American Royalty III

Part 9: Paris was Nice

As the soft, golden lights of the Eiffel Tower twinkled in the distance, Kit leaned back in her chair, a playful grin on her lips. "Alright, spill it," she said, turning her gaze to Connor. "How in the world did you manage to pull this off? A fancy restaurant in Paris with the perfect view of the Eiffel Tower? Did you bribe Hermes with something?"

Connor chuckled, leaning in slightly as if sharing a secret. "Bribe? Come on, Kit. You know me better than that. Hermes is my dad—no need to bribe when you've got a god on your side."

Kit raised an eyebrow, crossing her arms in mock skepticism. "Uh-huh, sure. What did you promise him? His favorite racing chariot? A gold-plated letter opener?"

Connor laughed again, shaking his head. "Nah, nothing like that. He's a sucker for this kind of thing. You know how he feels about 'Stackson'."

Kit's face softened as she thought about Hermes. The god of travelers, thieves, and messengers had a soft spot for his son and seemed to be an avid supporter of Kit and Connor's relationship. Hermes was always encouraging Connor, dropping not-so-subtle hints, and offering grand romantic gestures like this one.

"He does like playing matchmaker, doesn't he?" Kit mused, glancing out at the glowing city below. "Paris, though? That's a bit extravagant, even for him."

"Well, we deserved a break," Connor said, a more serious tone creeping into his voice. "And he knows how hard things have been for us lately. A night away from the chaos seemed like the least he could do."

Kit's smile softened. She reached across the table and took Connor's hand, threading her fingers through his. "You know, as much as I love this—" she gestured to the beautiful view, the elegant restaurant around them, "—you didn't need to do something this fancy. Just being with you is enough."

Connor's gaze softened, and he squeezed her hand. "Yeah, but when Hermes offers to whisk us away to Paris for the night, I'm not exactly going to say no. Besides," he added with a smirk, "you deserve the best."

Kit rolled her eyes, though a smile tugged at the corners of her lips. "Flattery will get you everywhere, Stoll."

"I know," he said, leaning in, his voice dropping to a teasing whisper. "Why do you think I keep doing it?"

She laughed, the sound light and genuine. Then, with a mischievous glint in her eyes, Kit suddenly asked, "So, who came up with the ship name 'Stackson' anyway? I have a feeling Hermes had a hand in that too."

Connor groaned, shaking his head in mock frustration. "I swear, I had nothing to do with it! That was all Hermes. He overheard someone in camp, and next thing I know, he's calling us 'Stackson' like it's the greatest thing ever."

Kit smirked, trying to hold back a laugh. "I kinda like it."

Connor gave her an incredulous look. "You would."

They both burst into laughter, the tension from their demigod lives momentarily forgotten. The waiter came to take their orders, and for a while, they were just two teenagers in love, far away from monsters and demigod problems, enjoying a night of blissful normalcy under the Parisian sky.

But then the warmth began to slip away. The laughter, the lights—all of it started to fade, the sounds of the city growing distant, the world unravelling like an unfinished dream. She tried to hold onto it, to keep Connor's presence near her, but it was no use.

Pain ripped through her body, sharp and unforgiving. She gasped, the dream of Paris shattering as reality crashed down around her like icy water. Kit was thrust back into her body, the sensation of Bellatrix's curse burning through her nerves like fire. The screams she had been holding back escaped her lips, her body convulsing against the cold stone floor.

"You filthy half-blood brat!" Bellatrix's voice cackled through the air, delighting in Kit's suffering. "Squirm all you want, darling. I've barely started."

Kit forced her head up, eyes blurry from tears and pain, but still managing to glare at the witch with as much defiance as she could muster. "You'll have to try harder than that," she rasped, her voice strained but laced with sarcasm. "I've had worse insults from breakfast cereal."

Bellatrix's smile twisted into something crueller. She raised her wand again, the tip glowing with an ominous light. "Oh, believe me, I will."

Kit braced herself, the familiar feeling of the Cruciatus Curse beginning to crawl through her bones again, but then Bellatrix paused, her gaze sliding to the side.

Draco Malfoy stood there, pale and motionless, his wand hanging limply in his hand. His expression was blank, but Kit could see the storm raging beneath the surface. Bellatrix turned to him, her voice saccharine with mockery. "Go on, Draco. Teach her a lesson. She's nothing but a royal mongrel. Your father would expect no less."

Draco's hand twitched, but he didn't move. He didn't meet Kit's eyes, didn't even acknowledge her, but Kit knew. She could sense the hesitation, the fear, the guilt twisting in him. Bellatrix's gaze sharpened, her smile stretching wider. "Do it, Draco. Or are you just as weak as the blood traitor in front of you?"

The room felt suffocating, the tension like a physical weight pressing down on them all. Kit's body screamed with pain, but her mind was sharper than ever. Slowly, painfully, she managed to lift her head and catch Draco's eye. He wasn't looking at her, but she knew he felt her gaze.

And then she gave him a look—barely more than a flicker of an expression—but it was enough. It's okay. I can fake it. You don't have to do this.

Draco's breath hitched. His hand tightened around his wand, and for a moment, Kit thought he might actually follow through. But then his arm dropped to his side, and he stepped back, his face still ashen, but his decision clear.

Bellatrix's smile faltered, her eyes narrowing. "Pathetic," she spat, her lips curling in disdain. "I'll handle this myself."

Kit barely had time to react before the next wave of agony crashed into her, worse than before. The curse tore through her like wildfire, lighting every nerve on fire. Her body writhed uncontrollably, her vision going black at the edges. She could hear Bellatrix's shrill laughter ringing in her ears, but she forced herself to focus, to stay present, to not break. She wouldn't give Bellatrix the satisfaction.

Suddenly, the room chilled even further. The heavy, cold presence of Voldemort slithered into the air like a serpent. His voice cut through the chaos, low and menacing. "Enough, Bellatrix."

The Dark Lord's command stopped everything. The curse lifted instantly, leaving Kit gasping for breath on the floor. She didn't dare move, didn't even lift her head as she heard Bellatrix's sharp intake of breath and the shift of robes as Voldemort stepped closer.

Voldemort's crimson eyes flicked to Draco, who was still standing frozen in place. He said nothing but the weight of his gaze was enough to drive home the lesson. Then, without another word, the Dark Lord turned and left the room, Bellatrix following closely behind him, her face twisted in frustration.

As the door slammed shut, Kit lay there, her breath ragged, her body trembling from the aftermath. For a long moment, neither she nor Draco spoke. The silence between them was thick, but it wasn't hostile. It was heavy with unspoken understanding.

Draco didn't meet her eyes. He didn't apologize, didn't offer any comfort. But he didn't have to.

Kit closed her eyes, the ache in her body throbbing, but her mind was already working. She had survived this. Just like she had survived everything else, and she wasn't done fighting yet. Not by a long shot.