12. 11 #5
She sat back, legs swinging, head tilted, eyes closed. The room spun gently around her, the music a distant hum. When the cushion dipped beside her, she instinctively curled toward the weight.
“Back so soon?” she giggled, turning her head with a lazy smile. But her breath caught when her eyes met someone unfamiliar.
“Evening, doll,” he slurred, voice thick with drink.
She didn’t answer. Just shuffled further down the lounge, putting space between them.
“What?” he said, brow lifting. “You don’t want company?”
She swallowed hard, shaking her head.
“Don’t be like that,” he chuckled, sliding closer. “Someone as pretty as you shouldn’t be sitting alone.”
“I-I’m not alone,” she said quickly, voice tight.
“I don’t see anyone,” he hummed, reaching for her.
She tried to stand, but his hand snapped around her wrist, dragging her back down.
“Where do you think you’re going?” he growled.
“Who the fuck are you?” Lance’s voice cut through the noise, sharp and furious. Both their heads turned. Relief flooded Mabel’s chest.
“Aye, mate, piss off,” the man barked.
Lance didn’t speak. He set the mugs down, stepped forward, and in one swift motion, grabbed the man by the front of his shirt and hauled him upright.
“Hey, man, what’s your problem—”
Lance’s fist met his jaw. Gasps rippled through the room. Heads turned.
The man hit the floor hard, and Lance straddled him, fists flying.
Mabel scrambled to her feet. “Lance—stop!” she cried, reaching for him.
But she stood too fast. Her vision blurred, blood rushing. She stumbled, catching herself on the railing.
And when she looked up—
Theodore.
Sat in a lounge, frozen, eyes locked on hers. She held his gaze for a heartbeat, wide-eyed, breathless.
Then she backed away.
“Lance,” she pleaded, turning to him, tugging at his cloak. “We have to go. Theodore saw me.”
She glanced toward the lounge where Theodore had been.
Empty.
Lance threw one final punch, then rose, chest heaving. He turned to her, grabbed her wrist. And didn’t let go.
A sharp buzz pulsed at her wrist. Then came the shudder—deep, unnatural, crawling through her bones.
She gasped as her vision blurred. Her copper hair darkened in an instant, shifting to a deep black. Her skin paled, features subtly altered. A dull hum simmered beneath her skin, like static trapped in her veins.
She barely had time to process it before she was being dragged backward, feet stumbling.
“Mabel!” Theodore’s voice rang out, panicked, angry, searching, but his eyes swept past her.
Her heart pounded, breath ragged as Lance pulled her through the bodies. Past the crowd, and down the alley slick with frost.
The frigid winter air slapped her cheeks as they burst into the night. The carriage waited. The driver looked up, startled by their urgency, already reaching for the reins.
Lance yanked the door open and shoved her inside, climbing in after her. The door slammed shut.
The carriage lurched forward, wheels cracking against ice.
Lance released her wrist, and the illusion melted away, her hair bleeding back to copper, skin settling into its familiar glow. The magic fizzled, leaving only the echo of its hum.
They collapsed into the carriage seats, breath ragged, hearts pounding in their chests.
For a moment, silence hung between them, thick and electric.
Then Mabel laughed. It burst from her like a spark, unfiltered, full of disbelief and adrenaline. Her head tipped back, shoulders shaking, the sound raw and real.
Lance blinked, startled.
Then he laughed, too, low at first, then louder, pulled into her chaos. The sound filled the carriage, strange and bright against the cold night.
Laughter dissolved into breath. Their smiles lingered, but behind them, the chaos hadn’t settled. It shimmered in their eyes, waiting.
Then their gazes locked.
Mabel’s heart stuttered. One beat missed. Then another. Her eyes fell on his plump lips.
She moved first, drawn by something she couldn’t name. Lance met her halfway, no hesitation. Just heat. Their lips met in a rush, mouths parting in invitation. Her fingers curled into his cloak. His hand tangled in her copper curls, tugging her closer, deeper.
The kiss wasn’t gentle. It was a clash of fire and defiance. Of want and warning. Of escape and surrender.
They fought for control, and Lance let her win.
She pushed him back against the seat, climbed into his lap, thighs straddling him. Her lips found his again.
His hands gripped her hips, anchoring her. He kissed her back with the same hunger, the same recklessness.
Then he shifted. His hands slid to the hem of her skirt, dragging the fabric upward with lazy intent. His fingers pressed into her thigh. Her breath caught, a shiver chasing the heat that bloomed beneath his touch.
He didn’t rush.
His hand halted just shy of the place she ached for, cupping her thigh, teasing the edge of her restraint. Her hips moved instinctively, seeking more, needing more.
She moaned into his mouth, the sound raw, unguarded.
He didn’t push further. Just held her there, fingers greedy, lips relentless.
And in that moment, the world narrowed.
To breath and skin.
To heat and hunger.
To the burn of being wanted.