by Ryans, Rae
We arrived at the quaint restaurant about twenty minutes later. Nestled into a row of shops, the gas powered lights flickered down the sidewalk and over the restaurant’s windows. Ladies and men walked hand in hand, engaged with each other as if the world wasn’t such a terrible place. Maybe someday, Petre and I could do the same. Perhaps I’d even forget my past. Doubtful, but I hoped whatever happened between the two of us was for the better.
Our drive itself was rather short, but neither of us had wanted to stop kissing. I even allowed my hands to travel, breaking through his jacket, and skimming over the hard ridges hiding beneath his shirt. But that warmth receded as another emotion washed over me. Trepidation, he’d called it, but I didn’t know what he meant. I tried everything to not leave his car, but Petre threatened to carry me in over his shoulder. A joke, but his gaze told me he would do it in a heartbeat. I laughed, and his smile widened.
“Remember, you are safe now,” he said, and I wanted nothing more than to believe his words. There was energy in the air though, and I wasn’t quite sure what it was, but it made my stomach hurt. When a particular wicked man used to visit the house, I’d suffered a similar sensation. Nothing terrible ever happened when he came through, but I still hid away. Even the sight of his icy eyes bluer than the clearest sky had made me run for cover. On those days, I was thankful that I belonged to Uncle because he too had tried to purchase me; it made me wonder how Petre managed it.
A smile forced over my lips as we entered the restaurant. I took a deep breath, as the scent of food registered in my brain. I’d died and gone to heaven; he noticed, grinning from ear to ear as he kissed my cheek. “See,” he said, dropping my hand.
My eyes wandered, ignoring the goggled glare of the man talking with Petre. Flickering gaslights hung on the walls, and oil lamps sat on each table. The walls displayed painted artwork, depicting landscape scenes from various places. Beautiful but they didn’t fit the other décor, or the relaxed blue and yellow gingham cloth covering the white tables. French country, the word appeared in my mind, and I shook my head wondering where it came from.
The air shifted, and I shivered, turning my attention back to Petre. With it, I noticed the goggled man and his short, light brown hair. Even through the tinted lenses, I could tell his dark eyes were trained on me. Yet he seemed familiar, or perhaps he knew what I was. The thought left me naked without my usual attire. The man standing at the podium eyed me up and down again, and I glanced away as my heartbeat quickened. My fingers, I tucked away into my coat pockets as Petre confirmed our reservation, chuckling as if they were pals.
The place was empty though, and I didn’t quite understand why we needed one at all. They continued to talk as I let my eyes skim over the surroundings again. French country, if this was the style, held a sense of charm to it without appearing flashy. Yes, keep your thoughts on the décor, I chided myself. Anything to ignore the intense eyes of the light-haired man, in his buckled suit and odd necktie.
Who was I to judge a person’s wardrobe? This was my first time in a restaurant, my first time out in public without my suffocating and degrading corset too. Still, it was a part of me that was familiar, and I kept clutching at my breast hoping to find the smooth satin and dainty, worn ribbons. Instead, soft velvet brushed my fingertips, and the cold chain of the pendant Mellissa allowed me to borrow.
“Korri,” Petre whispered as I stepped away to eye a painting. “Our table’s ready, doll.”
His hand curled around my arm, and he led us to a table in the center of the dining room. The light-haired man pulled out my chair as Petre took my coat. I muttered thanks, unsure of why he was hovering near my chair. As I sat, he pushed it forward and let out a little squeak.
“Your waiter will be with you shortly,” he said, with an odd accent, and staring a bit too long. Was he searching for my binds too? Self-consciously, my fingers grazed my marks. Petre gave me a puzzled look and grabbed my hand away.
“Relax,” he said and kissed my palm. “Laws are different here.” I shivered under his lips, but if I was honest, it was more than his lips. He made me feel and made me want to feel these emotions. Sure, they scared me. Me, the girl who hadn’t believed in fairytales, yet here I was living one. Granted, only a day had passed, not even a day, but I didn’t want this to end. Ever.
Petre made me question everything I knew of life and another L word too. No, I wasn’t sure what this was, and infatuation came to mind. Jules said some of the men used the same woman, because they were infatuated. Did Petre feel this way with me too? But it was ridiculous to think it possible. If men loved women, why did they need courtesans?
His fingers grazed my cheek, and I sucked in my breath. “Lost in your thoughts again?”
“Yes,” I whispered as the blush in my cheeks rose. Petre’s cold fingers soothed the blistering skin, but I fought the urge to fall into his touch. His chair shuffled against the floor as he dragged himself closer.
“You don’t like the staring?” I shook my head as my gaze lifted to the man. His eyes remained on me. “Do you know why he keeps staring?” Petre’s lips fell to my ear, and I gasped; those lips surged my heartbeat. “Because you are the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen, but he wonders what you see in me.”
My laughter came out in a hushed burst. The truth would’ve surely made the man laugh too. I was here because I had to be.
“I take it he doesn’t know the truth.” He pushed his chair back, and I jumped from the suddenness of his movements. Petre clenched his hands, and I heard the tapping of his foot, echoing through the room. “Sorry,” I whispered, and his lips pressed into a forced smile.
My eyes fell away. The intensity of his gaze ached as he trudged over my skin. Note to self never bring up the contract. I excused myself for the restroom and all but ran into the safety of its confines. The door didn’t close before my eyes burned with tears. Why had I opened my big mouth when everything was perfect? Because I knew deep down that I didn’t deserved any of this life.
I gripped the white sink and forced breaths through my nose and out of my mouth. My lips trembled as I heard rising voices, and I tried to shake them off. Not everything was about you, I reminded myself. The door slammed, and my shoulders tightened. Without looking, somehow I knew it was Petre. He spun me around and pressed me close. “I’m sorry—”
“Stop it,” he said, shaking my shoulders. I winced as the fabric rubbed against my wounds. “You did nothing wrong.” His eyes scanned me from head to toe, and his brow furrowed. I wanted to ask what was wrong, but he planted his lips on my forehead. Petre’s lips lingered as my mouth dropped open. “I wanted everything perfect; you deserve perfect, but maybe you weren’t ready for this.”
The tone burned my eyes. Please God let it be so, let his words hold true, and my life be forever changed. Save me, my soul screamed, but my mind shouted in protest. The poor beating heart slammed against my rib cage, torn between my warring insides. Petre whispered his apology again and held me tighter. Speechless, I stood there with my mouth gaped. No one had ever apologized to me before and meant the words.
“I can try,” I said, playing with the buttons on his shirt. “But …” A strange clicking sound interrupted my thoughts as Petre cursed under his breath. He turned his head and covered his mouth. “Pet—”
His head shook, the long hair coming loose from his collar. “Give me a moment,” he said, his voice sounding strained as if he had something stuck in his mouth. I stared at his hunched back, noting it didn’t rise or fall with breath. That was probably because his body trembled. My feet stepped forward, but he held his hand up again. “This shouldn’t happen,” he whispered to himself.
“Petre,” I said, eyeing the door and wondering if I should seek help. When he didn’t answer, I ignored him and placed my hand on his back. “Whatever it is …” I paused to give him time to explain, but he said nothing.
He groaned as he rose and faced me. “It’s nothing.” Liar, the word popped into my head
as if someone whispered it, but only I heard. “Must’ve pulled something. Let’s go to the table.”
The waiter, I assumed, waited for us at the table when we returned to our seats. My stomach flipped over what Petre hid from me, and those strange words popping into my head. Liar, I knew the term well enough, but French country baffled me. That phrase was new to me. Something was up, but I couldn’t pinpoint whatever affected him in the bathroom or the source of these words. We took our seats, and he pulled out my chair as the waiter spouted off the specials. My hands shook as he handed us our menus. Petre reached for my hand and smoothed over the surface while he ordered himself a drink; I chose water.
“I can get you something stronger if you’d prefer a glass of wine too.”
The thought of drinking alcohol never appealed to me. Most of the men who visited the house came in drunk or high on something other than lust. I declined and asked what he was ordering or what he’d recommend eating. I wasn’t about to whisper that I couldn’t read across the table. We’d pretty much eat scraps or broth unless the men brought us something. Us meant the other girls more times than not. With the expense of trucking in food, meat was scarce and too expensive, but I’d learned how to grow some vegetables in the small backyard. One of the regulars even brought pots for me to use and told Jules they were a gift. I’d paid for them, but he knew better than to tell the truth, and I was smart enough not to complain or tattle.
“Petre,” I’d whispered, leaning closer in my chair, but the waiter arrived before I could say anything. He smiled at us and placed a cloth-covered basket on the table, followed by our drinks. The restaurant held quite a bit of charm, and it was cozy. The checkered tablecloths and candlelight made it romantic too.
“The chef made those for the lady,” he said, pushing the basket closer. Petre gave a polite nod, but he didn’t lift the cloth. “Mademoiselle and Monsieur, are you prepared to order?” he asked in his thick accent, but I didn’t inquire about where his was from. For all I knew, it was one of the languages Petre had spoken about, and I hadn’t needed any help feeling more insecure.
“Deux Créma of Chanterelle soupé, s’il vous plait.” I blinked at the smoothness in his voice. The syllables rolled off Petre’s tongue. Fingers dropped, lacing into mine, and he’d flashed a charming smile that made my heart flip. I swore he’d read my thoughts though. Soup, at least I thought that was what he’d ordered, I could eat. “And if it isn’t too much trouble, could you move us to a booth?”
The waiter nodded as he scanned the small dining room. He told Petre it would take some time, but they’d accommodate or something. I didn’t follow all the conversation and kept my eyes on our connected hands. Another thing I hated; his hand comforted me. The contact stirred emotions and feelings I didn’t understand. His touch, on the train, when I had no idea who he was, I’d wondered what it felt like. The touch of a man typically made me queasy, but not his. My belly tugged, and my skin prickled in anticipation of his icy hands.
Cold, snow, ice, blustering, those were all words I related to even if he did melt my defenses. He held power over me, and even though I was afraid, Petre showed me how to let go. The voice in my head kept screaming at me to hold back, and I tried to listen. When those lips touched mine or his hand caressed my skin, the voice floated away, drowned out by the sounds of my thundering heart beating against my ribcage.
“Why a booth?”
“You’ll see, honey.” He shook his head, grinning wide. I bit my cheek to keep my eyes from rolling. I was happy with Korri. “See nothing fits. You are above all of those terms.”
“I told you not to worry about it,” I said as the waiter returned. Petre pulled out my seat, and the man led us to our new table. The booth was a tad more comfortable, and the leather formed around my achy body. When he sat down, Petre slid in next to me and wrapped his arm around my shoulder.
“See,” he said, placing a kiss on my forehead. I turned my head, and he dropped his lips to mine. The tingling spread from my cheeks down to my toes. Yes, I couldn’t deny it; his lips were dangerous. My stomach groaned; it wasn’t buying that his lips weren’t food as I nibbled on his bottom lip. “Eat some bread; your stomach is making an awful racket.”
Bread, he nudged the basket toward me, and I had a name to go with the food the chef prepared. I’d heard the word before, but I’d never had it. As hungry as I was, I didn’t move. My head rested on Petre’s shoulder, and I stared up at his sculpted jaw. The smooth, pale surface begged me to touch it, to hold it in the palms of my hands. His lips twitched as his jaw flexed; the conclusion I kept coming to was that he knew my thoughts. That might become a problem down the road, but for tonight, I wouldn’t press him. Tonight, I wanted to enjoy my birthday just in case tomorrow the bubble of my new life busted in my face.
My fingers danced over his chest. Petre’s heart didn’t hammer like mine, and the iciness radiated through the cloth. “Yes, this is much better.”
The strange clicking noise happened again as I reached for the breadbasket. My head cocked. The sound seemed to come from behind him this time. Petre excused himself, but his speech sounded muffled as he hightailed it from the booth. He moved faster than I’d ever known someone to move and covered his mouth with his hand.
My head tilted, expecting to hear the sound again, but there was nothing. I shrugged, removing the fabric covering the woven basket, and removed a small roundish morsel. Stress and exhaustion came to mind, and I had written the oddities off. Besides, I hadn’t lied earlier when I said I was starving. Warm, but not too hot, and the outside was firm. I broke open the bread. The smell was sweet and earthy, and my mouth watered before I took a bite. Just a small nibble, after all he had given me permission to eat.
Warm and chewy was my first thought, but rich and sweet at the same time. I took a sip of water to wash the nibble down, and tried another bite. This time I slathered on some of the white stuff sitting in the basket. Heaven collided in my mouth as the sweet and salty spread melted on my tongue. Even with chewing slowly, enjoying each tender bite, I realized I’d eaten half the basket.
While he was gone, the waiter brought the soup in large bowls. They were large enough to hold a week’s worth of my soup rations. Training told me to wait for him, but my stomach growled despite the bread I’d wolfed down. I stared at the steaming bowl of off-white soup. Under the candlelight, the color almost passed for grey, and chunks of vegetables –ones I’d not seen before- floated. I scooped some onto my spoon and blew gently. My lips parted, and I allowed the soup to roll over my tongue.
I moaned as the explosion went off in my mouth. Flavors collided, and I couldn’t name any of them, but the soup was earthy and tangy. Perfection in a pot; none of my soups ever came close to tasting this sinful.
“Do that again,” Petre said. His voice sounded hoarse, and his eyes glazed. I collected another spoonful, and blushed as I felt him watching me. The clicking sound returned as I moaned again. He motioned for me to continue, either ignoring the noise or he hadn’t heard the loud crack. “You are killing me, Korri.”
My eyes widened, and I dropped my spoon onto the table. The metal clattered against the side. Soup spilled, and I eyed the splatter, chiding myself for the waste. “I’m sorry,” I said, toying with the napkin in my lap and wincing as I awaited his wrath.
He moved closer, touching my thigh with his hand. My breath held, and my jaw tightened. Despite the chill, my belly tugged. My head swam trying to comprehend his touch. Would he strike me or not? “Don’t be sorry,” he whispered into my ear as my brow scrunched up in confusion. I didn’t understand; if I was killing him then shouldn’t I stop? What of the soup? His fingers squeezed my thigh, moving slightly over the velvet of my dress. “Eat.”
I did as he said, and continued to eat, although I toned down the moaning. His hand remained glued to my thigh, and I felt his breath on my neck. My belly set on fire, and each tickle or squeeze stoked the building heat. Eating became the last thing on my mind, and
the soup did little to fill me.
“Why aren’t you eating?” I noted his bowl was still full. He hadn’t eaten on the train either, unless he’d grabbed something while I slept. Granted, he could’ve eaten before we left, but that seemed silly too.
His hand shook as he reached for his spoon. I frowned at the loss of him, and a chill swept over me. “You like the soup? It’s a type of mushroom.”
“Yes, I think it’s the best.” He blew on his spoon even though the soup had cooled. I glanced away, but caught him pouring the contents back into the bowl.
His brow lifted as his eyes closed. The spoon clattered into the bowl, and he turned to me, opening his eyes. “This is happening much too fast.” Those eyes glowed eerie silver, and my heart pounded in response. “Please don’t be frightened.”
“Petre …” I scooted away to the edge of the booth. My eyes locked with his. Part of me wanted to glance away, but I couldn’t stop staring. This couldn’t be happening, right? Right, this must be a dream. The mushrooms … I was seeing things because of the mushrooms. “You … you’re …”
“A monster?” he finished my stuttered sentence and dropped his eyes to his hands. “I know.”
“Eyes are glowing—”
His head whipped up. “You weren’t supposed to see …” Petre’s mouth spread into a smile, his skin cracking and changing from white to grey. My breath sucked in sharply as four fangs jutted from his gums, tinted pink with blood. My heart hammered as he reached for my arm. I screamed and pulled it away, calling for help. “You shouldn’t see them,” he shouted. I saw, clear as day err night. Two enormous silver eyes. I yelled again. Fangs. My eyes were as wide as saucers. I had no name for what I saw.