Other Colors Ch. 13-14

I frowned, "It's not as bad as you think."

"No. Probably not," he drummed his fingers heavily on the table. "Probably. I've lived in slums from Saint Petersburg to Paris. Saint-Michel's a paradise by comparison. But imagine how inconvenient it would be to me, Penny," he dropped his soiled cloth to the table, "if walking home late from Madame d'Aulnoir's one night, some unfortunate man laid his hands on you, and I had to murder him."

I think my eyes might have tripled in size.

"You shouldn't," I scolded him meekly, "you shouldn't joke about that sort of thing,"

"Who's joking?" the frost on his voice chilled me clear to the bone. "Listen. I know I've no right or reason—but I've become hellishly covetous of you. Chalk it up to something ugly, and instinctive in me. Something basal. Bestial."

Beastly... I shuddered, drawing in my shoulders. Would he really hurt someone? If they attacked me? I remembered the mysterious, blue bruise on his face the morning after the gallery, and the little crimson scabs on his knuckles.

"And...that's the reason you want me to stay with you?"

"That," he nodded darkly, "among others. You're through the looking glass, Miss Foster. Now eat. Marrow's nearly here."

I glanced down to the last half morel, still lying limp and lonesome on my plate. 'One side will make you grow taller,' I slid it's smooth, fleshy head into my mouth, 'the other side will make you grow smaller'. No sooner had I swallowed, than the waiter appeared, cleared the plates, and served us a second, grisly dish.

"Turbot rôti à la moelle," gingerly, he laid out fresh forks and long, slender spoons. "Bon appétit, mes amis."

I sat still until he left us, though inside I could feel my stomach turning summersaults.

"Not quite what you expected?" a teasing half-grin flickered over his face.

I stared down at the plate. In terms of color and composition, it was compelling; like a Rothko painting—a delicate sliver of white fish, black foam, and a tall, scorched cattle bone; cut in cross-section, and brimming with yellow-green gelatin. And if all we intended to do was look at it, I wouldn't have been the least bit fazed.

"Some are put off by the appearances," he lifted his spoon, and slid it into the bone's narrow cavity, slicing out a bit of marrow, "things that look lurid or violent from a distance. Try closing your eyes," he cocked his head, "It might startle you, how much you like it."

I fought back a powerful urge to grimace.

"But then, if it's really not for you," he slipped the spoon between his lips, and drew it out clean, "say so. I'll drop it."

"No," I shook my head, and with more than a few misgivings, stabbed out my own viscid spoonful. "I...don't mind trying new things..."

He smirked, and I saw his brows arch just before I shut my eyes, and set the spoon's silver bowl onto my tongue. I swallowed.

Sweet. Salty . A bit metallic. Like blood.

"Well?"

"...Yes," I opened my eyes. "I like it."

But you already knew that, didn't you? I took a blind stab through his curtain, hoping no dead Polonius would fall out on top of me.

"And yes. I'll do it," I replaced the spoon tremulously to the table, "with one condition."

He leaned forward until his shadow fell off the table, and into my lap

"Name it," he leveled his gaze, "But take your time, and think carefully, Penny. You won't have this opportunity again."

I didn't need to take my time. And I didn't need to think it through. It was all I'd been thinking about since we sat down that night—it was all I'd been thinking since the night before, when I made all my bloodcurdling discoveries. Are we going in circles? I ran my forefinger nervously around the rim of my glass.

"Just tell me why."

He frowned slightly, "We've been through this."

"No," I stopped drawing my rings, and looked at him, "not why me. And not why here," I stared. "Why this?" I pinched the center stone of my choker, "Why are you like this, Dmitri?"

He withdrew coolly.

"It's just..." I pressed, expending my last modicum of courage, "you don't really strike me as a deviant. Or a sociopath. Or anything similar. But I don't think normal people do this sort of thing," I tugged the necklace tight against my throat. "They just don't."

"I'll grant you the latter," he sipped his champagne. "I'm no sociopath."

"Please," I pleaded softly, "I can't. Not until you tell me."

He held out a moment longer, probably to see if I would fold. I didn't. His leer subsided, and he sighed gruffly.

"Jung. Spielrein. Skinner. Lacan," he refilled our flutes, and handed me my glass, "and all the drugstore psychology here and hereafter will get you nowhere with me. It's always been like this. I've always been like this."

I clutched the crystal stem, "...always?"

"Always," he nodded tightly.

It was hard to imagine. I saw a boy with black hair, and terrible blue eyes. I saw his apple-cheeked scowl, and his dimpled smirk. I tried to see those sinister thoughts in his head. I couldn't.

"So," I stared into the crisp, amber bubbles of my glass, "even you and Emily. When you were with her..."

"Yes," he interrupted, "much the same."

But you married her... I dropped my eyes, silenced. My second champagne began to vaporize inside me, forming a heavy, sweet haze in head. It was silly. I wasn't sad exactly, but in that moment, there was a fragile, painted part of me that kind of wanted to cry. Not a lot. One, clean tear would do the trick, really—slipping off my cheek and onto the rim of my glass. I needed it. I needed something. And it must have shown on my face.

"I understand why you'd want to know, Penny," his words were heavy. "I did too, at one time. But the most I can really say," his voice darkened, and dried out, "is that fetishes are like phobias. A handful are quite common. Others, more obscure. Most are harmless. And just a few..."

He trailed off for a moment, and his eyes lost focus.

"I once met a young woman. A girl, really. She was patient in the psychiatric ward of St. Brendan's," he gazed straight through me. "She was so afraid of choking on her food, that before she was admitted she'd very nearly starved herself to death. All skin and bones." He raised his fork, and a deep chill sank through me as he dragged its tines over the remaining marrow. "She died there. In her room. Getting all her nutrients through a needle—her whole life. No one could help her."

I flinched as he dropped the fork to his plate with a clatter, and lowered his cold, blue eyes to mine.

"There are kinds of madness that can't be cured," he glared. "They get in there too deep—right down to the bone. If I could tell you where it is they come from, I would. Believe me. But I can't... And neither can anyone else," he grabbed the fork again, and stabbed the little sliver of turbot. "When I was younger. A little more foolish. And a lot more arrogant," he bit, "I thought maybe I could solve that riddle myself. It's the only reason I went to medical school."

Come again? My own fork fell to the plate, landing loudly against the porcelain.

"You..." Christ in heaven, you've got to be kidding me. "You're a doctor?"

"No," he shook his head, and drank his wine, "never finished. I left. About halfway through my last year."

"But...you went," my mouth fell open into an oblong zero, "Why did you quit?"

"So I could sit in dark bistros. And seduce pretty painters," coolly, he echoed my smart assed line from the café. "So here we are, Miss Foster. Just a couple of shiftless dropouts."

The hell... I rubbed my eyes with both hands, disregarding the damage to my mascara. In some uncanny ways, it made more than a little sense. And I think there were times I might've even suspected it. Foggily, I summed together the how he'd handled my sprained ankle, the odd way he scolded me when I'd been out in the cold too long, and his clinical inquisition when he discovered I'd been ill.

Even at the gallery, I gazed down to my left hand. That first time he touched me—it was because I'd pricked my finger.

I crossed my arms guardedly. As a rule, I kept at arm's length anyone who reminded me too much of my Father. That included physicians of any ilk or flavor. And even when I was little, no one—least of all, Doctor Foster—had ever mistaken me for a Daddy's girl. I was relieved to know Dmitri didn't finish. But still...

It skirted a line for me. I was wary. Very. And before we moved any further, I needed to know more. Not just because of the medicine—but because Dmitri Caine was a man with secrets. Lots of them, probably. I was literally about to hand myself over to him; to willfully make myself his hostage. And this set in stark relief how very little I truly knew about him.

Well. Where else than the beginning?

I drained my glass once more, and set it down, "So where did you study?"

"Dublin," he answered shortly, "at Trinity."

'St. Brendan's, Grangegorman.' Clears that up, I guess... I recalled the perplexing article I'd uncovered in the British Journal of Medicine, tagged with his name, and one other.

I nodded slowly, "you did research?"

"I did," he cocked his head, I think, a little leery. "The senior psychiatrist there—his area of focus was peculiar," he impaled the last bit of fish on his fork, "I wanted to work with him. It's why I went to Ireland."

I bit my lip "...Adam White?"

For a second, he stopped chewing.

"It seems you came prepared, Penny," for the first time that night, he didn't look at me when he said my name. "You read the article?"

"I tried," I nodded cautiously, "didn't really understand it."

"You're in good company," he smirked, but so wryly that it looked more like a lopsided sneer. "It took me much longer than I care to admit before I realized it, but the man was a charlatan." He shook his head, "Though I suppose he left me with a certain business savvy. I know when someone is lying now."

"And that's why you quit?"

His face darkened, "No. I can't say that it was."

An uncomfortable silence passed between us. The thing I wanted to ask him definitely wouldn't make our words any less uncomfortable. But I figured it was far better than not talking at all. Discreetly, I pushed the cattle bone toward the edge of my plate.

"Emily's Irish, isn't she?" I poked it again. "Did you meet her at Trinity?"

His eyes narrowed, "in a manner of speaking."

How enlightening. I tried once more.

"So...she was what?" I knitted my brow, "An art student?"

Like me, maybe? Like who-knows-how-many poor girls you've tried using to replace her?

"No. Emily never went to university," it was his turn to drain his glass. "But sometimes she snuck into the anatomy lab to watch dissections. Thought it helped her when she painted nudes—knowing what was there under the skin," he tipped the bottle, pouring out the very last of the Dom into our glasses, "That's how we met."

Seriously? I felt a little wave of nausea bubble through me. Formaldehyde in air. Harsh fluorescent lighting. Half-disemboweled bodies all about. I tried hard not to look at the cattle bones we'd scraped clean. Who wouldn't fall in love?

"...Wow," it was about all I could think to say, "she um, she sounds pretty..." wincing, I remembered her self-portrait at the gallery; the nude one, with her wrists bound, "...unafraid." My heart was in my throat again, "Did you like that about her?"

"This fixation of yours, Penny," he voice was rough and low, "Why do you care so much about her?"

You're kidding, right? I bit my tongue. She's more talented than me. Prettier. She knows you. Knows what you like. You only ever took note of me because of something she said. Oh, and you were married to her, Mr. Caine. Did I leave anything out?

In truth, I left all of it out. But I suspect what I did say may have cut almost as deeply.

"Why do you?" I murmured. "I mean, at the gallery. You seemed so close."

"...I see," he drew his mouth to one side, and cracked his neck violently before answering. "Understand, Penny, I still support her. Her work. Certain expenses. I have means, and she has need. Beyond that," he stopped cold, "there's nothing. There's no one. And listen carefully when I tell you that I would not have asked this of you tonight if there were."

I had my doubts. And I made little effort to conceal them. It was preposterous—that he had picked me, and only me, out of the long, winding line of young women who must crumble at his feet on any given evening. No. If anything, I was one of some several dozen irons in his fire. I had to be. Things like this, my toes curled, they don't happen in real life. They just don't.

He was still watching me. I felt a felt a chill as he reached over, and set his hand tightly on top of my wrist.

"Look. I don't play nicely with the other kids, Miss Foster. Never learned to share," his grip grew tighter. "If you come to Lacoste, you won't be seeing much of other men. I intend to keep you to myself. Because that's just the sort of greedy bastard I am. But you need know," his gaze leveled darkly, "I never involve myself with more than one. I'm given to tunnel vision—the girl I choose gets the full brunt of my focus," he stroked the soft, thin skin over my wrist, "And that's her burden. Until it isn't."

...That's what worries me. I knitted my brow. In Emily, I saw every paltry thing I could possibly offer him refined, redoubled, and a thousand times magnified. And if even she was not enough, how could I honestly hope to last an hour in his house?

"Fine," I breathed, "that's fine. But just tell me—and I'll let it go. What happened?" I dropped my eyes to the table. "Why did it...end?"

His jaw locked, and his eyes flashed white.

"It ended. And that's enough, Penny. I don't expect you to understand it. You're very young. And you've never been married."

There it is.

"No," I pulled away, and ran a quivering finger over my bare shoulder. "I haven't. But I was engaged once, Dmitri."

Chapter 14

You shouldn't have said that. Even as the words left my lips, I knew it was a mistake to let them loose. The haze of that third champagne had more or less pulverized my capacity to hold my tongue.

"Something else to drink tonight, mes amis?" our server reappeared, and reclaimed the empty bottle before setting out the next course.

Dmitri sat silent, a deadly blue chill in his eyes. For a moment, the man's words didn't even seem to reach him.

"...Non merci," he growled, his lips barely moving.

The boy nodded nervously, and left us in a hurry. The scene he left behind on the table was only slightly less macabre than the marrow, and at least as sinister. Two white platters sat between us, the roasted hind leg of a hare lying artfully upon each one. Dmitri's eyes didn't leave me for a moment.

"Who was he?"

I hunched low in my chair, wrapping my fingers around a fresh, serrated knife, "does it matter?"

His shoulders rose and fell tensely with each breath he took.

Deep inside, there was a smug part of me that might've liked to savor this moment, just reveling in his few seconds of stupefaction. But I couldn't. I'd cut too close to a wound in me that was still festering. It stung every time someone touched it, even by accident. And I had no interest in knowing how a sharp, sadistic mind like his might use it against me. I hoped against hope he might just let it go.

He didn't.

"He was older?"

I nodded reluctantly, "A few years."

"And not a stranger in your home," he cocked his head. "Family friend, maybe?"

This is why. This is why you should've kept your fucking mouth shut, Penny. I clenched my teeth. He sees the way your wheels turn.

"He played lacrosse with two of my brothers," I nearly made myself sick, just trying to keep my voice from shaking. "Dad was always working. Japan, mostly. His Mom was a country club drunk," my nostrils flared, "he stayed with us a lot growing up."

He nodded gravely, "And you left him."

"I did."

I raised my knife, and sawed softly into the steaming hare's leg—mostly to keep my hands busy. My appetite had very much vanished.

"Because he hurt you."

My knife clinked loudly on the plate.

"He never hit me, Mr. Caine."

It was a low blow, I guess. But I didn't mind fighting dirty. I nibbled a few threads of moist, tender meat from my fork.

"No," he folded his hands, looming forward over top of me, "but he hurt you. You didn't tell anyone. And that's why you run."

Some water seared at the edges of my eyes. I shook it away, praying he hadn't noticed.

"...You're not as clever as you think."

His face went deadpan, "Tell me I'm wrong."

Fucking Christ. I hate that. I dropped my simmering eyes again, defeated.

"That's fine," he lifted his knife, "The truth is, Penny, I don't care. I don't care who he was. What he did to you. Or what your life was like together. None of it matters to me. What does," he cut, "is what comes next. Say yes. Leave here with me tonight. And I'm going to treat you as something that belongs to me. Something precious. Cherished. Uncommonly beautiful—like every other piece in my collection. And like every other piece in my collection," his voice fell lower, "I'll share you with no one."

I watched him slide the blade beneath the skin, and slowly peel it back.

"Not a soul. No one else will be able to touch you, Penny. And no one else will hurt you. I promise."

"No one," I breathed, "except you."

He made no answer. None was needed. His silence was its own dark affirmation. Just below the skin, my whole body seemed to be quaking. The way he looked at me; the way he leered and sniffed; how little he ever let his eyes leave mine—it was becoming too much for me.

Entirely too much.

The whole night I'd felt hunted by him, preyed upon. But 'cat-and-mouse' didn't capture it. There was nothing feline in the way he stalked me. It was more his way to snarl, and snap; to bear his teeth, and watch me cower. Venery. There's the word. I suppose it's all fun and games for the hound. But the fox—she's fleeing for her life. And there were, as far as I knew, only two ways that those hunts ever ended. The fox escaped. Or else she didn't. Cornered, skinned, skewered. I swallowed. 'There are no other possibilities.'

So run.

"Please..." my blood pumped furiously; with what very little grace I could manage, I slid out from my seat, and stood. "Veuillez m'excuser, Monsieur."

His eyes arrested me. And in that moment, I knew he could see what I intended to do. I tensed my arms and legs to keep them from trembling as I stood there, awaiting his permission to make my escape.

"De rien," almost imperceptibly, he tipped his chin, "Miss Foster."

And that was that. All I needed—my release. I was free.

I didn't need to worry. I didn't need to fret. I didn't have to go home with him, and be the girl imprisoned in his castle. And I'd never have to know how deep the rabbit hole really went. And as I about-faced for the corridor, I really expected to feel some tremendous flood of relief wash over me.

A flood did come. But when it did, it nearly drowned me. Every step that I took, it became doubly difficult to breathe, and barely halfway back to the bar I was all but hyperventilating.

My head spun. My skin seared. I caught a carved stone pillar to keep from collapsing in what I believe may have been an honest-to-God swoon. Panicking and perspiring, I glanced around. The door to the ladies room stood just a few paces further. I scraped up my strength, and staggered in.