“Already bored of your pet?” I began to undo the gown. The garment alone must have cost two weeks’—no, three weeks’—wages. Though, no matter how expensive the pelt, I was more interested inthe meat. “You wound me, Petre. Here I thought I was becoming one of your favorite playthings.”
As the buttons popped open, her flushed skin was exposed to me.
I expected to count the beauty marks on her skin, feel every dip and rise of her form, but it revealed something better.
Yanking her gown down her torso revealed thesestrangemarkings. A littering of birthmarks resembling brushstrokes that spiraled in different ways across her stomach, straight through her sternum.
Blaschko lines, a rare pigmentation of the skin.
“You hide so much from me. Every time I open you up, I discover something new,” I taunted, but admittedly, I was distracted by the patterns. My fingertips brushed against the trail mindlessly. It reminded me of a mosaic, or patterns on fancy pet birds. I leaned down so my lips could replace my fingers, tracing the unique finish on the expensive porcelain of her skin.
Her breasts rose and fell with her harsh breathing, but she only watched me.
Say the word.
The buttons ran out, and I pulled the gown away from the form I so desperately wanted to see. I must have been jaded before to not look closely, but she really was a specimen of symmetry, of good composition.
Say it before I lose myself in you.
Her breasts fit perfectly in my palms, but that seemed to be a theme all around. The anatomy of her muscles and tendons let her physique shine. They framed her body perfectly; I could see every movement under the skin, a lean animal in prime shape.
She somewhat reminded me of the skittish little things they let run at the derby. All muscle, little to spare.
I can’t stop . . .
My disillusioned state shattered as I looked lower—and I could see bruising, more and more as I followed the length of her legs.
I nearly forgot she was a dancer. I never expected such elegant creatures to be marked so brutally by the sport.
A jolt of something disgusting flipped in my stomach, souring at the back of my throat as it threatened to manifest. Could it be jealousy? The feeling dissipated as I thought of replacing those bruises with marks of my own.
“You’re just cruel.” Her words were angry, her eyes something more like mortified.
Why would you look at me like that?
I glanced up at her, but she’d already gathered her dress, slipping out from under me, and her rushed steps sounded along the whiny stairs.
“Petre!” I shouted before the inevitable slam of a door.
Perhaps staring was not the most mannerly.
Now whenever I closed my eyes, the map of her body spread before me. Every freckle, every curve, every inflection of a muscle, that exact deep pattern across her torso.
The perfect muse. The one you can’t forget. The one I didn’t want to ruin.
Chapter Fifteen
The Performer
If there was to be a show, it would be at The Brass Globe or not at all.
“Prestigious” was not quite the word, but “infamous” might be. A prime example of grit, talent, and the constant comings and goings of star protégées. It was the place to be if you knew what kind of night you were looking for.
The thing about The Globe is that it was shiny. A shimmer that could entrance anyone at first glance. Everything from the tall chandelier to the performers was flashy—but that’s all it was. A bright light to attract the moths. If a hair lighter than the illusion required, you could see every scratch in the wood, every creak of the building, every flaw down to the bedbugs wedged between the seats and the men who lurked behind the curtains.
Much like the activities within, the theater had its own part to play in the performance.
The gaslights were sore on the eyes at full brightness, and the smell was too much some days, which is why they were always on a low dim by the time the guests arrived. We would have to open the skylight behind the stage to air it out, sometimes as early as the morning before the first matinee.
