b e x l e y
KISS THE BOYS AND MAKE THEM DIE
Oh, foolish girl. She should have known better than to think anything good could come of a night like this.
Denocte has never treated her well. This will not be any different. When Bexley hears the coarse ringing of a flute in her ears, when she watches Acton cross the room in so many overconfident steps, she is not sure whether the sickness sitting in the pit of her stomach is love or want or apprehension or just deja vu, throwing her like a rag doll through ripples of time to the night they met and the warmth of his breath following her hip and the way the stars made their cries against the sky, the same way candles flutter against the dark ceiling now.
And yet some part of her still hopes, with all the fantastical yearning of a child, that she will escape this unscathed.
Foolish girl she is, but not so foolish that she does not notice the ersatz way he smiles, how his stride changes pattern halfway across the floor. Not so stupid that she does not raise her head and watch him with blue-blue eyes sharp and too suspicious. Her heart knocks, canorous and ragged, against the inside of her throat.
She does not shiver when his lips brush the line of her cheek, though God knows it takes effort to keep that wanton gut reaction from rolling all the way up her spine. Music blows to a head in the air around them. Coked-out, tenuous, struggling to keep her breath and her posture and the spasm of her pulse in check, she is almost relieved to hear the soft noise of the words that follow - we might have a problem - because it means that the terror she feels is, for once, justified.
Bexley cuts her gaze at him sideways, lowers her lashes, sets her jaw in a soft line. She pauses for half a moment. A problem, she repeats, pacific, and the low timber of her voice in almost lost in the swell of noise and breath and body that surrounds them. But her gaze never moves from his, dark and fervent.
Then she smiles - hellish, wishbone, utterly intrepid - and blows a cool breath over the curve of his spine. When do we not? Her teeth scrape a gentle half moon against his shoulder; her voice drops to a murmur. What kind of problem.
@acton <3
