Other Colors Ch. 23-24

We stood up, still grinning, and a little bit giddy. He brushed off his knees, then he brushed off mine. He drew me close, and I rose up on my toes to kiss him. He let me. He closed his eyes, and let me kiss him. He set his hand on the nape of my neck, and he kissed me back.

It's strange. It was the closest I'd felt to him in days, but it was a kiss unlike any we'd shared in the past. I wasn't turned on, really, nor was I terrified. There were no incendiaries, no explosions inside of me. It was idle, in a way; almost sweet—about as libidinous as a cool, autumn breeze. His eyes were still closed as I pulled away. His jaw was clenched, and his brow was tight. I flushed a bit brighter. I knew the look well. He wanted me. He was holding himself back. I shrank, and sank my teeth into my lip, hoping to divert his attention.

"It's so dark out here," my words turned to steam between us, "...like being buried underground."

He sighed, still straining to reign himself in, "like your dream," he pointed upward, shaking his head, "I disagree."

My dream. I scrunched my nose. Urszene in utero. Tomb, womb. What the hell is he pointing at?

"Then we left hell," he lifted my chin, trying to turn my eyes skyward, "and a again beheld the stars."

Seriously. Just for one night, sir—can we do without the Florentine riddles? Please? Pretty please? Is it so much to ask? I was ready to say something, to bare my teeth and scold him for his pretension. But then my eyes adjusted to the infinite darkness, and I saw what he wanted me to see.

"Holy..."

I blinked twice, as my breath left my body. He wrapped his arms around me again, tighter this time.

"My thoughts exactly, Miss Foster."

The sky was not of this earth—stippled with more stars than there were grains of sand in the sea. It was dizzying, disorienting. The longer I looked, the more lights I saw, and at times they even seemed to pulsate; like the subtle respirations of some great, celestial animal.

"I don't believe it," I breathed, still stunned, "it's beautiful."

He nodded again, staring silently with me into the bitter-clear night, "Did you ever stargaze as a girl, Penny?"

"Sometimes, I guess," I knitted my brow, "On the beach, back in Nags Head. I remember one night in July. It was humid, and clear. My Dad laid down in the sand," I shifted softly in the snow, "he showed me and two of my brothers how to find Orion's Belt. Alnitak, Alnilam, Mintaka. I just loved it," I bit my lip, remembering, "I wanted more. But I think those are still the only three stars I can name."

He squeezed my waist, "would you like another three, Miss Foster?"

Is he serious? He took my hand in his, and tracing out an arc in the sky. I shivered, and squinted, tucking my shoulders into his chest.

"Almach, Mirach, Alpheratz," his whiskers bristled warmly against my ear, "Andromeda, chained to the rock."

I blushed, and nestled deeper, "...you're awful."

"Ah, but that's not all," his words were dulcet, and dark, "There, below her. Cetus, coming to swallow her whole. And there, to the west," he fixed my gaze, "Perseus, riding in to the rescue."

I tried hard to see it; the whole tableau punched out above us on a spangled tapestry of black. I suspect the sentiment was too abstract. But still, of all the Andromeda paintings I'd studied—Titian to Lempicka, Rembrandt to Rubens—not a one quite compared to this.

"Drama," I smirked, "do you think he'll save her in time?"

"I think if he doesn't," he let his chin graze the nape of my neck, "his lights will burn out before morning."

Morning, mourning. Tomb, womb. We passed a few minutes in silence, until my teeth began to chatter.

"I swear," I whispered, "I could stay out here all night, Dmitri."

"You could, yes. But I suspect you'd freeze solid inside an hour," he grasped me around the shoulders. "Come. Let's get you inside."

"Afraid I'll go frigid on you, sir?" I baited him.

He smiled wryly, sliding down to my hands, and tugged, "I'm you'll catch your death out, if I let you."

I sighed, reluctantly letting him lead me up the steps to the cabin, and waited by with folded hands while he unlocked the door. Rupestrian reappeared, like a Dantean Cerberus, and plopped down beside me, panting and gnawing his parsnip.

"Alright," he turned the handle, "in you go."

'Lasciate ogni speranza.' Morning Star. Mourning star. The ninth circle was ice. I stepped forth slowly. That much, Maitre, I remember.

He flipped on the lights, and I shielded my eyes. I'm not sure just what I expected. l hear the word 'cabin', and my mind flies to quilts, antlers, and Grandma Moses. Pine cones, perhaps, and a perpetual smell of sawdust. But Dmitri's 'cabin' had none of these.

I wandered further, running my fingers along the cognac edge of a chesterfield. The place was still cozy, I suppose, but somehow more rusty than rustic. My reflection moved through a half dozen windows of high, gridded glass. Pendant lights dangled from the crisscrossing beams overhead. Everywhere, the place seemed to seep a distillation of his odd and austere masculinity. I'd caught flourishes of the like at Lacoste, especially in the spartan sanctum of his bedroom. But whereas the Chateau maintained a measure of balance in its Directoire furnishings and angelic, neoclassical nudes, the interior here seemed the sort of place Giorgio Morandi might've honeymooned with Hemingway. To anyone of softer sensibilities, like myself, it was desolate as a newly scorched forest.

"This way."

He set his hand in the small of my back, and led me up a flight of floating stairs to the master. He nodded, pressing open the door.

"Get unpacked," the duffel dropped at the foot of the bed, "I think I've some sweaters and such in the lower drawers. The rest are all yours."

I bit my lip, watching him kneel at a slate hearth in the corner. I hadn't budged an inch from the doorway. I'm not entirely sure I was breathing.

"Something wrong again, Penny?" I watched him stack a few birch logs together.

I shook my head.

"It's just," my eyes fell, "we've never slept in the same room together, sir."

He was quiet a moment, then struck a match, tossing it atop the tinder.

"It's true," he blew, stoking the fledgling flame with his breath, "I didn't want to suffocate you at Lacoste. You needed your sanctuary. You needed air."

How kind of you to let me know what I need, Monsieur.

"Needed," I echoed him, running the flat of my palm across the duvet, "And now?"

"Now," his eyes flashed as he stood, beating the soot and cinder from his hands. "You know that I'm the jealous type, Penny," he stalked across from me, never breaking his stare. "I'm jealous of the sheets you sleep in—of how they wind themselves around your body. I'm jealous of the air you breathe," he cocked his head, and bent closer, "that you can't live without it-of how deeply it penetrates you."

He held out his arm to me over the bed, offering his hand. Is that your notion of a sweet nothing, Monsieur? I knitted my brow, stretching to lay my pale palm in his.

"Would you have me stop breathing, sir?"

His grin flickered darkly, "Would it be so much to ask, my dear?"

His grip tightened and he wrenched me forward, forcing me down across the bed. By sheer instinct, I tried to scramble away, but he wouldn't allow it. He mounted the bed, pinning my wrists above me, and split my legs apart with his thigh. I wriggled feebly against him. I shut my eyes, trembling as he let his lips graze over my throat. Liebe und Schmerz. Le Vampire. I sighed, surrendering incrementally as he approached my chest. I'd almost forgotten what it was like to be beneath him, to feel the heaviness of his body against mine. To be held, and held down. To be helpless. To be his.

He descended. My toes curled, and my eyelids fluttered. Honestly, I expected him to take me, then and there. I wanted him to take me. I wanted him to tear open my jacket—to brutalize, and make love to me, just like that first time in his study. He wanted the same. I knew he did. I could feel him against me, growing harder and larger with each hastening beat of his heart. His blue eyes froze over. His breath was cool as a serpent's kiss. I braced myself for the storm. But as swiftly as the swell arose, it dissipated, and he backed away.

"Go on. Get unpacked," he rose up, releasing me. "I'll start on dinner. I'm sure you must be starving."

I am. I'm ravenous. I breathed tensely, still splayed on the bedspread, and trying not to feel too scorned by his retreat.

I narrowed my eyes at the ceiling, "you're going to cook?"

"I must," he nodded, running his hand along the edge of my calf, and drawing it all the way down my ankle. "You'll need your strength tonight. Besides, we have a grueling day ahead of us."

Grueling? I shuddered. It's all a game to him, isn't it? He just wants to frustrate me. He wants to make me suffer.

"I'm not hungry, Dmitri."

"Liar," he squeezed, "though I don't blame you for being skeptical. They say an ill cook never licks his own fingers." Smoothly, he slipped off my flat, and my eyes grew wide as he raised my painted toes to his jaw, "Make of it what you will, Miss Foster."

He kissed, letting his tongue dart lightly across my toes. I shrieked, and writhed, trying to wrest myself from his grasp. It tickled terribly, but he held me fast. I was almost in tears by the time he stopped.

"Sugar. Spice. Everything nice..." he released me, "Unpack, Penny. Before one of us spoils our supper."

I panted below him, crossed my ankles tightly, and frowned. It only frustrated me all the more. Even in the midst of torture, his touch still sent warm, wanton trills of electricity rippling up into my hips. I propped myself up on my elbows, looking on reticently as he made for the doorway.

"You're more cruel than you can imagine, Mr. Caine," I murmured.

"No," he paused, answering wolfishly without turning, "only more cruel than you care to believe."

His words were ominous, and cool. They were still sinking over me as he vanished. I listened to his footsteps recede down the hall. I watched my chest rise and fall with each breath. I listened to my stomach rumble plaintively as I rolled over. I drew my mouth to one side, and sighed. He was right, of course. I was starving. But I would've wasted away, gladly, to keep him in bed with me just a little bit longer.

Huc coeamus. Coeamus. Emaciated Echo.

I slid off the the bed, and unpacked the duffel bag. The clothes he'd brought for me were more or less what I'd come to expect—tasteful, well-tailored, just barely provocative enough to make me blush. After a bit of digging, though, I did discover something that surprised me. There, near the very bottom, he'd tucked away my old flannel pajamas.

Well at least I won't freeze. I smirked, pulling them out, and laid them gingerly beside one of his heavier sweaters. The fire crackled, and spat. I knelt there a moment, stroking the sweater with my thumb, and with a timid glance over my shoulder, touched its wool sleeve to my cheek. It was warm. It was coarse—almost abrasive. It smelled of cedar, civetone, and smoke. It was like him. And like him, i wasn't quite willing to let go.

Silently, I slipped off my blouse and bra, double-checking the doorway to make sure he wasn't lurking about in the darkness. I pulled the wool over my eyes. The fire hissed again. The fibers prickled against my chest. I glanced myself over in the mirror, and drew my mouth to one side. It was ridiculous, really. I looked like a child.

But that's how he treats you, isn't it, Penny? I crossed my arms, and blushed. You play the part so nicely for him. You might as well dress the part, too. I turned away, suppressing the reproachful voice in my head. Not tonight. I shuddered. Tonight we were alone, secluded, with not another living soul for miles. Nothing and no one was going to get between us. I'm not even sure God was watching. But that's nothing new, is it, Miss Foster? The voice was still there. He turned a blind eye ages ago.

I fled the room, letting his sweater's neck slip to expose my shoulder as I sauntered swiftly downstairs.

"...Is something burning, sir?" I stopped short, sniffing through a subtle, white haze of smoke.

From over in the kitchen, he spun to face me, stirring a steaming copper pot with a whisk. I had to fight back the urge to laugh—he, too, looked ridiculous. He'd donned a black apron, an oven mitt, and rolled up his sleeves to the elbow. All he was missing was the neckerchief, and a big, floppy toque blanche.

"Wood. It was wet," he answered shortly, cocking his head at my outfit. "If you're still cold, Penny, go sit by the fire."

Like some maniacal Prometheus, he'd lit another large stack of logs beside the chesterfield, and directed me sternly with his whisk. Again, he wasn't wrong. I was cold. But it's not why I'd stolen his sweater. I shuffled over the hearth, and sat down with my back to the flames. La Pucelle. Geoffroy Thérage. Is something burning, Monsieur?

I hunched forward, resting my arms on my knees, "could I help you in the kitchen?"

"In a moment," he moved away from the stove, filling two thin-stemmed glasses with Beaujolais, "Once I've warmed you through, Penny."

He brought over the wine. Our glasses clinked.

"What are we toasting tonight?" I glanced up, grinning.

He shrugged, "Snow, I suppose. The frigid north wind." He returned my smirk wryly, and raised his glass, "To paradoxical undressing, perhaps. May she huddle herself ever closer."

I blushed, watching him sip, and sheepishly followed suit. The tannin spread over my throat like oil over lace. He watched me silently for a moment, until my skin glowed brighter than the flames.

"Come," he offered his hand, "I need to borrow your tongue."

Philomela and Tereus. A quiet cabin in Thrace. I clenched my jaw. Sing, sweet nightingale—her mournful hymns did hush the night. I trailed him warily back to the kitchen, sniffing again as he opened the oven.

"Smells amazing," I sipped.

He narrowed his eyes, "you don't think it's burning?"

"It could be," I nodded, hopping up to seat myself on the counter, "but I think I could eat crow tonight, and be happy." I crossed my legs, "What is it?"

"Better than crow," he threw the door shut. "Coulibiac. A sort of muscovite salmon en croute. But this," he dipped a wooden spoon into the pot, "this is what I want you to taste."

He blew gently to cool its contents. I arched my brows, a bit suspicious, and lowered my lips to the spoon. Sweet. Salty. A bit metallic.

"It's odd," I swallowed.

"Do you dislike it?" he stirred, and I shook my head.

"It's not bad, necessarily. Just odd. Almost coppery," I licked my lips, "I don't think I've had anything like it."

"Perhaps not. Vesiga," he nodded, "is the marrow of a sturgeon's spine. An old favorite at the Winter Palace. Part of the last supper on the Titanic. But I have to agree," he topped off my wine, "it tastes a bit like pennies."

I blushed, and shook my head. No pun intended, I presume?

"You're quite the chef, Monsieur," I bent closer. The Beaujolais was making me bold, "Did you used to cook for Emily, too?"

He quit stirring. Why did you say that, Penny?

"I did, yes," his eyes flashed icily, "but that's not really what you're asking me, is it?" He drummed his fingers on the counter, trapping me between his arms, "Go on. Qu'est-ce qui te ronge?"

Saint Catherine, spinning circles. I stroked the stem of my glass. He really does see them turning, doesn't he?

"That bed upstairs," I breathed softly, "you used to bring her here, didn't you?"

He leaned even closer, leveling his gaze, "I won't lie to you. I won't tell you I've never been up here with another woman," his brow tightened, "But Emily, no. I built this place just after we split up."

I bit into my lip, wrestling with the frayed ends of all my more friable nerves. I wanted to ask him. By now, I felt I had the right to ask him. But principle and practice were still too often at odds. I swirled my wine again, watching its legs melt down the edges of my glass

"...Why?"

He stared at me a moment, weighing, I think, whether to answer, intimidate, or silence me.

"Lacoste was haunted," he backed away, quaffing his wine, "I wanted someplace to start fresh. Somewhere empty, and bare. A blank canvas, if you like."

"A 'sanctuary', sir?" I echoed his words from earlier.

He sniffed, but didn't smile, "I'm sure you can relate, Miss Foster. You fled north yourself once."

I felt a distant, piercing sting in my chest, as if a hornet had landed on my heart.

"Is that what we're doing up here, Dmitri?" I steadied myself, "Starting over?"

He leered at me wolfishly—from my bare shoulder, to my missing shoes. I felt my skin burn crimson beneath his gaze.

"No. You can never start over," he stirred the pot once more, "Even if you could, I wouldn't. Every mistake I've made, Penny—every sin, every shadow, and scar—has its part in what led me to you."

I dropped my eyes. His words were sweet, but he couldn't mean them. Some scars are deeper than they seem, Dmitri. He didn't wait for me to respond. I suppose he knew, somehow, why I was silent. I watched him reach past me, and lift a long, gleaming knife from the rack.

"You know how to use one of these."

I nodded, catching my reflection in the blade. Happy dagger. This is thy sheath.

"Cut up some parsnips, Penny," he passed it over, "we'll roast them with the coulibiac."

I sighed, summoning a false smirk as I slipped off the counter. The non sequitur was sloppy, but it was a saving grace. He yielded his apron, draping it gently over my shoulders. I put my hand on his knife, and shivered.

"How long, sir?" a chill cut through me as he pulled the apron's straps, drawing them tight across the small of my back. He took pleasure in tying them—I could tell. "Half an inch?" I picked up a parsnip, "...More?"

"Split them up the middle," he instructed, "like a grand jeté."

I blushed deeper, feeling him gather up my hair, and clear it from the nape of my neck. His touch alone was enough to undo me. I closed my eyes, sighing as he laid light chain of kisses along the edge of my throat.

"Keep cutting," he whispered.

I did as he asked. I kept my eyes closed, melting warmly beneath the steady descent of his lips. On the seventh slice, I felt a sting, and for a moment, I thought he must have bitten me. But when I opened my eyes, I was bleeding. Three tiny, red droplets stippled the cutting board, fallen from the tip of my finger. Orion's Belt, Orion's blood. I winced, slipping my finger into my mouth.

Salty. I sucked. A bit metallic. Dmitri glanced up, spotted my ichorous constellation, and glared.

"Let me see," he snatched my hand.

"It's nothing, honestly. It's fine," I flushed, flashing back dizzily to the very moment we met. As then, it was more of a prick than anything; barely bleeding, "It doesn't even hurt, sir. I swear."

He glowered at me, and then at my hand, "hold still."

I watched, trying hard not to roll my eyes, as he slid open a drawer, and removed some peroxide, a bit of gauze, and a bandage.

"It will sting," he moistened the gauze, "but only for a moment. Squeeze my hand if it helps."

You've said that before, sir. More than once. I nodded, biting deep into my cheek as he dabbed my finger. Are you certain we're not starting over? A moment passed. The burn flashed, and then fizzled.