ankles brushed by dark violets

𝐢𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐚 𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐤𝐞𝐞𝐩 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐥𝐞 𝐤𝐧𝐢𝐟𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐦𝐲 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐬𝐨 𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐠, 

                                𝒃𝒖𝒕 𝒊𝒕 𝒊𝒔 𝒎𝒚 𝒌𝒏𝒊𝒇𝒆, 

                                                                               𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒎𝒚 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕, 𝒕𝒐𝒐.

Most days he feels like a stranger in this world, navigating the halls of London’s elite by the skin of his teeth. He does not want for this society in particular, these people and their ideals, the rounded upturn of their noses. He wants for their money and success, yes, but neither of those so much as he dreams of their power. The casual way they sip their punch, unburdened shoulders shaking as they laugh because they fear nothing, and no one. He has not slept through the night in twenty-eight years and he wonders if the Prince Regent is just as haunted by nightmares as he is, or if he knows what the meaning of fear is.

He lets himself wonder, for a moment, if Lady Carlisle knows of such things. He looks at her curiously, trying to see past the marble of her bones to the depth of her. He wants to read between the lines of her skin, understand what it is that causes her to wrap her hand around her wrist, as if she would float away like a ghost if she was not held firmly in place. He wonders if her mouth tastes like blood from biting her tongue, the metallic of things left unsaid. He wants her to say them to him, wants her to crack open her ribs and let him understand what it means when her heart beats in staccato. 

You do not know of the things I would do in your honor, he thinks, eyes darkening. “Luck has very little place in my life,” he admits, though one could interpret his meaning a variety of ways and still end up correct. Neither luck nor any God can take credit for his lot in life, for the way he raged and fought to be where he is. It was sleepless nights, hours spent studying and leaning, days spent planning and plotting, needling his way into the right rooms at the right times. It was as much luck as it was murder, which is to say it was neither of those things.

“Though I believe that you should thank me for saving you from Ludlow,” he adds, smirking as he follows her lead as she falls into position flawlessly. She leaves a fire where her ice cold hand rests against his bicep. He is generally skilled at dancing out of nothing more than necessity, memorizing the moves as he would memorize an algebraic equation or legislation. As the music plays he moves automatically, stiff backed as he pulls and pushes, spinning her in time. There is nothing but them, but her, the rest of the ton fading into a blur of color and noise. 

Given his refusal to a-lot a place for luck in his life, he thinks it divine intervention that the dance is a waltz, a scandal waiting if there ever was one. He wishes for a moment that he’d planned this, but maybe it is more fate than it is fortune. They are face to face, so close that he thinks he can feel her breath warm against his skin. 

“No?” There was a witty retort building in her throat about the nature of luck and how she expected it to have more value to him, but it dies on her tongue as his hand rests against her waist, his fingers flexing into her side once before resting against the white silk of her gown. In that moment, it is all she can do is look at him, their gloved hands still joined, as the music begins. You should thank me. To her eternal shame and horror, she almost does; she licks her lips, they part, all in preparation of speaking, and it’s not until he leads them into the first box step that she manages to shut her mouth, the motion so quick that her teeth snap together. Like a wolf’s jaw, closing around the throat of its prey –– except she has never been the wolf in this game between the two of them. Wolf and lamb. Cat and mouse. Fox and hare. He is the predator chasing his prey through salon after salon, ballroom after ballroom, always letting her remain a step ahead, just barely out of reach. 

He could catch her, if he wanted. It would be so easy to manufacture a false scandal in this society of hers. Sometimes she found herself wondering why he hadn’t yet tried that, or tried to force her hand by speaking to her father, except..but no, that was ridiculous. 

She could not think about him with kindness, or with sympathy, or with empathy and understanding. He was the starving wolf, the too clever fox, the dark shape lurking just beyond her line of sight, waiting for her to stumble so that he could pounce. He was not a man to be understood, or to be fond of. If she fell into that line of thinking, it would be too late for her. He would have already won. And, dramatic though the thought may be, Séraphine had sworn to herself that she would rather die than let him win. 

His steps are flawless, she has to give him that. A little stiff, at times, the movements rote and perfunctory, with none of the grace that she herself possesses, but...he’s not a bad dance partner. Not even close. And dancing has always been one of the only things that has given her joy in her life; it’s too easy for her to get caught up in the steps, the spins, the way his body presses against hers as he steps forwards and she steps back. She can feel the heat of his chest, and she understands that she’s meant to speak –– after all, she still hasn’t responded to his earlier statements –– but she can’t seem to summon enough air to do so. Something about the nearness of him, the scent of his cologne and his skin, the heat of his body, the way his dark eyes bore into hers, the strength of his arms as he twirls her away and then back to press against him –– it’s too much. 

There is no greater comfort than inspiring fear, knowing that you are the wolf because the wolf is not the victim. The wolf is claws and teeth and bite marks, the wolf is power and control.

Augustus does not want to be the wolf.

He wants to be the monster under its bed.

Augustus is silent for a moment, his dark eyes catching on hers as if to share in silent communication, translating the moment they both remember. His hand catching hers, her chin turning up, his careful steps forward until her back touched the wall. A pause, a moment for her to push him away. Her eyes were shrouded, barely a hint of emotion detected that he could not manage to decipher. His hand started at her elbow, trailing slowly up, gloved fingers barely brushing the fabric of her dress. Nothing. Leather meets skin, hand trailing up to fit against the side of her neck. He paused again, waiting.

She was motionless.

He dipped his chin, braced for the moment that she would shove him away. It never came, several heartbeats passing before his lips brushed hers. He paused there, and felt a thumping against his palm, her heart rattling inside of her chest, beating angrily. He froze, every muscle tightening as he stepped away. His hands folded behind his back, rigid, guilty. Startled, because suddenly, he realized that he does not want her see him as the monster that he wants to be. And maybe that’s what he’s trying to convey when he looks at her now, eyes darkening, skin prickling.

I am not the monster you think I am; I am worse. I am a nightmare that you will never come to know. I can keep you safe. They’re all afraid of me.

His chin turns up, endlessly amused by her annoyance. He should not needle her but he cannot help the way his heart skips when her cheeks flush, bitterness rolling off of her in waves. He has watched her with others, of course, and she does not seem to lose any bit of control with them. Perhaps, though, he is only seeing what he wants to see.

“I only wish to spend time with you,” he admits easily, arms crossing comfortably across his chest. “I longed for a quieter space but I am just as content to yell over the Ton.” He was testing her now, seeing how far he could push before the facade split, a glimpse of the true Lady Carlisle seeping out. He paused for a moment, a smile cracking across his lips. “Perhaps you’d like to take another turn around the dance floor, then?” He pushes off the wall, holding his arm out to her as he approaches. 

.

It’s like the entire rest of the salon melts away, like the ballroom empties, until only the two of them, still staring at one another, remain. Like there is nothing and no one else left on the earth except, it seems, for him. There’s something about the way he watches her, the way his eyes remain on hers; glittering in the candlelight with some unspoken amusement, steady on hers as if trying to convey some secret message, like this conversation between them is some sort of game, and he only ever explained the rules halfway. 

She doesn’t need to ask herself if he remembers. Of course he does. It’s all there, from the carelessly casual way he crosses his arms across his chest to the way his words continue to worm their way under her skin, each one chosen deliberately in an attempt to spark some sort of reaction out of her. She has, after all, been a ghost for so long and to so many people that the fact that he seems to be able to bring about something so lifelike as derision is...unusual, to say the least. Or at least –– that’s the tame way to put it. 

Séra resists the urge to touch her fingertips to her lips only by clenching her hand into a fist, and since her other hand is still wrapped around her wrist, it feels, for a moment, as if she is caging herself in for him. Still, she cannot quite help it. There is a smile on his full lips, and his hand is extended towards hers for her to take his arm, and she cannot deny him without causing a scene, and it calls to mind another darkened corner, a lifetime ago, and that hand resting on the side of her neck with surprising gentleness, those lips sliding over hers with something almost like softness. Had he known that she had never been kissed until that moment? Did he know, now, that every feeling of desire she had felt since that moment was tied up in knots with it, twisted and braided into it, until she did not know where the wanting became the warning, where the longing and the loathing separated into two separate entities. 

I wish I hated you.

Maybe she does hate him. Maybe she doesn’t. Séra can’t tell the difference anymore. 

Augustus always thought that if Lady Carlisle could take flight, she would. Her arms were always bunched at her sides, hands gripping her dress and elbows bowed, prepared to flap her wings. When she danced, flitting flawlessly across the floor, he imagined her doing so, flapping her arms and floating beautifully to the top of the ballroom. He, who’d always held stones in his boots, was astounded by her grace.

“I would hope so, Lady Carlisle,” he replied, tone sarcastic, amused. “To dance as much as you and not enjoy it would indeed be torture.” August offset her tenseness by appearing overly relaxed, arms crossed casually as he leaned against a wall. He looked at her as if he knew her, inside and out, and in some ways he felt that he did. His determination did not leave room for the thought of failure. He intended to marry Lady Carlisle, and so it would be.

“Funnily enough,” he continued, not giving her time to step away. “I seek respite as well, and while I believe that this corner we have sought is perfect for such ventures, perhaps we shall take a moment to ourselves in the garden?” His eyes twinkled, shining with humor and charm, carefully masking bad intentions. 

.

Torture. She had to stop herself from a decidedly unladylike roll of her eyes at the comparison. Dancing all night without a fondness for dancing would not be torture. What would he know of torture? He, who had taken and taken and taken, bloody hands gloved and hidden in black leather, winning every challenge set before him with the attitude of a man who simply did not know how to lose. Séra began to step away, nodding her head in acknowledgement at his words, their polite societal duties done to one another by exchanging a scant handful of words.

And then he kept speaking, and it caught her mid step as surely as if he’d reached out and caught her around the wrist, black leather contrasted against white silk. He had not, of course, but somehow, still, she could feel the heat of his palm encircling her wrist, the deceptively gentle grip of his fingers around her bones. It was so vivid that she had to wrap her own hand around her wrist, rubbing at the silk encased skin as if to rid herself of even the very idea of him. His dark eyes glittered with an unspoken joke as he met her gaze, his words creating an artificial camaraderie between them. This corner we have sought, he said, as if they had made a joint venture by finding themselves near to this alcove. As if he had not followed her when she had sought out respite from the dance. Her eyes narrowed. What game are you playing, Ryder?

The irony was that the garden did sound wonderful. Séra couldn’t think of anything more lovely than the idea of a quiet walk in the bracingly cold fresh air scented with roses and alstroemeria. The only thing that kept her mouth shut was the idea of taking that walk with him, and the implications it might cause if they were caught alone together in the hedge maze. 

The voice was low and silken near her ear, and Séra nearly jumped out of her skin upon hearing it, and realizing how close he was. One hand flew to her chest as if to contain the suddenly racing heart within, caging that bird within her chest as certainly as if her ribs were jail bars made of silver. She recognized the voice without turning around, and stared straight ahead, her eyes focusing on the groups of couples weaving and spinning around one another in the latest dance. It was true that this was the first one she’d sat out; her dance card was not full, exactly, but had most of the spaces taken up, and it was debatable as to whether this was because she so dearly loved to dance, or because she had such a hard time saying no to any of her suitors. 

Well –– any of her suitors except one. 

When it became clear that the Baron Somers was not intending to move away from her side, Séra angled her head slightly towards him, her back remaining ramrod straight, her chin lifted. He’d meant it as a compliment...she thought...but somehow, still, the words felt targeted. They always did. Something about him made her feel hyperaware of every inch of her body, knowledgable of every centimeter of exposed skin, every hidden bone, every droplet of blood running through her veins. It was an odd sensation, and, though she would deny it –– not an entirely unpleasant one. 

“I happen to enjoy dancing, Lord Ryder,” she finally said in response, her voice soft, as if she were hoping he might not hear her over the music. “But I found that I required a moment’s respite.”