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Villanelle is holding four brown paper grocery bags and a bottle of wine when her phone rings. She sighs, transfers the bags to one hand, and balances the phone between her shoulder and cheek. “I’m already out. If you need anything, too bad.”
“I guess the honeymoon phase has really worn off, huh?” Eve sounds like she’s walking. Villanelle can hear the hum of traffic in the background.
She laughs against the phone. “Forgive me, ma moitié. What do you need?” she asks in a sugary, exaggerated tone that she knows will make Eve roll her eyes.
“Actually, I was just calling to let you know that I’m on my way home. The job ended early.”
“You could have just texted me this.”
“I wanted to hear your voice.” Eve’s own voice goes low and intimate but Villanelle can hear the strain of humour.
Villanelle feels the warmth of a blush, despite knowing that Eve is fucking with her. It’s crazy how easy it is for Eve to affect her. It used to unsettle her — how a single word, a deliberate look could throw her completely off balance. She revels in it now, luxuriates in the knowledge that they belong to each other.
Still, she doesn’t want to give Eve the satisfaction, so she says, “Okay, weirdo. I’ll start dinner when I get back.”
“Sure.” Eve agrees. “Although…” There it is. “If you wanted to pop by the post office to pick up the package they keep trying to deliver when we’re not home, I would be so very, very grateful.”
As it turns out, living with someone makes them predictable. It should bore her, but Villanelle loves it. There is comfort in predictability that she didn’t realise she’d been craving. She stands in the middle of a shopping car park, holding four bags, smiling like an idiot. “Ah. I see why you called. You knew I would not be able to resist when you said it like that.”
“Darling.” Eve knows exactly what she’s doing. “I have no idea what you mean.”
“What’s in the package?” Villanelle asks.
“The new gun holsters.”
“Ugh, boring.” Villanelle pulls a face. “But I will go. Even though it is not on my way and the ice cream will probably melt and these bags are very heavy.”
She can hear the grin on Eve’s face. “That means you get to skip arm day at the gym tomorrow.”
“Mmm. When I get home I expect epic displays of gratitude. The works. I’m talking nudity, dirty language, maybe outfits?”
Eve laughs and Villanelle’s heart does a little flip. “See you at home, pervert.”
“Can’t wait.”
______
Eve had left their apartment at sunrise that morning for a simple job — helping one of their contacts in Marseille with some light breaking and entering. Villanelle had watched, proud and impressed, over the last months as Eve became more and more adept at what was essentially espionage. Real James Bond shit. Eve was so much better than when she was actually employed by MI6 or even when she was “training” with Yusuf, which Villanelle thought was code for “just a lot of fucking” and made her want to growl and dig her fingernails into the inside of Eve’s thigh. But she reminded herself that she and Eve weren’t together then, not really, even though Eve wasted so much time pretending when they could have been fucking instead. Still, she was incredibly forgiving and willing to let bygones be bygones. She contemplated her magnanimous nature as she watched Eve get ready, stuffing a few gadgets into a small backpack before zipping it up.
“Don’t forget your phone charger,” Villanelle mumbled into the pillow. “Last time you asked me to remind you.”
Eve looked up and directed a soft smile at her. “I thought you were asleep.”
“I was,” Villanelle answered. “But then you woke me up with all the zipping and crinkling. Aren’t you supposed to be all silent and stealthy now?”
“Sorry.” She didn’t sound sorry at all.
“Come back to bed.” Villanelle extended a lazy arm off the side of the mattress and wiggled her fingers in Eve’s direction. “I miss you.”
“You could come with me,” Eve reminds her.
“To break into a boring office building? Pass.” Villanelle pouts. “I’ll be lonely without you.”
“You’re going to fall back asleep five seconds after I leave this room.” Eve walked to the bed and pressed a quick kiss to the top of Villanelle’s head. “If I don’t leave now, I’ll miss the train.”
And then she was gone and Villanelle slept in for another two hours.
______
As she leaves the post office, Villanelle wonders what Eve will want for dinner. She’d been planning on making risotto, but she’s feeling lazy and wants to sink onto the couch and finish the new Zadie Smith novel she’s been working her way through. She’s also been thinking about outfits since she mentioned it to Eve. She’d been joking. Mostly. But now she wonders if she could convince Eve to wear the black catsuit she’s had in her closet since forever. She imagines it hugging all of the dips and curves of Eve’s body. She imagines lying back against their pillows while Eve crawls towards her on all fours while she waits, trembling and wet.
Villanelle decides to forego the risotto. It’ll take too long and she’s impatient to get to dessert. Besides, Eve eats anything she makes. It’s almost too easy to impress her and Villanelle lives to impress her.
She’s still thinking about the catsuit when her phone vibrates against her pocket. She manoeuvres the bags in her hand with a sigh and answers. “I want you to know that the ice cream has definitely melt—“
“You need to come home.” Eve’s voice is strained. She sounds out of breath. “There’s so much blood.”
Villanelle’s heart begins a rapid thud. “What happened?”
“ I’m... Just come quickly, okay? Just…hurry.” Eve’s breathing is stuttered and shallow. She says nothing else.
“Eve? Don’t hang up. Tell me what happened!” The silence terrifies Villanelle. “Eve!” She’s left with the dull beep of a disconnected call.
Villanelle drops the grocery bags and runs.
______
There is blood in the hallway, blood on the door handle, blood in the front entrance. Blood has never bothered her. In some contexts, she rather likes it, likes how nebulous it is — sometimes dark, sometimes thick and viscous, and other times it drips like water. Villanelle has had other people’s blood on her palms, on her elbows, on her ankles, between her toes. She doesn’t fear blood.
Eve’s blood is bright red and slick and when Villanelle’s bare heel makes contact with a small puddle in the living room, she swallows down the urge to scream.
“Eve?!” Her voice is high and shrill. Her heart feels stuck in her throat. “Eve, are you—“
“In here.” Eve’s voice comes from the bathroom and Villanelle is running even as Eve calls out, “I’m… It’s okay.”
She comes to a screeching halt in the bathroom doorway. “Oy blyat’.” The Russian expletive slips from her lips thoughtlessly.
This is what Villanelle sees: Eve on the shower floor in just her bra and jeans, legs splayed out, back against the tiled wall. Her jacket and shirt are stained dark red and crumpled on the floor.
And blood, blood everywhere — oozing from the open gash on Eve’s shoulder, pooling down her chest and onto her stomach. She turns her head with a grimace as Villanelle gasps.
“It looks worse than it is.” Eve attempts a smile, as jagged as the crescent carved into her skin in the space between her sternum and the slope of her shoulder. Just over her heart. “I just…” She attempts to sit up and grunts with the pain. “I can’t stitch it up on my own and it won’t stop.”
Villanelle nods and comes toward her. She needs to stop the bleeding, clean the wound, stitch it up, fucking rip apart the person that did this. That is the order of business.
Villanelle crouches next to Eve, assessing the injury. Eve is right. It looks worse than it is. As far as she can tell, nothing important has been punctured, but Eve is shivering and wan. Her hair clings to the nape of her neck and to her forehead, stuck down with perspiration. Villanelle reaches out to tuck a curl behind Eve’s ear. Her fingers are trembling and she clenches them into a fist.
“What happened?” Villanelle asks her lips against Eve’s damp temple. “Who did this?”
“Some guy. I don’t know. I—“ Eve seems to really see Villanelle for the first time and what she sees makes her blink. “It’s not so bad,” she says with a warble in her voice. “Just a scratch.”
Villanelle nods and turns away. She doesn’t want Eve to try and make her feel better. She moves to the cabinet under the sink and pulls out a black travel kit. In it are the emergency essentials: ibuprofen, alcohol wipes, tape, gauze, surgical thread and a needle, a few syringes.
Villanelle removes a thick patch of gauze and crouches back beside Eve. Her hand hovers over the wound, but instead of pressing down, she takes Eve’s right hand and makes her apply the pressure. “Hold it down,” she says, placing her hand over Eve’s as the white material soaks up the blood.
Eve grits her teeth and Villanelle says. “It hurts, I know. But you need to stop the bleeding before I can close it up.”
Eve nods, blinking back tears. “You know, I could get into this nurse fantasy,” she rasps wetly.
Villanelle forces a chuckle. “Maybe later.”
After a few minutes, the gauze turns from white to pink to brownish-red. Villanelle replaces it with another patch and asks, “Can you stand?”
Eve nods slowly. “I think so.”
She automatically reaches out and Villanelle tucks her hands under Eve’s arms, lifting her up, careful not to bump against the wound. Her throat feels thick and swollen. She wants to say something to make it better, something reassuring and comforting. But fear has reduced her to a silent, trembling thing. Her eyes close for just a second and the solid, reassuring warmth of Eve in her arms drives out the spike of terror.
“Ow. Fuck. It hurts.” Eve winces as Villanelle keeps her upright. She swoons for a moment, no doubt dizzy from the blood loss.
Villanelle tightens her grip on Eve’s arms. “I’ve got you.” She leads her to the closed toilet bowl and helps her sit. Eve groans and Villanelle winces in sympathy. “Don’t fall over. Okay?”
It’s jarring, seeing Eve like this. Villanelle has never thought of her as particularly vulnerable. Reckless, stubborn, often uncoordinated, but not vulnerable. Even in the beginning, when Eve was too naive, too eager, too curious, Villanelle could tell she was strong, fearless. It was what drew her to Eve — the fact that Eve walked two steps forward towards an assassin with a loaded gun when any sane, cautious person would have run. Now Eve sits on their toilet seat and looks small, pale, paper-thin — a middle-aged woman with a hole in her chest. She’s just meat and skin, bones and blood. And that blood is now leaking out of her like the pulp of a ripe fruit squashed between two fingers. Villanelle’s heart breaks in a way she’s never experienced before, not even when she left Eve on the broken tiles of a collapsed ruin. Her heart breaks with the acute awareness of Eve’s fragility.
She’s pulled back by Eve’s touch, by Eve’s fingers ghosting along the side of her hip, under Villanelle’s shirt, her fingertips cool against Villanelle’s skin. “Hey.” Eve looks up at her with tired eyes. “Where’d you go?”
“Here.” Villanelle replies quickly, stamping down the fear, the uncertainty, and panic. She doesn’t recognise these parts of herself — she wants to scratch at them like a rash until they soothe and disappear. “I’m here.” She swipes her thumb over Eve’s brow, catching the beads of sweat on her finger. “Just let me get the supplies and I’ll stitch you up.”
She leaves Eve and goes to the kitchen, her movements deliberate and mechanical — open the top cabinet, find the dusty bottle of vodka, take a swig before returning to the bathroom.
Eve is exactly where she left her. Her hand is pressed over the bandage on her chest. The wound hasn’t bled through the second set of gauze, which is a good thing. “Drink this.”
She hands Eve the bottle of clear liquid along with four pills. The label on the bottle is written in old Cyrillic and features a dancing bear in a waistcoat. The bottle was a kitchen staple in Villanelle’s childhood home. The picture used to make her smile. Now she scowls at it.
Eve takes a hearty swig and coughs. “Jesus. That tastes like drain cleaner.”
Villanelle manages a wry laugh. “It tastes like Russia. A gift from Konstantin years ago.” She doesn’t know why she kept it. Sentimentality is stupid. “Drink more,” Villanelle encourages. “It will dull the pain.”
Eve does and coughs every time. It fills Villanelle with unexpected tenderness. She kneels beside Eve and reaches into the travel kit, removing everything she needs and setting it on the sink.
“It’ll be over soon.” Villanelle cleans the area with alcohol swabs and picks up the needle holder and thread. Eve reaches out to grip Villanelle’s shoulder as she begins careful, meticulous stitches. The gash is wide, and Eve will need at least twenty. As Villanelle sews, Eve breathes. In and out, in and out. Eve’s fingers tighten on Villanelle’s shoulder when Villanelle snags the skin and pulls the nylon thread through with a tug. “Almost finished,” Villanelle murmurs under her breath.
Eve’s hold eventually loosens and the Villanelle assumes her pain plateaus. She knows how after a while the pain simmers to a hot, insistent buzz, how the body leans into the sensation, and then it’s just an annoyance more than anything. She finishes the last suture, ties it closed, and covers it with a bandage and tape. It’s good work. Better than she’s ever done on herself. “All done,” Villanelle announces, the way she imagines a doctor might tell a child getting a shot.
Eve looks down at her, eyes slightly glazed over. “Thank you.”
“You should rest,” Villanelle says, helping Eve to her feet. “You lost a lot of blood.”
“Not yet.” Eve shakes her head. “I want to wash this blood off.” Her eyes find Villanelle’s. “It’s not all mine.”
“Did you kill him?”
Eve swallows. Nods. “Yeah.”
Villanelle releases a breath, abandoning the image of destroying the man who did this. She’s torn between relief and disappointment. There’s a restless energy bubbling inside her and so she focuses it on Eve, on fixing Eve.
Villanelle turns on the shower and helps Eve out of her bra, pulling the strap of her left arm gently down. She gets to her knees and undoes the button of Eve’s jeans, pulls down the zipper.
She curls her fingers around the waistband and Eve’s right hand finds hers. “I can do it.”
Villanelle looks up at her. “You don’t have to,” she says softly, and pulls down both jeans and underwear, allowing Eve to step out of them. It’s strange, to do this without the promise of sex.
Eve seems to think this too and says, “Bet this isn’t what you had in mind for tonight, huh?”
“You can still make it up to me.” Villanelle stands. “Those stitches will be out two weeks. Give or take.”
Eve dips her chin to her chest to look at the covered wound. “I’m gonna have a scar.”
Villanelle tugs off her t-shirt, revealing her chest. “Look.” She points to the bullet hole left by the Dixie Queen sniper. It’s on the opposite side, but almost exactly the same spot. “Twinsies.”
Eve snorts. “Don’t ever say that again.” But Eve reaches out to caress her fingertips over the bullet hole scar, her face suddenly cloudy with emotion.
“Come on,” Villanelle takes her hand and leads her to the shower. “You will feel better after you’re clean.”
She gets naked and stands with her back to the water, angling herself to shield Eve’s bandaged shoulder from the spray. They spend ten minutes like that, with Villanelle soaping Eve until there’s no blood, no dirt, no trace of death. She makes Eve turn around and shampoos her hair, smiling when Eve groans at the feeling. Villanelle enjoys sinking her fingers into Eve’s wet curls, maybe more than Eve enjoys the sensation of having her scalp massaged. It’s a win-win, really.
“Which one?” Villanelle points to Eve’s shelf of hair products.
Eve looks over her shoulder, squinting against the water in her eyes. “Oh, you don’t have to—”
“I want to,” Villanelle says firmly. “Which one?”
“The curl activator. Purple bottle.”
Villanelle reaches for it. “Tell me how.”
“Just a little between your palms,” Eve instructs. “Then work it in from root to tip. Not too much on the scalp.”
Villanelle follows the instructions with a sort of focused reverence. The product smells sweet and floral. It fills up the steamy shower as Villanelle combs it through Eve’s hair with her fingers. “Like this?”
“Hmm,” Eve tips her head back, allowing Villanelle better access. “Just like that. You’re doing so good.”
The words almost knock Villanelle over and her body responds immediately. She swallows down a little gasp, trying to brush it off. Now is not the time to imagine getting on her knees for Eve and eating her out until she comes hard against Villanelle’s open mouth. “Okay.” Villanelle clears her throat and briefly closes her hands around Eve’s waist. “I think you’re done.”
She throws on a robe and fetches another for Eve. Eve, who weeks before mocked her ever-growing robe collection.
“What? You don’t like it?” Villanelle had asked, running her finger down the red embroidered lapel of her newest purchase. She hooked her finger into the side and pulled it open, just enough to expose a teasing hint of cleavage.
“It’s…” Eve’s eyes had been fixed on the dip between her breasts. “Fine. I guess.”
Villanelle smiled then, knowing she had won.
Now, she chooses a soft silk one for Eve. One that won’t rub against and irritate the bandage.
Eve graciously allows herself to be dried and dressed. Villanelle guides the sleeves of the robe up her arms and past her elbows. She ties the sash and smooths the buttery fabric against her sides. “There.”
She feels that brief wave of nostalgia before Eve says, “You were much more of a brat when I tried to do this for you.”
That’s why this feels so familiar. Villanelle narrows her eyes. “I was mad at you. And you were mean to me before.”
“Yeah,” Eve agrees. “I was.”
“Is this how you felt?” Villanelle asks in a quiet voice. “In Margate?”
“How do you feel?”
“Angry. Helpless.” She glances away. “Scared.”
“Yes.” Eve exhales. “That’s exactly how I felt.”
Villanelle chews on her lip. She doesn’t look at Eve until she feels a hand on her arm.
“I’m okay.” Eve waits until Villanelle is looking at her again. “You did a great job. It doesn’t even hurt that much.” Eve leans up to nudge her forehead against Villanelle’s.
“That’s the vodka talking.”
Villanelle kisses her then. She can’t help it — Eve is pink-cheeked and damp. It’s easier now that the wound is covered, now that the blood is gone and Eve is clean and warm and alive. Villanelle kisses her gently, just brushing her lips over Eve’s, running the tip of her tongue over the seam of Eve’s mouth until she opens just so. Eve sighs against her and it’s so sweet, so soft that Villanelle feels lightheaded with the overwhelming nearness of her.
“Come,” Villanelle murmurs against Eve’s cheek. “You should eat.”
“I’m not hungry,” Eve replies as they leave the bathroom. There’s still a thin trail of blood leading from the front door to the bathroom. Neither comments on it.
“You’ve got vodka and pain pills in your stomach,” Villanelle counters. “You need to eat something.” When Eve looks like she might argue, Villanelle says, “Please, Eve. For me.”
It does the trick. Villanelle knew it would and Eve says, “Yeah. Yes. Of course.” It had taken Villanelle a while to realise that so much of what Eve does is for her, because of her. Eve indulges her and gives in to her and Villanelle has learnt how much to take before she has to give and compromise and say, “Yes, Eve, we can watch your boring old lady murder show again tonight,” and Eve would go on a rant about how Miss Marple is anything but boring and Villanelle would wonder how they ever lived without each other.
It’s only when Villanelle sees the front door still ajar that she remembers and swears. “I left the groceries on the street,” she says to Eve. “You phoned and I…I just ran.”
“That’s okay.” Eve sits at the kitchen island with a wince and rolls her shoulder. “We have…eggs.”
Villanelle looks hopeful. “You want eggs?”
“Sure.”
“Scrambled?”
Eve’s smile is affectionate. “Sure.”
______
Villanelle waits until Eve has had a few bites of her scrambled egg and toast before she says, “Tell me what happened.”
Eve takes another deliberate bite of toast. She chews and chews and chews.
Villanelle hates it when Eve does this, when she considers her words, considers how to present the truth. She wishes Eve would just say things, even if they were messy and ugly.
Finally, Eve says. “It was just a few blocks from here. In the alley past the Lycée.” Eve takes a drink of her water. “He was waiting for me, I guess. At first I thought he was just a kid. A student from the school, but he said my name. Eve Polastri.” She says it with a sneer.
“Did you recognise him?” Villanelle asks, her hands in her lap, clenched and white-knuckled.
“No, but it happened so fast.”
Villanelle sees it in her mind and leans forward, her fingernails digging into her palms hard enough to hurt. She forces herself to control her breathing, to sound normal when she says, “I need to know. Please.”
Eve seems to understand. “He had a gun. Something small and silver. He reached for it and I launched at him, managed to get him on the ground. And then he was on me. I struggled, obviously. I don’t think he expected it to be so clumsy. I disarmed him and the gun skidded next to us. When I reached for it, he…” She clears her throat. “He pulled out a knife — a tanto blade — and drove it into my chest. I think he was going for the heart.” She pauses. “Fucking idiot, he should have gone for the—“
“—carotid artery,” they say together.
Villanelle watches the bob of Eve’s throat, the way Eve’s fingers curl around a glass, dewy with condensation. She focuses on these little things, the things that keep her grounded. “Then what?”
“I rolled him over. He didn’t expect it, so I was able to get the knife from him. And then it was…easy.” Eve shakes her head. “I should have seen him coming,” she says again, “but I didn’t have my guard up. I was…” She laughs humourlessly. “I was thinking about you.”
Villanelle bites down on her lower lip. She wants to reach out and take Eve’s hand but doesn’t.
“I rammed the knife through his eye, straight through.” Eve tucks her tongue into her cheek as she thinks. “It sort of…popped.”
For the first time since getting home, Villanelle’s smile feels real. “Was there a lot of blood?”
Eve nods slowly. “A shit tonne.”
“And the knife?”
“In my jacket pocket. My fingerprints are all over it, so…” Eve lifts her hand up, as if there was still phantom blood on it.
Villanelle looks to the front door, eyes assessing the locks as she says, “She knows where we are.”
“I think she’s always known,” Eve replies.
Silence sits between them, bloated with everything they don’t say.
Eventually, Villanelle reaches forward and takes Eve's hand in hers. She examines Eve’s fingertips for a second before bringing them to her lips. Her kisses are reverent.
“Let me look after you,” Villanelle murmurs. “Let me make it better.”
Eve pushes her plate away and stands with a soft groan of pain. “Come on then.” She reaches out with her right hand. “Let’s go to bed.”
Late evening light filters through the curtains and illuminates expensive Italian sheets in diluted sunny patches. Villanelle helps Eve lie down on her back. She positions herself next to her and leans up on her elbow, loose tendrils of hair brushing against Eve’s face.
Villanelle asks, “What do you need?”
“Just…touch me.” Eve sighs, her eyes still and dark as they look up at Villanelle. “I just need to feel you.”
Villanelle reaches down with deft fingers and unties the knot in the sash of Eve’s robe. Dark blue silk falls on either side of Eve’s naked body. After all this time, the sight of Eve exposed and laid bare for her, still fills Villanelle with awe. Her touch is featherlight as she runs her fingertips from the hollow of Eve’s throat, down her sternum, over her stomach, to the dark thatch of hair between Eve’s thighs. Villanelle rests her hand there — gentle and possessive all at once.
When Eve reaches up and cups the sharp jut of Villanelle’s jaw, she leans into the touch, her eyes fluttering closed. Eve slides her hand around to the back of Villanelle’s neck and urges her down.
Their mouths meet in a soft, urgent kiss. Eve attempts to lean up and winces and Villanelle moves her hand to Eve’s stomach, holding her down. “Just relax,” she whispers against the underside of Eve’s jaw. Asking Eve to relax is like asking a river to stop rushing or the ocean to stop making waves. She’s a vessel of zigzagging atoms, constantly in motion. Villanelle sometimes wonders how she managed to sit behind a desk for so many years, static and inert.
“Why do you think I went looking for you?” Eve replied once when Villanelle asked her about it. “You were suddenly there and the most exciting thing in my dull little life.”
It was nice, when Eve said those things, things drenched in honesty and realness. For a long time after they got together, Eve would hold little truths close to her like precious stones she was worried Villanelle would steal in the night.
“Were?” Villanelle raised an eyebrow playfully.
“Well, my life’s not exactly dull anymore, is it?” Eve said this while they were crawling out of a second-story window in Madrid, blood still crusted under their fingernails.
“No,” Villanelle had smiled at her then, feeling suddenly and overwhelmingly lucky. “It isn’t.”
Eve’s stomach muscles quiver under Villanelle’s palm, her entire body coiled tight in anticipation. Villanelle drags her tongue down the smooth column of Eve’s neck, wanting to release that coil, make her let go, melt. Getting Eve to that place where she’s thoughtless, breathless, and spent is one of Villanelle’s favourite things in the whole world. She’s always known it would be.
She licks a slow trail down the shallow dip between Eve’s breasts. Eve tastes like soap and warm skin. Villanelle allows her lips to linger below the bandaged wound, feeling the hard thud of Eve’s heart against her mouth. She wants to suck it out, consume it and carry it inside of her to keep it safe and beating.
“Villanelle.” Eve says her name like it’s made of satin, of heavy cream, iris and musk.
She hums against Eve’s skin, her hand trailing lower until she’s brushing against the soft skin below her belly button.
“You’re teasing me,” Eve whines, her fingers threading through Villanelle’s hair, urging her lower.
“I’m savouring you,” Villanelle counters as she swirls her tongue around a dark, peaked nipple. “I don’t like that someone had their hands on your like that today.” Her thumbs press gently into the smooth skin at Eve’s hips. “I’d kill him if I could.” She brushes her lips down Eve’s ribs, counting each ridge and dip.
“How?” Eve asks a little breathlessly. “Tell me how.”
“I have a knife,” Villanelle begins, kissing her way down Eve’s belly, along the gentle swell of her abdomen. “It’s beautiful. Long and thin.” She sucks against Eve’s pubic bone until it blooms red. “I think it is traditionally used to gut fish.”
“Is it sharp?” Eve’s breath hitches when Villanelle scrapes her teeth against her hip.
“All it takes is a whisper to make it bleed.” She nuzzles against Eve’s inner thigh, where Eve’s scent is heady and thick. “Just a kiss against the flesh.”
Eve exhales a moan and Villanelle parts her gently, exposing the most vulnerable, most beautiful parts of her. “I would slide it into the flesh of his belly,” she whispers against Eve’s hot, velvety skin. “So slowly he would not even feel it at first.” She swipes her tongue, broad and flat over Eve’s throbbing clit, making her groan low and loud.
“But you,” Eve’s breath comes out in staccato pants. “You’d make it hurt.”
“Yes.” Villanelle flicks the tip of her tongue against Eve’s clit. “I’d twist the blade and drag it up.”
“Yes,” Eve moans, and Villanelle isn’t sure if it’s because of her words or her actions. But she keeps going with both. She laps at Eve now, in that way that usually makes her arch up. But Villanelle reaches up and presses her hand firm on Eve’s stomach, holding her down, keeping her from squirming too much.
“I would split him open from navel to chin,” Villanelle mumbles, working her mouth against Eve.
“Oh, god.” Eve whimpers as her thighs clench around Villanelle’s head. “Oh, fuck. Oh…fuck!”
“I’d watch him bleed out, watch the little light flicker off behind his eyes.” She sucks on Eve’s clit until Eve bucks up off the bed with a breathless cry.
Villanelle is content to stay where she is, drinking in the taste and smell of Eve until Eve is reaching for her, tangling her fingers in Villanelle’s hair to bring her back up.
Villanelle slides up beside her and kisses her soft, hungry mouth. The corner of Eve’s bandage is wet and red. Villanelle taps against it lightly. “You popped a stitch,” she says, licking the stain off her finger.
“Hmm.” Eve turns to her with a wide, lazy smile. “Worth it.” She frowns and rubs her shoulder. “But also, ow.”
“I told you,” Villanelle kisses the skin just next to the bandage, “—to relax.”
“There’s nothing relaxing about what you just did to me.”
Villanelle smirks, pleased with herself. “How do you feel now?”
“Boneless,” Eve replies and then with a yawn. “Exhausted.”
Another kiss and Villanelle hops off the bed. “Good,” she calls out from the bathroom where she retrieves the medical kit. “You can sleep after I stitch you back up.”
______
Villanelle waits until Eve is snoring under a light blanket, eyelids fluttering as she dreams. She watches her for a minute, maybe longer. She watches the way Eve’s nostrils narrow as she inhales, the way her lips, pursed and full, part on the exhale. She watches the twitch of Eve’s fingers, one hand on her stomach, the other under her head. She watches Eve and hears the strains of Tchaikovsky’s Marche Slave. She watches Eve and thinks of black ink, salt, gun powder, and teeth biting into skin.
She leaves a note on the bedside table. Just three lines:
Will be back late.
Don’t worry.
Go back to sleep.
And then, on a whim, adds a fourth line.
I love you.
She looks it over before setting it down under an amber-scented candle they’d bought a while ago but never burned.
______
The train takes her to London and then she has four hours to get it done and catch the last train back to Paris. Waiting was never an option. Not with the thing inside of her, snaking through her blood, making it hot, making her tremble. That thing that screams and pulls and bites, that won’t shut up until she’s finished it. It’s the thing that curled around her ear and whispered to pull the trigger in Rome. The thing that cackles and roars every time she makes a kill. She loves it and hates it in equal parts. Tonight she will feed it.
The house is situated on the edge of Broxbourne Woods. It’s big and quaint and isolated. Enough that Villanelle doesn’t have to worry about making noise. Enough that she can enjoy the screams.
Villanelle finds her in the kitchen. She’s at the kitchen counter, wearing garden gloves and repotting a tomato plant.
“Oh, hello,” she says when Villanelle walks in, and Villanelle is confused because she says it like they’re friends. Like they know each other. “I’m sorry, I didn’t hear anyone at the door.”
“Hello,” Villanelle replies, both cautious and somewhat charmed. "I let myself in."
“I’m afraid I don’t know who you are,” she says, her hands still in the round ceramic flower pot.
“I know your mother,” Villanelle says and Geraldine smiles.
“Oh, all right then.” Her smile is suffused with confusion, but it’s bright. “And she… she sent you here?”
“No.” Villanelle shakes her head very slowly as she walks towards Geraldine. “No, I don’t think she even knows where you live.” Villanelle worries her lower lip between her teeth and appraises the woman in front of her. She’s plain looking, with a wide, open face and a bad haircut. Villanelle decides she likes her. “I’m here because I need to send her a message. Even if it won’t be as —“ she waves her hand in Geraldine’s general direction. “— effective as I would like.”
Geraldine lowers her hands and removes her gloves. “And you're a… friend of my mother’s?”
“No.” Villanelle pulls out the bloody knife that she retrieved from Eve’s discarded jacket. “Not a friend.”
______
She leaves Geraldine’s body in the centre of her bed. It’s a nice bed — an antique four poster made from oak or some other sturdy wood. She likes the way the posts run up and surround the mattress. It looks grand, imposing. She runs her fingers down the wood, admiring the structure.
It’s a pity about the sheets, though. Expensive cotton, pale yellow, now rumpled and almost black with the pool of blood. Villanelle spends a while thinking about how to position Geraldine and eventually decides on something simple — hands on her chest, legs crossed at the ankles, knife still in her heart. The hilt sticks out like a stake. She considers closing Geraldine’s eyes but then decides she likes them better open. She hopes Carolyn will get to see her like this.
______
By the time she gets home it’s late and the night is dark and windy. The moon is thin and insubstantial in a cloudy sky and Villanelle is on her guard as she walks back from the station. She knows Eve is awake the moment she steps into the apartment. The warm orange glow from the bedroom light beckons her near and she throws off her jacket and backpack before making her way to the inevitable.
Eve is sitting up against the headboard, three pillows (one of them Villanelle’s) placed strategically behind her back. She’s changed into a long t-shirt — worn and soft and Villanelle imagines nuzzling her face into it.
Eve looks up from the laptop, the bluish glow reflected back in her reading glasses. They stare at each other for a moment, each daring the other to speak first, to react first. It’s a game, really.
Eve loses. She takes off her glasses and clutches the half-crumpled note on the bed. “What the hell is this?”
Villanelle has a split second to decide whether she’s going to play cool, play dumb, or try and distract Eve by taking off her top.
“What?” Dumb is it.
“I love you?” Eve waves the note, sounding more incredulous than angry.
“I do!” Villanelle crawls onto the bed and sits cross-legged across from Eve.
“Yeah, but…” Eve seems thrown. “You don’t…we don’t…say it.”
“You don’t want me to tell you I love you?” Villanelle means it to come off light and jokingly, but the question sounds so sincere when it leaves her mouth that she feels small and embarrassed.
“Not like this, no.” Eve drops the paper. “I thought you’d gone off on some revenge mission. I thought you — ” She suddenly reaches forward with her right hand and tugs on Villanelle’s earlobe. They both look down at the light red smudge on Eve’s fingers. Eve stills suddenly and in a low voice asks, “Villanelle, where did you go?”
Villanelle shrugs like it isn’t important at all. “To find Carolyn’s daughter.”
“Geraldine?” Eve frowns. “Carolyn doesn’t give a shit about her.”
“She doesn’t give a shit about most things.” Villanelle replies. “I had to start somewhere.”
“You…” Eve looks down at her fingers again.
“Yes, I…” Villanelle raises her eyebrows, amused that Eve doesn’t say it.
Instead, Eve says, “Oh.” And then, in a voice that isn’t at all like Villanelle expected, “You should have told me.”
Villanelle cocks her head curiously. “Would you have stopped me?”
Eve looks thoughtful. “No.”
Villanelle scoots closer, encouraged. “No?”
Eve shakes her head, reaches out again and runs the back of her knuckles against Villanelle’s cheek. The gesture is unexpected and something about the tenderness of it makes Villanelle’s heart scramble up her throat. She leans into Eve’s touch.
“I understand. Why you had to do it,” Eve says. Villanelle takes Eve's hand and presses a kiss to her palm in something like gratitude and something like love.
“So, what does this mean?” Eve finally asks.
“It means we have to relocate for a few weeks while you recover.” She glances at Eve’s shoulder. “How is it now?”
Eve grimaces. “It hurts like hell.”
“There’s a place in Prague we can stay, but if you want to go somewhere else, we can — ”
“No,” Eve says quickly. “Prague is fine.”
“Just until you are healed. And then…”
“And then it’s time.”
“Then it’s time,” she echoes. They’re quiet for a moment as the ramifications of the day unravel around them. Villanelle feels the weight of Eve's gaze on her. “What?”
“We’re coming back here,” Eve says, perhaps as much to herself as to Villanelle. “You know that, right? This isn’t some blaze of glory, drive off a cliff, suicide mission. I don’t want that.”
“I know,” Villanelle replies. She needed to hear Eve say that. She doesn’t tell her as much, but Eve knows.
Villanelle moves and positions herself horizontally across the bed with her knees up and her head in Eve’s lap. Eve’s hands automatically move to her hair, stroking it in an unconscious gesture.
“When we get back, I want a canopy bed,” Villanelle says and Eve frowns at the sudden change in topic.
“What?”
“You know, those beds with the four —”
“I know what a canopy bed is,” Eve interrupts, looking down at her. “Why?”
Villanelle shrugs. “I like it.” She reaches for Eve’s wrist and gives it a squeeze. “Lots of places to tie things around.” She raises a playful eyebrow and Eve shakes her head with a smile.
“I’ll consider it,” she says and Villanelle knows she’s won.
“Are you sure you’re ready for this?” Villanelle asks, even though the choice, if there ever was one, has been taken from them.
Eve looks around their room, eyes falling on the third drawer of their wardrobe, filled with weapons and tools. When she turns her gaze back to Villanelle, her eyes are shining, calculating. She’s excited; Villanelle can tell in the way she breathes, in the subtle ripple under her skin.
It moves in Eve too, the thing that wants and spits and kills. It reaches out to whatever lives inside Villanelle and together they make one dark, terrible, beautiful thing.
“With you,” Eve replies, “I’m ready for anything.”
______