Work Text:
It starts with a knock.
Karen is too busy to talk to anyone right now. The ledger she needs has disappeared in the piles of paper on her desk but without it, she can't prove to the damn bastards who provide her with ice that she ordered twice as much as they delivered this week. If she doesn't stamp this down as soon as possible they'll start taking advantage of her regularly.
And there's the matter of the men lingering on the block. It gets worse this time of year. With the social season in full swing, the club is packed most nights, gossip clouding the air and pointed glares cutting through it.
But that's the point of Fagan's. The city's best women's social club, attached to the socially defunct but reputable enough Page name and, more importantly, its money. Men used to sit in these chairs, smoke in these corridors.
Her father used to occupy this office.
But, for reasons Karen knows she will never understand, he decided to leave it all to her.
And so she reinvented it. A safe place for drinking, smoking, light gambling. For exchanging information, for asking for help, for letting loose, just a little bit.
The target on her back for daring to give women somewhere to exist beyond the eyes of men is bearable. Worth it, even.
But, fuck , is it hard work. Being a woman running a business in this unfair world requires every skill she has and some she's had to learn -- bribery, cheating, stealing, lying. Her fists, on occasion. It all comes a bit too naturally, but Karen can't dwell on those things. What she does here with Fagan's is important .
She really needs to figure out how to scare those bastards away. If she can't keep the women in her club safe, what's the point?
Another knock.
"Karen?" Foggy calls.
It takes a lot to get her bar manager out from behind his bar, so she calls him in.
Her friend enters first, his apron stained and forehead a little damp. Through the open door she can hear the laughter and light music of the club, but blocking her view is something unexpected.
Another man.
Unfashionably bearded, hat pulled low over his face, dirty overcoat open to reveal a worn waistcoat and trousers, muddy boots hugging his calves. A workman, then. Someone from the docks? She does not stand, though she does feel for the leather strapped to her thigh under her skirts. Knife hidden, should she need it.
Karen raises her eyebrows at Foggy.
"He wants a job," he says, shrugging. Leaning forward, he adds, "You should, uh, hear him out."
Foggy knows the trouble she's had deciding how to protect the club. Matt continually offers the services of his ragtag crew of gambling hell vigilantes, but the last thing she needs is people with a martyr complex entangling themselves in her business. Matt almost certainly has his men watching the place anyway, despite her protests.
The mystery man snickers.
"Thanks, Foggy."
She gives him a small nod. She can handle herself. Plus, she's interested. The air in the room has changed with this man in it.
The door shuts behind her friend and the stranger assumes a position that resembles a soldier at ease. Former military man, then? Maybe a sailor. She does not offer him the seat on the other side of her desk. She does not know that he'd take it, anyway.
"So," Karen says. She sits back in her chair, the silks of her dress shifting soundlessly. "How did you convince my bartender to let you in here?"
He removes his hat. Should have done so when he entered the building, but Karen's never been a stickler for propriety. Running a hand through dark hair -- unfashionably long, like his beard -- he sets his jaw. There's something familiar about him but she can't piece it together through all the extra details.
"Helped settle a disturbance outside," the man says. His voice is deeper than she expected, rougher. Like he doesn't do much talking. "Why don't you have men posted at the door? Or women."
Not for lack of trying , she thinks.
"What kind of disturbance?" Karen asks. She notices he's kept his left hand behind him. Bruised knuckles? Blood?
"Jealous suitor." He clears his throat. "Was badgering the women as they left about whether or not the one he's courting is inside."
She sighs. Typical bullshit. Just what she's been worried about, really. It's all propriety and social graces in the ballroom but once outside, a man will do whatever it takes to compromise a prize he's set his sights on.
"And you settled this how, exactly?"
"I was walking up to see about getting a meeting with you," he explains. "Gent grabbed a lady's arm and I grabbed him."
And that's that, it seems.
There are about a thousand reasons why this is a bad idea. But Karen knows -- knew the second he walked in, probably -- that she'll hire him. She needs to solve the problem too badly. But she wants to know why he wants to work here .
"Well, thank you very much, Mr. --"
A beat.
"Castiglione."
Interesting . Karen was privy to her father's dealings enough times to know how to spot someone trying to hide. That sense that she knows him, that itch in her mind that tells her something is missing, it gets louder. He's lying to her and they both know it.
"If you're going to work here you need to be honest with me," she says. "Sit, please."
"Thank you, ma'am," he says, a polite dip of his chin. He does take her up on the offer, perhaps sensing that she's got the upper hand by challenging him.
"Miss Page is fine," she corrects. Spinster she may be, ma'am sets her teeth on edge. That and Lady .
He rests his hat on his knee and she gets a peak of that left hand -- she was right. Bruised and bloody. Trouble for the club, maybe, depending on who he beat up, but she doubts the smarmy lordling or whoever it was will squeal. Embarrassing, to be caught like that.
"Miss Page." He rolls it around in his mouth.
"It's important that I know you can be trusted, sir," she says. The honorific makes his nostrils flare. "I'm guessing you'd like to be the one outside, then?"
"Don't see anyone else watching the door," he retorts.
"Not standing out front, no," she mutters. "This is a safe place for women in society. Anyone who works at Fagan's must contribute to that reputation. Whatever sins you may have committed do not concern me so long as they do not interfere with that."
"Got a hell of a lot of those, Miss Page," he says. Manners, but not enough to keep his cursing to a minimum in front of a lady. He doesn't shift like he's uncomfortable, doesn't look away. Just those dark eyes boring into hers. Those eyes –
Oh .
Karen has seen those eyes before. Fleeting, sure, but she's seen them. Society isn't all that big and those on the fringes of it know another outsider when they see one.
Something in her face must change because the stranger who is not so strange at all sighs. His gaze narrows like he knows she's figured it out.
She drums her fingertips on her desk. "You came here once," she says. "Before."
The memory is vivid now that she's called it up. It had to have been at least 5 years ago. Maybe more. Before her father died but after her brother, before she sat on this side of the desk. She'd been at the club as she often was, sprawled out on one of the tables by the bar looking at the books, and a man -- this man -- had come by before opening to inquire about speaking to the owner.
"And who may I ask is calling on my father?" she'd said.
He was often resting in those days. The illness had taken most of his waking hours from him. Men still came and went and she offered them an audience or not, but she hadn't seen this one in the ballrooms, despite the status with which he carried himself. Married, probably. Not that she was of interest, anymore, given how she'd sailed through her seasons without an offer worth accepting, and all that came after.
"Lord Castle, ma'am," he'd said. "Delighted to make your acquaintance. I believe I have an appointment?”
Shuffling through a few papers confirmed it. A new member, maybe.
She sent him in the direction of the office and that was that.
The memory stayed strong because of what happened, later.
Lord Frank Castle, a second son gone to war who returned to find the first son dead of fever before he could marry and the estate entirely his. Got himself a wife and two kids and was a reputable sort, people said. Took care of his tenants and his lands, lent his voice to the House of Lords. Just another decent man.
Until.
Castle's entire family was slaughtered just over a year ago.
Robbery, the papers had said. Retribution , the whispers corrected. Their carriage got lost on a road it should not have been on, turned over, and ransacked. His wife and two children were brutally murdered, as well as everyone on the street at the time. Castle survived, so they said, despite a horrific beating. Survived and disappeared.
No one could blame him, so the story goes. Society shrugged its shoulders and brushed off the loss. A family of status, sure, but such violence was unbecoming of genteel folk. How could he show his face again? After letting such a thing happen to his wife and children?
The unexplained disappearances of a few military men over this last winter went unremarked upon, too. Matt's the one who told her -- all returned from fighting France for years, none of them more important than the next, from what he could tell. Other than the fact that they fought with Castle.
Perhaps that should scare her, but it does not.
"I did," Frank says. "I believe we met, briefly."
"We did."
He rubs his bearded chin. “Things are a bit different around here, now.”
Karen cocks her head. He can’t be more than a decade older than her. What kind of business did he have with her father? What he expecting him?
“They are.”
What would it mean for her to hire a man like this? Why does he want this job? He must be back in London under a false name for a reason. To her club.
"I assume you'll want to be using a name other than Frank Castle," she muses. His jaw twitches.
"Peter Castiglione," he grinds out.
Horrible cover, but most people won’t think twice. The beard and the name will keep anyone from recognizing him, she's sure. That and a job as hired muscle at a women's club. The last place anyone would suspect a Lord.
"I also suspect there is more to why you're back," she continues. Karen straightens in her chair and does her best to look no-nonsense. They are, both of them, marked by tragedy, cast out because of it like lepers. What can he expect by returning?
He nods, a sharp, sudden movement like it's against his will.
"Can't tell you why exactly, Miss Page," he says. "But it won't touch you or this club."
Karen chews on this. There's no way he can know that, but he sounds so damned sure. Like he could keep trouble away from her door with just a look.
One of the fingers on his right hand drums a random rhythm on his knee.
"I'll let you know as soon as it becomes a possibility," he adds. "But it won't."
Not great, but she can work with that. And she really does need someone at the door.
Karen stands and Frank follows. She holds out her hand. He looks at it for one beat and then shakes it.
"I'll have my solicitor draw you up an employment contract, Mr. Castiglione ," Karen says. "Kindly come by tomorrow to sign it and we'll discuss the particulars."
It takes roughly 20 minutes for Matt to show up after Frank leaves.
One of his pairs of eyes probably went scuttling to tell him. Foggy might have sent him a runner but since this whole thing was really his idea anyway, she doubts it.
In an official capacity, Matt Murdoch is her lawyer. He executed her father's will and ensured that the club was really, truly Karen's. Helped her when it was rocky at the start, when the sharks tried to close in and make her version of Fagan's dead in the water.
Unofficially, Matt is much more complicated. A failed relationship. An old friend. A man with more secrets than her and twice as many enemies. With skills and allies she doesn't understand, nor does she particularly want to.
And right now he's largely a pain in her ass.
"Why was Frank Castle in your club?" Matt asks after he barges into her office and firmly kicks the door shut behind him. His dark glasses hide his milky-white eyes from her, but she knows by now that he's got no trouble navigating a room.
"Hello to you too," Karen says. "I'm doing well, thank you so much for asking."
He taps the bottom of her desk with his cane.
"I'm serious," he hisses.
"When are you not serious, Matt?" Karen sighs.
Foggy slides into the office and shuts the door much more gently.
Her bartender wrings his hands. "Karen, I didn't realize he was --"
" You did this?" Matt asks. He throws his hands in the air and sits heavily in the same chair Frank occupied not long ago. "Unbelievable. She's hired a criminal ."
"I can't believe I have to remind you, a lawyer , that such a fact is unproven, " Karen says. "Or that you are not far off from the same."
"He really did a number on that guy outside," Foggy adds. "He'll be good for the club --"
"He's dangerous ," Matt interrupts. "He's involved in the military killings."
"All pieces of shit, need I remind you," Karen mutters.
Matt ignores her.
"He's only back because wants something, revenge, maybe, and you don't know --"
"I'm not naive, Matt," she says sharply. "Everyone wants something."
He sighs. Foggy looks as weary as she feels. But it's not Frank Castle's doing -- it's everything else. The three of them are tangled and have plenty of old wounds between them but things have settled somewhat in recent months. She has her club and she has their help and she's doing fine .
But she needs a god damned doorman.
"I can handle him," she says, doing her best to muster as much finality as possible. "He's just like me, really."
Matt frowns. "You are not like him, Karen --"
"We're both marked by tragedy in the eyes of society," she says over him. "I don't care if he's killing people."
"You don't mean that," Matt says, gently.
Karen wishes, not for the first time, he could see the expression on her face so that he'd shut the fuck up for once. Foggy grimaces.
"As long as he's doing what I pay him for, he's alright by me," she says. "That's it."
It's not entirely the truth. She does care if he kills people, especially given the brutality of the murders Matt is so obsessed with, but she has no leg to stand on when it comes to blame. People like Frank, people like her , they do what they must. To survive, to deal with the weight on their shoulders each day. The loss, the blame, the guilt.
God knows she's guilty enough.
—
Frank -- Pete -- works every night he's asked. He's there without fail when she arrives, standing at the door ready to open it for ladies coming and going. He trims his beard but keeps it longer than is fashionable, clothes as drab as the day he walked into her office.
"Miss Page," he mutters as he holds the door for her, fingers on the brim of his hat in a small nod.
"Mr. Castiglione," she says back. Every time. That's it.
The women in the club seem moderately interested in his presence but no one complains or asks questions.
He reports anything undesirable to her but the men who have been hanging around seem to have gotten the message and fucked right off.
Karen is well aware that she knows next to nothing about him. Where he's been living, what he does when he's not working for her. Has he taken up in the Castle family house in town? Not her business, really. She does not question the bruising on his cheekbone or when he greets her with a split lip and wrapped knuckles.
Because there is no trouble.
For two weeks, at least.
Karen lives down the street in her family's townhome turned full-time residence. Though the club is most popular during the social season, she resides in the city for most of the year to keep it running for women of all kinds, not just those in society. The walk is one she knows well, one she's been doing since she was perhaps too young to be walking the streets on her own.
Matt gives her shit for it and even Foggy cautiously suggests she be escorted every so often but she ignores them. There are a great many things to be afraid of in this world but Karen is determined to train herself out of that fear -- to show no weakness. To bend, maybe, but not break.
"Goodnight, Miss Page," Frank murmurs when she exits the club. He only goes home when she does, she's learned.
"Goodnight," she replies.
Her boots click on the lane and the moonlight makes the bricks look blue.
She's almost home when she hears it.
Someone is following her.
Her heart beats faster but she takes a deep breath and turns the wrong way on purpose, leading whoever it is away from her house. If she can round the block then she can get back to the club –
Her pursuer starts to run, heavy footsteps echoing in the dark.
Karen is used to making quick choices. In many ways, it is why she's still here, why she owns a club, why she carries a knife on her. She'll never outrun whoever it is in these skirts so she braces herself and tugs the blade free of its sheath on her thigh.
Hold your nerve, Page , she thinks. The footsteps get closer and closer and at the last moment she spins around and sidesteps the figure, knife clutched in one hand.
He -- a man, as she suspected -- straightens with a curse. His drunkenness is visible in his stumbling and his stench.
"S'not right," he slurs, eyes blazing. She keeps her knees bent, knife out in front of her. He doesn't appear to notice it. "Women havin' fun without men," he continues. "Not lettin' me into your blasted club."
He lunges for her and it's easy to avoid him, but now he's pissed her off. As if women don't deserve their own lives, their own spaces. She flicks the knife just so and catches his forearm, his flesh giving easily as he howls.
"You bitch ," he bellows, palm desperately clutching his skin, blood leaking between his fingers and onto the stones beneath him.
Karen does not entirely know where to go from here. She backs up just a little but he follows. Her heel catches on the edge of a cobble and she stumbles which is all it takes for the man to reach out and curl his bloody fingers in her overcoat, yanking her close.
"Get fucked," Karen spits and clocks him in the nose.
The hit is so hard that she feels her knuckles split on his teeth and he goes reeling back, releasing her in shock. His head hits the brick wall and finishes what her punch did not. He collapses into a heap right there on the street, a smear of blood bright in the dark behind him.
She's panting, her entire body tense and ready for more when she hears footsteps behind her.
She whirls around, knife at the ready, but it's Frank.
Adrenaline pumps through her still but she sags a little, alarmingly comforted at the sight of him. He eyes her and seems satisfied enough that she's not going to topple over because he heads for the body.
"You okay?" he asks, kicking the guy none-too-gently in the shin with his boot.
"Yeah," she pants, getting her breath back. An errant lock of hair has come free of her pins and she blows it out of her face. "Is he dead?"
He crouches down and puts a hand on her attacker's chest. "Nah," he says, and he sounds a little disappointed. "What did he want?"
"Just the usual. Pissed about the club."
Frank hums. "Don't think he's anyone of consequence," he muses. "Looks like a thug I've seen around here sometimes."
"I thought you'd be home by now," she says. Her heart rate slows but her hands are shaking just a little. She flexes her fingers and hisses.
Frank's eyes snap to her and he stands. "Heard yelling so I came back," he says. "You hurt?"
"No," she says, hiding her hand behind her the same way he did in her office. She's not entirely sure why.
He approaches her slowly, ungloved palm outstretched. "Miss Page."
"I'm fine, Frank." She realizes too late she probably shouldn't call him that outside of her office, but it's how she thinks of him in her head.
" Karen ," he says, less gently. Always so loose with propriety, this man. "Are you hurt?"
Reluctantly she produces her split knuckles.
"I hit him," she says, a bit stupidly. Her hand shakes a bit in front of her, Frank's palm hovering underneath just shy of touching as he examines it. "And cut him with this."
Karen holds out the knife and Frank's mouth curls up at the corner.
"Hell of a punch," he says. "And slice. Where'd you learn to do that?"
She shrugs, half-heartedly grinning back at him. "Here and there."
His fingers loosely wrap around the wrist holding the knife.
"Should let go of this," he murmurs, eyes on hers. She allows Frank to take it from her. He wipes the blade on the edge of his coat before hanging it back, handle first. When she begins to lift her skirts to resheath it, Frank's eyes dutifully go towards the sky.
"You need to clean that hand," he says. "Can I walk you –
He's interrupted by a loud clap of thunder and, not seconds later, a heavy downpour.
"Fuck's sake," Karen swears. She’s lucky it didn’t start five minutes ago or she’d have lost the upper hand with the weight of wet skirts. "What about him?"
Frank chews on it, rain dripping from the brim of his hat. "We can leave him. He smelled so drunk I doubt he'll remember you."
She pushes wet hair out of her face and makes another quick decision, albeit this one lacking any violence. "Well, come on, then."
Karen turns on her heel and heads down the street, Frank's footsteps behind her after a beat. It takes no time at all to arrive at her doorstep. She's soaked by now, hair plastered to her skull and coat weighing what feels like a hundred stone.
She stops just short of the door so that she might consider how to frame this to her staff. As it is, she feels as though she and Frank could be the only people in the entire city. The only people in the entire world. It is a slightly comforting thought rather than a frightening one.
Frank stops two steps below her and falters for the first time as he realizes that she means to bring him inside. It's not an expression she expected to see on him, but he is just a man, after all.
"I don't know if this is a good idea--"
"Don't lie to me and say you care about propriety, Frank," she chides.
He frowns. From this angle, she can see how long his eyelashes are. "A lady's reputation is --"
"I have no reputation," she interrupts. "Who is going to tell on us? I'm old enough to be a chaperone."
He huffs. "Miss Page," he begins but says nothing more.
"Christ, Frank," she mutters. "Just come in."
She knocks, robbing him of a choice. The door swings open almost immediately, her steward calling for her maid with slight alarm. It takes a bit of convincing, especially once Frank steps in behind her, but she manages to assuage the worries of her small but devoted staff. Her dress is damp once she removes her coat but she leaves it be and has a fire lit in her office.
"A basin and some bandages, if you please," she tells her maid after she's led Frank there. "And some brandy."
He looks incredibly uncomfortable the whole time, jaw tight and gripping his hat like it'll transport him anywhere else.
"They are very discreet," Karen tells him. "Try to look a little less like you're going to murder someone."
Her maid brings in the asked-for items and disappears with a small curtsey and a not-so-subtle glance at Frank. They're both standing, her by the basin set on a side table in front of the fire and him by the door, still.
Karen takes a long pull from the brandy bottle. Frank makes a strangled noise that she ignores. One deep breath, two, and then she begins to clean her knuckles with a damp towel, biting the inside of her cheek to keep from hissing.
"This kind of thing happen often?" Frank asks.
It startles her just a little and she looses a gasp of pain. A glance at him reveals a furrowed brow, a frown firmly in place.
She hears the unspoken part of the question. Before I came around . Does he think this is his fault? It could be. He still has not told her anything about why he's back, why he wants to be in the city for the season. She doesn’t think there have been more killings, since Matt would assuredly kick down her door to tell her.
"Not to this degree," Karen manages. The towel and water are pink now. She pats the split skin dry and reaches for the bandages. Years and a lifetime ago she watched her brother wrap his hands before he boxed. How did it start? She struggles a bit, one-handed. Maybe the brandy is making her clumsy.
"Damn," she mutters.
Frank clears his throat. She ignores him, fingers fumbling with the fabric until a rough pair of hands enter her vision, pulling the roll from her fingers.
She looks up and finds Frank in front of her.
"Just let me --"
"I can do it," she protests, but it sounds weak even to her ears and she makes no move to stop him.
He does not look at her.
"I know you can," he says, softly.
Karen holds her breath as he deftly wraps her knuckles. He holds her hand ever so lightly. This is the first time they have touched since their handshake. That -- and the brandy, probably -- loosens her tongue.
"I learned to fight as a girl," she says.
Frank's movements halt for just a second before he keeps going. Karen keeps talking.
"My younger brother boxed for fun. He taught me the basics. And later, after --" She swallows down the past. "I taught myself other things, other tools. I always carry this knife on me."
"Hope I don't get on your bad side," Frank murmurs. He pulls the bandage tight and Karen winces. "Sorry."
Karen searches his face for anything at all. His long lashes, his crooked nose. How many times has he broken it? If he really has done the things Matt accuses him of, how can he be so gentle with her in this moment? If his past makes him a monster, what does that make her?
"I can handle myself, is what I'm saying," she whispers. "I've done horrible things."
Frank tucks the tail of the bandage into the wrappings and holds her hand in his. He finally meets her gaze.
"As have I," he says. "We do what we must. Don’t be ashamed."
No one has ever said that to her before. It echoes in her mind, rattles around with all of her sins and settles deep in her chest. Don’t be ashamed .
Frank releases her and steps back. He gives her a long look before retrieving his hat and making for the door.
She cannot find any words. He pauses short of leaving, a hand on the doorknob.
"Miss Page," he says, but it sounds somehow different than before. Karen , she wants to say. Call me Karen again . She waits, keeping her eyes on his, but whatever he's warring over is hidden behind dark eyes. "Goodnight," he settles on. "Put some ice on that."
And then he's gone.
__
Despite her contentious occupation and general societal redundancy, Karen knows she has to make at least one appearance during the season. A few of her patrons are from prominent families and the various titled ladies appreciate her attendance, no doubt thinking it softens their own frequenting of her club.
So many silly rules. Why does all of it matter so much?
She flexes her hand underneath her glove and hides a wince. A week since her unfortunate encounter on the way home and she's still lightly bandaging her knuckles so they don't bleed through the fabric.
It seems as though nothing else has changed, though Karen feels different. She feels safer when she sees Frank at the door, feels more relaxed when he enters the room.
At the same time she has so many questions for him.
But those are things to ponder on her own, not in the atrium of this grand house. The ball is ocean-themed with great swaths of blue fabric in what seems like hundreds of shades hanging from all parts of the house.
Most have dressed to match, Karen included. Her dress is a light blue, sleeves slightly puffed over her upper arms. The fabric gathers below her bust, beads sewn into the layers to make her shimmer when she catches the light. It really is a beautiful piece and it's nice to wear it out.
And yet, she sips her cordial and wonders how quickly she can leave.
It's not like anyone is tripping over themselves to speak to her at these things. A hello to the hostess is all she is compelled to do and she's done it. She's well past the age for a dance card and while there is much gossip to be gathered, Karen is tired and her hand hurts. The wall she's settled against is close to the hallway. Maybe after the quadrille she can sneak out –
"Lady Page?"
Karen's spine straightens. No one calls her that anymore, not even at a ball such as this. A rare lapse in propriety, sure, but she's made her preference clear. Which tells her that this man is new to town.
A gentleman has sidled up to her. Nicely dressed in expensive fabrics, the gold chain of a pocket watch dangling from the pocket of his waistcoat. He has a beard -- slightly unfashionable, nowhere near as wild as Frank's, but it makes him stand out. She sees why immediately. Deep, angry lines run up his cheeks and across his forehead. Scars from some sort of accident, maybe?
She's staring.
"Can I help you?" she says.
He is not perturbed by her cool reply. He smirks . "You are Lady Page, then?"
"You have me at a disadvantage, sir," she says carefully, not correcting him. The mask she wears at these things slides tightly into place. A smile, a bow of her head, though they both know neither are genuine. "You know my name though I do not know yours, I am sorry to say."
The man bows. "William Russo, at your service," he says.
The name is familiar and she tries to place him but fails. And yet her gut will not settle.
"Mr. Russo," she repeats. "May I ask why you have sought me out? Surely you have noticed that I am not one of the ladies at this ball entertaining gentlemen such as yourself."
It's more than a bit rude but Russo does not take it for the dismissal that it is. His smirk transforms into a grin, sharp canines on display and scars pulled taught. Karen tries very hard not to frown at him.
"I am not in town for the season, regrettably," he says. "Though I would not dismiss yourself so harshly, Lady Page."
That fucking name . Karen grinds her teeth. "I would think that most gentlemen would rather be anywhere else if they are not looking for a bride," she replies, gesturing to the ballroom. "Society events are for mamas and their daughters."
"I happen to enjoy a ball," he says, gazing at the dancers. There is something sharp about him, something dangerous. Different from the man standing guard at her club right now and yet familiar at the same time, like an echo. "Wonderful place to meet people, don't you think?"
She hums in agreement and sips her drink. "And have you encountered anyone of interest?"
He returns his eyes to hers. They are cold .
"I was hoping to reacquaint myself with some friends from the war," he admits, though his jaw tightens just a bit. "A man does not forget his comrades in arms."
That might explain the scars, though Karen cannot rid herself of the idea that something has happened to his man. Something that has brought him here.
"Indeed," she says, quietly. "Those who fight for King and country are very brave."
"It would be undignified of me to linger upon it," he insists. "I hear that you, Lady Page, are running your very own corner of society. A club, is it?"
Fagan's is no secret, but reference to it from the lips of a man is rarely a compliment. Is that why he's speaking to her? Has he got a wife or a lover who plays cards beneath her roof?
"If my reputation proceeds me, Mr. Russo, then you must know how unlikely it is for me to discuss my business in the ballroom," she says.
He laughs . Throws his head back and laughs. Karen feels eyes on them but she does not look away. She does not want to be caught unawares.
The waltz begins and the dance floor expands just enough that Russo steps closer to her.
"You see, Miss Page, I was serious when I said I was hoping to reconnect with my old comrades," he says. He's closer than he should be, the tips of his boots almost touching the hem of her gown. Something in his face has changed, scars pulling tighter and eyes a bit wilder than a moment ago. "I had heard a rumor that one of them – whom I thought long gone – has returned," he says. Karen bites the inside of her cheek to keep from reacting.
Frank . He's talking about Frank.
"He was seen in the part of town where your club is located."
She is being interrogated. How dare he. Karen squares her shoulders.
"Gentlemen do not frequent my club, Mr. Russo," she reminds him. "You might try Linello's or Micro's."
Russo says nothing. Karen's head is spinning but she holds her ground.
One breath, two. Russo takes a half-step back, hands clasped behind him.
"A shame," he says. She expects him to clarify, to say Frank's name, but he does not. It seems they are both keeping their cards close. "Perhaps you’re right. Enjoy your evening, Lady Page."
He bows and disappears into the crowd. Karen does not bother to watch him go, instead turning on her heel and calling for a carriage.
" Fuck ," she says aloud once she's on the way home. It would be so much easier if she could dismiss this as a strange conversation, something to forget about, William Russo as a man she will never see again.
But Karen knows how the world is. She has seen it.
This means something. Russo knows Frank is in town, might even know he's at Karen's club. Is Fagan's being watched? Why does he want Frank? And why has this man reappeared so soon after Frank himself returned?
The space she has allowed her doorman, the distance she has kept from his secrets, it will no longer do. She needs answers.
Karen practically hurls herself out of the carriage once they reach Fagan's. Frank is outside as usual and poorly masks his surprise.
"Miss Page --"
"Come with me," she says. " Now ."
To his credit, Frank follows her through the club to her office. It's a light crowd because of the ball, Foggy left in charge, but Karen feels the eyes on her. She ignores them.
Frank closes the door behind him and she leans on her desk, trying to calm herself down. He waits, standing across from her in his usual military posture. My old comrade.
"Do you know William Russo?" she says. Her eyes flick up in time to see him stiffen. Fuck .
He does not answer her.
"He was at the ball and he spoke to me, said --"
"Didn’t know you went to balls," Frank grinds out.
He must be agitated to be speaking to her like this, to interrupt her. It's almost a comfort -- that she was right to be worried, to bring this to him. But he's focusing on the wrong thing.
“Come on, Frank,” she all but yells. "Who is he?"
"What did he say to you?"
Karen pulls at the pins in her hair and tosses them one by one on her father's desk. Men, always asking the wrong questions.
"He knows you're here," she says, stiffly. "Well, in the city, anyway. He thinks you're here ."
"Did he threaten you?"
It's a tone she hasn't heard before from him. Quiet, almost careful, but loaded. A keg of gunpowder with a lit fuse. He reminds her, startlingly, of Russo.
"I got the sense he would have no qualms in doing so," she says.
Frank runs a hand down his face.
"Alright," he says. "Alright. Damn ."
"I think you'd better tell me the truth of it," she says, proud of how even her voice is. "The whole story. Since it seems to be touching my club ."
Frank's hands curl around the edge of the chair in front of him, knuckles white and scarred.
"It's not pretty," he says, throat full of rocks. "I didn't think that it would --"
Karen does not have time for platitudes. She can see this getting very bad very quickly. Frank's past is bloody and as far as she knows his present is, too. "Does it have to do with your family?"
A jerky nod.
Karen tugs the last of her pins free and shakes out her hair. God, if only she could get out of this dress . Everything feels too claustrophobic, Russo's sneer taking center stage in her mind.
"I know who made it possible," he mutters. "Took a while, but I figured out who was the mole. Told them where the carriage was going to be and when. He was there . He found us. Me."
His face is tipped down but she can see the taught lines on his jaw, can imagine the fury in his eyes. Karen decides to go for it anyway.
"So you're the one who has been killing the soldiers?"
Frank's head snaps up and it's much worse than fury. It's battle-ready rage, eyes so black she almost takes a step back. But she keeps her shoulders back, hands on her hips like he's spilled on the tablecloth, not murdered a string of men over the last year.
"Only the ones involved," he says, carefully. "Once I figured out that it was connected to what we did on those ships, the horrible stuff of war --" Frank stops, pulls his shoulders back. His eyes are still blazing with that dark, dangerous swirling rage. "They had it out for me. They took it out on me, my family."
"And you came back here for Russo."
He sighs. Karen wonders if telling her this is sort of an unburdening for him, sharing a load he's carried alone for so long.
"Heard he was going to be in the public eye this season," Frank says. "My plan was to scope it out, corner him, maybe. Thought he’d come around here once or twice. Always was a bit of a bastard, even when I liked him."
"But he found you first," she points out. "Do you think he'd reveal what you're up to? That you want to -- that you're looking for him?"
Frank brushes off her worry with a wave of his hand. "No one can prove I killed those men," he says. "But I wouldn't put it past him to try to get rid of me."
Karen does not mention Matt because Frank is right. There has been no actual evidence.
She turns the idea over in her mind. William Russo undoubtedly wants Frank dead to tie up loose ends. There's no other reason that he'd be looking, right? And based on the history between them, the violence already committed and blood already spilled, she doubts he has any hesitations when it comes to getting what he wants.
"So we make you untouchable," she says, softly. "As much as we can for as long as we can. Stall until you can…get to him first." It’s quick to sign on for another man’s revenge but – she’s known men like Russo. A dog with a bone.
Frank snorts. "And how would we do that, Miss Page? Pete Castiglione isn’t a name that affords any protection. Frank Castle isn't much better."
"But it means something ." She meets his eyes. His brow is furrowed, hands back behind him in his soldier's stance. "You are a Lord . In society sometimes the safest place is with all eyes on you."
"I don't catch your meaning."
The wheels in her head spin and spin and spin and then – There . And idea.
Karen braces herself. It's a crazy idea -- maybe her craziest -- and she knows there is so much he is still not telling her. But it's the only thing she can think of.
"You need to return to society as Frank Castle," she says. "And you need to marry me."
The incredulous look on his face is almost worth the churning of her gut. She's caught him by surprise. As he rolls the idea around in his head she realizes she's missed something vital.
"I don't want to make you get married if it's too -- uh, painful, or --"
"You can say it, Karen," Frank says ruefully. She remembers how he said her name that night, her knuckles split open and bleeding. "'Cause I've got a dead wife, you mean?"
"Frank," she says, softly.
He sighs.
"It's more of a sacrifice for you," he says. "Aren't you and your... lawyer... ?"
Karen narrows her eyes. They've never really talked about Matt but it shouldn't surprise her that he's been paying attention, maybe even asking around.
"No," is all she says.
Silence fills her office and it makes Karen want to hold her breath. She's not sure what else they can do. Frank could leave , of course, but that molten rage in his eyes tells her he won't.
He slowly pulls out the chair he's been standing behind and settles into it, leaning forward on his knees, and she knows she's got him.
"It'll put you in danger," he says.
She shrugs. "Seems like I'm already in danger."
"If anything happens to you because of me --" he protests but Karen cuts him off.
"I can decide for myself what risks I'm willing to take, Frank," she tells him, no nonsense.
He exhales long and measured. "This isn't going to be pretty."
Karen sits heavily in her own chair. "It doesn't have to be ugly, Frank," she says. "You don't have to let it get there. What do you want to happen?"
He shifts, fingers digging into his thighs. "I want him to say it to my face," he admits. "That he did it. That he knew."
Karen taps her fingernails on the desk. That's not all of it.
"Is that all you want from him? You killed the other men."
Frank shrugs.
They'll have to come back to that. Can she help Frank kill a man? Karen isn't sure. God, what is she going to tell Matt and Foggy? How are they going to make this convincing?
"Alright, Miss Page," Frank says, breaking her out of her self-induced spiral.
"Alright?"
He grins at her, unexpected and surprisingly pleasant. "Let's get married."
__
Karen Page marries Frank Castle in an empty chapel.
Well, almost.
Foggy is there.
Matt is not.
When she asked Frank if there was anyone he wanted to invite, he had hesitated, but delivered a gruff no .
The common license wasn't too hard to get. A few strings pulled with Matt's very reluctant help so they could skip the Banns and marry within the week. And so here they are, in front of the bishop.
Karen never really imagined her wedding day.
Maybe when she was young, in her first season, she thought she could land a husband. Someone with a measured disposition, someone who liked to read. Someone with kind eyes and who respected her.
But then everything changed. Her brother died and the Page family was never the same. Karen was never the same.
Since then, love is a luxury she could not afford. It is immensely difficult to get out from under the thumb of scandal and she learned quickly to stop trying. There have been men, since, of course. Disgrace has its own freedoms. But never too close, never with any intention of marrying. No one made her feel the way she wanted love to feel, anyway. Not even Matt.
But Karen knows she is playing with fire in more ways than one. She knows how she feels when Frank looks at her, how something changed that day Foggy brought him into her office. There's a pull whenever he's near, a kind of slotting into place in her chest. It's something she resigned herself to.
Whatever this is, whatever simmers between them -- it was never meant to catch flame. Karen does not have time to think of such things. Of the way he makes her feel safe, of the dark mystery of his eyes, wondering what his hair would feel like through her fingers. What his hands would feel like on her skin after so brief an encounter when he wrapped her hand.
She does not think about these things.
But now, it seems, she is marrying him.
It is a simple affair. She wears a light blue dress she found in a trunk, her hair pinned up beneath her veil. There is no walk down the aisle, just her and Frank facing each other in front of the altar. He's worn his dress uniform -- something she's never seen before. He looks stiff, like he's ready to ship out at any moment. He's shaved, too, and looks more like the man she met years ago. Strong jaw, full mouth.
His eyes are soft and haunted, and he keeps them on hers.
The bishop reads from the Common Book of Prayer and Karen looks back. They repeat their vows, Frank's voice gruff and low and hers solid and clear.
"Do you have the rings?" the bishop asks.
Foggy steps forward.
"Mr. Castle, if you would." Frank reaches for her. Karen's breath catches in her throat.
"With this ring, I thee wed," he says, softly. The gold band is delicate but beautiful, yet another relic from her attic. Her mother's.
Karen keeps her hand steady as she takes Frank's callused palm in hers.
"With this ring, I thee wed," she repeats, eyes on her father's wedding band as it passes over Frank's knuckle. When she looks up she finds him staring at her, expression unreadable.
There are so many gaps, so many things she doesn't know about this man. He barely knows anything about her.
But, as the bishop calls for them to seal the union with a kiss, Karen allows herself one dangerous moment to believe that this is real. That she is marrying a man who loves her, who will protect her, who will make her happy.
She closes her eyes and leans in. Frank's lips are dry and firm. Their first kiss is short and when she pulls away she closes the door on that moment because now they must get down to business.
Frank squeezes her hands and she squeezes back. Foggy bids a swift and awkward farewell and Karen and Frank take a carriage to the Castle family home in town, Bendix House.
When the horses take off, Frank leans toward her across the open space between them.
"You okay?" he asks.
She nods once and peels off her lace gloves. "Now the real work begins, huh?"
Frank's mouth curls up at one corner and he nods back.
"You look beautiful today," he says softly, eyes never leaving hers. She can hear the apology behind the compliment. I'm sorry this isn't your real wedding.
"Thank you," she says, simply. "So, in three weeks, we have to --"
The details go like this: Frank's family properties remained with him as Lord Castle, overseen through the kindness of a friend he calls David. Karen happens to know this is the same man who runs the gentleman's club called Micro's and is not entirely surprised to learn they are friends.
They will settle there, Karen keeping her lodgings and the club on the other side of town.
As Lady Castle, a name with about as much weight as the one she's leaving behind, she'll reintroduce their family to society by hosting a ball at their new home. No one will be able to resist, she knows. Karen Page lands a man and Frank Castle is back with a bride -- it'll be the biggest gossip of the season if they're lucky.
William Russo will undoubtedly show, and Frank will make his move then.
What this move is exactly, Karen isn't sure. She hopes it won't end with her becoming a widow so soon after she's become a wife.
And after that's done? Well, they haven't gotten that far with the planning. Karen just hopes they make it there.
Lady Castle .
It chafes but not the same way Lady Page did. God, what has she done?
I don't understand, Karen , Matt had said to her. Why are you doing this for him?
Karen barely understands it herself. She just knows that whatever is happening here, everything that has already happened to Frank -- none of it is fair. None of it is good . It's all connected to the troubles she has at Fagan's. Men take whatever they want and assume that it's their right. Exerting their will through whatever means necessary, no matter the cost. And she's sick of it, and even if her now-husband is just another one of those men, she is determined to set this right.
Frank lets her run over the plan at least two times before they get to Bendix House. When the carriage pulls to a stop, he alights and holds his hand out for her to climb down.
When she takes it, for a moment she feels as if it's the only thing tethering her to reality. There is no turning back now. This was her idea. And they haven't even done the hard part yet.
Frank's meager household staff -- a steward, Karen's own maid, a housekeeper -- wait for them on the stairs. Karen is certain they will know something is odd about the whole arrangement but Frank promised they won't ask questions.
"Lord Castle," his steward says with a bow. "An honor to have you home, at last."
"Thank you, Jack," Frank says, his smile tight. "May I introduce my wife?"
Karen wills her face into a convincing expression for a blushing bride and slips into the role she's made for herself.
The housekeeper gives her a tour of the building. The foyer, sitting rooms, dining room.
Separate bedrooms, of course, for the Lord and Lady, and a nursery down the hall.
It's impressive, sure, but nothing she hasn't seen before. She imagines Frank in this home, happy, smiling, his wife and children laughing in the halls, up the stairs. The echo of their lives is heavy and she wonders how he will bear it. How will she sleep in the same room as his dead wife?
But such things are secondary out of necessity. They have three weeks to prepare for the wedding ball. The invitations will go out as soon as Karen can pen them and in between running Fagan's and whatever else a Lady wife does, she's sure she'll hardly have time to get everything together.
But happen it must.
__
The con begins in earnest.
There is no wedding night for their sham marriage and Karen puts it out of her mind. Her first night as Lady Castle is dreamless and quiet, and she knows savoring such a thing before what is to come would be smart, but she wakes as tired as if she had not slept at all.
Frank is already standing at the window of the dining room when she arrives for breakfast, his jacket slung across the back of his chair. A place setting for her has been set to his right.
She clears her throat. "Your house is drafty," she says.
He looks at her over his shoulder, mouth pulled up at the corner. His hands are clasped behind his back and his fingers flex.
"Always was," he replies. "It's your house, too. You hungry?"
It's strange, obviously, to sit down at a table that is now theirs in a house that is now theirs because they are married . Karen realizes this is the first meal they've actually taken together.
"We're going to need to be seen," she says, buttering some toast.
He grunts.
"And I still have a club to run," Karen continues. "I assume you're going to reacquaint yourself with the gentlemen in town, though you should probably avoid Russo's clubs --"
"I think we should stay in for a few days," Frank interrupts. "Get the planning underway. And, uh --" He clears his throat. "People will expect that. Given how rushed it is and our lack of a honeymoon."
Ah . He has a point. Karen hadn't even considered it. Honestly, she doesn't think anyone is actually going to buy that they're married for love. Sending out mixed messages will only intrigue everyone even more and bode well for the attendance of the ball. And thus their chance of doing...whatever it is that Frank wants to do with Russo.
"So, what do we do now?"
Karen wills herself not to flush as she says it. It's not like she expects anything resembling marriage from Frank, regardless of the swirling pit of emotion in her stomach since he agreed to this plan. She runs her thumb along the metal band on her finger.
Frank shrugs. "Library has some interesting things, I think," he says. "Was never a place I spent much time, but --"
My dead wife did .
It goes unsaid. Karen feels her own ghosts knocking on the windows and casts her mind out for something, anything else.
"Will you teach me to fight?"
Frank's eyebrows raise to his hairline. "Pretty sure you already know how, Karen," he says, gruffly.
"Not well enough," she counters. "What else is there to do for a few days?"
"Alright. When do you --"
"I"ll go change and meet you in your office."
"Change? Karen, what--"
She returns to her rooms and digs around in the trunks that had been brought in anticipation of her arrival. If she remembers right, she put them at the bottom, wrapped around –
There .
Karen pulls out a pair of men's breeches and a shirt that has seen better days. She tucks the framed portrait wrapped inside them away without looking at it. "Come on, Page," she mutters to herself, forgetting that it's not even her name anymore.
Frank's eyes go wide when she walks into his study.
"Where did you get men 's clothes?" he asks.
"My brother," she says, without thinking. It stings like it always does, but she swallows it and tilts her head. It's only right that there are things Frank doesn't know about her. It puts them on more even ground. "So, are we going to fight?"
He holds her gaze for a moment longer before nodding. "Alright, so you had alright form back in the alley, but let's go back to some basic footwork --"
They work on it all week. In between addressing invitations and planning the menu and throwing punches, Karen quickly tires our her mind and her muscles. But she keeps going because there is no alternative.
She and Frank also make their public debut. Though a walk in the park hardly seems remarkable, there are eye on them as soon as they leave Bendix House.
"You alright?" Frank asks, lowly. Karen her her arm in his as they stroll along the river, nodding hello intermittently at other promenading couples.
"If you mean does my entire body still hurt from when you threw me yesterday, yes," she says. It's been invigorating, fighting him, even if she knows he's holding back. He still pushes her, lets her try things. And she's been doing a great job retaining everything, given how much touching is involved.
"Gotta work on your form, Karen," he says.
She rolls her eyes and looks at the picnics going on around them. Conversations lull as they walk by and she puts on a sickly sweet smile and wags her fingers.
"They don't even try to pretend they aren't starting," she mutters. "No shame."
Frank pats her forearm. He is remarkably at ease out here, just like any other husband on a warm day. "Don't like the spotlight, very much?"
"Surely no more than you do," she grumbles. He chuckles.
"Did you not endure such eyes during your first season?"
Karen sighs. It is no surprise that he knows little of it -- why would he? There's no reason for him to have absorbed or even been interested in a tragedy from over a decade ago.
"I certainly did," she says. "Though not for the reasons you are thinking." He tilts his head, waiting for her to go on. "I was only out for one season, really. After that, my prospects were extremely limited and I had to seek other opportunities."
"What happened?"
"I was young and stupid," she says. The words keep coming."And in too far with the wrong man before I realized it. And my brother he tried to help me --" She swallows. "He was killed. In a fight. It was my fault."
Frank says nothing. Karen finds herself unable to stop talking. So much for having secrets of her own. "My father wanted nothing to do with me. My mother had been taken by fever the year before, anyway, before my season even started. So I left -- went to the continent to live with a distant aunt until he got ill and called me back."
Frank slows their steps. "I'm sorry, Karen," he says. He doesn't try to correct her, doesn't try to make her feel absolved. How could he? He knows better than anyone how deep guilt digs its claws in.
"Me too," she says. It hurts, still, to talk about Kevin and to think about all of her mistakes. But there are bigger things to handle.
"Thank you for the delightful promenade, Lady Castle," Frank murmurs. He gently pulls her hand from his arm and kisses the outside of her glove before moving into her space ever so slowly to bush his lips against her cheek. It's improper, even for a married couple, and it makes something bright and hot burst in her chest.
"The pleasure is all mine, Lord Castle," she replies. "Shall we go home?"
—
Now that they have breached containment, as Karen thinks of it, things return to the way they were, mostly.
It turns out that being a wife is fairly unremarkable. She visits shops in town to purchase fabrics and flowers for the ball during the day and makes it to Fagan's by supper. Her patrons are curious, she can tell. They eye her, some offering congratulations or a grin. Never imagined this for you, Lady Castle, some say, boldly. She laughs and agrees with them. Are you going to close? No, no, never, she says, over and over. He doesn't mind. Wow, they say. What a dream .
Frank gets her a new bodyguard. Curtis, he's called, and promises her that he can be trusted. It's high praise, coming from Frank, so she allows it.
Things are so busy -- just the way she likes it -- that she hardly actually sees much of her husband. But he's around. She finds new parchment and ink in her office at Bendix House after she runs out. A hand on her shoulder late at night when she dozes in the library, going over table places and menus.
"Don't stay up too late," he says, voice gravely. Her eyes crack and she gets a glimpse of his silhouette before he turns on his heel and goes out the door to whatever he has to attend to.
There is one problem, one that Foggy continues to remind her of every damn chance he gets.
"You have to talk to him," he says, on her heels as she heads for her office one night. 12 days , her mind chants. 12 days until the ball. And she feels like she still doesn't understand the storm she's walking into.
"Matt has not expressed any interest in speaking to me, Foggy," Karen counters.
"That's because you need to tell him he can come," her friend says, exasperated. "You're married , now, Karen. He won't come around otherwise."
"Have you been talking to him?"
When she told Foggy she was getting married and invited him to the wedding, he had only asked if she was safe. She had said maybe . If I do this . Since then, he's asked little from her, which she should be grateful for. But it's always been harder to lie to Matt.
"A little," Foggy admits. "I know that whatever is going on here is way above my pay grade but he's going to do something stupid if you don't at least tell him to back off."
There is part of her that wants to ask Matt for help. She understands little about his connections, his web of spies and muscle throughout the city, the loyalty he has to the ghosts in his life. But she and Frank are going to do this on their own. It's too dangerous to make it wider.
"I'll send him a note," she relents. Her friend sends her a grateful look.
It takes an hour for Matt to show up. She's at her desk when her door creaks open, pushed slowly inward by his cane. His tinted glasses sit perched on his nose and his jaw is tight.
Karen sighs. He never did like knocking. "Well, come in then."
He presses the door closed carefully. Everything Matt does is measured, calculated. It's half an act, she knows, a sort of make up for what his eyes can do to make it appear that they can't do much of anything at all. His steps are slow and he settles into his usual chair as if he has all the time in the world.
"Lady Castle," Matt says, lowly.
"Oh, for fuck's sake," she mutters. "You want to start like that?"
He leans back, twirling his cane between his knees. "That's your name now, isn't it?"
"Thanks for coming to the ceremony, by the way," she retorts.
"Your wedding to a murderer ."
"Oh, please," she spits. "Your self-righteousness is unwarranted when it comes to my life, Matt."
"Your life? Or just your marriage?"
Karen counts to 10. Very slowly.
"I asked you to come because Foggy begged me to, Matt," she says. "What exactly do you think I owe you in this situation?"
He adjusts his glasses. "I just want to know why ."
"An explanation, then. You believe you are owed reasons for all of my choices when they do not involve you, is that it?"
"Karen, I -- "
"We talked about this and you helped us get the license," she reminds him. "I told you it was necessary and you believed me then. Why not now?"
"Tell me you're safe, then," he begs. The echo of his feelings for her surfaces in her throat and she has to swallow it down. He never believed that she could take care of herself better than he could and that has not changed.
"After the ball," she says, quietly. "I will be."
Matt's grip on his cane tightens, his knuckles turning white. "You have to tell me more."
His tone leaves no room for argument but he forgets that Karen never plays by the rules.
"I don't have to tell you anything ," she grinds out. "We're handling it."
" We're ?"
"I am handling it with my husband ." She rarely refers to Frank as such and it feels strange on her lips. She has a rare spark of gratitude that Matt can't see the confusion on her face at her own words.
"Karen, if he gets you hurt or hurts you --"
"You'll do what, Matt? Sue him? Beat him up in an alley somewhere?" She pinches the bridge of her nose with two fingers. "Would it kill you to just trust me?"
Matt scoffs. "It's not you who I don't trust, it's him ."
"And that's your problem," she says, exasperated. "No matter how much you say trust me you don't actually trust me to be able to look after myself. That's the whole point of this damn club, Matt. For women to be free from the oppressive emotions of the men in their lives."
He chews on her words, fingers still clutching his cane. The hum of Fagan's soothes Karen as she takes a deep breath. She and Matt have been through worse than this and he never shirks a professional obligation, so as her lawyer and her friend, she knows he'll eventually let this go.
"I'm just going to figure it out on my own," he says after a moment, defeated. "You know that, right?"
"Fine," Karen replies, flicking her hand in the air. "Do whatever you want."
He probably could -- all of the pieces are in front of him if only he could put them together. But Matt so often fails to see the picture when it's bigger than his ego. Has he made the connection to the murders of Frank's family? To the war? To Russo? It's impossible to tell with him. For all of his begging to be let in, he rarely returns the favor.
Her frustration has almost faded by the time she gets back to Bendix House late that night. She decides to nurse some sherry in the small library on the ground floor as she wonders how her life has gotten so complicated.
Footsteps in the hall have her sitting up, a little confused, before Frank walks into the room. His waistcoat is undone and his sleeves are pushed up and he's holding a book.
"Oh," she says, slightly surprised. They do live here together, after all, but it's such a domestic scene that she's thrown a bit off guard. "Hello."
"You alright?" he asks gruffly. He eyes the shelves before striding toward one and slipping the volume back in place.
"Matt came by the club," she replies. Frank looks at her, eyebrows raised. "Don't worry, I didn't tell him anything."
"I wasn't worried," he says, carefully. "But that explains the sherry. Do you mind if I...?"
He gestures to the chair opposite her by the fire. She waves her hand and wonders if she should remind him that this is his house. Frank pours himself a few fingers of sherry to match hers from the crystal bottle that sits on the table between them.
"It was a while time ago," she says, lips loosened a little by the warming spirit in her hand. "That we were together, I mean."
Frank says nothing, but she feels his eyes on her. He always looks at her when she's speaking, she's noticed.
"It was after I came back from living with my aunt, and my father was sick.” Right around the time we first met , she doesn’t say. “I was trying to learn how to run the club and ran into some trouble, instead, and then my father died, and I was stuck with this mess. And Matt and Foggy sort of... appeared . They had just started a new law practice --"
Frank snorts and it startles her. "Nelson? A lawyer?"
Karen laughs. "He was a good one! Before he became my bar manager, anyway."
Frank shakes his head like he doesn't believe her.
" Anyway ," she continues. "They helped me get set up and straighten things out and Matt and I -- well, I was barely a part of society anymore and propriety matters much less once you're a spinster so we gave it a try. But it was never going to work out." She takes a big swallow of sherry.
"How come?" Frank asks.
"He never trusted me." She remembers so many times that he lied to her for her protection, when he went behind her back because he didn't think she could handle it. She reminded him time and time again that she was fine before he came along but it never sunk in the way she wanted it to.
"Does he know about your brother?"
Did you trust him is what Frank is really asking.
"I don't know," she says honestly. "Maybe he figured it out."
It's so much easier to be honest with Frank. A killer, a man with a horrible, horrible past and a pretty shitty present. A man who married her to avenge his family. What does that say about her?
Frank hums.
The sherry has warmed her up and banished her frustration with Matt, replacing it with dull annoyance. But it's also given her a little bit of courage. That, combined with the fact that she's sitting with her husband -- whom she hardly knows -- in their house late in the evening, makes her throw caution to the wind.
"What's your plan after all of this is over?" she asks.
It's something they have avoided talking about. Superstition, maybe, that the whole thing could go wrong and it won't matter anyway. The legal parts will be a bit tricky but she's not going to make him stay married to her.
Frank sighs, stretches his legs out in front of him, and sets his gaze on the fireplace. He's wound so tight all the time, has been since they met, but it feels like he's starting to unspool.
"After," he repeats. "Hm. Never gave it much thought once Maria and the kids were gone."
Karen buries her fingers in the fabric of her skirt and squeezes tight. While loss is something they have in common, the size of Frank's feels like it could swallow the whole world, let alone one man. She doesn't know how he bears it.
"I loved her," he continues, rolling the sherry glass between his hands. "I loved the hell out of her and those kids. But they're gone. And once this is over? I don't know. It's all been for them. Just gotta get to the after, then I'll start thinking about what it looks like."
Karen mulls over his words, about the noticeable absence of details about their marriage, about her . Before she can formulate another question, Frank rises and sets his glass on the table. He leans over her for just a moment, resting his hand on her shoulder.
"Goodnight," he mutters and strides out of the room.
—
Karen realizes she is in love with her husband when they have been married for two weeks and four days.
It's a mundane moment, really.
Frank has been quiet but steady all evening, escorting her into the house for the concert they're attending -- a last effort to drum up interest in attending their ball in three days time -- sticking by her side as they took a turn around the room for some refreshments. Most people avoid speaking to them and instead, whisper rather indiscreetly.
She's about to reach for a tart when Frank's hand cups her elbow and he leans into her space.
"Russo is here," he whispers. Karen's blood goes cold.
They've avoided him thus far. Frank has seen him and managed to steer clear on purpose, but she should have known he'd be here, too. The unpredictability is what frightens her most.
They've tried to starve him of Frank's company -- which he seems to be seeking -- to ensure he attends the ball. But if they manage to speak here, all of the work may be undone. Or, worse, Russo will see whatever Frank has planned coming.
"Karen," Frank says, face so close she can count every tiny scar on his skin. Nicks from shaving, from fighting, no doubt. "It'll be alright. Okay?"
She nods. He nods back and they head for their seats, mindful of their path.
But that's not when she realizes that she's in love with him, no.
It's once they've sat down, sandwiched in the rows of chairs between people she vaguely knows to ensure no empty seat around them. She fights the urge to look over her shoulder in case she catches the wrong eye. The musicians take their places on the makeshift stage and Frank presses his knee to hers.
And then -- he reaches to where she's set her hands in her lap, tugging at the seams of her gloves, and gently pulls her right wrist away, threading his fingers through hers before setting their joined hands on her knee. She can feel how warm he is through her glove, feel the way his thumb strokes the back of her hand as the music begins.
Fuck , she thinks. I love him .
They have only known each other for a few months.
In those months she has learned next to nothing about him. What foods he likes, what books, what games. His favorite dance, his preferred sport to watch. But she knows what his voice sounds like in the morning and that he takes his cravat off as soon as he gets home. She knows that he boxed for a while when he was younger, and that he likes to sit where he can see a door.
She knows that sometimes she thinks she feels him looking at her, feels his hands brush her back, feels him linger in the doorway when he says goodnight.
But he has a dead wife.
And none of this is about Karen.
She sits there with her husband in name only holding her hand and seriously contemplates what comes next. Frank, for all of his honesty, has not been clear on what he plans to do with Russo at the ball.
This week he's been more tense, like he's bracing for impact. Those lingering eyes feel like a goodbye.
In her more optimistic moments, Karen assumes Frank and Russo punch each other a few times in a back room and then Frank will threaten him out of town. But it's more likely that there will be real bloodshed. And if Frank does kill Russo -- she doesn't know how to feel about that.
Did she mean what she said to Matt? That she doesn't care if Frank is killing people?
But if he kills Russo there will be retribution, surely. It will start another never-ending cycle of violence for him, and maybe for her. That scares her less than the thought of it ending badly for Frank.
Will he ever be free? Will he ever let himself be free?
__
Karen stands at the top of the stairs.
Bendix House looks utterly transformed. She'd gone with a vaguely bridal color scheme -- light pinks and greens, soft blues. Flowers in all three hang in every archway and adorn every table. Extra staff stand waiting by the walls, trays of drinks at the ready. She can smell the food, the soap the floors have been scrubbed with, the oil she dabbed on her own wrists.
It's not as grand as many of the balls thrown already this season, but it will do. She and Frank will greet their guests, give a toast, and dance. At some point, Frank will whisk Russo away and...that will be that.
She just has to make it through tonight. Then she can think about what comes next.
Frank's boots click on the gleaming floor and he enters the great room, tugging at his sleeves. Karen takes one step down the carpeted staircase and he looks up, eyes meeting hers. He holds her gaze as she descends, a soldier standing at attention.
He looks handsome. He always looks handsome, really, but haunted. Tonight is no different, though he's worn a tailcoat to match her and clearly attempted to tame his hair.
"You look beautiful, Karen," he says, offering her a hand when she reaches the bottom. The dress she had made is a deep blue velvet, sleeves draped off her shoulders with a shimmer under the top layer of fabric. White silk gloves just passed the elbow and her hair swept up off her neck to show off the neckline of the dress.
"We match," she replies. Frank smiles at her, a rare, out-of-place thing on his face. She likes it. She hopes she will see it again.
"Are you ready?" he asks, grin fading.
"Are you?"
His nostrils flare and he searches her face for something. His steward approaches and asks if they are ready to open the doors. Frank lifts Karen's gloved hand to his lips and kisses the back of it. Her traitorous heart flutters.
"We're ready," he says, still looking at her.
For all her confidence in organizing such an event, this is the part Karen has little experience with. She and Frank stand by the doors to greet the people flowing into their home. She recognizes most of the faces, accepts their congratulations on her marriage, and keeps a smile plastered on. Frank is polite, even jovial -- it's a little unnerving. It's just not him .
It seems as though everyone has come for a look at them . Craned necks, wide eyes, lightly veiled questions about how happy they must be, how wonderful it is that Karen has found a marriage so late in life. She fights to keep her eyes from rolling out of her head and down the front steps. Frank continues to reassure people that he's the lucky one.
She feels him tense at her side a second before Russo appears in front of her. He's alone, though Karen is sure that he's got allies already inside. He just stands there, eyes flicking between the two of them, no doubt noticing the hand Frank places on her lower back as if he could keep her safe with just a touch.
Russo bows his head.
"Lord and Lady Castle," he says.
Frank does not move. Karen does not look away, nor does she dip her own head. Unbothered by their lack of deference, Russo walks into their house.
Karen looses the breath she trapped in her chest and turns to Frank. His face has drained of blood, his jaw so tight she worries his teeth will crack. She puts her hand on his shoulder very gently.
"Frank?" she says, softly.
People must be looking but she doesn't care. He looks at her, eyes wild, and she moves her hand up as if she's adjusting the collar of his jacket so she can brush her silk-clad fingertips over his jaw. His nostrils flare but he relaxes slightly, his own hand pressing a little harder into her back in thanks.
"Shall we give the toast?" he says, gruffly.
Without waiting for an answer, he tucks her arm into his and makes for the staircase. They grab two flutes from a tray and the chatter and music in the hall cease when they get halfway up.
Karen feels all of the eyes in the room on them. She keeps her chin high.
"Thank you for coming," Frank says, "to celebrate my marriage to this beautiful woman. I did not think something so good could happen to a man like me. Enjoy yourselves."
It's almost like everyone holds their breath to see if he'll say more, but he does not. The quintet begins again and Karen wonders if he meant what he said.
"We have to dance," she says, pushing the thought away. "Before you talk to him." She searches the ballroom for Russo and finds him chatting with some other men along the wall.
"He won't leave," Frank says. "And he won't do anything in here. Trust me."
She does . This man she's married is a widower and a murderer and keeps so much from her, but God help her, she does.
"Do you even know how to dance?" she asks as they take their positions on the floor, other couples joining them. He smirks at her, a rare, boyish expression. It's a little unnerving, like he's decided to let down his walls at the last minute.
He bows and she dips into a curtsey. "Guess you're about to find out."
Frank whirls her around the ballroom in perfect time, his steps neat and precise, his hands on her both too much and not enough. She laughs despite what looms over their heads, twirls in his arms and trusts him to catch her. They do not talk, as so many courting couples do. Karen just looks at him and he looks back.
The dance comes to an end and Frank holds her closer than is proper. He presses his lips to her cheek and rests his forehead to her temple for just a moment.
"I'll be back," he whispers. "Don't look for me."
It feels like goodbye.
"Are you going to kill him?" she asks, the question ripped from her throat.
Frank doesn't answer. He just looks at her. The music has started for the next dance but they have not moved.
"You'll never be free if you do," she continues, desperation creeping into her voice. "There's no place for me in that."
He pushes a loose curl behind her ear and sighs.
"I know."
Before Karen can stop him, he turns from her and disappears into the crowd of guests. Dancers move around her and she quickly steps out of their way, heading for a table with drinks on it.
"Fuck," she says, softly. "God damn, Frank."
What happens now? Is he going to find Russo? She's been waiting and hoping he'll tell her, hoping he'll reassure her that once this ends, it'll all be okay. But she sees the truth now -- this was his destination. Whatever comes next, whatever he decides to do with Russo. It's as far as he allowed himself to think.
She downs one flute and pucks up another. She has her own job to do in this. Make everything seem normal .
Despite it being her ball, no one seems to want to speak to her.
"Lady Castle," someone says.
William Russo stands in front of her and Karen almost drops her glass. She didn't think he'd still be in the ballroom -- and if he's here, where is Frank? Has she missed it? Has something gone horribly wrong?
"Would you do me the honor of a dance with the hostess?" Russo asks, his smile sharp as a knife on his otherwise handsome face.
She has to say yes, she knows that, but she leaves his hand in the air for a moment longer.
"Of course," she replies, finally, setting down her glass and allowing him to guide her to the floor.
The steps to these dances are engrained in her, so much so that she barely has to think about them as she evaluates her partner.
"It's a charming event," he says, evidently aiming to entrap her in conversation as they move around one another. "A worthy celebration of your union, I should say."
"Thank you," she replies, evenly. "I hope you're enjoying yourself."
She keeps her back rigid as the dance requires him to stand behind her, gloved hands hovering over hers.
"I am," he says in her ear. "I did not expect to see Lord Castle so happy again."
Karen clenches her teeth.
"He has overcome a great deal," she says. The music swells and she moves in time with the other women on the floor, turning to face her partner once more.
"And where is your husband, might I ask?"
She can't read his tone. Is he mocking her? Is Frank dead in a room somewhere? Or is he asking, genuinely, and if he is then what is Frank doing?
"Right here," Frank says, and Karen startles. They've at least a minute left in the song but Karen stops dancing, Russo's arms dropping from her.
"We should talk," Frank says. He sounds so calm that a shiver runs down Karen's spine. "If you don't mind."
She wills her husband to look at her but he won't.
"Lady Castle," Russo says, bowing his head. "Another time."
Karen says nothing. Her husband gestures off the dance floor and the two men slip through the dancers and she wants to scream.
He won't look at her .
Was that goodbye?
But she can't do anything. No matter how badly she wants to go after him, she'll heed his request. If this is going to end with Frank alive, she has to.
And so, she entertains. She makes small talk, she cashes in a decade of social niceties and favors inside the walls of her club to make her look like a consummate hostess. There's no way Frank's absence goes totally unnoticed, and guests start to trickle out before long. The allure of only one-half of a couple is perhaps no allure at all.
Bendix House empties far earlier than any other ball would. It's just Karen standing in the entryway, the staff beginning to clean up the evidence of the party.
There is no sign of Frank. Or Russo.
Surely she can't be expected to just stand here, now that everyone else is gone and she has no idea what has happened. Whatever business they conducted -- be it violent or not -- should be long over by now, right?
So she begins to look. His office first, carefully pressing her ear to the door and then opening it when she hears nothing.
"Frank?" she calls, softly.
It doesn't look like they've been here. The amber liquid he keeps in a glass carafe is untouched, glasses still clean. No embers of cigars, no pulled out chairs.
The library, then?
"Frank?" she says, every few steps. Her heart is beating quickly and she tugs off her gloves, abandoning them on a table in the hall. "God damn him," she mutters.
The door to the library is ajar. This part of the house is not lit by candles, but she can see a dark stain on the side of the door. Blood? Karen braces herself and feels for the knife under her skirts but – shit . She did not wear it tonight. A horrible oversight.
She slides inside and what she finds takes her breath away. Books, everywhere. The table and chairs overturned, glass shattered on the ground. And blood . More than she knew to expect. Splattered on the stone of the fireplace, pooled on the floor near the glass.
How had no one heard this?
"Frank," she whispers. "Where are you?"
The floor in the hall creaks. She freezes and holds her breath, waiting for more footsteps.
She does not recognize what she hears. Not her husband, then. But who ?
Karen looks around the torn-apart room for something to hold, something that she can use. Trying to be as quiet as she can, she peers around the upturned chairs and finds the steel fire poker. Holding it behind her back she creeps back towards the door, pressing herself to the wall.
"...said if he wasn't back by 11 bells, we should come for the wife," a man says. It's not a voice she knows, but he's talking about her . A contingency plan on Russo's part. Of course .
"You think Castle killed him?" a second man says.
"Hope not but that blood out back didn't look good."
"Maybe they killed each other."
“Don’t matter to me so long as we get paid.”
The men laugh.
Karen feels sick. She clutches the steel and takes a deep breath. The footsteps get closer and pause right outside as they see the same bloodstain she did.
The door pushes open and Karen swings the poker, embedding the spiked tip of it in the eye of the first man into the library. He screams and she tries to pull it back out but loses her grip as he falls to his knees, clutching his face.
" FUCK ," he screams.
The second man shoves passed him and Karen backs up, looking for something else she can use. He pulls out a knife no bigger than the palm of her hand and she thinks fast but he's faster, lunging for her. She tries to avoid the tip of the knife and in doing so gives him room to grab her hair and pull. She yells, twisting in his grip as she falls to her knees.
"No, you don't," he growls.
The thug trips on her gown and she wrenches herself free, crawling towards the overturned table and reaching for a cracked crystal glass. The shards dig into her legs and a jagged edge slices her palm but she ignores the sting and smashes it into the face of the knife-wielding man when she turns to find him bending over her. He stumbles back, grasping his temple, but raises the knife at her as she gets to her feet.
Keep it light , Frank had said to her that first week. Tire them out then surprise them .
Glass pieces embedded in his cheek, the thug lunges. She dodges, telling herself it's just another dance. One she's bad at, evidently, as the guy manages to catch her bare forearm with his blade. She uses his moment of victory to punch him, her fist smacking into his un-cut cheek as hard as she can.
"Fuck you ," she spits. This is her fucking house and she will not be taken from it.
The blow drives him back but also makes him angry. He flips the knife in his hand so that the blade is pointing down and slices it through the air. Karen dodges him again but he's ready this time, clipping her chin with his own fist so hard she goes back down to the floor.
" Bitch ," he hisses.
Blackness hovers at the edges of her vision as the man gets on top of her, pinning her down. He circles both hands around her throat and squeezes, thumbs restricting her airway. She tries to buck him off but to no avail.
"Where's your husband now, huh?"
It hurts -- it burns -- both of his hands draining the life from her, but... both of his hands.
Where is the knife?
Karen uses all of her strength to feel around the floor next to her. It has to be here, he had to have thrown it down –
There .
She grips the blade, the edge cutting into her fingers as she finds the handle, and swings it up and into the neck of her assailant. It goes in easier than she thought it would, and as soon as the blood starts to flow, dripping onto her face as his hands loosen from her throat in shock. She tugs the knife free and shoves him off her, pushing herself back as far as she can get from the arterial spray.
Karen. Karen! KAREN!
Someone is screaming her name but she can hardly hear it over her own heartbeat. She pushes herself to her feet, still clutching the knife. Blood drips down her cheek and she wipes her hands on her already-soiled skirt. What if there are more of them? Two doesn't seem like enough.
The man gurgles his last breath, choking on his own blood and then –
" Karen ."
She looks away from the man she just killed and finds Frank in the doorway. His eyes are frantic and wild and he's got plenty of blood on his clothes. A mix of his own and someone else's, based on the split lip and sliced cheek. His hands -- one holding a bloody candlestick and the other a knife she's seen before in his office -- are covered in it.
What a pair they make.
He takes one step towards her and before she can move the man she hit with the poker lumbers to his feet behind Frank.
"Look out ," she cries, reaching for him across an impossible distance.
Frank whirls around and smacks the guy across the face with the candlestick. He throws it to the ground and puts the knife between his teeth before grabbing both sides of the man's ruined face and twisting, breaking his neck so loudly that Karen hears it.
And then it's quiet.
No groans of pain, no sounds of violence. Just Frank's panting and her own rapid breaths.
"Frank," she says, barely a croak. She feels herself start to sway, the adrenaline turning to shock. The pain catches up to her, hands throbbing and throat screaming.
"Hey, hey, Karen ," Frank says, rushing to her, knife tossed aside. "How bad are you hurt?"
He gently pulls the blade from her own hand and holds her up, arm around her waist, his other hand cupping her cheek. She clutches his filthy shirt with her fingers.
She can feel his heartbeat, strong and quick.
"Did you kill him?" she rasps.
"Yeah," Frank says, immediately. Her eyes land on the bodies behind him and finds she doesn't care. Before, she thought that killing Russo would take him somewhere she couldn't follow, but it turns out she's ended up there anyway. "Few others, too. He sent them here --"
"For me."
He nods, pressing their foreheads together.
"Where are you hurt?"
She winces as she breathes and he tangles his hand in her hair, pulling her even closer to him.
She rattles off what she can feel -- glass in her knees, her hands, the cut on her arm, the punch she took to the face, her throat.
"Your turn," she says.
He shakes his head. "Don't you worry about that," he says. "God, Karen, I --" He shudders. "We did this in all the wrong order," he says, gentler than before. So different than when he was yelling her name.
"What do you mean?"
He swipes his thumb across her cheek and tucks her hair behind her ear. He looks at her like he can't believe she's real.
"I'd have courted you," he says. "Asked you to marry me, eventually."
"Frank," she whispers. God , she’s dizzy.
"It's this," he continues. "After. It's you."
Keeping his hold on her, he reaches into the pocket of his breeches for something and produces a miraculously clean handkerchief. He drags it across her face, gently, wiping away what must be a ridiculous amount of blood.
Karen isn't sure if she's imagining it. "Really?"
"If you'll still have me," he says, raw as anything.
She says his name one more time, unable to muster anything more, before pitching forward and hooking her chin over his shoulder, collapsing into him as she nods.
"I know," he says. "I know. You did so good, sweetheart. You did so good."
All of her feelings for him swell in her chest, a tidal wave fit to burst out of her. She pulls back to look at him but the black at the edges of her vision returns.
"Frank, I --" Karen begins.
And then she faints.
__
It smells like summer when she was a little girl. The crackle of freshly cut firewood in a pit her father dug out back. She and Kevin seeing who could hit a makeshift target with stones pulled from the path, her mother telling them not to dirty their clothes before supper. It was so beautiful, so peaceful. She'd love to take Frank there someday, have him relax in the country air –
Frank .
She inhales sharply and opens her eyes.
A fire crackles and throws shadows on the ceiling. She's in a bed in a room she does not normally sleep in, but the sheets smell like her husband. Her husband . Where is he?
Karen's entire body hurts. Her throat throbs and she can feel bandages around her knees as well as see them around her arm and palms. She's in a clean shift and there's a chair pulled to the side of the bed.
The bedroom door opens and there he is -- Frank .
He looks awful. Black eye, bruises covering half his face. He's in a loose shirt, undone at the collar and bearing his chest and what looks like bandages of his own. And he looks exhausted . Like he's carrying a thousand pounds. But then his eyes meet hers -- and his whole face changes.
Frank doesn't say anything. Karen blinks and he's in the chair. She lifts her hand, reaches for him, and he catches it in both of his and brings his lips to her skin. He's still wearing his wedding ring.
"Hi," she rasps.
He laughs. An honest-to-god chuckle spills from his lips like he can't believe it himself.
"Hi," he echoes. He kisses her hand again, this time her palm.
"Tell me what happened."
Frank's nostrils flare. "You -- we were in the library, and you --"
"No," she interrupts. "No, I know that. I remember." The blood on her hands, his desperate yelling. "With Russo. Tell me what happened."
He sighs and closes his eyes, jaw flexing.
"He admitted it as soon as I got him to the library," Frank says. "That he sold me and my family out. To keep me quiet about the shit we did over there." He opens his eyes and looks at her. "I hit him when he told me and he took it. Just once. And I thought maybe it was enough. The ghosts -- they didn't feel like they were hanging over me."
She flips their hands so that she can stroke the back of his with her thumb. "And then?"
"I thought maybe, maybe I didn't need to kill him. Maybe I could walk away. But then he started laughing . And I knew it wasn't ever going to be that simple. And even though you told me not to --" he inhales sharply "-- I knew it wasn't over. He laughed and told me I made a mistake by involving you."
"Me?" Karen breathes.
"He mentioned you, Karen. Told me that since I'd brought you into it, and Nelson, and anyone around you, that you'd all have to be dealt with after he finished me."
He very, very gently releases her hand and sets it back on the bed. Karen furrows her brow as he gets up from the chair to pace. Frank isn't much of a talker but it seems that there's no stopping him until he gets out the whole story.
"I was so...I was so fucking angry that he would dare . And he got the better of me and then it was a fight. It took longer than I wanted it to, but I got him. I got him real good, and I took him outside into the garden so no one would see, and --"
The men she heard said there was blood in the garden. He's sparing her the details, she knows, but it must have been a brutal fight.
"--then I heard voices. Once Russo was dead, I followed two of the guys and made them tell me what was happening. And they said that he had sent them here for you, as insurance. To get you in case I got him."
Frank stops pacing and returns to the side of the beg, dragging his hands through his hair.
"All I could think about was getting to you," he rasps, looking at her again. "It means nothing without you. Whatever life I've got left. It means nothing."
"Come here," Karen says. He does not move. "Come here, " she says again, demanding.
He listens, perching on the edge of the bed, his thigh pressing into her hip. She moves to sit up and he quickly helps, adjusting the pillows behind her. It brings him into her space and she holds him there with a hand on his arm.
Frank's nostrils flare and Karen holds his gaze as she leans in. Just before their lips touch, Frank's hand cups her cheek and she sighs into him.
It's a heavy kiss, a loaded kiss. A kiss full of weeks and weeks of longing, the weeks they've spent under this roof not knowing what came next. It's the terror of their wedding ball, the sheer will to survive it and see what after means. It tastes like the future.
Karen realizes she's not the only one who has fallen.
Frank pulls back and rests their foreheads together again. She remembers the relief when he came through the library door.
"I love you," she says.
He smiles at her, that rare grin she wants to see for the rest of her life.
There's no way it's over. Russo undoubtedly had more men, more allies. Danger will come knocking someday soon, she's sure. But right now, with the man she loves at her bedside, Karen allows herself to feel safe.