* * *
My wife was seeing dead people—a dead Italian painter, to be more precise. Despite my mood, it seemed to make sense, given the fact that she could feel me when I was oceans away and had saved me from death more than once.
After we returned to our room, the worry she had for the ghost left her and came to me. She didn’t seem worried at all anymore. Somewhere in the fear, she found safety in the knowledge. Though she seemed fine with seeing him now—Jesus, hopefully not leading to them—it didn’t sit right in my chest. Neither did Nemours’ appearance and the implied threat of a gift. Then there was the scene with baby Mary.
Sensing my mood, she sighed at me and left me alone in the room, heading toward the bathroom. I could hear the bath water running.
I stood at the window, as she had done the night before, waiting for it. Scarlett had told me that he had come to her in a flash of lightning. The storm had built up momentum throughout the day and grown meaner by night.
“Come on, you bastard,” I said, whiskey-laced breath fogging up the window. “Let me see you.” I tapped at the glass with my white wedding ring, trying to taunt him.
There was nothing to show for my efforts but an irritation that had grown stronger. All I saw was the bright light of thousands of white flurries—not the type of ghost to be cajoled by a taunt then. If anything, he seemed to taunt me. Every hair on my body stood erect.
Message received.
I knocked back another glass of whiskey before undressing and settling in bed. Blinking at the bathroom door, I felt like an owl, trying to clear the spirit haze from my eyes.
“Signore Fausti,” Scarlett said, addressing me in Italian, but using her French accent. She turned her eyes down, her long black lashes dark against the paleness of her skin. “We had a deal, no?”
Her face was all made up, and nothing on her body save a sticky rose petal over each breast, a garter belt, stockings, and black heels that glistened in the firelight. Her hands were tucked behind her back, hiding something.
“Ooops!” she said as a long strip of black silk pooled on the floor behind her. “Maladroit! Clumsyme!”
She turned in a spin so graceful that it seemed like she was on ice, and then bent over to retrieve the fallen strip of silk, her head touching her ankles. The breath I had been holding hissed out. I sat up on my elbows for a better view. The garter belt covered her front, but it was all Scarlett in the back.
The way she had spoken was light, breathy, every word elongated by her tongue. It seemed to slide over the words, making love to them—and something inside of me broke.
She put her hands up, taking a step back when I came close and a growl erupted from my chest. Yeah, I fucking growled at her, out of myself with need. Earlier self-punishment made me feel desperate to be inside of her.
“But, I still need todanse!” she said almost comically. Nowhere for her to run, I swooped her up, throwing her over my shoulder. “You are a brute, an animal, a beast! You are…” She giggled, pounding on my back, trying to whip my bareculo.
From her kicking, her heels fell to the floor. The silk strip felt soft against my skin; just like her. I set her down on the bed and she crawled back a pace, looking up at me with eyes that told dual stories—her innocence and the meaning of her name.
“Un trou du cul.” I grinned, remembering what she had called me before.
She made a small pleasurable noise in her throat and then breathed out,si méchant—so wicked.I tensed inside, my dick twitching.
After watching me for some time, the connection no longer humming but vibrating between us, she shook her head. “No,” she whispered. “My husband.”
The words made me go completely hollow, like I had just hit a dip in the road the size of Slovenia. I hadn’t fully recovered when her eyes wandered further south and she stuck her chilled foot between my legs, rubbing gently, her skin cool against the heat of mine.
“Je te veux,” she said in French, breathless. “I want you.”
“Chi vuoi, mia moglie,” I replied in Italian, staring down at her. Our gazes locked. She wanted to squirm, but my eyes held her in place.
“Oh,” she breathed out. “Who do I want? I want you,my husband.Voglio mio marito.”
“Yeah, I thought so.”
I stalked her up the bed, toward the thin piece of intricate carved wood that ran the length of the wall, connecting each poster. The black silk stood out against the white blanket like an oil spill. She ran her fingertips along the sides of her body, tracing in slow motion, until she raised her hands above her head, palms forward, resting them there.
Those soft, cool hands belonged on me only; she brought relief. My temperature ran hot.
She glanced at the long ribbon before her eyes returned to mine, a green so lusty that I could’ve sworn they had me under a spell. Whether I took her by some wild demand, or asked for it with a soft plea, her flesh could not deny me, and neither could her blood. There are two parts to an enchantment; a person cannot cast one unless they’re willing to sacrifice a part of themselves. That part of me was long gone, buried somewhere deep inside of her.
“Oui,” she said, answering the unspoken thought, or my feelings.
Instead of securing her wrists, I moved the black silk up her leg, watching as she quivered.
