Chapter One #2
“It is no ailment, more of a curious biological happening.” A deep, steadying breath was drawn to keep myself from falling into more unfavorable expressions. “I prefer to call it a rarity.”
Ignorance was expected, and I never blamed them.
It is not a choice to be stupid, though I gave my best efforts to be sympathetic.
I doubted that it would have been such a talking piece if I were born blonde.
Unfortunately, I was gifted with my mother’s black hair, which stood out like a melanistic rabbit on freshly fallen snow.
I excused myself from the interaction, swapping out my empty champagne flute for a full one on my way to the other rooms.
There were many repetitive conversations with other ladies about some of my writings, mainly those from the tabloids about beauty regimens.
It was nice to know that my work was appreciated, even if the other half was otherwise unknown—for good reason.
Someday maybe I would be as notorious as Giulia Tofana, but for now, it was between myself and the women who needed it most. Personal pleasures were like drying flowers, best kept away from the light to preserve their vibrance.
My eyes lifted to take in the new scene in the room.
The ceilings were tall, with an impressive collection of paintings climbing up the walls.
Mismatched sizes of canvas were placed together in eclectic harmony on each wall.
There were portraits, exotic landscapes, beloved animals, and an odd folklore scene here and there.
All were displayed proudly in gold-leaf frames.
I leisurely strolled through the crowd, my attention jumping from one painting to the next. Rooms like these just screamed money .
The trill of instruments tuning up tore my attention away from the decadent display of art.
All guests gravitated toward the main ballroom.
The wood on the floor was stained with complementing hues of brown and tan, laid out in a convoluted pattern framing the floor.
There was a piano in the corner, and some musicians were tending to their instruments.
I stood at the edge of the room among many others, anticipating the festivities soon underway.
I twisted a strand of hair between my fingers, sipping down the rest of my champagne and nearly spilling it from the corner of my lips.
Slow down, Alina. The night is too young to be this sloppy.
Hugging the corner, I watched the crowd excitedly split into dancers and spectators.
I chose to be a spectator this time. There was something comforting about people-watching.
I liked to wonder what it was like to be different people.
My eyes flicked to the assortment of couples swaying and fluttering around each other.
Some were seasoned married partners going through the evening’s motions, some were magnetic lovers glowing in each other’s presence, and then there were the ones meeting eager eyes for the first time, displaying caution and curiosity in each other’s movements.
It reminded me of different species of birds and how they choose to attract their mates.
The room’s temperature was rising, and my head was starting to believe it could float. It was a good thing I paused my pursuit of spirits. The herd of bodies made slipping out and into the next room difficult. I knew there was a lounging area from when I walked through it before.
Why do I do this to myself? I should have used tonight to rest.
I stumbled into the room with two fingers pinching the bridge of my nose, easing the spell of nausea that quickly approached.
A sharp yelp returned some of my sobriety to me.
Two figures were on the chaise on the other side of the room.
A man was seated in the middle of the lounging chair, his knees resting in a wide stance with a woman poised between them.
He had a black-gloved hand gripping her neck to the side, his other hand tightly around her arm.
He was dressed entirely in black. It made the woman’s baby-blue dress jump out against him.
The click of my heels alerted him to my presence.
His eyes trailed across the room slowly before settling on me, no haste to his demeanor. He didn’t move, not even a flinch to indicate any remorse for his disgraceful position.
His eyes were a cold, pale gray color. The type that could cut you down with a quick glance. His golden blond hair fell slightly over his face. One might describe an angel in any other situation, though that heavenly warmth never reached his gaze.
I could not remember anything but those dead eyes, leeching any form of comfort from the air between us.
His grip on the woman tightened, and she let out a sob that rang blurry in my ears. All I could hear was my blood rushing through them.
A hungry grin crawled across his sharp features. There were wet crimson trails dribbling down her neck, staining the lovely blue silk of her dress.
I swore I saw a flash of light reflect in his eyes.
Brutish men were no mystery to me. I had come to know them well. But I had never seen one so brash as to rejoice upon being caught. No discretion, an absence of shame.
There was a feral air to his expression before he grabbed her jaw, extending her neck out farther. A red glistening tongue dragged up her jugular. He kept me in the corner of his eye as if to ask, What will you do?
I wish I could say that I made that man suffer—that I put his hands in jars and severed the tongue from his mouth. Instead, I did something far worse.
I did nothing.