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“No. Unfortunately, I was rudely interrupted an hour ago.”
Max chose to ignore her comment. “It is Zafón’s most popular book, but, personally, I feel that ‘The Angel’s Game’ is much better written and more abundant in those gothic elements he uses so well. Also, his debut novel, ‘Marina’, was quite impressive. Since Shelley’s ‘Frankenstein’ I hadn’t read a proper gothic novel that would have everything: atmosphere, mystery, characters, ungodly, pseudo-scientific experiments. Have you read it?”
Avelyn hesitated for a second, not sure how she should answer his question. She had no idea werewolves took time to read, and she had to admit to herself that Maxwell Blackmane had just touched one of the subjects she liked most. She could talk for hours about books, especially about this particular author.
“Yes, I… I enjoyed ‘Marina’ very much.” She couldn’t afford to say more than that.
Max smiled, a fleeting thought crossing his mind. “You’re holding back, love.” He stood up, contemplating getting closer to her because he so wanted to touch her face and inhale the scent of her shampoo, but, instead, he walked past her, leaned on the window sill and looked at the clouds gathering above the forest. The sunny day was slowly turning into a dark, gloomy evening.
“This morning, while I was admiring Alma Venus, I was thinking how it could make a fine setting for a dark fantasy novel. Don’t you think? It has the history too. Did you know that in the 6th century it used to be an abbey where boys were taught how to read and write? Those who wanted to become monks would also learn a bit of philosophy and the sciences. There is a legend which says that, once, a girl disguised herself as a boy because she wanted to learn, and in those times girls were not allowed to. They were considered inferior beings whose only purpose was to keep the house clean, cook, and bear children. But this girl wanted more from her life, so she pretended to be a boy. It worked for a couple of years, but then she fell in love with one of her teachers, a monk. He found out her secret, and after some time she vanished. No one truly knows what happened to her, but some say that the monk fell in love with her and got her pregnant. When she couldn’t hide her pregnancy anymore, her lover took her deep down in the dungeons beneath the abbey, where she gave birth to her child, unheard by anyone. The child grew up in the secret tunnels which had been built so the monks could escape in case of war and siege.”
Max stopped talking. He could feel that Avelyn had stepped closer to the window, but he couldn’t tell if she was admiring the view or studying his profile.
“But that’s just a story. It’s probably not real,” he concluded.
“Then why tell it?” asked Avelyn, her voice barely a whisper.
Max turned towards her, pleased to see that she had actually rounded the desk and was standing a couple of steps behind him. “Because it is a tragic love story. I’ve always been drawn to them. Haven’t you?”
Avelyn’s anger had long dissipated, and now she couldn’t decide how she felt about this strange man who was watching her with those green, mesmerizing eyes. A couple of minutes before, his arrogant smile had annoyed her, and his hungry look had made her feel both aroused and panicked. Leaning against the window, he had his arms crossed over his chest, and she felt the need to uncross them, pull them over her shoulders and press her body against his so she could see exactly what he saw out the window from where he stood, and ask him to tell her more about the girl who raised her child in the dark tunnels beneath Alma Venus.
“I guess so,” she finally answered his question. “I’ve never heard this one, though. Are you sure you haven’t just invented it?”
Max threw his head back and laughed wholeheartedly. Avelyn smiled as well, unsure of what to say or do next. This had never happened to her before, to enjoy the time spent with a shifter. She wanted to prolong the moment, the spell that had just formed a magic bubble around her and Max, catching them together in this corner of the office, near the window. She wanted to relax, sit beside him on the window sill and tell him all the tragic love stories she had read on her loneliest nights, under the cover. But she knew that wasn’t going to happen. She had to think of Delyse and of Joanna Thorne, the alter-ego that was waiting for her beyond the gates of Alma Venus.
“No, I didn’t invent it,” said Max while contemplating the mysterious changes he could see on her features. “I read it once in a book I found in my family’s library.”
“A book about Alma Venus?”
“No. It covered all the medieval myths and legends of Western Europe. This one was called ‘The Maiden and the Child of Darkness’.”
“I’d love to read it.” She didn’t say the words out loud.
“You see,” he continued. “Tragic love stories are the ones that can truly make us feel hopeful and excited about life. They give as that dose of adrenaline right before the tragic ending, that feeble faith that the worst will not happen, even though, deep inside, we know it will happen and it even has to. Then, as we read the last line, a powerful feeling of catharsis envelops us because we have gone through pain and sorrow along with the characters, cried with them and hoped until the last moment. We experienced darkness and death, and now we’re back to reality, book closed on our lap, aware that, unlike the characters, we have another chance to live and love to the fullest. We never like to read boring little stories about perfectly average relationships which seem to work out of inertia because the two involved preferred to settle for less than to take any risks.”
Avelyn had slowly approached the window sill and dared to sit on the edge.
“Average love stories aren’t worth telling because they fail to stir the passion and desire inside us…” Seeing her so close, and knowing she had come willingly, Max couldn’t resist anymore and grabbed her shoulders lightly, bending over her and drowning into the deep pools of her eyes. “And these are the only things that make us feel alive, and urge us to push forward no matter what.”
When she felt Max’s hands on her shoulders, Avelyn’s first instinct was to pull back. His
eyes pinned her in place, the fresh smell of his cologne enveloped her, and she realized she had no energy to move. She was melting under his gaze, and his sweet breath burned her flushed cheeks and slightly parted lips. His hands traveled up to her neck, and his thumbs gently caressed her chin. She saw him switching his gaze to her lips, and she thought that he would kiss her, but, instead, he buried his head in the crook of her neck. She was taken by surprise, and she felt her skin prickle, her nipples getting hard, and her dress becoming damp with her juices where it was trapped between her pantyless folds and the windowsill.
Max inhaled the rich smell of her hair and skin, a mix of shampoo, green grass, and slightly sour perspiration. It was intoxicating, and it urged him to kiss her neck. She moaned deep in her throat, and the sound made his cock painfully hard. He sucked lightly on her neck, tasting the skin and wanting more. His hands went down her arms, reached her hips, and rested there, relishing the heat her body was sending through the thin material of her dress. He felt her breathing heavily, and the smell of her wetness threw him off guard, making him squeeze the flesh of her hip.
Avelyn’s world was spinning. She had never been so aroused, and she had never thought her own body could betray her like that. Her palms were itching to touch him, any part of him, and she couldn’t decide what she wanted more: to spread her fingers on his strong chest, or to sneak her hands behind him to cup the butt she had admired in the morning. She fought against what her body begged her to do, and placed her sweaty palms on his hands, feeling his fingers digging even deeper into her skin. She held them there for a moment, enjoying the possessive kisses and licks he was administering to her neck, and then she made an effort to remove his hands and pull away.
“No.” The word almost got caught in her throat, but she knew he heard her.
He drew back, his head down, struggling to compose himself. It was unbelievable what this woman could do to him. Max had never felt so powerless in front of anyone, and, for a second, he was angry with himself. He could fake an indifferent smile and calm his trembling fingers, but there was no way he could hide the bulge in his jeans. He turned away and started to mess with the papers scattered on the desk. He lifted one of them, but had no idea what he was looking at. His vision was a blur. A blur of red hair, blue eyes, and white skin.
Avelyn touched her neck, then forced herself to snap out of it, and jumped off the sill. “What the hell did just happen?” She could still feel his burning kisses on her skin, and she was sure her dress had a huge, damp spot at the back. Even worse, she could swear he was able to smell it. After all, he was a werewolf and all his abilities were heightened. “Delyse. Joanna Thorne. Italy. Delyse. Joanna Thorne. Italy.” It was like a mantra in her head.
“I’m sorry, but I truly find your theory about tragic love stories pathetic.” Avelyn rounded the desk and stopped in front of Max, her back straight and her head held high. “It has become a badly done cliché, and I keep getting the impression that people don’t understand what classic love stories are, in fact, about. Take ‘Romeo and Juliet’, for instance. That is not a love story, it is a story about bad parenting.” She was trying to find other relevant examples, but she couldn’t come up with any. Her brain was still busy processing what had happened on the windowsill, and her fingers were still itching to touch Max. She tried to keep her eyes on his face, as she was painfully aware of how his tight jeans were outlining his hard cock. There was a small voice at the back of her mind screaming that she wouldn’t get another chance and she’d later regret it. She shunned it.
“So, what you’re saying is…”
“What I’m saying is that you’re wasting my time, and yours as well.” Avelyn wasn’t about to let him sweet-talk her again. She glanced at the clock on the wall. “I think 20 minutes were more than enough for you to get an impression of… whatever you were looking for when you summoned me here.”
