#wickblr

The Marquis Vincent Bisset de Gramont's master suite is such an amalgamation of contradictions that sometimes, you wonder how it even holds together. Delicate, antique decadence wars with something harsh and calculating. The custom chandelier, sparkling with real crystal across from a canopy bed, activates via "smart house" voice command. The velvet, tasseled curtains, closed against the midnight, rest just inches from a high-tech alarm system that will trigger if an intruder crosses the windowsill. The 17th century rococo nightstand holds a top-of-the-line gold encrusted handgun and a list of people Vincent wants dead. As if he'd ever forget.

And the man himself? He's the head of the most powerful international crime syndicate, driven forward by endless expectations, innate appetites for ruthlessness, and relentless lust for power. And he's also…troubled. He's whimpering in his sleep.

You roll over, tensed, listening. He's laying on his back. You read somewhere that that's a common position for sleep paralysis, didn't you? You rub a hand over his bare chest, trying to sooth him without waking him up. You can feel the tightness under that porcelain-soft skin. Shit…his heartbeat is so fast. Another strangled noise escapes him, almost words this time. It's French and you can't really make it out, but then he speaks again and you can. "Je suis désolé papa…s'il vous plait…" By the way his forehead knits together, it seems his apology is not accepted.

No, you don't care to let him suffer for another second. You activate the lights and shake him gently, calling his name.

A wide-eyed gasp answers you. He shoves you away and almost rolls out of bed before realizing it's just you.

"Hey. You're safe. You were having a nightmare." You keep your voice quiet and monotone, trying not to fuss. The urge to pull him into your arms is so strong, but his own arms are crossed over his chest now, defensive. He didn't want tonight to go like this. "Are you okay?"

He rubs at the bridge of his nose and doesn't answer. His chin is trembling slightly.

It was difficult for him even to let you sleep by his side. You'd been dropping hints about it for weeks. He doesn't normally bring his consorts to his own bedroom, let alone keep them there all night, cuddling. You were…different. Safer. But now, you're worried he won't want to do it again. He so hates to be seen this way. "Vincent."

"Mm." He turns away from you. It's an almost childish effort to hide. He's retreating into himself, embarrassed. If you don't handle this carefully, you'll completely humiliate him. You feel like the whole room is made of glass and based on the way his fists are balled up, he wants to break something right now.

"Vincent, don't you dare go silent. Get mad if you want, I don't care. I trust you. Just talk to me. You know I'll never judge you."

His words come out in a rush, a fist striking the duvet. "Oh, fuck off with that condescension! It's disgusting. Crawled into my bed just to see what a pathetic spectacle I can make of myself. Well you don't get the satisfaction."

"That's not - "

"Of course it is."

Your heart twists. It really hurts, to be spoken to like that. But he's hurting even more, and that's what really gets to you. Any more words will irritate him now, so you just offer your silent presence.

Eventually he speaks again, flushed, frowning. "I'm not some helpless thing, okay?"

"That's right, you're not. You're strong all the time, and it amazes me. You have so much willpower - there's never been a question of that. If anyone has ever tried to convince you otherwise, they're wrong." The words come out pointed, protective. "You've done more than enough. You deserve to rest without being criticized even in your sle -"

"Stop it. Stop, it's too much. Why would you - why do you always -"

There. He's breaking. Too choked up to speak any further. You're honestly not sure if that's good for him or not, but it's happening now and all you can do is hold the pieces. He collapses into you, face buried in your neck, and sobs the way his body clearly wanted to do from the moment he woke up. He just can't hold it back anymore. "Because I love you," you say through kisses at the crown of his head. "I love you. Do you believe me?" He just cries harder. It won't reach him now. These things take time. But you will be here.

You clean him up, floppy and soft and pliable in the wake of tears. You bring him water, and a washcloth for his face, so his eyelids won't be puffy in the morning. Little actions like this will be the proof of your words, day after day. He stares at you with those big doe eyes like you hung the moon, and you're just so glad to be alive and with him.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, facing away from you on his side as you slide back into bed next to him. "You - you shouldn't have had to deal with that. I told you this was a bad idea."

"It's alright."

"It's not. You should go."

"Do you want me to? I'll go if you'd rather be alone but…I'm not upset at all, okay? You don't have to be sorry." You kiss the back of his neck, where his pretty brunette hair has turned into a mess of cowlicks overnight. He smells sweet and perfect to you, even after the cold sweat of fear. "Do you need space?"

There's a long silence. You wait. "No." He swallows hard. "I would like…to be held. Please." You're so proud of him for saying it.

You pull him close. The chandelier goes dark. Concealed by shadows, he snuggles into the pressure at his back, holding your arm as it laces over him, and kisses the center of your palm. He's hardly breathing. If he's crying again, it's too quiet for you to tell. "…Thank you." He IS crying, then, by the sound of his voice. But in such a different way this time. You can feel him smile against your hand before hugging it to himself and settling in. The room falls still again, thick with a heavy contentment.

I hated that this was happening in my penthouse. Had I stayed at the hotel tonight to tend to business, I would've at least been sure he wouldn't kill me. The grip the guards had on me, the force in which my knees were being pressed against my newly polished wooden floors, nearly had me wincing-- but there was no way in hell I'd show him how scared I was. My gaze only hardened, trying to wry myself out of the strong hands holding me down; "I don't know what the fuck you're talking about!"

Letting out an exasperated sigh, the Marquis rolled his eyes. It was almost as though he was bored with me. "We have it all on video," he grumbled, unimpressed with my attempts of denial. "Him at the hotel, him in one of your cars, and videos from the shootout at Sheremetyevo airport. It seems you're good with a gun, miss... Actually, it's probably good to find out whether you have one on you right now." With a wave of his hand, the guard next to him stepped toward me, and it didn't take long before I was pressed face-down to the floor as I yelled out in protest.

With tears pressing upon my eyes, I could only curse as they managed to find the knife in my boot and continued to search me-- my eyes widened when they moved up my thighs, finding the gun I had stuffed down the side of my hip before having gotten dragged into this room, ambushed in my own home. I let out another yell, kicking with the best of my abilities, as my pants were dragged down my thighs and my hands were held tightly at my back.

I heard a hum coming from the Marquis, who had stepped away to make himself a cup of tea by the table I had set up a few weeks ago. Everything about his nonchalance angered me further-- I couldn't believe this was happening to me in the room I had set up to focus on the one thing that gave me a sense of purpose and peace; my paintings. They were hung up on the tall walls, and I caught a glimpse of Vincent admiring the one to his left.

My head pounded with fear, not used to this sort of humiliation. These feelings were new-- I knew I was the only one who could save me now that John Wick was out of the country. I looked away, pressing my forehead against the floor, still fighting my captivity. 

I didn't need to look at the well-dressed Marquis to know that he was watching the whole ordeal play out before him. Then again, I didn't know a single man who wouldn't watch a woman get undressed, unwanted or not. So there I was, splayed out on the floor of my atelier, the cold winter air of my penthouse hitting my bare thighs with my red panties on display. I wanted to cry, embarrassed beyond belief about being in my underwear in front of all of these men, but also scared like never before-- would they take it further than this? Would this be the moment where what I had dreaded all my life was about to happen?

Thankfully, my pants were quickly put on, but my favorite gun was confiscated. My cheeks were still bright red, remnants of tears pooling in my eyes as I was propped back up on my knees. "Aren't you supposed to be of nobility?" I asked, speaking through gritted teeth as my head hung between my shoulders in shame. "Did no one teach you to treat ladies with respect?" I couldn't remember a time when any other member of the order had been strip-searched-- sexist fucker. 

The Marquis let out a short chuckle, the arrogance evident even in his laugh. "What makes you believe you deserve my respect after helping John Wick? You're quite rightfully on your knees now, and hopefully, you'll start begging for your life soon. For your own sake, of course," 

"I would rather carve out my own eyes than beg you for anything," I said, a low growl building in my throat along with my anger. "And you know that you need me alive. The whole of Russia will go to war against you if you kill me, and you can count on Bratva and Rusko Roma to avenge me!"

It didn't take long for the Marquis to change his mood once more-- his pompous sneer disappeared off his face with one twitch of his eye, and within the snap of a second, he threw the cup of tea across the room, shattering the glass against the wall with a crushing sound that echoed through the halls. "You will obey!" he yelled, coming towards me with loud, booming steps. Blinded by anger, he crouched down to grab my face in his hand, his grip on my cheeks making me wince. "It doesn't matter to me who your father was or how important you think you are, because you work for me!" 

"And that is where you're wrong," I continued to struggle around the grip his guards had on me, wanting nothing more than to be freed and strike him right across the face. However, a sense of calm washed over me when I realized he wasn't here to kill me-- he couldn't. "I don't work for you. I work for the High Table. You're simply a code in the software, and right now you're pissing off the highest-ranking official in the biggest country in the world. Are you trying to wage a war on Russia, Vincent?"

The mention of his first name had him squeezing my face even harder in his large, rough hands. But this time, I didn't react-- I simply stared back at him, watching the way his pupils shrunk as he focused on me like I was prey. Up close, I could see the deep scar on his cheek, the way his lips pursed with anger, and it suddenly dawned on me that he smelled like a mix of tobacco, amber, and leather. Very manly, very expensive; enticing. 

"War," he echoed, another twitch of his eye ensuing. "Pas de souci. That is not what I want. But what I do want, however..." The Marquis let go of my face, getting up from the ground. "I want John Wick dead, along with his allies. And since I can't kill you yet, it seems I have to make use of your friendship with the excommunicado." With another wave of his hand, the guards let me go-- I pressed my palms against the floor in relief, letting in a shaky heave of air. 

I looked up at him through my brows, feeling my anger pulsing through my veins. "He's long gone, Vincent. He's not coming back to Russia,"

The Marquis hummed; "Get him back, then,"

"He won't--"

"Do it, or I'll put your mother's head on a spike!" His voice boomed through the room, leaving behind an echo that made me want to wince once more. "If he's not here within a week, I will have you bound and forced to watch me rip her limbs apart!" 

My lips parted in shock, feeling as though my body had frozen over. Everything about his threat made me terrified out of my mind-- I couldn't risk it. I knew that the Marquis was dangerous and that he could easily follow through with his words; I needed to get myself together, for the sake of my family. It took a lot of power for me to get up from the ground, balling my fists as I met his threatening gaze. I watched as he stood before me, clad in a ridiculously expensive grey-ish suit, visibly ready for any fight I might want to put up. 

I wasn't stupid-- I realized I was surrounded by his guards with no other choice than to obey. I didn't even have my gun anymore, nor did I have my trusted bodyguard; I wondered whether his body still lay lifeless in the hallway, bleeding out all over my new carpet. 

I was cornered, and I knew it. Which is why I got down on one knee and put my hand over my heart, accepting my reality; "I will be of service,"

The Marquis snickered at my pledge, clearly pleased. He tilted his head to the side, his eyes rounding out in victory at the sight of me willingly kneeling. "Quelle jolie chose," he breathed, nodding to himself. "Good. Very, very good."

I wanted nothing more than to shoot a hole through his face. I couldn't wait for the day I'd get that opportunity.

vocabulary:

pas de souci: no worries