prince pilate of
house ieshan
house ieshan
you think you are possessing me
but I've got my teeth in you.
W
hen Andras comes to meet me he looks ravenous.Starved for something, though I know as warden he must be well-fed. Hungry in the way of an unloved dog. I can’t even explain how, but he moves forward teeth-first: their star-white glint is what catches my gaze in the first moment I look at him. (And then I am entranced by his eyes. And then the rise of his cheekbones, and then the soft forward curve of his ears… and then I am disgusted with myself, and I set my jaw and push my gaze up to his, cold and certain.)
My heart is pounding in my chest, and I feel it more than I can feel my blood or my breath or hear any of my own thoughts. And I realize this feeling is—
Something duller than pain but brighter than anger. I feel violated. He violates me. He poisons me from the inside out, and I let it happen; I look at him while he does it, without wearing even a scowl, and I let him.
My body aches. Suddenly I think of—
(No I don’t.)
I swallow so harshly my throat wants to tear. It makes me regret my drinks; my mouth is already a little raw from the heat of the many bitter sips I’ve taken, and my mouth furrows together in a sort of wince as I fight down the feeling of acid. My chest flashes with white-bright irritation. By the time he looks at me—really looks, up from his drink—whatever droll smile I’d worn is already gone, and I am staring at him with an expression that wavers between complete neutrality and suppressed distaste.
So that I can bother you more efficiently, the Warden says. I scowl at him, my brow furrowing, my eyes narrowing; but I don’t have time to think of a response before I watch him throw the drink back like it’s a shot and not an absolutely epicurean, handmade drink. “That’s a cocktail,” I point out, “not outhouse liquor. Good grief, Warden.” I want to say something else. But for once I don’t know what it is, exactly, that I’d like to berate him for; I can’t decide between the multitude of his faults. I successfully bite back the urge to say anything at all, though it hurts me physically.
I watch him. I watch him swallow; I watch him breathe. I watch his snowcapped mouth move as he tells me I should have one as well. And normally I would have the good sense to come up with some snarky remark, or at least refuse his proposition in a well-mannered, endearing way. But I am so woefully distracted by the sight of him—the stormy bluish gray of his eyes, the shine of light on his dark skin, the way he smirks at me like I am some common boy off the street he might lure to bed—I take a large but genteel swallow of the same drink.
“I made this,” I admit. “Actually.”
And I only realize what I’ve done after the bright mint taste of it hits my stomach.
