A masquerade ball on the Arno river. Crowns of candles shimmering off velvet, rising moon gleaming off goblets. Flash of jewels on every hand, at every throat. Those elaborate masks of ivory and ceramic, ringed with feathers, trimmed in gold and silver.
It is Lorenzo de' Medici's estate, and his ball as well. Ruler of Florence in all but name, an iron fist in a velvet glove, he entertains the elite amongst the elite on his private balcony above. Shadowed by curtains, the occupants can only be guessed at, though it is rumored the Pope's own son -- such things are commonplace in the 15th century's Church -- is in attendance.
Down below, merely the wealthy and well-heeled, the lords and ladies, the courtesans with scintillating conversation, their perfumed skin. And a man in a grey wolfshead mask, keeping muchly to himself.
MatildeThe ball spills out onto a courtyard touching the river, and the music spills out with them. A lady almost spills over the banister into the water, erupting into giggles as she is pulled back before she drowns herself. There are three vast doors, as tall as the ballroom itself, and they all stand open to the courtyard, letting the night mingle with the celebration... of whatever it is, tonight. Maybe a celebration of the night itself.
Leaning against the arch of one of these doors is a woman dressed in a rich black gown, the neckline square across her pale breasts, her sleeves split to display the silvery-white fabric beneath. Her hair is dark, and very long, but worn in an elaborate knot at the back of her head, loose locks draped carefully here and there, the jet black strands set off by white ribbons. Two long braids that drape over her shoulders are studded with pearls.
Her half-mask is black, overlaid with lace, and on one half of her face it transforms into a crescent moon that covers her chin to hairline, painted silver. It is tied with those same ribbons in her hair, so her hands are left free. She is watching the people on the courtyard over the river.
No: she is watching the river itself.
No.
She is looking at the reflection the true moon makes in the night-dark waters, broken by every breeze, every movement of a boat, every ripple.
Her head does turn though, back to the swirling colors of the dancers inside, the flash of light on glasses of wine, and then her eyes find a man in a wolf's head mask.
Her lips, only half-visible, curve into a smirk.
Now she is watching him.
BastianoThe man in the wolf mask keeps to himself. His eyes are glints of light behind the mask; his mouth is shadowed by its muzzle, though not so much that he cannot sample the wine in his cup. He watches a lady pass, her face masked, her decolletage not. He watches a pair of gentlemen stroll by, deep in a half-drunk conversation about the taxes on spices from the East. He watches servants bear an enormous roasted boar from within, appreciative and half-drunken applause following in its wake, and then
he lifts his eyes
and he is watching the woman in the crescent-moon mask.
MatildeAs he watches her, no man approaches to take his place at her side once more. No escort or chaperone attends to her. It is not unthinkable to see a woman alone, but it is strange nonetheless. She holds no goblet of wine, at least not for now, and takes no food when it passes her. He is watching her, and she is watching him.
Stranger still than her solitude is the realization that she is now walking towards him. It's somewhat brazen of her, though no one is sober enough to notice and among this lot perhaps none would even care. She approaches him and, a few steps away, flicks her wrist and unfurls a black feather fan with a mother-of-pearl handle. The night is warm, and then there is this:
the heat that rises from the woman herself, is an aura unto itself, is something so searing and red that it is almost visible. No wonder she stood at the doors to the courtyard. No wonder she carries that fan, as if it could disperse the truth of her nature.
"Who are you?" she asks, with a soft curve of her lips into a smirk. "I must know you," she adds, in a tone that makes it unclear if she means it as desire or as certainty.
Then: "I know everyone," which suggests the latter but,
somehow,
does not dismiss the former.
BastianoWho is she? Unescorted; unchaperoned. Perhaps she is a courtesan, but then: she would be surrounded by a bevy of admirers, gentlemen friends. And now she is approaching, brazen and scandalous, and he is
still watching her.
As she nears the light between them diminishes. Torches, lanterns, candles: until all that is between them is the moon. That, and the cloak of red heat around her, which surely he senses. As she comes to a stop, he bows to her, slight and formal and crisp. Her fan snaps open. The murmur of conversation is a backdrop to her question, her certainty.
"Pardon me, signorina," there is a smile of his own beneath the wolf's mask, barely seen, "but does that not defeat the very purpose of a masqued ball?"
MatildeShe thinks to herself that yes, he should ask her pardon for being masked, for being unknown to her. The thought amuses her. It makes that smirk curve all the more deeply.
"Masks cannot hide scent," she says, her head tilting to one side with a heaviness that almost seems like repose. It's a lazy, fluid gesture. "But if you insist on secrecy: give me a false name, then, and when I see you without your mask, I will pretend not to know you."
BastianoShe is right. Masks cannot hide scent, and there are layers to his: woodsmoke and leather; steel and skin; beneath it all, the faint but unmistakable hint of wolfsblood. Not full; she would have sensed him long ago. Known him, too: she knows everyone. But half, perhaps. Moon-touched and not moon-bound.
"I might give you my true name or false," he replies. "Still you would not recognize me, I fear."
MatildeHe does not smell as though he belongs here. He lacks perfume. He does not smell like gold leaf or satin. He smells like he does not belong here at all. She knows he doesn't; if he belonged here she would know him.
Only one of her eyebrows appears to lift, the one visible over the black lace half-mask on the right side of her face, the left covered in silver. Perhaps both rise, but he can't see it. Only hear it in her voice:
"Oh? Why is that?"
BastianoHe tells her what she already knows:
"Alas, I am but an interloper in your fair city."
He steps forward. Alluring as she is, mysterious and beautiful as she is, few would dare -- but he does. And he bows again, lower this time, sweeping and courtly -- gestures with his hand toward the tables laden with food and drink.
"Signorina, might I invite you to raise a glass with me?"
MatildeHer chin lifts slightly as he comes closer, and her fan lowers a touch towards her chest, stilling somewhat as if not to disturb him. Or she simply forgets it.
And her eyes follow him as he bows. The color of his hair, his flesh where visible. The cut of his clothes. The breadth of his shoulders.
When he rises, her fan is closed but still held in one hand. The other is extended to him, her palm down, her fingers draped in a carefully crafted, elegant impression of making no effort at all.
She says nothing. But she is smiling.
BastianoThere's a touch of rust in his hair. There's a fairness to his skin, and his eyes are pale. Perhaps he is from the north. Perhaps he is not of Italian stock at all. Certainly, he is not of Florentine stock; he as much told her himself.
Still, his bow is immaculate, as fine as any courtier's. As he begins to rise, he takes her hand seamlessly; there is a flicker there, something in his eyes. He kisses her knuckles, straightening, and their hands part. He offers his arm.
MatildeHer knuckle moves, when his lips touch her hand. Her hands are warm; it is no surprise. Not on a night like this, a room full of people like this, the sear in the air around her. But her finger moves, involuntary and soft, at the minor courtesy.
Her eyes are green, shot through with a hazy sort of gold, and they are intrigued. When he turns with her, his arm offered, she rests her free hand atop it, ever so light. Her gaze turns forward. She unfurls her fan once more, waving it at herself as they depart in search of wine, and some see the wolf mask, the moon mask, and think he is her missing escort. Somehow know her -- and they are many -- instantly wonder who he is.
There are whispers.
"What shall I call you, stranger?" she murmurs to him, sounding more curious than anything else.
BastianoThe moon catches her eyes. Makes them gleam. He wears the wolf and she the moon, but the truth is somewhat more blurred than that. Still; he offers his arm, and she lays her fingers on the fine brocade of his sleeve. He folds his free hand behind the small of his back, his carriage proud and, perhaps, touched by a hint of military bearing. They make a handsome pair.
"You shall call me what you please," he replies, "and I shall call you, too, what you please."
MatildeHer fan quickens for a moment. No blush rises up her cheek; she's no gentle peasant maiden. She is wearing velvet and silk. She belongs here. She is known here, and knows people here. She has a role to play in these circles, a certain degree of power and status and that affords her freedom, but all of it -- the velvet and silk, the belonging, most of all the freedom -- was hard-won. You can fight some battles with blushes, but not all.
But something warms her, separate from the rage that he may or may not recognize even as he offers it his arm. She glances at him as they stroll. "Il mio lupo, then," she teases him, just as they approach the cupbearer. She lets her hand fall from his arm, then, but there is something reluctant in it. Reluctant, perhaps, but not wistful.
She simply lets it linger a little longer than necessary.
"Tell me what you would like to call me."
BastianoHe notices.
The cupbearer notices, too, but he is paid not to notice such things. Others notice: guests and merrymakers, lords and ladies, courtiers and courtesans. None of them are paid not to notice.
There are whispers.
Elegant, proper, he folds both hands behind his back now. He nods to the cupbearer, who hardly needs to reminder to fill their cups. Returning his attention where it belongs, he replies, "Why then, la mia luna, of course."
MatildeA smirk. It's not that their choices are anything but obvious. It pleases her, though. She lets her fan close, falling from the cord that encircles her wrist, so that she may carry her goblet with one hand.
The other moves toward him, palm down still, awaiting his arm. "Let us walk together for a while. I want you to tell me what brings you to my fair city."
BastianoTheir wine poured, he lifts both their goblets, handing hers to her before again offering his arm.
Laughs, "And do you always get what you want, fair lady?"
MatildeThe truth is more complicated than what she says to answer him. It tells more of her story. Perhaps it flickers in her eyes, but it is deep within them, and even the cupbearer still near to them cannot tell if it does. She does not discount the possibility that this stranger might see it, this flickering of thoughts unspoken.
She takes her cup and holds it without sipping, just yet. Her hand comes to rest on his arm again.
"With rare exception," she says, all but purring, "I do."
She drinks. "Besides... a mystery with no clues soon becomes a bore. And that would be a tragedy."
Bastiano"We're in a city founded on commerce," he replies, "and so I shall offer you a trade.
"I will tell you something of what brings me here if you will tell me something of what thoughts just crossed your mind."
MatildeHer answer takes no thought. She smirks. "We have an agreement."
BastianoHe is surprised. He had not expected her ready acquiescence. A beat; and then he keeps his word.
He leans close. His lips are almost touching her ear:
"Murder."
MatildeThere is something she does there that she doesn't even think about. It's almost like an instinct, a reflex, but it goes against every instinct she should have, does have, by now. He leans toward her, and her head tips to one side, and he can almost see the pulse in her throat. Were he a predator --
she knows he is not, despite the word he whispers to her. Not the sort who would tear her throat out with his teeth if she were to do such a foolish thing in the wild.
She surprises herself by the gesture, so much that she almost fails to recognize what he is saying. Her reaction is no gasp, no sudden pulling away. She laughs, softly, and turns to whisper in return:
"I do get what I want often enough," she murmurs. "But there is a trick to it."
Her breath is warm on his earlobe, the curve of his jaw. She is not striving to restrain that.
"Do you want to know the secret?"
BastianoThey are quite close. One could hardly slip a hand between them without brushing the silk of her bodice; the velvet of his doublet. Yet they do not touch; not at all, save for the brush of his breath on her skin, and in return.
He breathes in, his chest rising -- diminishing that dangerous flickering space.
"I want to know every secret you have."
MatildeHer lips quiver slightly. She has the urge to bite him. She wants to hold him in her teeth. It takes effort not to. It takes greater effort not to lick her lips. It is effort she gladly expends. She smiles, even.
That also takes effort, though less. She is, after all, enjoying herself.
"It will cost you."
Her hand wants to close the distance between them. She wants to feel that brocade, the velvet, the way it's warmed from underneath. She holds her goblet instead.
"Who are you here to murder?"
Bastiano"Hmh." It's an amused sound, held in the back of the throat, deep in the chest. "You drive quite the bargain, signorina. And you demand from me quite the tithe of trust."
Beat.
"The guest of honor."
MatildeHe said murder. She repeated it without flicker. Perhaps he knows what she is, could tell the moment she approached him, the moment he felt the raw animalism underlying the velvet, the silk, the pretty mask, the prettier lips. Perhaps that makes her calm in the face of such bloody words more understandable.
But it could be that he doesn't know. She finds more and more of them as the world around them goes ever faster, kin farther flung and less aware of themselves, disconnected from their people entirely.
The urge to touch him is almost more than she can bear, and were they creatures of another form she would never have hesitated. She wouldn't consider hesitating. There would be no need to, no repercussion to it, the way there is in human circles. Her control took years to learn when she was still very young, unrefined, a savage thing who wanted little but to kill, to hunt, to fuck, to howl.
She still wants very little else. The urges never die. Instinct never sleeps.
--
Now he tells her that he is here to murder the guest of honor. Her eyebrows lift slightly, just for a moment, but she smiles. She presumes he means the rumored guest above, the Pope's son, or perhaps some other friend of Lorenzo's -- though a better word than friend would be pawn. Normally it would matter very much to her whom, precisely, he means. At the moment, she scarcely cares to ask.
And knows she has asked much of him already.
"It is a tithe I honor, mio lupo," she tells him softly, with a touch of sincerity that has been largely absent from their banter thus far. "No harm will come to you in this house tonight." She says it not like a promise but a certainty.
Actually: something about it sounds like a threat.
But not to him.
--
"And the price is worth the reward you seek," she goes on, her lips curving yet again in that delicate smile. "I have many secrets, each more delightful than the last."
The smile twists slightly; a smirk. She indulges in a moment of self-amusement, sipping her wine.
"The first, as promised: it is easy to get what you want in this world. You simply must want very little, and pursue that which you desire with everything you have until it is yours."
BastianoYours, she says, and
--
There is something to be said for instinct. For urge. For the laws of life and death carved into their very bones, into the very ladders of their genetic code. There is something to be said for divine edict or the will of gaia, whatever it is you might call it that stitches one life to another, one soul to another, one wolf to one kin.
There is something to be said for it. The urges never die. Instinct never sleeps.
--
he turns his head, just enough, and his lips meet hers.
MatildeHer breath catches at the contact. She wasn't expecting that; he can tell. And perhaps his eyes stay open, and he can see how hers close. Feel how her body sways ever so slightly closer to his, their chests brushing one another, then pressing, as she indulges, as she melts into that kiss.
If he is here to betray her, to use her somehow, she is already lost. And she will never be able to explain why.
It lasts only a moment. She won't let it go on. When she draws back, her pale eyes opening again to focus on his face -- his hidden, his familiar, his unknown face -- she is not smiling, or smirking, or holding any mask between them that is not as easily undone as untying a ribbon.
"I would have you tonight," she whispers to him. Her eyes flick down, across his chest, his hands. A slight pink flush has risen across her breast. She lifts her eyes back to his. "Before or after your errand. If you are found, it will be in my bed."
BastianoTheir masks clink together ever so softly; their clothes rustle as they press together for that singular, indulgent moment.
And then it is over. She draws away the same way she'd held back earlier: ruthless in her temperance. He licks his lips, opening his eyes to her mouth first; then the smooth curves and glittering jewels of her mask; last, her eyes, pale and clear behind that crescent moon.
He bows to her again, very slight. "After," he decides, or promises. "Only tell me where to find you, and you will have your wish."
MatildeThere were whispers, when he approached her, and when she took his arm. When he kisses her, those who whisper about them -- about her, because they do not know him at all -- are speechless for several moments. And then: they all choose to look away. To find other entertainment. As obvious as the heat between the pair is, no one wants to be the slack-jawed, gaping guest of low class who does not know how to ignore someone else's lack of decorum.
Beyond that: they all have their hedonisms. And it is a masked ball: this is rather the point.
--
If she were mortal, she would not let him go like this, just now. She would tell him to dance with her first. To stay with her here in the ball, to stroll, to enjoy the night air and the music and the roast boar, to tease his name from him, to kiss again in the shadows.
And truth be told: she wishes all this. To dance, and look at the moon, and eat together, and to hear his name. But all of it pales, in this moment. Her heart is too bloody, too raw, too hungry; so is her soul.
She tells him where to find her, after: her cheek close to his, a whisper of directions in his ear. Her bedchambers are in this very house. She is not of this family, but still: here she sleeps.
BastianoIt makes her dangerous. That she sleeps here in this nest of vipers, that she resides here, that she is allowed to. It marks her as a predator herself -- but he already knew that. He felt it the moment her aura washed over him. He felt it the moment her eyes found him.
And yet here he is. Here they are, planning their tryst. She tells him where to find her, and he listens -- his neck bent, his ear close to her lips. After, he nods -- the slightest of motions to indicate he has heard her.
They take a half-step away from one another. He takes her hand and lays a kiss across her knuckles, same as before. And then they part.
--
The night deepens. The moon rises. The ball reaches a crescendo, and then it begins to diminish. Guests in various stages of inebriation, various stages of dishabille, wander away from the manor and are lost to the gardens, the shadows, the night. Some depart by carriage, others on horseback; still others by boat to their own glorious residences. Eventually all is quiet, with only a last few intimate guests gathered by fireside, enjoying mulled wine and conversation.
They've lost track of the pope's son long ago. They assume he's in the gardens with some lovely lady, or perhaps racing his newest stallion by moonlight. They assume he's enjoying himself. They assume he's safe and well and alive.
--
The upper floors are dark and quiet. A few candles flicker in sconces. A few servants scurry in corners, but there are plenty of secret assignations in this house. Those masters who have reason to fear for their lives have their own guards posted at the doors. Those doors left unguarded -- well. There is frequently a good reason, and the servants know better than to ask. If one walks with sufficient authority and certainty, as the man in the wolf mask does, one is not challenged.
So his boots echo down long halls, up spiraling stairs, around corners. Eventually, nearing his destination, he slows his pace. Softens his tread. He counts turns, doors. He finds, at the end of a secluded corridor, a set of double doors. Lifts his hand to knock, but thinking better of it, turns the doorhandle instead and lets himself in.
MatildeWhen he steps away from her, his lips lifting from her knuckles and his hand falling from her own, she watches him closely for a time, sipping her wine. Her eyes track him here and there, but then she loses him. Perhaps it's better to say that she looks away; others notice what she notices. And she must pretend not to notice where he is going, or that he is there, or that she knows he is going to kill some pet pawn of Lorenzo's.
The monster with the lightly painted lips and the crescent moon mask returns to a party that is, in some ways, both pleasure and duty. She laughs aside questions of where her admirer has gone off to now, feigning -- rather persuasively -- not to have any idea what they're talking about. She visits Lorenzo only briefly in the balcony, but he is rather drunk and his usually piercing questions meander, disintegrate, and require only reassurances instead of answers.
The roast boar is bones, and she has had her share of the rare red meat. A few of the gracelessly inebriated are drinking dregs, but she has had her share of the wine, too. The musicians play on, having traded out for the younger players whose mistakes don't penetrate the ears of the remaining guests. There are bushes rustling in the garden and someone has stolen a boat and is sailing down the river, crowing with laughter. There is, somehow, still dancing, but it is less of a treat to the eyes of those who aren't participating.
She has not seen the man in the wolf's head mask for some time now. She ascends stairs, lifting the edge of her skirts so they don't catch on her slippers. She nods to a guard as she passes. She tells no one that she is to have a visitor tonight; the guards do not stand at her door, and they do not question her. Many of them, having been killers and having known killers, recognize something in her gaze that they never see in the eyes of a woman, and they fear her.
Her rooms are isolated, because she requested it be so. Even in the lush of springtime, she has curtains and tapestries hung along the hall leading to her doors, which are meant to create warmth but have the added benefit of muffling sound. She lets herself in to her rooms. They are warm, thanks to the maid she sent ahead to stoke her fire. There is a fresh pitcher of water. She closes the door behind herself, and prepares for bed.
--
It is not terribly long after that. He does not knock, but she can sense him when he turns down her hall. She feels it like a touch, fingertips skimming up her back. She does not hear him, cannot yet smell him, yet something tells her he is close.
The handle turns, and he lets himself into an elegant bedchamber. It is not as large as a prince's, but this is not the alcove of a serving-girl or even the suite that might be given to a mistress. The top third of the walls is taken up by murals: pastoral, filled with images of sky and land, sea and storm, rather than any human or animal figures. A fire crackles in the corner. She has windows overlooking the city rather than the river, and she has a balcony, and he can feel the breeze from the cracks around the door, though it is currently hidden by heavy curtains. Against one wall is -- of all things -- a writing desk and chair. Though dark, he can see that her bedroom is decorated in blue and cream, mahogany and brass.
It is not a stark room, though she is of a stark tribe. It is rich and lovely though, for her place in this world, actually a bit understated.
When he opens the door, he finds is entering through one corner, and sees her bed in profile in the center of the room. She is lying naked on the bed, resting on her stomach, slightly propped on her elbows. Even with only the fire to illuminate the room, the light seems drawn to her bare skin, flickering across the slope of her spine, the curve of her ass. The light licks at her skin, trying to tease a glimpse of her breasts from the shadows. She has let her long, black hair down from its ribbons and pearls and now it rests in a loose plait, draped over one pale shoulder.
When the door opened, her repose altered ever so slightly. A shiver of movement down her back. She lifts up just a bit more on her arms, her chest lifting with a breath. She almost, but does not quite, turn to welcome him.
The crescent moon mask is gone, but she has retained the half-mask of black lace.
She does not say anything to him, but she does not need to.
BastianoOne never knows what lurks around corners, what waits behind closed doors. He told her so much. She might have betrayed him. He might be walking into a trap, an ambush, a wall of spears. Perhaps it is supreme confidence that brings him here anyway. Perhaps it is only lust. Perhaps it is something more.
He depresses the doorhandle with two fingers; nudges it open with his knuckles. No net falls upon him, no whirl of blades to take off his head. Only an elegantly appointed anteroom opening into a rich and lovely bedchamber.
And a bed.
And the lady herself, nude as a Botticelli, her skin aglow in the firelight, offset against the bedcovers.
He stands a moment where he is, arrested, breathing. He wonders who she is. Then, with the softest of sounds, the door closes. Bolts. He steps into the room, circling the bed until she can see him, until he stands before her.
There is a beat. Then, without a word, he begins to undress. First the thin belt fastening the doublet; then the doublet itself, his fingers moving surely over all those tiny buttons. Then the shirt, which is linen and corded and altogether plain -- his finery not even skin-deep. He pulls it off overhead. Then the boots, the chausses; his fingers hesitating only a second before divesting himself of his drawers as well.
Utterly naked now except for the wolf's mask, he approaches the bed. Stops there with his thighs nearly brushing the bedcovers, his body lean and muscular, tanned as a peasant's. He takes the mask by its edge, as though to raise it up and off -- but pauses.
"Shall I leave it on?"
MatildeFrom the moment he steps into her room, her eyes don't leave him. Not when he stands there, the door slightly open still, his gaze having fallen on her and how she waits for him. Not when he closes the door, sets the bolt. Her breasts lift slightly with an intake of breath as the lock finds its home, but her eyes remain steady. Stay on him, as he crosses the room to the side of her bed.
Now he's close enough for her to touch, but she doesn't move. She doesn't even turn on her side to face him. She doesn't reveal herself at all. Nor does she speak. Her eyes fall from where they meet his as his fingers begin unfastening the buttons of his doublet. When he pulls the linen shirt off and away, he can see her take a slightly deeper breath again; this time he's close enough to hear it when she exhales, however controlled it is.
There's nothing lazy or indulgent in her regard as he undresses beside her bed. Undresses for her, in a way, though no more than she undressed for him. Her eyes are clear, are focused, are intent. They travel over his skin by hungry, savoring inches. When he is bare, her eyes are still downcast on his body, and in the shadows he can just make out the way she licks her lips, sucking gently for the barest moment on the lower before letting go.
She looks up at him. And he, looking down at her, touches the edge of his mask. Her pupils are dilated and her eyes are fierce but for a moment there's a genuine vulnerability to them. She had thought of it, as she undressed tonight: fucking him like this, both of them masked, and the idea of it had aroused her. Deeply.
Yet now he's here. Offering to keep it on as though instinct, nature, would have him remove it.
There's no answer. Not at first. Her eyes track down his body again, and she turns slightly on her side, lifting her left arm. She touches the front of his right thigh, fingers followed soon by her palm, her caress as slow, as savoring, as her gaze was. There's the barest pause at his hip, where she lets her fingertips graze lightly along the sloping cut of his oblique. Her hand turns, her touch moving up his abdomen, and soon her body is rising as her hand does. She pushes herself up on her side, then to her knees before him, both hands on his chest now, fingers spread wide, her breath coming heavier.
Just before he kissed her, there was scarcely space to breathe between them. There is even less now. Every time she breathes it threatens to brush her breasts across his skin. Somehow even now her restraint is held, for all she wants to do is feel his flesh against her own.
She -- finally, yet not reluctantly -- lifts her eyes to his again. There is no hiding her features, not behind that bit of lace. His face, however, remains a mystery to her. All she can see is his jaw, his lips, his eyes. His eyes are no mystery, though.
The lady has not forgotten his question. She withdraws her hands from his body and touches his mask herself, shaking her head slightly.
"No," she whispers, drawing it off. She lets it fall to the floor with the rest of his clothes.
BastianoHe is most certainly undressing for her. It seems only fair, when she undressed for him; laid herself out like that for him. And the intensity in her eyes: that is for him, too, in a way. Arouses him just to see it. Makes his breath come faster. Makes his hairs stand on end.
His skin shivers beneath her hand when she touches him. It is entirely involuntary, a reflex of nerves and arcs. She touches him as she rises, and he does not touch her, because somehow that seems unchivalrous, demanding. He lets her explores his body, the structure of his bones, the rise and fall of his chest against her palms as he breathes.
They are so close now. Her bare breasts are so close. Her sleek belly, her lovely thighs. His hand moves, just a little, and then stills again. Her eyes are on his and he is transfixed.
His eyes close as she reaches for his mask. It is not hard to remove -- a swivel upward, and then it slides loose from his short-cropped hair. The face beneath is lean and handsome, a defined jaw, a narrow nose that has been broken before. It is a stranger's face, and yet --
The mask falls to the floor. It is a well-made thing, accented in metal, though not silver. It thuds lightly. Neither of them look at it.
He reaches for her mask, then. He reaches behind her head, his forearms close to her cheeks, and he undoes the ribbon on that second, black mask. It is soft, lace, conforming gently to the contours of her face. As it comes loose it loses some of its shape. Drapes across his fingers. He lets it slip to the floor, also, and now they are both naked. Her face is a stranger's,
and yet.
He cups his hands behind her head. He pulls her forward; kisses her mouth. Inhales into that kiss, their bodies melting together, an electric, molten, pouring contact.
MatildeIt was all for him. The fire in the corner to warm the room as the dark outside deepens, the chill of winter still clinging earnestly to spring nights. The slow unwinding of her hair from its elaborate fastenings, so that no pin would prick him or ribbon entangle him should he run his fingers through. The way she unburdened herself of her clothes and put them away, as though the very sight might remind him of something less true, less animal, than she really is. And yes: the way she laid herself out like that. For him.
The way she looks at him. As though she has never wanted anything else so much.
As though she has never wanted anything else.
--
Her lip, recently moistened, is quivering when he lifts his hands behind her head, finding the place where her mask is tied. She exhales, silently sighing, when he takes it off of her. Her eyes have closed for a moment, an involuntary thing, but open again as the mask falls beside his on the floor.
Looking at him for the first time, her heart tightens in her chest with an ache she can't easily name. She is truly naked to him now, as he to her, and nameless as it is, some shadow of that pain cannot help but show in her eyes. She keeps them open when he touches her face. She is not trembling, but only just.
When he kisses her, she lets herself melt against him fully now, finally now. The elegance of carriage in her spine relents, relaxes, and she gasps softly into his mouth to feel his body flush to her own. She can feel him stirring against her thighs, her cunt. Her eyes have closed again, in spite of her longing to look upon him. Her hands move from their brief resting place against his chest to his sides, around to his lower back. She pulls him closer, her thighs parting slightly where she kneels at the very edge of her bed, kissing him with a hunger that only grows the more he gives her to sate it.
She knows the name of the feeling now, that stinging, hot pain that struck her heart a moment ago. She knows what it was but it makes no sense, because he is a stranger, and he has no name to her, she does not know him.
And yet she missed him. With all her heart,
somehow,
she missed him so much.
BastianoHe must feel the same way. He must, because of the way his eyes close; because of the way his brow furrows. Because of the sound he makes, low and involuntary, on the edge of anguish. Because of his hands cupping her face like she is precious, precious; because of his body waking to hers.
He wraps his arms around her. He pulls her closer as she does; pulls her against his body and then onto his body, lifting her from the bed. So much for their coy flirtations. So much for their elegant mating dance; their carefully cultivated scandal. Now it's just the two of them, naked and uncaring of their secrets, no matter how many, how delightful.
It's his hands gripping her thighs, and then her ass. It's his mouth on hers. It's his balance shifting so she can climb onto him, wrap her legs around him. It's the kiss breaking, but only long enough for him to look at her, for his eyes to move slowly and wonderingly over her face, for him to close his eyes again so he can kiss her, slowly.
MatildeA gasp escapes her into his mouth when he lifts her, a sound of anticipation relieved more than of surprise. She wraps her arms around him, one of her hands cupping the back of his head, fingers spreading across his close-cropped hair. She pulls herself up into his arms and against his body even as he's holding her closer, opening his stance to lift her fully.
Both of her legs fold around his waist, their lips parting briefly. Her eyes open again. Her breath comes fast, still steady, still quiet. She watches him looking at her, her own gaze lingering on his brow, the slight crookedness of his nose, the line of his lips, the angle of his jaw. Despite the way they look at each other, she feels momentarily hidden, as though she can somehow drink him in like this without him noticing. Certainly: she barely notices his eyes wandering over each of her features.
Certainly she does not realize he is about to kiss her again when she leans forward to press her lips on his once more; to find him meeting her there makes her mouth curve. For the barest moment, he is kissing her smile, and then she is kissing him back again, the gentleness of it slowing her, calming her, even as it teases her lust to ever higher flames.
Her mouth withdraws from his, touches his jaw; her teeth scrape lightly over his skin. She kisses his neck, runs her hand over his back. She licks him then, dares to, her tongue drawing a line up his throat to his earlobe. This she licks, sucks on softly for just a moment,
bites, gently.
"Lie with me, mio lupo," she murmurs, more plea than command, her voice aching with longing. Lifts her head from his neck, her eyes finding his again. "Know me."
These words, these last two, she whispers as she leans into him again, sealing them into his very breath with a kiss.
BastianoAs she had some time ago, while they still wore their masks and their clothes and their human trappings, he tips his head for her. He knows what she is. He knows very little else about her, but he knows that much -- and still, he gives her his throat, bared and unafraid.
She licks him. His breath catches. She nips at his earlobe, and he shudders, and then: when she asks of him what she does, he exhales. It is nearly a sigh.
He knows what she means. Yet what he thinks of -- what he says -- tacks in a different direction. "I feel I do," he whispers, and then she is kissing him, and he is kissing her. He climbs onto her bed. He lays her down. Their mouths part and he breathes cool air to still his senses. He looks at her across the small space, again that searching regard, again that fleeting recognition. "I feel I always have."
MatildeIt thrills something inside of her when he doesn't simply permit the attention she wishes to lavish on him, but tips his head for it, opens his body to her, gives her his throat, shivers
as though it pleasures him, too, feeling her there. He is holding her, kissing her, letting her touch him in this hungering, longing way, and it is pleasing him.
This matters to her more than the fact that she does not know his name. This matters more to her than having only just met him. This matters to her more than the fact that he killed someone tonight -- and she is rather certain that he was successful in his errand.
This -- his pleasure in being with her, his presence in her sanctuary, his hand on her -- does not just matter to her. It delights her in a way she did not know she could feel.
--
He lays her down, the soft coverlet against her back. She lies back on her pillows, looking up at him as he pauses, takes a breath, looks her over. Her legs have loosened slightly around his lower half but not entirely; she is loathe to let him go very far from her. Her hands are on his chest, still for a moment, feeling his heart beating heavily against her palm.
If he wonders if she did not hear him, one look into her eyes will remove all doubt. And if not that, then the turn of her hand, the stroke of her knuckles over his jawline.
And then her smile. It is a small, soft thing, but there's a brightness and amusement and easy delight in it that will, too, seem achingly familiar. He cannot know, in this life, how rare such a smile is, how careful she must be, how vicious the light in her eyes can become. He cannot know, not for certain, what a crack this is in her veneer. That small, tender, somewhat lost smile.
The words that follow it:
"I am so glad you're here."
BastianoHe cannot know. Not for certain. But he has guesses, he has suspicions. He does not know who she is -- not specifically nor superficially, not the details of rank and status -- but her residence here, the way she comports herself: these are hints. These are clues. She is something ruthless and powerful. He suspects she can be cold. She can be ferocious. But she is not, he thinks, something evil. At least: not the sort of evil he knows and hunts.
He hopes.
He believes.
And certainly, she is no dead thing. She burns as bright as a flame, and is as consumingly alive. She smiles, and it is small and soft, and she tells him a secret that is small and soft. Yet in the core of her eyes he can glimpse a molten heart, and -- in some strange way he cannot name -- it is familiar to him, and compelling, and irresistibly attractive.
He leans down, then. He kisses those soft little words off her mouth, and that soft little smile too. His hands are in her hair, which is so thick and inky-black. His hands are on her, exploring skin so soft, a body so lush in its curves and hollows. They are neither of them blushing virgins this time around. He touches her boldly, drawing back to watch her face as he finds her cunt, strokes her clit, slides his fingers into her.
And kisses her, again, as though to drink the very expression from her mouth.
MatildeThey are naked. He is lying between her legs, hidden away in her isolated, locked bedchamber. The kisses they have shared have been lush, all-consuming things. And yet when he looks at her the way he does it makes her heart flutter like she's just a girl, a girl she barely remembers being and isn't sure she ever really was.
So when he kisses her again she reaches up, lifts her head from her pillows, cupping her hands around his face and making this soft, eager noise against his lips. It is almost plaintive. Perhaps he hears that ache in it, not simply hunger but ravenous all the same.
They are closer together again, as before. What distance had briefly opened up between them is closed again. He sinks against her; she presses up to welcome him. Neither of them is blushing. Neither of them is untouched, or pure, or innocent. And yet none of that matters. Not when his hand is covering her breast and following its curve. Not when that same touch is following her side, her stomach, dipping between her legs. Not when she's arching her back, gasping softly as he touches her. This time she cannot see him looking at her; her eyes have fallen closed, her mouth open to pull at the air, her body moving into the caress.
There's the slightest furrow in her brow when his fingers enter her; she makes no sound, barely breathes. Tries to kiss him back as he drinks from her lips, but instead only sighs the softest oh against his jawline.
She rides his hand gently, slowly, licking her lips, in no apparent rush to make him stop.
BastianoHard to say what they imagined this coupling would be. Perhaps some luxurious, forbidden romp, masked amidst silk and fur. Perhaps something dirty and fierce and fast, a hard ride by moonlight followed by an ignominious dumping of him, his trousers, and his boots outside her door.
But perhaps not this, tender and patient, the soft sounds she makes as though she can't help herself; the gentle suction of his mouth on her neck, wandering down to her breasts. He licks at her nipples, takes his time, circles with his tongue and sucks with his lips. And all the while he's stroking her, fucking her slowly and tenderly with his hand, caressing her with his thumb; the heel of his hand.
Her bedsheets are dark, and her skin seems so bright. She all but incandesces, and he is quite irrevocably drawn to her. He takes his time, meandering from breast to mouth to breast, to the last rise of her ribs, to the dip of her navel. By then she must know where he's going, what he's looking for, and so it can be no surprise when he slides between her legs, when he slips her thigh over his shoulder, when he draws his wet fingers from her cunt and puts his mouth there instead, hungrily, shamelessly, lapping up that slickness with the tip of his tongue.
MatildeNone of this was what she was expecting. Seeing him and feeling curious, then compelled. Feeling a rising gladness in her breast every time he spoke, every time they touched, even as simple a thing as her hand on his arm. Even when she knew she wanted him, she did not expect to find it burning her up as it did, as it does, consuming her. When she laid herself out on top of her coverlet, she did not expect her skin to be so awakened by anticipation that the fabric on her flesh made her gasp. And even when he walked across her bedroom to come to her, she was not expecting it to be like this.
Her head tips back for him as his mouth travels to her neck, her pulse fluttering between his lips. Her chest lifts as her lungs fill with air, raising her breast in his mouth, her nipple hardening on the flat of his tongue. The combination of sensations between his hand and mouth are dizzying to her, forcing her eyes closed again to stop the room from spinning, as though being unable to see will somehow save her from falling.
Somehow though, it does not surprise her: his tenderness with her, the time he spends, the hot but gentle path of his tongue. The lush, lavish way he takes care of her. The way that even this seems like a rare indulgence for him.
Her hands roam over him in her temporary, self-imposed blindness, her palms molding him out of the darkness. And as he leaves her breasts, kissing her ribs, she knows instantly. She breathes in, shudders, sighs. As soon as he touches her thigh she opens for him, brings it to rest over his shoulder, as though she did, indeed, know what he was thinking. What he wants. As though he knew, without her making a plea, what she wanted, too.
"Oh, mio lupo...." she breathes, a tremble quaking through her, just before he kisses her cunt. Just before he starts licking her. For when he does, she cannot speak, but cries out softly, overcome.
BastianoThere are no words from him either. Just an answering sound, vibrating through his tongue. Just the rise and fall of his shoulderblades beneath his skin, the flex and release of his musculature as he settles between her legs, sets himself to that ardent, slow act of devotion.
Time unspools for a while, then. No conversation; no rush. Just his mouth on her, his hands on her, his hand finding hers and winding fingers together. His tongue flickering and fluttering, and sometimes just licking, licking, lapping at her like she is cream, like she is honey, like she is the sweetest of sugars.
Just his undivided and unwavering attention, fucking her with his mouth in that lazy, sweet way.
MatildeImpossible to know what lovers she's had, or what sort of women he's known. Impossible to know, but meaningless, too: she can't think of a moment outside of this. She can't think of a piece of her life, no matter how fractional, that was not this one. Fragments of memory both familiar and alien flicker in her mind even as his tongue flicks between her lips, runs up her slit. She reaches for him, feeling a rising fear that he might be gone if she dares to open her eyes,
and then there is his hand. His fingers sliding between her own, holding her. A sigh of relief escapes her as she holds him in return, their fingers locked together, their palms touching. Her back arches on the next luxuriant slide of his tongue, her breath leaving her again.
Time does, indeed, unravel around them and between them.
And then: "Come," she gasps, for she's getting close. She feels she is about to collapse inward, folding into an infinitesimal version of herself only to explode again, bursting apart into bits of shattered soul. Her hands tighten: one on his shoulder, one held in his own. Her voice has a desperation to it, a need she hasn't permitted herself to express, no matter how clear her desire has been. "Oh, come here. Cuore mio, non mi lasciare qui da solo. Baciami." She sighs when the words have left her, her nails curving, dragging up his shoulder lightly.
If he stays: if he ignores her plea, if he worships her, she will come. She will grasp heaven itself. From the way she moves, the cadence of her breath, the sheer heat he feels on his tongue, he must know: she will come, and soon, and helplessly.
Still: she asks him to kiss her.
Begs him, in fact, to come with her.
Matilde[ahem: Italian! "My heart, don't leave me here alone. Kiss me."]
BastianoHe wants to take her over the edge. He wants to make her come. He wants to see her come, helpless and unrestrained, wants to see her body arching off the bed, wants to see her thighs quiver, wants to taste the hot sweetness of her cunt.
He wants these things, but when she begs like that he wants, too, to give her what she asks for. He wants her legs around his waist; her hands on his back. He wants her coming on his cock.
So there's a moment's pause. A tremoring hesitation of his tongue against her clit. And then he kisses her cunt even as he's pulling away, pushing up, climbing over her agile and sleek and quick. Her leg slips off his shoulder. He comes down over her; his mouth finds hers; he kisses her ravenously, with a short rough sound. And kisses her again, a little rougher, while he reaches down to grasp his cock, to find her, to push into her. Another groan, then -- longer, coarser, sounding like relief and gratitude; like he's found what he's been looking for, and what he's looking for is something vital, pivotal.
MatildeIn that moment, that tremoring instant, he can feel the pulsing of her clit against his tongue. Wetness slicks his mouth, his chin. She's trying -- he can feel her, see her trying -- so hard not to come. Her free hand has moved from his body to the coverlet beneath her, clutching, the dark blue fabric vivid between her pale fingers. When he kisses her cunt again she moans, aching and overwhelmed.
And then a gasp as he moves. There's something -- yes -- grateful in it, and in the way she wraps her arms and her legs around him, the mattress shifting under their romping. She's too far gone for her face to show the flicker of glee that went through her when he first came over her, but her eyes do flash, gleaming as they open.
Close again, as he kisses her. She groans, holding his face with her hands, sounding as though taste of her own lust on his mouth is almost too much for her to bear. She holds him close, pressing her body up to his; she almost gives him no room to reach down, to take hold of himself, to press into her,
but they manage.
Another moan escapes her throat as his cock fills her -- her cry is longer this time, louder than before. Her hands clutch at his shoulders, her spine arching, her cunt bearing down on him. The sound she makes is so different from his, her voice a bright counterpoint, but the sound is the same: relief. Gratitude.
Her ankles cross each other at the small of his back the first time he moves in her. She revels in the flex of muscle against her calves, between her thighs. The second time he thrusts in her she gasps, her hands sliding over his back like she can't get enough of him. It's closer to the truth than she would like to admit. When her hips begin to roll to meet the way he fucks her, she kisses him again. This time the way she moans into his mouth is soft, is encouraging, is decadent.
BastianoThey share that sound like they share this moment, this act. It vibrates between their throats, rolls over their tongues. When their mouths part he's looking at her, watching her while he fucks her, that shared sensation flickering in his eyes, in hers.
Her hands are on his body, and his are in her hair, smoothing it back, combing down. His palms press against her shoulderblades. He lifts her against him for a moment, embracing her tightly, wordlessly, burying his face against her neck. It is possible neither of them would ever be able to explain why he does that, why it feels right.
Then he pushes up over her, but not too far. He braces on his elbows, his hands again cradling her head. He fucks her like that, face to face, brow to brow, eyes closing as it escalates, accelerates; starts to take him over. It is not the creative, decadent fuck they're perhaps both capable of; it is something simpler, primitive, inelegant.
Necessary. Why else would he make the sounds he does, urgent and raw; why else, when the moment of climax is suddenly and utterly inevitable, would he grasp at her like that, kiss her like that, almost desperately? Because he does: he kisses her as it is upon him, kisses her as he's fucking her through those last, furious strokes; groans into her mouth as he buries deep inside her, as though he might give her some part of himself to take, to keep, to hide away forever.
MatildeWhen she can, she looks up at him. But then her brow wrinkles, and her lips part, and she closes her eyes or looks away again like it's too much for her. It's so unlike the lady behind the mask, down in the ballroom. So cool. So wry. Not now. Not like this. Not when every time he kisses her she holds him tighter, her arms around him, her legs around him. Being unable to understand why she feels like she's been looking for him without knowing it, why she's so happy to see him when he's a stranger -- it only makes it more impossible for her to hide behind a lace mask, a feathered fan, a dry smirk.
She cannot stop kissing him. She is able to look at him when he raises himself up over her, even that short distance, and he can see in those pale eyes of hers that she knows: why he's staying close. Why he looks at her like that. Why they have to stay like this, near enough to share one another's breath.
She was so close, moments ago. And this is an entirely different sensation, but it satisfies something in her that is deeper than flesh, than pleasure, than desire. It doesn't take long for her to begin to lose herself again, There's nothing athletic or unusual or novel about this, and it is the most thrilling fuck she can remember having. Her lips are trembling when she kisses him again. She wants to call out his name, but the names that swirl through her mind are foreign to her, are not his name, are not the name of anyone she knows.
She touches him instead. Her hand on his face. Her hand on his chest. She's trying to tell him what he's doing to her, but there's not words for it. Not for what this is. Not for what she feels. She bites his lip softly, groaning, her legs sliding up his sides, her body angling to take him deeper. She urges him to go faster, panting now, holding onto him until it hits her.
This time, the sound she makes is so far gone it doesn't sound like it's of this time. It's something older, something raw, something animal. Her nails dig into his back as he's kissing her, fucking her harder at the end, coming inside of her as she's shaking apart around him. He buries himself in her; she takes him, pulls him down somewhere dark, somewhere warm, somewhere more familiar than any name, than any memory, than any mind.
BastianoThere he dwells for a time.
There in the darkness, the warmth, the primordial familiarity where he can almost remember -- he can almost recall...
--
Who will you be this time? asked the male.
You'll see, answered the female.
And where shall we meet? asked the male.
Somewhere warm, said the female, with a little culture and art.
I know just the place, said the male. I'll find you.
Or I you, said the female, and they smiled and reclined together in the fragrant grass, there in the timeless darkness between the stars.
--
But it slips away. And he opens his eyes, and stirs, and finds his mouth still so near hers that it takes barely a thought to lift his chin, kiss her lips.
It is a slow one, this one, tasting and intimate. And he is spent, softening inside her, but the sheer eroticism of her stirs him again. Makes him want her again; can't get enough of her. His hand lifts, traces a path. He takes her breast in hand, cradling, gentle; looks at her skin in the candlelight, her nipple hardening under his stroking thumb.
Then his eyes lift back to her face. Hair so dark should pair with eyes as dark, but hers are pale and brilliant, as though she too carries some foreign blood, some far-off influence. He kisses her again, soft and slow.
"They call me Bastiano here," he tells her afterward, soft and unprompted, "but I come from north of the Alps. a small state in the south of the Holy Roman Empire. I am kin to the Warders of the Men. I took an early interest in warfare and served in the Emperor's army when I was little more than a boy. But Frederick the Peaceful was not so named without reason, and there was little war to be had there And so I was not unwilling when a shadow army of wolves and their kin recruited me to their cause, battling vampires and their thralls. We commit murder, arson, theft and treason, all in the name of the greater good. That is what brought me here."
He sighs; stretches on his side beside her, his eyes still moving over her face, his hand still touching her body.
"And you? What is your story?"
MatildeIt feels like the most natural thing in the world, holding him like this. The feeling of sweat cooling on her skin, the way he becomes heavy in her arms even as he softens between her legs, their chests moving together as they breathe, as they come down: all of it is terribly, impossibly familiar. Where at first all she can hear is the harmony of their panting and the pounding of her heart, soon there's only whisper of his breath against her neck or her cheek, the crackle of the low-burning fire in her hearth.
She feels it must be that this is not the first time they've made love but only the first time in a very long time, that they have laid together like this a hundred times, a thousand,
more.
While he is in the darkness, drifting through memories or futures, she is stroking his back lightly with her fingers, listening to him breathe. Listening to the fire. Listening to the lap of the river outside against its banks and against the hulls of moored boats. Listening to his heartbeat, and her own, until she hears them fall into a similar rhythm.
Her eyes are half-closed only when he stirs, and her lips curve in one of those smiles from downstairs as he kisses her. She lets her eyelashes fall once more. He wakes to her and she welcomes him, her thigh drawing up his side again, one leg hooking around his waist again -- though far lazier than before, when she held him with everything she had. His lips leave hers when his hand cups her breast, and she opens her eyes. Watches him looking at her, watches his hand on her body, feels a catch in her breath and a pulse in her cunt as his thumb strokes her nipple.
She tips her head back again as he kisses her this time, a soft moan telling him she will go with him, all over again, is already falling into it.
But he, perhaps, needs more rest before that. She feels a soft flush on her cheeks, embarrassment or chagrin, when he stops kissing her. That isn't to say that she doesn't listen, though at the moment she cannot fathom how he is capable of speech.
And yet even that attracts her all the more.
"Bastiano," she whispers, in echo, as soon as he gives it. She thinks, absurdly, that it's the most beautiful name she's ever heard. She would laugh at herself but knows it's madness, she's being absolutely mad. All the same, the back of her hand is stroking his cheek again, her eyes fascinated, fixed on him,
enchanted.
He tells her about Offenburg and the Warders. She smiles an amused little smile when he tells her of his interest in warfare and how there wasn't enough of it for him in the official army. He tells her about the ones who took him up, trained him. And again there's no shock in her eyes, no disturbance, when he lists off the crimes he commits for the sake of his people, for the sake of all people, for the sake of Gaia herself. Only simple acceptance, as though he were telling her that he is a stonemason or that he doesn't care for rabbit stew.
She reaches down as he reclines in her bed with her, covering his hand with her own, making him put his hand somewhere at least ostensibly neutral, making his hand be still. "I cannot think," she whispers at him, a tease underlining the scold, her smile sleepy but wide.
As though to make up for it, however, she turns a little, too, facing him, her legs twined with his, her hand resting gently on his chest. She feels suddenly quite young, quite gentle, as though they are whispering secrets like children who have stayed up too late. Even this feeling brings with it a flicker of an even stranger memory not her own, a sense of, indeed, knowing him as a child, growing alongside him, telling him all her secrets even as they were just beginning to form.
It's such a sweet thought. And her eyes darken somewhat as she realizes it could even be true.
"Matilde," she murmurs to him. "But it is not the name my parents gave me. I do not know them. I was... found." She promised him secrets. She promised him delightful ones, but this one does not seem to bring her any bright little joys. "Far from here, but farther still from wherever I was born. I changed quite young, and I remember almost nothing from before those days."
There's hesitance there in her eyes, for the first time. Shame, perhaps, or more: fear he may see her differently, think her weak or mad. She doesn't pull away from him, at least. But she tells him no more.
Not yet.
Bastiano[GODDAMMIT HE IS FROM OFFENBURG.]
Bastiano"Matilde."
He echoes her name back to her as well, as softly, as tenderly. And though she's moved his hand from her breast, he touches her still: now her waist, running the flats of his fingers along the slope; then turning, trailing his knuckles, his nails, over her skin.
There is a shadow in her eyes, then, which wakes something in him. A line furrows between his eyebrows. He raises his hand to her face, stroking her cheek the way she stroked his: with the backs of the fingers, gently.
"What is it?" he prompts, whispered.
MatildeThe sound of her name on his tongue thrills her. She feels her heart quicken. He won't stop touching her, won't be still, but she doesn't chide him again, doesn't stop his hand, lets his fingertips roam. It's addictive, this sensation paired with the growing certainty of closeness between them. Her eyes flicker closed briefly; her body is so awake, her senses so lit up, that she can almost hear his nails stroking along her skin.
They open again and he is looking at her with gentleness one likely wouldn't expect from a self-confessed murderer and arsonist. He is touching her with a care reserved for creatures wholly unlike herself: not things that rend and tear and snap in the dark, not beasts that rage.
"I only wonder if that is why you feel so familiar to me. If we knew each other once, and I only recall shadows."
Even as she says it, half hopeful and half dismissive, she knows that isn't it. And even as she says it, she feels silly for caring.
She sighs softly, reaching up to him, her hand cupping the back of his head, drawing him down so she can kiss him again.
"It doesn't matter," she whispers, in between one kiss and the next. They are both slow, tasting things, sealed by a third, softer kiss on his lips. She lays her head back down on the pillow beneath her, looking up at him as they both touch each other, hands on faces and elsewhere, with something akin to reverence.
"I am a Shadow Lord by blood," she tells him, without equivocation. "Those who found me sought the nearest caern of my own kind to rear me. I earned names among them, then began to take up with packs who roamed farther from the mountain territories where I was fostered."
A wry little smile, here. "I wanted to be somewhere warm. I wanted to see cities. When I came to Florence, I wanted to stay." A touch here, of regret: "My pack at the time did not. But after they returned to the caern, the Alpha there learned of my presence here and began to send instructions.
"I have a talent for influence," she confesses. "So over the years, I have positioned myself closer to Lorenzo and his family, among others. I... advise him. For the sake of my tribe, and my own."
Her head tips softly on the pillow. "Some of the failures of the House of Medici are ours. So, too, many of their successes."
This reminds her of something, and she smiles. "Why the Pope's bastard?" she asks, her voice softer than before, delighting in secrets. "Don't make me guess."
BastianoHe is drawn into those soft kisses, and allows himself to be drawn. His eyes close; his senses swim. When they part he is slow to open his eyes, lingering where he is for a moment or two before he, too, sets his head down on her pillow.
She speaks of caerns; mountains; cities. Florence, where it was warm. Something in that stirs some remembrance, flickers in his eyes and is gone. He takes a breath and lets it go.
"The hand in the shadows," he muses, and raises one finger to trace the line from the outer corner of her brow to the outer corner of her lip. "I suppose we have something in common, though I fear the extent of my influence is wholly eclipsed by yours."
And then he smiles, too: some secret delight for her delight in secrets. "Can't you guess?" he asks, amused. "He was a vampire.
"Or rather," he allows, with a touch of -- not remorse, no, but something, some softening, "he was very near to becoming a vampire. He had been enthralled for some time by a vampire; one we know only as il patriarca. This creature has a long history -- a very long history -- of binding the rich and powerful to his will. The most useful and loyal amongst his thralls, he turns. They become his children, in a sense. His power and influence is a family affair," wry, "much like your Medicis.
"We have had some success in picking off the children," he adds. "But we never seem to come any closer to the father."
MatildeThey haven't yet completely unwound from one another. The room was warmed by the fire, by their bodies, but as the fire fades a bit and as their sweat cools, the air gives them no reason to move apart. It doesn't occur to her to unwrap from him, roll away. It doesn't occur to her to stop touching him, her hand moving down his arm, onto his side. She relishes the feeling of his lower back against her palm. She caresses his hip without idleness but in a lust that hasn't been completely banked yet. She wants to run her fingernails up his flank. She wants to see him shiver.
She never wants to stop talking with him. He utterly delights her.
She smirks a little at his description of her: the hand in the shadows. It's not an unkind expression, only amused, perhaps a touch self-deprecating -- though not terribly. She doesn't argue with him that her influence is no greater than his, or assure him that they both fight the war in their own ways. She does not think he needs any such reassurance.
Her eyebrows perk when he tells her of the Pope's son's... proclivities. Or capture, perhaps, would be a better word. She indeed knows the importance of killing a prisoner lest they be used against you, if they cannot be saved. It is an unpleasant duty, but duty nonetheless.
"I have heard of him," she murmurs, of il patriarca. "Vaguely. Rumors, more than anything."
She faces him, their two heads sharing her pillow, and despite the tension of the words she's saying, she is wrapping her leg around him again, hooking her thigh over his waist, pulling herself closer.
"And if those rumors hold any truth, he will be angry at this loss in particular. He may send punishment."
BastianoNow it's she who can't seem to stop touching him. Now it's she who slips ever closer, now tracing the tuck of his obliques into the crest of his hip; now sliding her leg around his waist. She moves closer, and his hand grips gently at her hip.
"I cannot think," he repeats back to her, smiling. He only speaks half in jest. He is not jesting at all.
But a moment later he grows serious. One might admire that focus in the face of her nearness; her beauty; her nakedness and eagerness. She must know it for necessity, though: if he could not bring himself to heel so sharply, he would not have survived this long. Not against bloodsuckers.
"Yes," he agrees, "and indeed we expect no less. We had hoped he would turn on Lorenzo de' Medici and expose himself in his anger. I was to depart Florence immediately after the deed was done, and a band of my compatriots would have struck if and when he was vulnerable. But before tonight, we did not know of you, and we did not factor you into our considerations. If il Patriarca is aware of who and what you are, I find it hard to believe he would blame a mortal -- no matter how influential or wealthy -- over you, the wolf who advises that mortal."
"I fear I may have made life more difficult for you here," he finishes, "and for that I must beg your pardon."
MatildeTo be fair: she hasn't been able to stop touching him since she first began. It feels like hours ago that he stood there, wolf-masked and naked, asking her if he should leave it on. It feels like a lifetime ago, running her hand up his body for the first time.
He grips her thigh but doesn't stop her hand, and her breath catches. She doesn't stop, though. She stays as close as she is: and it is so very close. Hard, it would take only a roll of his hips to be inside of her again. She can feel the heat of his body radiating off of his skin, between her thighs, against her cunt, and when he smiles at her it is as hard to think as it was when his fingers were teasing her breast.
Matilde licks her lips, facing him. Watches his expression change, watches him grow serious. And yes: she admires that focus, that control. This, as much as everything else, is searingly erotic to her.
All the same, she wishes he wouldn't talk like this. She feels them stepping dangerously close to a truth she wants to ignore, an edge she wants to pretend isn't there. She would rather he let go of these thoughts and sink into her again.
Her hand is on his face. Her thumb strokes his lower lip as he speaks, but she listens. Of course she listens to him when he speaks to her.
It's perhaps the only thing she wants more right now: the sound of his voice.
"It is I who have made your errand more difficult," she says softly, with a touch of regret. Then, amusement, however dry it may be: "By my mere presence."
Her hand strays from his jaw, turning, the backs of her fingers trailing down his neck, over his chest. Turns again, palm to his body, to his heartbeat, like it could somehow imprint on her. She leans closer, til they are brow to brow, til she can feel his breath on her skin. Til that breath, in fact, comingles between them, and they share the very air.
She cannot forget these few words: I was to depart Florence immediately. They ring in her ears. They feel like a weight pressing down on her chest. They make her skin feel too tight.
"Please do not leave," she whispers, apropos of this, though it may seem like a non sequitur when he has not made any move to depart from her. "Do not leave me yet."
BastianoIt is I who have made your errand more difficult, she says,
starts to,
but his fingertips touch her lips, still them. He shakes his head. It is emphatic.
"I regret nothing," he says. "I don't even regret making your life more dangerous, your position more precarious. I don't regret it because I met you.
"And I am not leaving Florence," he adds. "Not before this is finished. And not without you."
MatildeShe stills. Her lips are still parted, her breath on his fingers. She's looking at him, their faces and bodies so terribly close. Somehow it makes her heart thump, his refusal to regret even creating danger for her. There's relief mingled in that, absolution: for she doesn't regret it either. None of it.
...because I met you.
Leaning towards him, she kisses him. There's lust in it -- how could there not be? -- but something else, something deeper, and it's an answer. It's gratitude. It's an echo of sentiment. Her hand is on his face, because he is precious to her. Every kiss is precious. Every breath in his body is precious.
There was truth in her vow downstairs, that no harm would come to him tonight. Now she thinks, instead: not while I live. No harm will befall him while I draw breath.
But she doesn't speak it. It is a deeper promise than words could reach. She pledges the oath from her soul to his.
When that kiss parts, she whispers those aching words to him. She closes her eyes, holding him close, resting her hand at the base of his skull, almost cradling. And he tells her what he does. All of it matters, but none more -- at least, to her -- than this:
not without you.
Her chest caves in slightly, there. Her eyes open to his again. She knows she can't ask him to stay. Not here. Not a stranger as he is. She is not a man; she cannot simply take a lover and introduce him at courts and have no one ask questions. Certainly not when he arrived in the life of Lorenzo's mysterious adviser the night that the Pope's son died on these grounds.
There is also, of course, the ancient and angry vampire to worry about, as well.
She huffs a soft, aching laugh. "Your army would not welcome my kind. And seeing me among your kind is not likely to make allies of any Shadow Lords you come across."
Bastiano"So we'll go somewhere else," he answers, immediately. He can still taste her kisses. That last one, deep and aching. He touches her the same way now: his hands cradling her skull, the two of them holding each other close. "I have some money. Access to horses, weapons. I have friends in other cities, empires. Florence isn't the only city in the world.
"We can go somewhere else, when this is over. Be our own army. Fight our own war."
He pauses. Silence for a beat.
"You needn't give me an answer now. Just consider it."
MatildeAll he has to do is look around him to know why she would prefer to stay here. All he has to do is feel silks against his bare skin on the very bed they lie upon. She wants for nothing here. Even when she hunts it must be more for pleasure and practice than any need to defend herself. She has the ear of one of the most powerful men in civilization. Her gowns are velvet and lace and silk. Even her undergarments are embroidered with delicate flowers at the edges. Everything here is warm, and soft, and beautiful.
True: she has no real money of her own. True: she has no real power of her own that she can exercise blatantly, boldly as she would like. True: she does indeed hunt for pleasure, and practice, and because it is one of the only spaces where she can feel the strength she really has, use it in its most raw form. But she is still young, and a few more years here could yield results for her tribe -- and herself -- that she can scarcely imagine yet.
He offers her some money they could use to run away with. Horses. Weapons. Their own war.
She is looking at him with a furrow between her brows as he speaks. Perhaps that is part of why he falls silent. Tells her -- asks her -- to consider it.
Matilde gives a small, soft shake of her head.
"Cuore mio," she whispers, neither his name nor the pet name invented behind masks, but the one that rings most true to her. "There is nothing to consider." She exhales, all in a rush, as everything else falls away around her. "I would sooner die than part from you."
BastianoThe words -- the question -- had sprung out of nowhere. It must have seemed impulsive, though it wasn't: it was something deeper than that, engraved in his bones, closer to instinct. Yet he is no fool, and he is not without eyes, ears, senses. He sees the richness of her attire, her chambers. He intuits the extent of her power, and how it will only grow.
He knows, he realizes, what he is asking her. How much he is asking of her.
So he falls silent. And he asks her to consider it. And in his breast, his heart dangles from a string.
Then she shakes her head. There is nothing to consider, she says, and the string snaps. But she is not, despite what one might say or assume of her tribe, cruel. She does not let him suffer. She tells him what she meant, what she really meant to say, and
his heart is caught before it hits the rocks below.
Still, there is a certain reserve to him. He does not shout for joy, or sigh for relief. He just smiles. A faint little quirking of his mouth. A softening in his regard, a warmth in his eyes. "Well," he says softly, "let us hope we shall neither die nor part for long, signorina. But," and here he kisses her again, quick and soft, "we've tarried long enough. I need to report back so that we might plan and prepare. We may need your help soon -- have you a trusted messenger, a place we might meet in secret?"
MatildePerhaps in another life, in other lives, she has known what his stoic demeanor truly conceals. Learned, over years, to see beyond the reserved expression to the man offering himself, his life, his heart, not knowing if she would keep these things safe and sacred, not knowing if she would shatter him.
In other lives, though, perhaps she has been the one offering. Holding herself out to him, her heart dangling by a thread.
He smiles and it fills her with warmth. She cannot help but smile in return, a flash of warmth and light across her features. She kisses him, her hands on his cheeks, smiling through it. Only after this does she let him speak again, answer.
That answer makes the smile fade from her face. Even as soon as for long. Certainly it is fading into soft confusion when he kisses her. Says they've tarried. Says he has to report back and indicates through his words that she is to stay.
There's not even the grace of a moment of dangling, waiting. She feels her heart crushed.
All she wants to do is plead with him: no. not yet. please don't. But despite what she feels, even that is too undignified for her. It flashes through her eyes, though, changes her face. They are too close for him to miss it, even if she were doing a better job concealing herself.
She gives a small nod, her leg sliding down his side, unhooking from his body. She doesn't move away, but closes, somewhat. He is right, of course. He was not supposed to run a second errand to someone's bedchamber tonight. Every moment he is here is dangerous. That is all quite reasonable. It doesn't quiet the howling in her heart at all, but she of all people understands.
The next kiss she gives him is not ecstatic, delighted as the one a moment ago, but soft, with perhaps a tremor of fear that this will somehow be the last time she sees him. As if, the moment she lets him out of her sight, he might be taken from her forever.
"Santa Croce," she murmurs. "Bruni's tomb. There is a Franciscan there who I speak with. He can be trusted."
BastianoHer leg slides --
and is caught. His hand warm, his grip firm. She is reasonable; she does not beg him to stay, and wouldn't. She is a proud creature too, and he loves her for it. Has always loved her for it, though he remembers nothing of those previous times, those prior lives.
They meet; kiss. It begins soft, and there is fear there. It turns into something else, blooming outward, not like a flower but like a fire, raging. She gives him a city, a place, a person. He gives her just a short answer,
"I understand,"
and then he is kissing her again, ferociously, rolling her onto her back and levering himself over her. As though he had not tarried too long. As though it were not dangerous for him, for her, for both of them and their future together, to tarry a little longer. As though he were starving for her, and she for him; as though they cannot get their fill.
MatildeThere's an intake of breath. She moves for him, easily. Somehow it all hurts; it all breaks her heart. But her hands run up his sides and her legs wrap around him despite it all. Her ardor has cooled somewhat in the minutes they have spent talking about what now, suddenly, seems tantamount to death: parting from him. Losing him.
But he's there, his hand firm on her thigh, running up her hip and splaying over her lower back as he kisses her. She gasps softly as she feels his teeth on her lip, and that breath growls softly in the back of her throat.
She looks up at him, her eyes grown dark, hungry. The sight of him is almost as luxurious to her as the feel of his body against her. This time when he enters her, her hands are on his chest, her eyes watching him, her breath catching in her throat, then leaving her in a whimper.
--
It is not enough. And she makes it last as long as she can. She slides off of him at one point, abrupt enough to be shocking, only to turn over beneath him, dragging a pillow under her hips. She tells him to bite her.
This time when her hand clutches at the covers of her bed, she is holding his hand. Or he is holding hers. She is burying her cries in silk, begging him not to stop over and over, biting her lip against the groans that ultimately, inevitably, leave her anyway.
For a moment when she comes, she sees stars. She feels him thrust hard into her, holding quiveringly still, feels him coming with her, and even then she can't stop rolling her hips, he can't stop rocking into her,
they cannot get enough of each other.
BastianoEverything about this is shocking. That they met only hours ago. That they connected so cracklingly there in the midst of the masqued ball that it's a wonder either of them escaped unscorched. That he kissed her, and she kissed him back, before they even saw one another's faces. That they came up here to fuck without pretense or excuse.
That she unmasked him, and he her. That they grew so utterly entangled in so short a time. That he can barely remember what it was like without her. That she can barely imagine what it would be like without him.
That she slides off him, makes him breathe in in utter shock; that she turns over, that he grabs her by the hips, that she bites the covers, that he bites her. It is all shocking. It is all
somehow right.
--
He departs like a storybook bandit: climbing out of her window, but not before he shares a last burning kiss with her. She sees him descending the wall, agile as can be: gripping near-invisible fissures in the great stone walls of the manse de' Medici; dropping by breathtaking feet and yards; finally leaping the last six or eight feet to land on the soft embankments of the river.
He looks up at her from below for a moment. Then, decisively, he turns away and disappears swiftly into the night.
MatildeHer hand doesn't unwind from his as they catch their breath this time. She keeps their fingers interlaced, looking at it from where her head is turned on the pillow. His hand is rough, his skin darker than her own, his nails short. She curls her fingers to hold him, drawing their hands close to her chest, drawing his arm more tightly around her. Her eyes close. She knows he will stay until her heart stop thundering. She knows he'll stay until their sweat begins to cool. She knows:
no longer. He has tarried so long. They are both at risk.
While he dresses, she stays on her bed. She watches him from her rumpled covers, her body still bare, her skin still wearing the scent of his sweat, her cunt still filled with his cum. She doesn't move to conceal herself, and she doesn't try in the slightest to make this easy on him. There is, after all, a part of her that longs for him to stay, damn the consequences. Damn the war and damn Lorenzo and damn them all. She'll slaughter anyone who comes through the door. That part of her is animal, is senseless, is the part given easily to both song and rage, and so she doesn't speak it aloud. She just
lies there, naked, freshly and deliciously fucked, watching him put on his clothes again.
Until it is time to go. Then she rises, drawing a robe onto her shoulders, leaving it as unbound as her long hair. She opens the window for him, surveys the grounds with him, and waits as he climbs over the wall to the other side. He kisses her like that, clinging to the sill of her window. She touches his face one more time during that kiss, a vow that cannot be formed by words. Stays there, watching him as he climbs. She admires his agility, his strength, smiling a little to herself even when he makes her heart jump into her throat. When he stands on the earth again she is begging him, silently, to look up.
He does. His eyes meet hers. She does not wave. She does not blow him a kiss. She just looks at him, something between fondness and adoration in her gaze.
And when he goes, she turns, too. She closes the window. She pulls the curtain over it. She pauses a moment, praying it isn't the last time she sees him.
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