” That stuck. That stuck more than it should’ve. She likes this version of me… The version that did sit by the fire and talk too much. Not the one who believed violence was a faster answer than vulnerability. Not the one who’s broken bones for debt. Not the Ace who could manipulate, intimidate, and walk away without losing sleep. Sloane didn’t know about that version.
Not yet.
There was a quiet guilt there, one he wasn’t used to feeling. Some stains didn’t lift, and he’d lived long with blood on his hands, both literal and not. He saw it often, even when no one else did. The blood clinging to the creases of his knuckles, dark and dry beneath his nails, glistening in his mind’s eye when he looked down at them for too long. His skin had memory, and it refused to forget the things he'd done. No matter how many times he washed his hands, no matter how raw he scrubbed, it never came off. Not in the sink. Not in the rain. Not even in the soft glow of a firelight. Ace couldn’t help but wonder if she’d still feel that way if she ever saw the same thing.
Sloane let the serious conversation fade away. It was obvious that Ace was chastising himself for letting things get deep. And while she preferred deep and personal conversations, she wasn’t the type of person to pry when he seemed uncomfortable with delving deeper. There was a heavy silence that hung in the air between them for a few minutes. She didn’t know what to say until a previous comment she made came to mind. "You never told me if I looked like Marilyn Manson," she said, breaking the awkward quiet with a lighthearted and less serious diversion in conversation. Her hand that held the empty wine glass motioned to her eyes. "I can’t walk around this party looking like I just cried."
“Marilyn Manson?” he echoed, finally turning to look at her again. His eyes flicked over her face, landing on the smudged shadow beneath her eyes. For a second he just blinked at the sudden, casual, callback. The serious haze between them cracked, and something flickered behind his expression. Relief, or maybe just quiet appreciation for the shift in tone. He leaned in slightly. “You can’t be disrespecting ya self like that, girl…”
Ace reached into his pocket and pulled out a slightly crumpled wad of napkins, stolen from the bar earlier when he and Ocean were shooting the shit. As he leaned further in, napkins in hand, his movement slowed. His hand hovered just inches from her face before he caught himself and eased back. That awkward, offhand “muscle spasm” excuse flashed in his mind. He paid it no mind then, but refused to make the same mistake going forward. “Okay if I…?” he asked, voice quieter now. His eyes searched hers for the green light.
She half expected him to be the type of guy to lick his thumb and just spit swab her face. But he actually dug around in his pocket for a napkin. A faint smile tugged at the corner of her lips and her brow arched slightly. Sloane was impressed by the consideration. Her eyes widened when Ace paused and pulled back. So, he did notice her reaction earlier. The muscles in her body involuntarily tensed, not because of him but because he saw through her own white lie. It took all of her self control not to look away or shut down. With a deep breath, she forced herself to relax. Her head nodded, giving him permission. She slowly leaned forward, brushing her hair behind her ear and averting her gaze up to the sky so he could get it with ease.
He moved slowly, like he was handling glass. He reached up and carefully dabbed beneath her eye, barely touching her skin. His movements were meticulous, almost too much so, like he was afraid of doing anything wrong. “Alright, crisis averted.” After a few seconds, he pulled back and gave the napkin a once-over before tossing it into the fire. “The tragic goth princess vibes were really doing it for me, though.” He then pointed his index finger at her, mimicking her from earlier. “No, that wasn’t another attempt at flirting.” He chuckled.
Sloane rolled her eyes and shook her head. "Easy killer," she teased with a soft laugh. "I don’t think goth is my aesthetic. Save it for Halloween," she mused with a little bob of her head. While she might have the tragic life to warrant going goth, she was partial to her plain and boring style. She enjoyed her neutrals, sweaters, and tartan patterns. Even if it made it look like she belonged on display, locked away on a shelf behind a glass door.
”And for the record, you said for better and much worse this is your life, not for better or worse. That’s a big ass difference. Regardless of what you've been through, I hope your experience here gets better. You're a sweet girl, Sloane, you deserve that much at least...”
"Hmm," she hummed, looking down at the tiny drop of red wine that remained in her glass. "I don’t think fate gives a shit about what anyone deserves. She sure hates me." While she smiled and had a sardonic tone there was sad coldness hidden behind her dark eyes. "But," she continued with a soft sigh, "If it wasn’t for the worse I wouldn’t be at camp. I wouldn’t have Rocco… And I definitely wouldn’t be talking to you."
Finding out her and Sylas’s lineage was what led them down their dark deviating paths. If Lochlan hadn’t cheated on her, she never would have agreed to go to camp in the first place. If Liam stayed at camp she wouldn’t have Rocco… sort of. And if Liam was still there, Ace wouldn’t have been able to get within a foot of her. She couldn’t fight the wandering thought of what Liam would have done if he was there. She imagined the second Ace tried touching her he would have found himself thrown in the bonfire. The thought was dark and sinister, and made that familiar stabbing pain in her chest return… but it also made her laugh. It was the weak sort of laugh of someone who had given up and accepted the sad hand fate dealt her.
"It’s ok. I’m used to it," she reassured him with a brave smile, finally meeting his gaze once again.
Ace’s gaze lingered on her longer than it should have, watching that brave smile stretch across her lips like it had something to prove. But he didn’t smile back. He saw it for what it really was. To someone else, it might’ve looked like resilience. But Ace had seen that kind of smile too many times to misread it. Hell, he’d worn it himself more nights than he could count. It wasn't just strength, but survival. The thing he knew best in this world. Ace leaned forward again, resting his elbows on his knees, hands loosely clasped. The firelight cast flickering shadows along the sharp angles of his face, softening them just enough to reveal the sincerity tucked beneath. “Used to it, huh?” he repeated under his breath, “That’s the kind of bullshit people say when they’re still hurting, and too damn tired to say so Sloane.”
His dark eyes flicked back to hers then, steady and grounded. "You're talking to someone who gets it, though," he said, “When enough shit goes wrong, you stop expecting anything better. Makes it easier to stomach the next kick to the ribs.” He paused. “Just because fate’s got a grudge doesn’t mean we gotta sit back and let her win.... we don’t owe the bitch anything, if you ask me.”
"I wish it was that simple," she replied with a soft bitterness that clung to her words. Her shoulders raised and fell in a halfhearted shrug. "It’s fine," she repeated once again with that resilient smile. "I’m tougher than I look. That’s fate’s—and anyone else’s—problem if they underestimate me." Her smile grew slightly, a bit more genuine and enigmatic. It was easier when people underestimated her. That usually meant they ignored her or hardly noticed her existence in the first place. While Sloane might have been lonely, loneliness meant a lower chance of betrayal or heartbreak. A fair trade, if you asked her.
His gaze dropped briefly to her wine glass, watching the last drop of wine trace a slow, lazy circle along the bottom. It clung to the edge like it was trying not to disappear entirely. It made him wonder if that was a representation of people like them. People still holding on, just barely, with traces of warmth and color left around the edges. But mostly drained, and empty. He tilted his head slightly, softening.
“Think you scared the last drop into hiding.” Ace cracked a faint, humorless, smirk. "You’ve been waggin’ that empty glass around for a while now, let me top you off," Ace rose to his feet with a stretch, rolling out his shoulders as if the act of standing might shake off everything heavy he wasn’t supposed to talk about. A reset. That’s what he needed. Something easy. Something simple. The tone was casual, but a little too quick, like he needed the task. He brushed his hands against his jeans like he was resetting his whole damn system. “Besides… wouldn’t want you thinking I only flirt and brood. I pour a mean drink too.”
"I’ll believe that when I see it," she said with her own playful tone. She held up the empty glass for him with a little chuckle. "I don’t know how much skill goes into pouring wine, but knock yourself out." She didn’t really plan on a second glass, but it was a kind offer and she could tell Ace was a bit restless. Perhaps he needed his own drink to reset and switch back on his flirting game. Anything to keep their conversation from dipping into that serious and uncomfortable territory for him, she’d imagine. This was one time she wouldn’t complain. Sloane didn’t really fancy getting the third degree about whatever in her ’perfect little rich girl life’ was so troubling for her. Sylas’s presence still lingered on her skin like fever’s chill and she had already slipped up about Liam once that day. That was enough for one night. A party was supposed to be fun, not depressing and melodramatic.
Ace took the glass from her, fingers brushing hers just briefly. His eyes lingered on her, something unreadable flickering behind them before he tore them away. “Hey, you’d be surprised,” he muttered in response, tipping the glass toward her before turning on his heel. As he walked toward the drink table, his boots moved in quiet rhythm in the snow, each step dull and deliberate. His shoulders were still rolled back, casual and easy at a glance, but there was a tension in his movements that clearly didn’t belong to someone at a party. Ace ran a hand through his hair, pushing it back in a frustrated sweep as if it would straighten out more than just his curls. What the fuck am I doing? Ace wasn’t sure when the air between them had turned weighty. It was one of those shifts people don't notice until it was already settled into their chest. Ace hadn’t meant to be honest with her. Hell, hadn’t meant to care, but Sloane had a disarming air about her. More than he cared to admit to himself. The goal was simple coming into this: A couple drinks, some loud music, flirt with someone pretty to continue his New Year's tradition of being lost in the sheets with someone he barely knew. How did everything turn around so fast? “This is why you don’t fuckin' talk, Ace,” he muttered angrily under his breath. “Come to a damn party to forget, somehow end up thinking more...”
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