I remembered
that look.
I relished that
look.
Not only on my
Antoine but any lover I’d had (but, obviously, getting it from Antione was far
more rewarding).
It was a look I
worked toward, putting great energy and imagination into it, losing myself in
these endeavors, feeling free of my name, my history, my secrets, my
responsibilities, and reveling in my success as if I’d scaled mountains.
It was my
greatest talent outside, of course (as any good Drakkar would excel), honing in
on any vulnerability and manipulating it for the greatest possible gain—coin,
jewels, furs, favors, silence, information, or simply for amusement.
Seeing the look
on Noctorno at that moment, I knew Circe too had performed well (admirably
well, I might add, considering her dismal past).
I also
recognized—focusing on it keenly—what Circe might have missed, or perhaps what
Noctorno hid from her understanding, or simply just sensing, how she came to
him.
He was not done.
Oh no.
If she had not
given indication she wished him out of her bedchamber, he’d still be in it.
Indeed, he might
be in it all night, and not to sleep.
He might have
been in it, perhaps, for days.
As these
thoughts flitted in my mind, I became aware he’d fully entered the room, was
stopped not far from my chair, and was standing, chin tipped down, eyes
regarding me with a scrutiny that I found so uncomfortable I actually shifted
in my seat.
I ceased this
reaction the instant I became aware of it, appalled at myself.
Giving something
away so easily? Especially something like discomfiture?
You’ve ruined me, I snapped silently at Antoine.
My dead lover
had no rejoinder.
“You okay?”
Noctorno asked.
“Am I what?” I
asked in return.
His head gave a
slight twitch before he went on, “You okay? All right?” His voice lowered. “It’s
been a tough day, babe, for all of us. Including you.”
I looked beyond
him to the fire, lifting my wine to my lips but not sipping it until after I
murmured, “I’m perfectly fine.”
“Yeah, right,”
he stated, and the disbelief veritably dripping from his tone made my gaze
flick immediately back to him. This meant I watched as he sauntered right in
front of me to the chair accompanying mine, threw his lengthy frame in it and
reached for the wine at the table that separated our seats. He also reached for
the extra glass. These were seats, I shall add, that were turned at corners to
each other with a small, round table in between, so my knee was nearly touching
his. He poured. It was on the tip of my tongue to share that I had not invited
him to attend me. Alas, I became distracted by his long fingers, and the words
died in my mouth.
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