Helena didn't kiss him back. Her hands stayed at her sides, fingers curled into fists. But she didn't pull away either.
Jack deepened the kiss, one hand sliding up to grip the back of her neck. His thumb pressed into the taut muscle beside her spine. Helena's breath hitched—a small, involuntary sound swallowed between their mouths.
She thought: I hate him. I hate him. I hate—
His other hand found her hip, fingers digging into the old knife scar there, and Helena's composure cracked. A low, furious groan escaped her throat. Her fists unclenched. Her palms flattened against his chest—not pushing, just there, feeling the heat of him through his shirt.
Thea stood frozen by the dresser, Helena's blade still loose in her grip. She should leave. She should absolutely leave. Her feet didn't move.
Jack broke the kiss and looked down at Helena with something between fondness and cruelty. "There she is."
"Fuck you," Helena breathed.
"That's the idea."
He spun her around and bent her over the edge of the bed in one fluid motion. Helena's hands shot out to catch herself against the mattress, dark hair spilling forward across her shoulders. Jack's palm cracked across her ass—SMACK—hard enough to leave a pink handprint blooming on olive skin.
"Nngh—!" Helena's spine arched. Her thighs pressed together instinctively.
Jack kicked her ankles apart. "Spread."
She obeyed. Thea watched her obey, watched the Huntress—the woman who'd waged war on her own family—spread her legs for the man she'd just sworn to kill. The contradiction made Thea's head swim.
The smell hit her then: the sharp musk of arousal cutting through the stale hotel air, mixing with Helena's sweat and something darker underneath. Thea's cheeks burned. She pressed her back against the wall and didn't look away.
Jack's fingers dragged down Helena's spine, tracing the shrapnel scars on her shoulder blade, the knobs of her vertebrae, the dip of her lower back. He didn't rush. Helena trembled under the slow exploration, her breath coming harder with each inch.
"You're already wet," Jack observed, his hand sliding between her thighs from behind. "Soaked, actually. All that hate and you're dripping for me."
"Shut up." Helena's voice shook.
Two fingers pushed inside her without warning. Helena's whole body jerked—"Ahh!"—her knuckles going white against the bedspread. Jack curled his fingers and found the spot that made her legs threaten to buckle.
Squelch. Squelch. Squelch.
The wet sounds filled the room, obscene and undeniable. Helena buried her face in the mattress to muffle the noises spilling out of her—desperate, furious little whimpers she clearly hated herself for making.
She thought: Not again. Not like this. Not with her watching—
Jack pulled his fingers free and brought them to Helena's mouth. "Clean them."
Helena turned her head, lips parted to protest—and Jack slid his slick fingers past her teeth. Her eye squeezed shut. She sucked, tasting herself, her tongue working between his knuckles while her hips pushed back against nothing, seeking friction that wasn't there.
Thea's hand had drifted to her own stomach without her permission. She pressed it flat, trying to steady her breathing. Her panties were uncomfortably damp.
The rasp of Jack's zipper made Helena flinch. He freed his cock—thick, already hard, the head flushed dark—and dragged it along her slit without entering. Helena made a sound like she was dying.
"Ask for it."
"No."
He slapped her ass again, harder. CRACK. Helena yelped, her hips bucking.
"Ask."
"Please—" The word ripped out of her like a confession. "Please just fuck me already, you bastard—"
Jack drove into her in one brutal stroke.
"AHHH—!"
Helena's scream broke halfway through, dissolving into a shattered moan as he bottomed out inside her. Her walls clenched around him, tight and slick and spasming. Jack didn't give her time to adjust. He gripped her hips hard enough to bruise and started fucking her—deep, punishing thrusts that made the bed frame slam against the wall.
THUD. THUD. THUD.
"Oh god—oh fuck—" Helena's composure was gone. Her face was flushed, mouth hanging open, eye glazed and unfocused. Each thrust punched another sound out of her: "Ah! Ah! Ah—nnh—!"
Thea watched Helena's tits bounce with every impact, watched the muscles in her scarred back flex and release, watched Jack's cock disappear into her again and again. The smell of sex was overwhelming now—cunt and sweat and something almost metallic underneath.
Jack leaned down, his chest pressed to Helena's back, mouth at her ear. "You remember how this feels. Don't you."
"Y-yes—" Helena's voice was wrecked.
"You missed it."
"I—nnh—I didn't—"
He reached around and found her clit. Helena convulsed like she'd been electrocuted.
"FUCK—!"
Her orgasm hit hard and fast, her whole body seizing, inner walls clamping down on Jack's cock in rhythmic pulses. She screamed into the mattress, muffled and ragged, her hips jerking helplessly as he fucked her through it.
Jack didn't slow down. If anything, he went harder—chasing his own release now, using her shaking body without mercy. Helena whimpered with overstimulation, tears leaking from her visible eye, but she didn't tell him to stop.
She thought: More. God help me, more—
"Gonna come inside you," Jack growled against her ear. "You're gonna take it like you used to."
"Yes—yes, do it, please—"
Three more brutal strokes and Jack buried himself to the hilt. Helena felt him pulse inside her, hot and thick, filling her up. Her second orgasm crashed through her without warning—weaker but longer, her whole body trembling as she milked him dry.
Silence. Heavy breathing. The wet sound of Jack pulling out, a thin trickle of cum following his cock and sliding down Helena's inner thigh.
Helena stayed bent over the bed, legs shaking too badly to stand. Her face was hidden by her hair. She didn't look at Thea.
Jack tucked himself away and walked to the dresser to examine the photos on the camera's display screen.
---
Thea Queen sat on the edge of the bed and watched Helena Bertinelli pull her Huntress uniform back on in silence—movements stiff, legs unsteady, jaw set in a hard line. She didn't look at either of them. She didn't say a word. She just dressed and limped out, and the door clicked shut behind her.
Thea stared at the closed door and thought: Her mouth said no. The rest of her said something very different.
Over an hour ago, Jack Kadere had taken Helena by force—or at least that was what Thea had believed at first. He'd been rough, almost frightening, as though the easy charm he usually wore had been peeled back to reveal something rawer underneath. Helena had fought him. Briefly.
Then she stopped fighting.
Then she started matching him.
The two of them had gone at each other like Thea wasn't even in the room—urgent, synchronized, completely lost in it. Helena's resistance had crumbled within minutes, replaced by something aggressive and mutual that had lasted well over an hour. The sounds alone had been enough to make Thea's face burn. Helena arching into him, fingers digging into his back, hips rolling to meet every thrust—that wasn't a woman being forced. That was a woman who'd surrendered to something she'd been denying herself, and once the dam broke, she'd thrown herself into it harder than Jack had.
"Is that even possible?" Thea asked, still processing what she'd just witnessed.
Jack chuckled from the bed, thoroughly unbothered. "Why wouldn't it be? Nothing a good fuck can't fix. And if one round doesn't do it—two will."
"I'm starting to believe what she said earlier." The last hour had rearranged several things Thea thought she understood about people.
She paused, then shifted to the question that had been sitting in her chest since the restaurant. "What happened back there? At dinner?"
"Your biological father and your half-brother teamed up to save you." Jack sat up, rolling his shoulders. "But they're outmatched, and their relationship is a mess."
He laid it out in short, blunt strokes—no softening, no preamble.
"Your biological father wants to raze the Glades. He's been working toward it for years, pulling in allies, doing ugly things behind closed doors. Your stepfather was part of it, once. Then Robert Queen grew a conscience. Decided he'd failed the city and wanted out." Jack's voice didn't change. "So your biological father had him killed. The Queen's Gambit—that was Malcolm Merlyn."
Thea's lips parted. No sound came out.
"Your brother's trying to make up for the family's sins. Protect the city. Which means he and your biological father are going to be at each other's throats for a while."
Jack stood and walked to the bathroom without waiting for a response.
When he came back out, towel around his waist, steam curling off his shoulders, Thea was standing exactly where he'd left her. Still processing.
He dressed in silence and let his mind run ahead.
Malcolm Merlyn—the Dark Archer—wouldn't die from tonight's chaos. He was too capable for that. But the commotion at the restaurant was too loud to ignore. The Birds of Prey would investigate. Catwoman had gone back to Gotham, which meant Black Canary would be leading the charge.
That was precisely why Jack had told Helena he'd found something to keep Black Canary busy. He intended to hand Laurel Lance the one piece of information guaranteed to consume her entirely: the identity of the man behind her sister's death. Malcolm Merlyn. The Dark Archer.
Green Arrow on one side. Black Canary on the other. Malcolm Merlyn squeezed between them.
And Oliver Queen? He'd be splitting his attention three ways—hunting for Thea, fighting Malcolm, and trying to keep Laurel from getting to Malcolm first. You like sticking your nose in other people's business? Fine. I'll give you plenty to stick it into.
Jack could have killed Oliver Queen with a single blow. Flattened him and moved on. But where was the entertainment in that? Dead men didn't scramble. Dead men didn't make interesting choices. The moment Oliver's heart stopped, time would smooth over his existence like water closing over a dropped stone, and the game would be over.
This world was Jack Kadere's playground. He had no interest in destroying it, no ambition to rule it, no appetite for senseless slaughter. He wanted to enjoy what it offered—or manufacture his own entertainment when the world ran dry. Spending a decade grinding through a single identity the way the Reverse-Flash had? That sounded like a prison sentence, not a life.
"I'm leaving tomorrow," Jack said. "Coming with me, or do you have somewhere else to be?"
"Where are you going?" Thea's voice was flat, hollowed out.
"Back to Central City first. Stir some things up. After that—somewhere interesting."
The corner of Jack's mouth lifted. He was already picturing it.
Once the real Harrison Wells's corpse surfaced at S.T.A.R. Labs, the Reverse-Flash's cover would disintegrate. He wouldn't be able to set foot in that building again. But Barry Allen would chase him relentlessly—not to kill him, but to force him into leaving behind the evidence needed to free Henry Allen from prison.
And the Reverse-Flash couldn't kill Barry. He needed Barry. He needed The Flash to get faster, to eventually generate enough Speed Force energy to send him home. Which meant Eobard Thawne would be stuck playing the cornered animal who couldn't bite back at the one person tormenting him most.
The irony was exquisite.
And if Jack opened the breach to Earth-Two and let a few of its villains through on top of all that—the chaos would be spectacular.
The only constraint was the breach itself. Speed wasn't the issue; he could run as fast as he wanted. But punching through the barrier between universes required technique, not just velocity, and he hadn't cracked the method yet. It would take time.
"I don't want to go home," Thea said quietly. "And I don't know where else to go."
"Then you're coming with me." Jack didn't frame it as a question.
---
Sunset bled orange and violet across Starling City's skyline as Jack made his way to the Birds of Prey's base.
The place had changed in the years since he'd last been down here. The equipment was denser—more screens, better hardware, cables bundled neatly along the walls instead of spilling across the floor. Two glass-fronted wardrobes stood against the far wall, each holding a uniform on a mannequin form: Black Canary's leathers on the left, Catwoman's suit on the right, both spotlit from above like museum pieces. The basement air carried the smell of rubber mats, old concrete, and the warm plastic scent of electronics left running all day.
Felicity sat at the main terminal, chin propped on one hand, scrolling through something. Ten feet away, Laurel was working through a heavy-bag routine in shorts and a tank top, her knuckles wrapped, sweat darkening the fabric between her shoulder blades.
Red lightning cracked through the room.
Jack appeared between the two of them like he'd stepped out of a fold in the air.
Felicity flinched, chair rolling back an inch. She stood—mouth open, eyes wide—and before she could speak, Jack crossed the distance, pulled her into his arms, and kissed her.
Felicity thought: He's here. He's actually here. He smells like hotel soap and someone else's perfume and I don't even care right now, I don't care, just—
Laurel's fists stopped mid-swing. She lowered her arms slowly, watching Jack and Felicity tangled together by the monitors. Her expression tightened into something she couldn't quite name and didn't want to examine.
Laurel thought: Of course he kisses her first. My wrap's coming undone on the left hand. Don't look at them. Don't.
Jack released Felicity, turned, and opened his arms toward Laurel with a grin. "Hug?"
Laurel glanced at Felicity—an automatic reflex, checking for permission or objection or something she'd never be able to articulate. She hadn't even started to respond when Jack closed the gap and pulled her in.
Her heartbeat slammed against her ribs. She was certain he could feel it through the thin tank top—the rapid, traitorous drumming that said everything her face was trying not to.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Jack let her go and stepped back, still smiling. The ease of it—the way he moved between them without a shred of guilt or awkwardness—was infuriating and magnetic in equal measure.
"Now I can tell you who that person is," he said, his voice dropping to something quieter. Deliberate.
Laurel's composure snapped back into place. "Who?"
"You investigated the restaurant attack tonight, right? Besides Green Arrow—Oliver Queen—there was a second archer. A Dark Archer."
He let that land for a beat.
"The assassins dressed in League of Assassins gear were trained by him. His real name is Malcolm Merlyn."
Silence.
Felicity's lips parted. Laurel's jaw locked.
Malcolm Merlyn. Merlyn Global Group—one of Starling City's most powerful corporations, rivaling Queen Consolidated. Malcolm himself was practically royalty in the city's social hierarchy. The idea that he was behind the League-style operatives, behind the violence, behind—
Laurel thought: Merlyn. Sara died because of— it was Merlyn? The whole time it was— I need to sit down. No. I need to hit something.
While Laurel stood rigid, processing the revelation like a slow-burning fuse, Jack tilted his head toward Felicity. "Show me the body."
Felicity led him to a cold-storage unit tucked against the back wall. Inside, sealed in a body bag, lay the remains of the real Harrison Wells. The corpse was degraded beyond visual identification—years of concealment had done their work—but the DNA samples Felicity had pulled were clean and definitive.
"I'll take him with me," Jack said. "Heading back to Central City tomorrow."
"Tomorrow?" Felicity turned to face him, surprise breaking through. "What about Thea Queen?"
Jack's grin sharpened. "She's coming too. Let Green Arrow tear the city apart looking for her."
He glanced over his shoulder at Laurel, who had drifted closer, arms crossed tight over her chest. "Speaking of Oliver—has he come to see you since he got back?"
"He has." Laurel's voice was carefully neutral. "He wanted to apologize."
"And?"
Laurel raised her right hand, palm flat, and mimed a slow, deliberate slap across an invisible cheek.
Jack laughed and gave her a thumbs-up. "Good for you. I figured you might—"
"Might what?" Laurel's eyes narrowed, gaze sharpening to a point. The unspoken accusation was clear: You thought I'd take him back?
Holding herself to a slap instead of something far worse—for the man connected to the chain of events that had killed her sister—had taken every ounce of restraint Laurel Lance possessed.
Jack held up both hands in mock surrender, the grin still pulling at the corners of his mouth, and Laurel held his gaze until he looked away first.