Collusion

Chapter 6: Nice Try

SUMMARY

“You do know you’re going to do better to get answers out of me, right? Actually, you need to do worse. Like, straight up torture. The Knights are familiar with that, right? Torture?”

Childe watches her. Lumine’s scowl deepens. It is fun playing with her like this.

Childe should not be here. The last place he should be is in a woman’s tiny studio apartment, having dinner because she asked him to. It is late, almost midnight, and he has to meet Rosalyne soon. But he is here, anyway, sitting in the dining area, watching Lumine microwave leftover pizza.

“I can help set the table,” Childe offers.

“No,” Lumine replies with a clipped tone. “I’m the host. You stay where you are.”

He watches, curious. Lumine takes two plates and opens the utensil drawer. She stops moving, and then continues, rummaging through the drawer. She has her back to him, so Childe cannot see, but he knows what she is doing—or trying to do. He is a trained assassin, after all. Even though Lumine is not his target, anyone sensible would try to get a knife for self-defense against a possible threat. And if Childe is right, Lumine is now tucking a knife in the waistband of her shorts.

“You don’t want that to slip,” Childe says.

Lumine exhales audibly, as if trying to control her breathing, then finally brings the plates and utensils to their table. She lays the fork and knife in front of him. The knife is small and smooth, with little serrations at the edges. Great for pizza, not-so-great for flesh. Lumine has her own knife, a different one. A small utility knife. Great for precise cutting of small food and vegetables. Coincidentally, it is also great for stabbing. Lumine does not even try to hide the knife. Instead, she displays it openly and does not let it go.

“Aren’t you going to eat?” Childe gestures toward her empty plate.

“I already ate.”

Childe shrugs, and starts eating. To be honest, it does not taste appealing at all. Not as good as fresh-off-the-oven pizza, of course, but he will eat anything.

Lumine sits down on the right side of the table, diagonal to him. This time, she watches him. There’s a level of restraint on her face, drawn taut like a rope about to snap. Her brows are furrowed, eyes trained on him like he will dissipate if she looks away. Childe’s gaze trails down to her hand, the knuckles almost white from gripping the knife’s handle.

Childe should pick his words carefully. Lumine is very clearly intoxicated, from the flush on her skin and the scent of her breath. Things can go out of hand.

“What is the purpose of this... dinner?” Childe asks.

Lumine does not take her eyes off him. She is silent, as if she’s searching for the right words. Then, she says, “Who do you work for?”

Ah, an interrogation. He expected nothing less of an intelligence agent like her—even a less-than-sober one. Childe takes a bite of the pizza.

She continues, “Why did you kill all those people?”

It’s his turn to make her wait. Childe chews on the food, not breaking eye contact with her. Her grip on the knife has softened, but she’s still holding it. Lumine is sitting only halfway on the chair, her legs sideways, facing in his direction. Ready to run. Or more likely, attack.

“Your mistake is assuming I know why they had to die,” Childe answers.

“So, you just kill people for no good reason?” Lumine asks, her tone incredulous.

Childe shrugs. “Money is a pretty good reason.”

Lumine leans forward. The hand holding the knife is now flat on the table. “Who’s paying you?”

Childe takes another bite of the pizza and lets the question stew in the air. He has said too much already. “What are you going to do if you find out?”

When Lumine does not answer, Childe continues, “You do know you’re going to do better to get answers out of me, right? Actually, you need to do worse. Like, straight up torture. The Knights are familiar with that, right? Torture?”

Childe watches her. Lumine’s scowl deepens. It is fun playing with her like this.

“This—” Childe gestures around the room, “—is what a salary of a secret agent in the Knights get you? Only enough for a very tiny apartment outside the city center?” His lower lip juts out in an exaggerated pout. “You can do better, honestly.”

Lumine leans back on her chair and crosses her arms. “That is none of your business.”

No hand on the knife. It’s time. It’s his turn to ask the questions. Childe leans forward. “Why didn’t you tell them about me?”

Childe does not need to be specific, because she knows. Lumine knows it is about her being a witness in a murder, about her staying silent about the killer. About him. Her eyes widen a fraction, and it confirms that she knows. Lumine knows, and she has been thinking about it, too. But she does not answer.

Instead, she eyes the knife on her side of the table. Her hand springs to grab it, but Childe’s reflexes are faster. He stands up and weighs down her hand with his, not allowing her to move the knife.

Childe smiles, baring teeth. “Nice try.”

Lumine does not let up. She tries to lift her hand and stab him, but it is clear she is untrained; the alcohol does not help her coordination, too. Childe holds on to her wrist and uses her momentum to take the knife and shove her against the fridge, pinning her against the door. He lets the tip of the knife dig ever so slightly into her bare skin, just above the collar of her V-neck shirt.

“I’ll ask again,” Childe says, lightly dragging the knife down her chest, “and this time you will answer. Do you understand?”

Lumine tries to fight back, but he is heavier and taller than her. Childe gives her credit for her fighting spirit. If this was anyone else, they would have already cried and begged for mercy.

Maybe he needs to raise the stakes. Will she still be unfazed on the brink of death?

The knife settles at her abdomen, just above her navel. Childe slides it in easy, like a hot knife on a pat of butter. He has to control his strength and his muscles to not let go; he has to calm the primal instinct in him that wants to sink it in further, fully inside. The blade stops an inch deep, and the familiar red blooms from the spot, staining her white shirt. Lumine winces and bites her lip, her breaths becoming shallow. Childe’s own breathing becomes heavy, too, at the sight of her flushed face and the knife in her, and he has to compose himself, calm the tremor in his hands, the visceral itch to carve away at her skin.

“I understand,” she rasps.

Childe pulls out the knife and tosses it somewhere on the floor. “Good. Put some pressure on that.”

With a low hiss, Lumine follows, a hand pressing on the wound. He takes her by the chin and slowly pulls her jaw upwards to face him. No tears, no begging, not even a whimper; only a defiant look on her face. Has he lost his touch at terrifying people? Or perhaps, is she enjoying this as much as he does?

His hand moves to her neck, firmly holding her in place against the refrigerator door. Lumine gasps at the contact, her chest heaving as she tries to breathe. Childe lowers his head down to her eye level, studying her. His fingers squeeze, and Lumine screws her eyes shut. Childe expects tears, but nothing comes. Instead, he feels her pulse drumming, strong and steady, through his gloved hand. He squeezes tighter. Her hand, the one applying pressure, flies to his, trying to pull his hand away. Lumine is squirming now, feeling the pressure on her windpipe rising. Childe squeezes. Tighter. Her mouth parts, and a sound escapes from her throat. A short, high-pitched sound, the opposite of a gasp, but Childe recognizes it right away for what it is. A moan.

Childe lets go and steps back. Lumine coughs and gasps for air at the release. He looks at his hands. He did not kill her, no. Something else happened, but it was still the same outcome he wanted to avoid.

He lost control. Again.

Fuck.

Childe needs to leave. Immediately. Before the situation truly spirals out of his control. He scans the apartment. Only one exit. Her phone—ah, there it is. Childe snatches it from the table and opens it. It’s locked. He turns to Lumine, still disoriented. He pushes her back against the fridge again, holding her in place by the jaw. Childe waves the phone in front of her, a dazed look on her face, and the phone unlocks.

Time to go.

Childe parks his bike in an empty parking lot—he doesn’t know where, exactly, but he doesn’t care. He needed to get out somewhere, anywhere, and get his thoughts in order.

Stupid.

Childe takes out Lumine’s phone. Quickly, he scrolls through her contacts, and stops at his target’s name: Kaeya Alberich. He brings out his own phone, and saves the address and number. Childe stares at the screen, the blue light reflecting harshly back at him. There’s an itch in his fingers. He gives in to it and reads the text messages between Lumine and Kaeya.

‘I just met the translator and he’s so cute wtf.’

‘I think he’s flirting with me. Idk.’

A smug grin forms at his lips. She thinks I’m cute. He wonders what Lumine thinks of him now that she knows who he is. Judging from the anger on her face earlier, probably not good. But then again, there was that moan of hers. Soft and yielding and—

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

How could he have let it happen? When did the threads of control become so flimsy in his hands when Lumine is around? Both of them were tugging at it for purchase, and Childe willingly let go. He did not notice it. It just happened. Almost as if it was an easy thing to fall into, like an instinct, like his entire knowable universe had narrowed into just her, just Lumine. There was nothing else but her, her flushed face, and his hand on her pretty little throat.

Fuck. There he goes again, drifting off. Just thinking about it has something warm coiling in his abdomen.

No, lower.

Childe looks down at his pants, and sure enough, he is hard. He bites his lip. Wow. It does not take much to arouse him, Childe admits, but this is a whole new level. He has half a mind to take care of it; he is late to his meeting anyway, and the thought of pissing Rosalyne off even more is tempting.

But.

If he does, he might as well admit that Lumine, a stranger he has only met twice—essentially a nobody—has an effect on him. That she makes him lose control, that she could ruin him with only a single moan.

Well, he did lose control. But that is besides the point.

So no, he will not give in and jerk off thinking of Lumine and her lovely moan. No, sir. Childe will not let her win. This will take an enormous amount of self-control, he thinks, and he may be a man of desire and impulse, but it is nothing he cannot handle.

Childe sighs. Enough of this. He has wasted too much time ruminating. Childe turns the key in the ignition. The engine of his bike hums alive, and off he goes to meet Rosalyne.

Rosalyne, the Eighth, lounges on an empty park bench, taking a slow drag of her cigarette. She looks the same as the last time Childe saw her, which was a long time ago. Still the same long icy white hair and cold piercing stare. Still tall and imposing, even when she is sitting down. It is rare for the Tsaritsa to order partnerships for a simple assignment like this. He suspects this is more of a babysitting-the-Childe situation rather than a partnership of equal footing. It is downright insulting, he thinks, but he needs to behave. To compromise. He repeats the two action words in his head, as if to speak them into existence. The day has been testing him and his capacity for self-restraint, and it is all he can do to not completely lose it.

“You’re late.”

“I got held up.”

Rosalyne arches an eyebrow. “Traffic? At this hour?” She makes a pointed move to look at her wrist, devoid of a watch. “It’s way past midnight, Ajax.”

Childe grits his teeth. “Don’t call me that.”

She holds a hand to her chest, mocking offense. “Did I touch a nerve?”

He takes a deep breath. Calm your nerves, Childe. She isn’t worth it.

Instead of shooting her head off, Childe says, “I got info on the target’s location. Had to get it out of someone, and she wouldn’t squeal.”

“Oh?” Rosalyne stands up and snuffs the light out of the cigarette. “I thought you were above all that shit.”

“I don’t go around manipulating and playing with my victims like you do. I kill them with my own hands,” he replies, almost snarling. Childe recalls Rosalyne’s assignment last year: a celebrity in Mondstadt with a drinking problem was driven crazy by her relentless stalking until he committed suicide. It was all part of her plan, of course, and because of that, she moved up ranks from Ninth to Eighth for her supposed ingenuity in execution.

“Oh, please. Save me the sanctimonious bullshit. We’re all killers here. I just have a penchant for the dramatic.”

“Right. So, how are we going to do this?”

Rosalyne pulls back the right side of her fur coat, revealing a sidearm sheathed in the holster at her hip. “Since you found out where our target is, why don’t we do this the old-fashioned way, like you prefer?”

Childe’s lips pull back into a thin line. Rosalyne is not usually agreeable, not like this. Something is up her sleeve, he knows, but it is hard to read the expression on her resting bitch face. He will have to play her game for now.

“Good old-fashioned guns blazing?” Childe asked, his lips curling into a sly smile.

“You bet,” Rosalyne smiles back, a smile dripping with venom, every bit the snake that she is.

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