e·lite
/əˈlēt,āˈlēt/
noun
noun: elite; plural noun: elites
a group or class of people seen as having the greatest power and influence within a society, especially because of their wealth or privilege.
• in which the darkness-loathing heiress meets t...
≻───── ⋆✩⋆ ─────≺ "You're not alright, Irene. Just admit it, you have a gash on your forehead, you've got lots of bruises, and for God's sake, they've cut a fringe on those beautiful locks,"
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Have you ever clung to your father like there was no tomorrow?
Savouring the signature smell of him that reminds you of fulfilled and joyous childhood. The memory of how he would spin you around in the middle of the meadows while your mother cautions him to be careful as she tends to your rowdy siblings.
The first thing Irene did after the metamorphic incident was run to Papa's arms and sob.
Isabelle followed suit, her eyes already red, wrapping her arms around Papa and her older sister's back. It baffles Irene that, after all these years, a father's embrace was the most gentle affection she could ever have.
Papa squeezed in his daughters, afraid that if he let go even a little bit, his little girls would disappear. "I'm sorry. I am so sorry, my darlings,"
Papa's baritone voice trembled, "Y-you have no idea how sorry I am."
Irene's stomach sank. She could never recall the time her Papa cried. As in, he never did. Not when she had to get her appendix removed all those years ago, not when Imogen had to get her arm fixed after falling down from her horse. Not when Mama passed. Her father has always been stone-faced, showing barely to no emotion. "It's alright, Papa. Please, we know. We know."
Papa cleared his throat as he let go, caressing the scar on his eldest daughter's forehead, "Look what that prick did to you... Let's get you all settled in, hm?"
Isabelle whispered, "Yes, please."
"Mr Shelby." Papa's blue eyes moved behind Irene as he ushered both of them in. There was something amok in Papa's tone that made her wonder what had happened while she and Isabelle were instead occupied by being shackled up somewhere.
When she turned her head toward him, Thomas ducked his head low. Suddenly interested in the same old shoes she would see him wear every day. He was avoiding the brown-eyed heiress, she could tell. By his body language, the blue-eyed devil was definitely evading Irene's gaze.
How dare he? I was fucking kidnapped. Because of him. And he has no balls to look at me in the face?
"Are you coming, Mr Shelby?" was what came out of Isabelle's mouth. Her older sister cleared her throat.
With one short glance at Irene, Thomas answered, "No."
"Oh, well. Thank you, Mr Shelby, for bringing my girls home. I am fully indebted to you." Papa approached the gang leader and gave him a fiddly hug. It was a pretty unpleasant sight. With Papa's cigar on the back of Thomas' head, you can see how annoyed he looked.
