“This doesn’t seem right at all,” Lena said, staring down at her clothes as Cesare held the door for her. She limped inside, her movements strained and ungainly as Lucio’s poison continued to wear off.
“What would that be?” Cesare asked.
“Wearing this,” Lena replied. Silvia had left a taper burning for them and Lena did her best to light the other candles in the room. He knew better than to offer help. The poor thing had just been at the mercy of a mad kidnapper, she didn’t need to feel helpless again so soon. Cesare lingered in the doorway, fingering the edge of the cloak draped across his shoulder. He ought to give her privacy, make one last check to be certain that she was feeling well and let her rest until the poison’s effects were completely gone. But he was rooted to the spot. His heart had not slowed since their kiss, its erratic speed stuck between panicked and elated.
Cesare held out the blue gown folded over his arm, spying a dark stain along the bottom half of the skirts. Silvia would forgive them; she would be glad, or at least mollified, to know that the wine stain there had led Cesare to Lucio’s hideaway. He tried not to think what might have happened had that one jug of wine not broken and left the droplets that trailed from the wagon to Lena.
Lena rounded the bed, the cozy room now glowing with the presence of dozens of flickering flames. Even so, a strange chill resonated from the window and door. Her braids hung loose, kinked and undone but still dotted with tiny flowers. She smiled up at him shyly as she took the gown, frowning at the stain. Cesare dug into his doublet, producing the small pistol he had taken from her trunk.
“I believe this is yours,” he said. “I would not have looked through your things but…”
“I’m glad you did.”
Silence. This was where a dose of bravado would serve him well. If only he had Lena’s bravery he might lean down and kiss her and banish the awkward stillness between them. He did not say that the smell of gunpowder on his hand made his head dizzy with half-remembered images and sounds. A man’s voice, familiar and yet completely alien, telling him sternly that a weak man would only be pitied and never respected, not even by women and fools. And when that voice faded others came - screams of battle, of anguish, and a buzzing in his brain as if cannons had detonated mere inches away…
Lena tucked the dress away and the gun, her movements more fluid and natural as time tripped on and he continued to dawdle like a fool in the doorway.
She stood at the foot of the bed, pulling gently at the loose strings on her vest.
“Could you turn around?” she asked, gazing at him with those disarmingly wide eyes. “I’d like to be rid of these clothes.”
Cesare nodded, doing as she asked, and then stopped. Just those imprecise, hazy memories alarmed him. What if it was a herald of more to come? And if he remembered more or anything or - God forbid – everything, Cesare understood it would not take Lena’s poisons or knives to end him. Guilt and self-loathing killed as surely as steel. Time, it seemed, was against them. He turned back to her and Lena froze, her elbows midway in the air as she lifted them to remove her vest. Tossing his cane onto an empty chair, Cesare took two long strides and herded her into his embrace, holding her warm little body to his chest, exalting in the pulse he felt thrumming violently beneath her soft skin.
“No,” he said, kissing her cheeks, her forehead, her nose… “I can’t turn away.” He tugged at the vest and her shirt. “I won’t.”
It seemed silly then that he had waited so long to submit to the roaring in his head, the savage whisper that urged him to take her, possess her, find every spot that made her gasp and writhe. This… this passion was native to him, emerged like a breath, a sigh, a groan. Lena arched into him, pressing insistently against him, her hands ripping the ribbon from his hair. Her sharp nails scraped across his scalp, spreading the strands of his hair before combing over and over again, sending hard shivers down his spine.
In Name Alone 78/?
“This doesn’t seem right at all,” Lena said, staring down at her clothes as Cesare held the door for her. She limped inside, her movements strained and ungainly as Lucio’s poison continued to wear off.
“What would that be?” Cesare asked.
“Wearing this,” Lena replied. Silvia had left a taper burning for them and Lena did her best to light the other candles in the room. He knew better than to offer help. The poor thing had just been at the mercy of a mad kidnapper, she didn’t need to feel helpless again so soon. Cesare lingered in the doorway, fingering the edge of the cloak draped across his shoulder. He ought to give her privacy, make one last check to be certain that she was feeling well and let her rest until the poison’s effects were completely gone. But he was rooted to the spot. His heart had not slowed since their kiss, its erratic speed stuck between panicked and elated.
Cesare held out the blue gown folded over his arm, spying a dark stain along the bottom half of the skirts. Silvia would forgive them; she would be glad, or at least mollified, to know that the wine stain there had led Cesare to Lucio’s hideaway. He tried not to think what might have happened had that one jug of wine not broken and left the droplets that trailed from the wagon to Lena.
Lena rounded the bed, the cozy room now glowing with the presence of dozens of flickering flames. Even so, a strange chill resonated from the window and door. Her braids hung loose, kinked and undone but still dotted with tiny flowers. She smiled up at him shyly as she took the gown, frowning at the stain. Cesare dug into his doublet, producing the small pistol he had taken from her trunk.
“I believe this is yours,” he said. “I would not have looked through your things but…”
“I’m glad you did.”
Silence. This was where a dose of bravado would serve him well. If only he had Lena’s bravery he might lean down and kiss her and banish the awkward stillness between them. He did not say that the smell of gunpowder on his hand made his head dizzy with half-remembered images and sounds. A man’s voice, familiar and yet completely alien, telling him sternly that a weak man would only be pitied and never respected, not even by women and fools. And when that voice faded others came - screams of battle, of anguish, and a buzzing in his brain as if cannons had detonated mere inches away…
Lena tucked the dress away and the gun, her movements more fluid and natural as time tripped on and he continued to dawdle like a fool in the doorway.
She stood at the foot of the bed, pulling gently at the loose strings on her vest.
“Could you turn around?” she asked, gazing at him with those disarmingly wide eyes. “I’d like to be rid of these clothes.”
Cesare nodded, doing as she asked, and then stopped. Just those imprecise, hazy memories alarmed him. What if it was a herald of more to come? And if he remembered more or anything or - God forbid – everything, Cesare understood it would not take Lena’s poisons or knives to end him. Guilt and self-loathing killed as surely as steel. Time, it seemed, was against them. He turned back to her and Lena froze, her elbows midway in the air as she lifted them to remove her vest. Tossing his cane onto an empty chair, Cesare took two long strides and herded her into his embrace, holding her warm little body to his chest, exalting in the pulse he felt thrumming violently beneath her soft skin.
“No,” he said, kissing her cheeks, her forehead, her nose… “I can’t turn away.” He tugged at the vest and her shirt. “I won’t.”
It seemed silly then that he had waited so long to submit to the roaring in his head, the savage whisper that urged him to take her, possess her, find every spot that made her gasp and writhe. This… this passion was native to him, emerged like a breath, a sigh, a groan. Lena arched into him, pressing insistently against him, her hands ripping the ribbon from his hair. Her sharp nails scraped across his scalp, spreading the strands of his hair before combing over and over again, sending hard shivers down his spine.