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When did this happen?I might not have had a say in what I did or where I slept in the dungeon, but my thoughts were my own. My actions were my doing. Now, none of it is. I can’t even control my own body. Looking up, I try to keep the tears from falling, hoping I can reabsorb them somehow if I look up long enough.
My beast did this…. orchestrated this…She planned to coerce Loric into biting me, and we’d spoken about such, in terms of trying to court someone in his group, but we never discussed forcing someone to do it via some sort of magic pull. It feels wrong.
There’s a quiet knock at the door, and it slowly creaks open. I don’t bother to look to see who it is. I already have a hunch.
“Are you okay?” Loric steps inside, leaving the door open just a sliver, exactly how I’d left it.
“I'm just lovely. Thanks for asking.” My voice is laced with a bitterness I don’t necessarily feel. Regardless, it shouldn’t be aimed at him. He’s not the problem here. He’s not forcing me into some archaic mating ritual. My beast is.
The hinges of the door don’t move, which tells me he hasn’t left, but the room stays deathly silent, aside from the crackling mage lights. Stealing a glance, I find him leaning against the door frame, his dark hair falling in wayward strands in front of his face, the rest is thoroughly raked through by his fingers. Those silver eyes are warmer than I remember, but he’s silent as a mouse.
I’m not really sure why he’s here. If it were me, I’m not sure I’d do the same–come check on him. Maybe it’s because I understand what it’s like to be completely and utterly at someone's mercy, to have no say in things. Maybe it’s just me, because he’s here, nonetheless.
His shirt is untucked, a different color than before. It’s a light linen, but only the sleeves. The rest is covered by a hooded green vest. It’s almost as dark as his cloak, though he’s not wearing it. It's laid across the table near the bedroom door, beneath my discarded corset. Loric lolls his head to the side, resting it against the door frame, like it’s too heavy for him to hold up. All it does is emphasize the sharp edge of his jaw, the thick tendon in his neck. He flexes his hand, veins raised and arms crossed.
It’s impossible to read him, to gauge how he’s feeling or what he’s thinking. But he must think I’m a mess. I’ve completely disassembled my dress, piece by piece until the only thing that remains of it is the long, dark brown fabric, the base layer that everything else piles on top of. I busy my hands, rolling the hem of the flared sleeve between my fingers.
“You know, I never did like corsets much. They take too much time,” he says.
I twist in place, a crease forming between my brow.
The warm look in his eye is gone, replaced by something else as he surveys me. At first, I believe it’s him assessing the crazy, but his eyes linger on my dress, as if he’s fascinated with the color. It’s nothing fancy, plain but mine. Meg hand-stitched it forme, and that alone made such a simple dress worth more than gold in my eyes.
But Loric doesn’t know that. To him, it shouldn't be anything of interest. There’s no embroidering or embellishments that would draw his eye. Just looking at it, one wouldn’t be able to tell me apart from a servant.
So, why stare at it like this?
“It’s you he’s looking at. Not the dress.”That thought alone is a punch to the gut… A direct result of my beast filling him with unwanted–unasked for–desire.
So she does speak…And clearly, Hyde sees nothing wrong with what she’s doing.
I roll my eyes, shaking my head at the thought of her taking on characteristics of the real Hyde, the one from the story that Dr. Jekyll tried to banish.
Loric eases away from the door frame, his boots clicking against the stone floor as he inches closer. “Are you going to tell me what’s wrong, or shall I attempt to guess?"
“Truly, I’m fine.”
“You don't sound fine.”
From the corner of my eye, I watch him close the gap between us, each step measured, deliberate. “You barely know me. How can you possibly know what I sound like?”
“Everyone’s voice changes when they cry. It’s a distinct tone, like they have something plugging up their nostrils.” He crouches before me, balancing on his toes with perfect grace. His jaw twists, eyes focusing on me as if he’s trying to solve some invisible puzzle on my face.
I arch a brow. “That’s a rather vivid description. Thank you for that.”
He chuckles to himself, still looking me over without shame. It’s almost like he’s hunting for some physical wound he can fix to put an end to this. Still, there’s a hint of a smile playing on hislips. “I'm not doing a very good job at this… I should probably warn you, I have no idea how to handle myself around tears.”
I find that hard to believe. I can’t even imagine him being anything other than confident. Even now he doesn’t seem nervous, or out of place, or even inconvenienced in the slightest to be here.
His silver eyes darken beneath a veil of long lashes, and that look alone could leave me in shambles. It could unravel me at the seams if I let it.
Butterflies. Nothingbutbutterflies.
“Did Vik say something? If so, I am not opposed to going out there, tracking her down, and then stepping aside so you can punch her.”
A laugh escapes me, unbidden, my lips curving into a grin despite the tears streaking down my face. I’m not really sure when they started, but I wipe them away, all the same. “You mean you wouldn't do it for me?”
“Gods, no.” His brow crinkles as he shakes his head. “I'd never puncha lady,but I might hold her down for you, if you asked nicely.”
