What My Flowers Said Ch. 10-13

The shredded edges fell apart like a blossoming flower. Inside, I found a flared skirt and a scarlet blouse, smartly folded around some black pantyhose, checked with a diagonal plaid. Underneath was a cute pair of suede ballet flats, complete with an ankle-strap bow. He'd even thrown in a fresh bandage for my ankle for good measure. And tucked at very bottom I spied a note, scribbled out in his unmistakable hand.

'Penny,

Apologies if these aren't to your taste. Wear them anyways. And meet me downstairs when you're dressed.

- D'

I sighed. Right. So that's not at all ominous. I glanced again at the note. He could've at least said 'please.'

There were no tags to be found, but by the fabrics and stitching alone, I could tell the clothes were more costly than my entire wardrobe put together. Frowning, I unfurled the blouse on the bed, and a bolt of horror tore through me as I uncovered yet another surprise. Concealed there in the center was a lace brassiere, and a pair of matching panties—just as lovely and luxurious as the everything else, and to my burning embarrassment, precisely the right size. A cool sweat beaded on my chest. It was awkward enough, letting him pick out an outfit for me. But this—this was beyond the pale.

Cold and quivering now, I let my towel drop and got dressed, smoothing a crease in the skirt as I studied the strange girl in the mirror. I'll admit, she didn't look half-bad. The ensemble was chic. Classic. Borderline sexy. But I felt very self-conscious letting him dress me. Part of me almost wondered—would I feel any more or less helpless, any less vulnerable, if I just took a leaf from Lady Godiva, and sauntered downstairs to him naked?

Would it really be any different? I scowled. If at least I could just keep my own underthings, and not be deprived that last flimsy modicum of my sovereignty. I glanced down to where they lay, wrinkled up on the floor, and still damp with sweat of my nightmares. No. No, you can't, Penny. Absolutely not.

I grimaced, gathering up all my dirty clothes, and folded them as best as I could at the foot of the bed. I pulled my hair back, and gave one final spin in the mirror. The skirt was shorter than what I'd normally wear. When I bent down to buckle the straps on my ankles, it barely covered the more critical latitudes of my legs. I blushed. I had to wonder if—or many times, rather—he'd pulled this little stunt in the past. I wondered how many women had stood in this spot, wearing an outfit like the one I wore now. Hair dripping. Lips pursed. Appraising themselves, and their all their Lilliputian blemishes—every one of them magnified in the smooth, silver surface of the mirror. I wondered how many more would stand there after me. Dozens? Hundreds, maybe? Les onze milles vierges. Les onze mille verges. Pantoufle de verre. Pantoufle de verre. My face darkened, and I finished my hair in a low braid. Behind me, the door began sliding open. Oh, for Christ's sake, I spun. What now?

It was the dog again. He sat defiantly in the doorway, cocking his head at me. He barked, and I rolled my eyes.

"Alright," I answered, "Alright. I'm ready."

I crammed my makeup back in my purse, and peeked inside to check my phone. Still no word from Peter. My brow furrowed. After last night, I think I understood why he might be avoiding me. I would avoid me, if I was him. What's more, I hadn't the slightest inkling of how I'd explain what happened after he left.

First things first, Penny. You need to get the hell out of here. I took a deep breath, steeling myself, and followed the dog down to the stairhead. My hand swept along the banister. My ankle was still swollen and stiff. Its violet bruise was beginning to blacken, but it wasn't throbbing like the night before. Lacoste, too, was improved by the daylight. All its menacing shadows had been swept off by sunbeams, streaming in through a myriad of mullioned windows, and cut in colored ribbons by the clear, beveled glass.

I quivered at the foot of the steps. I couldn't forget how it felt; that moment he hoisted me up in his arms. I couldn't forget how his touch had melted me. How powerless I'd been to resist him. It's that part, I think, that frightened me most. More than any phantom, ghost story, or nightmare; more than any midnight cortège of things-that-goes-bump-in-the-night. I wouldn't let him touch me again. I couldn't. Each time that he did, that spell, the paralysis of it's sting lingered a little bit longer. Next time, I might just quit breathing altogether.

Did Icarus drown?

Timidly, I called out his name in the foyer. No one answered. I tried Monsieur d'Hiver with the same result. But for me and dog, the whole house was stone still. We wandered on, and it wasn't until passing the parlor that I found the first signs of life. The faux-Delacroix had vanished from its easel, and a few smoldering birch logs sizzled and spat in the fireplace. I stepped up, warming my toes and stretching out my hands.

Where is he? I felt my cheeks begin to glow. Propped up by the logs stood his odious calling card—the fire iron I'd plucked from the dumpster last night, with a fresh coat of ash anointing its barb. Christ. He's really screwing with your head, isn't he? I turned around to warm my calves and rear. On the far side of the parlor, sunlight split prismatically through a trio of tall windows, and the view outside stole the breath from my lungs.

I took a step closer, entranced. From the crest of its little hill, Lacoste overlooked all of Old Montreal—its jagged, snow-covered gables, its patinaed steeples, and labyrinthine cobblestone lanes, meandering out to the icy banks of the river. And will he not come again? 'Quel rêve, à la folie. Tu viens chercher, la nuit, les fleurs que tu cueillis.'I shivered. The dog whined, and nudged me with his nose. My stomach growled back at him.

"Bet you're hungry, aren't you, boy?" I dropped down to scratch his chest, "C'mon, let's find you some food."

We wound our way again through the tortuous corridors. I took my time, arrested every few steps by a bathing nymph, or a blushing Venus; their sleepless eyes all asking the same silent question. Finally, we found the kitchen.

I rooted around in the cabinets, and scattered a handful of food. He yipped and pranced, sniffing out each morsel from the floor. A half-filled French press sat on the counter, with a thread of pale steam still escaping from its lid. I poured a cup and went to the fridge for some cream. The closest I could find was some mysterious little fairy bottle, with a red label printed in Cyrillic. Shrugging sleepily, I poured a splash in my mug, and sipped.

Ugh!

It was a miracle I made it the sink, rather than spewing it back across the counter. My face twisted, and I stuck my tongue under the faucet. Whatever it was, it had soured. I dumped the rest, and washed it away down the sink, lapping up a little more water for myself. I had to get that taste out of my mouth. I just prayed Mr. Caine wouldn't choose that moment to appear from behind and tap me on the shoulder. He had an uncanny knack for catching me in the most compromising positions. The dog barked. My little fit had excited him. He pranced at my ankles, waggling his enormous black tail.

"Why didn't you tell me it had gone bad, huh?" I knelt down to rub his ears, "Bet you could smell it for miles."

He barked again, and leapt forward, pouncing against my shoulders.

"Jesus!"

The sheer weight of him knocked me flat, and he pinned me to the floor, whining, and licking my face and neck.

"Stop, stop, stop, stop!" I giggled, trying to shove him away. His tongue tickled terribly, and I was genuinely stuck.

"Help!" I cried, half-breathless.

"Rupestrian! Pas touché," Mr. Caine's voice cut through the room.

The dog retreated, whimpering, and nestled himself on the floor beside me. Great. Just great... And I'll bet he licked off all my makeup. I sighed, wiping my cheeks as Mr. Caine bent to help me up. His hand was colder than normal. I gave him a quick, clandestine once-over.

Dear Lord. He didn't really go running, did he? I bit my lip. His hair was damp, and he was dressed all in black athletic wear. It was a different look for him, but a good one. Beneath the sleek, skin-tight material, I could see every tone and ripple of his arms and abs and shoulders; the swell of his muscular chest. L'Âge d'airain, I swallowed. The Boxer at Quirinal.

"Good morning," he let go, his eyes flashing back at me, "I see you found the coffee."

I nodded, already reddening.

"Yeah," I smirked shyly, "But your cream is spoiled. And your dog's been very naughty."

"That's not cream. It's kefir. And it's meant to be bitter," he picked up the empty bottle, rinsing it in the sink, "I didn't like it either, my first time. Or even the second," he cut the water, and tossed the bottle into the bin, "Its funny, isn't it? Even something so unsavory," he turned, "The way you can learn to crave it."

I wrinkled my nose. I didn't think I'd ever have a craving for kefir. But I felt bad for dumping it out.

"As for this one, I couldn't disagree more," he leaned down to touch the dog's head, "I think you'll find he's quite well-behaved. More so than most people, really," He stood, "Rupestrian, mange."

I watched in quiet awe as the dog stood up, lumbered into the butler's pantry, retrieved a large silver dish, and set it down gently at Mr. Caine's feet. He waited, sitting still as a statue.

"Bon garcon," he scratched his ears, and filled his bowl.

"Sure..." I crossed my arms, "but can he do it with one paw tied behind his back?"

He grinned wryly.

"Rupestrian's an animal. He responds to animal behaviors," he nodded, "Dominance, submission. It's something primal. Printed in his genes," He cocked his head, "The training takes time. The discipline. You need to be patient. You need to be firm," he laid his cool, blue eyes upon me, "But in the end, Penny," the dog nuzzled his leg, "I'm not sure there's anything more natural."

I pursed my lips. Just what he was getting at, I was afraid to venture a guess. But about one thing, at least, I could see he was undoubtedly right. He had his dog very well-trained.

I tiptoed to the coffee press, pouring us each a fresh cup, "I suppose you're gone with work a lot. It must get lonely for him."

"Stay off your toes, Penny," he chided, "And no. It's not so bad. We go running each morning. In the summer, I take him north with me to the Territories. Jules is around the rest of the year."

"I see..." I sipped, drumming my fingers on the edge of my mug, "Then it's really just the three of you?"

He stepped closer, and I shriveled up under his shadow.

"What are you asking me, Penny?"

I shrugged, quickly regretting the question, "I don't know. I just... I was thinking of Evelyn, I guess."

He drank his coffee, his blue eyes piercing straight through me. It was an agonizing feeling—like I was melting from the inside out. I guess I could have left off right there. I could've spared myself the pain of pushing further. But I knew. I knew I needed more from him. I needed answers. Reasons. Especially after last night. After picking me up from jail, after the washroom that morning, and the vanity, and the clothes, and lingerie, and that monkey business carrying me upstairs last night. I needed to know what his involvement really was with her; what his interest really was in me.

"I mean, she must've loved this place," I breathed softly, "It's like a dream."

He sniffed, "Hated it, actually. Too dusty. Too vieux jeu." He narrowed his eyes, and set down his mug. "You really don't know her at all. Do you, Penny?"

"No," I stammered, rising anxiously onto my toes, "Why would I?"

"Because it was Evelyn," his words were leaden, "who pointed out your paintings to me at the gallery."

No. My stomach dropped. No, that can't be right.

"I'd told her about the café. She knew I was looking for you," he paused, nodding, "Very strange... I was under the impression you two had met."

Her? My heart quickened. Her? She's the reason for all this? I shook my head, sneering.

"No. Afraid I haven't had the pleasure."

He stared at me, his blue eyes busied by a new slate of cryptic and invisible calculations. It was as though he was looking at me for the first time. He stepped closer.

His words blew cool across my face, "...You know you never fail to surprise me, Miss Foster." He shifted, "But if you never spoke with Evelyn about me—about what I was after," his blue eyes blazed, "then why in God's name did you call me last night?"

'God's name,' I flushed. I thought you were 'godless,' Monsieur. I had no clue how to answer him. I was still reeling from the revelation that it was his goddamn ex-wife who pushed me into his path. I felt used. Cheated. I felt like a puppet, almost. A marionette, strung up and dangling for someone's amusement, my strings all tangled and knotted together.

"I'm a stranger to you, Penny," his voice fell lower, "I might've been a murderer. Or worse."

I shrank back, "...the thought did cross my mind."

And you living in a goddamn haunted house doesn't help much, Mister.

"Then why?" he leaned closer, resting his hands on the counter.

I couldn't believe he was going to make me say it. I felt the flames licking my face.

"Because," I breathed, "I didn't have anyone else."

He raised a brow, "No one?"

"Nobody answered," I blushed furiously, "No one but you."

He nodded darkly, his eyes still locked.

"You know, when we spoke at the café," he cocked his head, "you told me you didn't need anyone to look after you."

"Well I didn't plan on locking myself out," I gritted my teeth.

"No," he shook his head, "But it happened. And then you called me, a man you'd barely met, to come rescue you." He narrowed his eyes, "You came home with me. You bathed here. Dressed in the clothes I gave you..." He shook his head, and rapped his knuckles on the stone. "Even when I met you, Penny, you were on your knees. You were bleeding. You told me yourself you left school without the shadow of a plan. You have no home of your own. No one reliable in your life. And for Christ's sake, Penny—you're wandering around in a blizzard with a twisted ankle, and a torn coat."

This, I thought acidly, is none of his fucking business.

"And your point is..." I hissed, "Mr. Caine?"

"You know the problem with playing the damsel in distress, Penny?" He flashed his teeth, "It's not always the knight who comes to save you."

Oh my God. Are you serious? Could he be more fucking arrogant?

I laughed coldly, backing away, "I see. So now you're my knight-in-shining-armor now, are you?"

"No, Penny," his eyes frosted over, "I'm not."

"Damn right, you're not," his tone chilled me to the bone, but I brushed it off, "Just who the hell do think you are you, anyways? What do you want from me?" I glared at him, all my frustrations and anxieties boiling up to the surface at once. And like a cornered cat arching her back, once more, I raised myself onto my toes, doing what precious little I could to magnify my physical menace. "You say I shouldn't have called you?" I spat, "Fine. But why didn't you just leave me in that fucking cell, Mr. Caine? And what the hell is with these clothes?" I yanked the collar of my blouse, recklessly ripping open a button, "And the last night. And this morning. And what in God's name is going on in that bedroom?"

"Stay off your toes, Penny," he growled.

I'd startled myself with the outburst. But I wasn't about to back down. I took a deep breath, matching his stare as best I could.

"Just tell me," my lips trembled, "What do you want from me, Mr. Caine?"

"Stay off your toes," he repeated, bending closer.

His body loomed above me. Silently, impetuously, I raised my eyes to his, and lifted my uninjured foot from the ground. He said nothing, but his breath, like the air before a thunderstorm, was dark and weighted with rage. He was close enough I could smell him, the musk still fresh from his run. The scent made me dizzy. I almost fell.

"I won't say it again," his voice left frost on my lashes.

But still, I wasn't done. Summoning up those paltry few ballet lessons from when I was little, in one jagged thrust I forced myself, wincing, into a perilous and painful en pointe. For just a moment, I met his eyes again, blurred by the tears beading up in my own. And what I saw there was more than enough convince me I'd made a mistake.

'Holy shrine, the gentle sin is this...'

It's still not really clear to me what came next. He moved so fast. So forcefully. In a flash, his hands were on me. Both my legs had left the ground. I felt him pin me, dangling, against the stone wall at my back. And my two quivering lips—which together had conspired to let loose a shriek—were stifled. For before any sound could escape them, they were locked against those of Dmitri Caine.

His kiss was fierce, almost violent. In the sheer shock of it, I tried to pull away. But he held me fast; my legs and lips parted, my arms pinioned against the wall. And God...The taste of him. His scent. I couldn't get away. I couldn't get enough. My nerves unwound. My muscles went slack. I surrendered. I let him take me. Let him take his fill of me. And when I had nothing left to give, I kissed him back.

"I think you know, Miss Foster," he broke away, baring his teeth, "I don't care to repeat myself."

More. I couldn't speak. More. Je t'en prie. I could feel him hardening against me, uncoiling like an asp. I could feel a searing ache welling up in my chest. And slowly, steadily, against my will, I felt my hips begin grinding against him.

My mind went dark, dwindling down to the five animal senses. In my whole head, I think had room for only two thoughts. First, that Dmitri Caine was kissing me. And second, that for the first time in a very, very long while, I was hopelessly and ecstatically turned on. I quivered and quaked in his arms, breathing a soft and sibilant moan. It was like my hips were vibrating. My hips were vibrating.

Why is my hip vibrating? Prying an arm loose, I touched the pocket of my skirt, and found my phone.

Peter... I glanced up at Mr. Caine, agonized by the interruption. He glared back me, silent. He kept his jaw clenched. A vein on his forehead was throbbing.

"I... I have to answer," I stammered.

Still, he said nothing, standing still as cut marble. But his eyes could have frozen hell. Trembling all over, I slipped away, and answered.

"Penny? Penny?!"

"I'm here, Peter," my voice was frail.

I turned my back on Mr. Caine. I couldn't stand to look at him. My entire torso was on fire.

"Oh my God, Pens. I am so, so fucking sorry. I mean, Jesus, what the hell happened? Are you okay?"

"I'm fine, Peter," I breathed.

"Holy shit, I was like flipping out. I left my phone in my jeans last night, and when I woke up I had like fifty messages from you. And you what the fuck, Pens, you were in jail? Jesus-fucking-Christ. Are you alright? Where are you?"

"Really," I shook my head, "I'm fine." I chanced a peek over my shoulder. Dmitri was rubbing his jaw, hard enough to leave the skin red and raw beneath his stubble. "...Mr. Caine came to get me."