He sat beside me, whistling the song he had mentioned during our time at the Ducati store, content in the wait. Though his earlier advice had been off base, it was good-natured.
I respected him after he had the balls to say it, even if I pitied his situation even more. No, I had to admit that he came across in a different light. He was no longer Mitch Lewis’s little brother. He had become a man in his own right.
Leaving him to sit alone, I stood by the window, looking out over the street. Now that we were close, the space between my body and hers made me anxious. I hadn’t seen Scarlett all day, and after Mick and I had returned earlier, she refused to talk to me. If movement didn’t happen soon, the door to the room she was in might fly off its hinges.
The sky outside of the glass kept my attention. For now.
Paris had turned a mercurial shade of pale rouge, a pink that could only be described as delicate but deeper than any depth to be conquered. The golden sun hung low, illuminating the hazy air suspended in winter’s cold hand. Most of the trees were barren, black, and stood out against the scene like spilled ink against a canvas of light colors.
The door to Scarlett’s room opened. Mick and I turned at the same time. Violet stepped out, her hair done up and an expensive dress on her frame. She bit her lip and shook her head in response to Mick’s smile. He took her hand and twirled her around. She put a hand to her stomach.
“I don’t know,” she said, her voice uncertain. “Scarlett said it’s perfect, but…my stomach. It’s not as flat as it used to be. My back is exposed—”
Mick kissed her gently on the lips. “You’re even more beautiful now, after you had the boys.”
“You really think so?”
“If we had time, we’d make Mary.”
I turned back to the window, giving them privacy.
Her rose-scented perfume reached me before she did. It was almost candied. For a moment, all I could do was think back on the years, from the moment out in the snow until that very second. Comparing the girl to this woman. She had turned into afarfalla.Butterfly.
Her gown was black, sitting off her shoulders, the sleeves ending right above her elbows. She turned a bit, to thank Mick for his compliment, and the back swished against the floor, reminding me of a fishtail.
Her shoes were tucked under, but judging by the rise in height, had some lift. Her hair was parted in the front, a few long pieces falling around her face, a piece from each side pulled up to meet in the middle, creating a halo around her head; longer strands drifted in fat waves past her breasts.
Maggie Beautiful had called it Brigitte Bardot hair. One of the many hazards of living with Maggie Beautiful for so long—she was a cinephile, among other things.
Scarlett smoothed her gown with a trembling hand; the ballerina ring caught the soft light and shimmered. When she caught me staring, her eyes dared me to come closer. Her claws were ready, sharp and meant to harm.
“Stop,” she said, turning her eyes to the floor. The color of the sky outside seemed to rise to her cheeks. “Looking at me that way.”
“Dimmi come ti sto guardando.”Tell me how I’m watching you.
Feline eyes met mine, a jeweled green with gold specks around the black iris. Her skin was so fair and so pure. The veins that ran underneath were so apparent, and I resisted the urge to reach out and trace each one.
“Like this is the first time you’re seeing me, but you know every one of my secrets.”
“I do.” I tapped my temple once. “Every single inch, from the inside out.”
Three things seemed to happen at once: she laughed; two doors opened, one behind the other; and Emilia and Colette peeked their heads out of their rooms.
Her laugh sounded fragile. A voice inside of me screamed out in rage.
“You always had a way with words.” She took a deep breath in and released it slowly. “Some things never change.”
“My word is as good as my blood,” I said. “I seem to remember telling you that more than once.”
“You told me a lot of things.” Her beautiful eyes narrowed into poisonous daggers. “And here we are.”
We were all alone now. Everyone had disappeared. Stepping forward, I ran a fingertip against the shape of the diamond at the base of her throat. Her father had given it to her years ago, before her parents’ annual Christmas party.
The pulse in her neck hitched with the intake of her breath. I placed my mouth against the erratic beat, feeling her life pulse against my lips. She was so flawless that the frantic cadence of it could be seen through her skin. She was a gentle butterfly in the hands of a fucking beast. Her beast. Me.
I kissed her there, applying enough pressure that she’d feel me deep in her bloodstream.
She reached out for the wall, but I caught her waist, pulling her body into mine. Her hands came to my chest, pushing me away.
