After uncovering a series of grisly murders, the Holy Church sends Seren to investigate one of their prime suspects; a mysterious dhampir named Lore Seymour. Although a seemingly kind man and wonderful father, Lore's life is a riddle overcome by tra...
"I'll go check on him," I say to Bernadette. Nodding, she hugs her linens like they're a life line and saunters off.
I head towards the lounge she told me Draven was in. Pushing open the door, I find him actually glaring at a broken globe on the floor. It's like he's reprimanding the globe with his eyes. How dare it have the audacity of falling off the shelf on its own?! As if he'd admit to knocking it off himself.
My snicker garners his attention. The glare disappears, replaced by his infamous emotionless facade. He's wasted as a butler. He'd make for an example assassin or even a professional gambler. There may not be a better poker face in existence. He'd win every match and live a life of luxury surrounded by beautiful people who can't tell if he wants them around or needs to take a shit.
"This is unlike you," I claim, stepping over to observe the damage. "Making a mistake. Could it be that your old age is catching up to you?"
"I'm incredibly young in vampire years," he says, like I actually need to be reminded.
"I'm teasing."
Maybe not my best idea considering Bernadette claimed he has been in a mood. Draven's hard enough to joke with when he's mild tempered, let alone legitimately upset, which is a rare occurrence.
"If His Grace finds out you broke a likely very expensive globe, you may lose your spot as number one," I continue to tease until he frowns. "That was another joke," I add because I hate that look on his face.
"Hn."
That's Draven speech for "whatever."
We finally made up and here I am possibly pissing him off again. Although I've been debating on whether I should do that anyway. But no matter how much my mind battles itself over what to do, I find myself here. Talking to him. Apologizing. Hoping for an ounce of his attention while also wishing I never got a moment of it.
Sighing, I move over to help clean up as a poor apology. When I grab one of the broken metal rods from the globe, another hand touches mine. I raise my gaze to meet Draven's, realizing we both moved in to clean at the same time.
Darika was squealing about a moment like this in one of the cheesy romance books she reads. I caught her blushing like a madwoman in the library. It took a few seconds to get her to admit to the pervy book she was reading. Why the hell am I having a moment from a pervy book?
"Sorry!" I throw myself across the room to get away from him and the growing sensation to scratch my hand. I continuously clench and unclench my hand, hoping keeping it busy will ease the need. "My bad," I repeat. "About teasing you."
"I'm accustomed to the treatment." Draven slowly picks the pieces up one by one. I watch like some fucking peeper with a voyerism issue.
I should go. Run off to the lab or bury myself in my room to never be seen again, but I never do what I should.
"Arline was messing around earlier," I mumble.
Draven cradles the broken pieces of the globe in a cloth. He stands to watch me with that familiar cold gaze, but something about it puts me on edge. My toes curl. Breath hitches. He hasn't done a damn thing and he has made me breathless. There's an intensity to his gaze I can't explain and I don't try to.
"She lied about someone flirting with you?" he asks, pivoting on his heel to set the broken pieces on an end table. "Why would she do that?"
"Uh, no, I... it wasn't a total lie. There was a guy, but nothing will ever happen. She was exaggerating, messing with us to get a reaction, I guess." I shrug and cross my arms. My feet wish to run. My heart yearns to stay because it's a fucking sadist.
"Are you sure she was exaggerating?" Draven argues. He kneels by the remaining broken pieces, picking them up bit by bit. "If he approached you, he must have been interested."
"That doesn't matter. You know I can't..." I roll my shoulders and crack my neck as if that'll rid me of a past that affects everything in my future.
"Putting yourself down like that isn't good for you," he says, puzzling me. Draven and comforting aren't often in the same sentence unless it's, Draven is incapable of being comforting. But then he does the fucking unthinkable and proves me very, very wrong.
"You're beautiful, charming, and funny, albeit chaotic. Anyone would be lucky to be with you, and if they truly cared they would help you through tough times," he says like he's recounting the damn weather.
He stands once more to face me. I wish he wouldn't, if only to spare myself the embarrassment of knowing he has seen the expression I'm making. I feel the heat rising with the desire to burst. Every piece of me flushes because of a few words from someone who speaks them so calmly like he's reciting the alphabet.
"You shouldn't expect everyone to disregard you so easily because of your trauma and understand that those who do are not worthy of you to begin with," he finishes while putting all the broken pieces in a rag. He twists it tight and heads for the door. "Good luck with your bookstore friend."
Should I believe there was an ounce of jealousy in how he said friend? Should I really care about that or...
I grip my arms until they ache.
He called me charming and funny and... beautiful.
I used to hate that. Beautiful, pretty, cute, handsome, because of my round eyes, short height and bright hair. All of it caught other's attention. Rarely ever in a good way. My parents didn't have friends worthy of trust. They came and went from the house, a few often paying a little too much attention to their adorable son who looked like a little girl or had such beautiful eyes. They played with my hair when I told them no, grabbed my hands, made me sit on their laps and I knew--I knew something was wrong about how they acted, how they looked at me, and what they said.
But right now, the compliment that once made my skin crawl now makes my heart race until I feel the beat in the tip of my toes.
"Draven!" I call before even realizing I ran into the hall.
He stops, turning on his heel to face me.
"Do... do you really think I'm beautiful?"
"Of course," he replies around a rare, coy smirk. "Should I look into replacing the mirror in your bathroom?"
I don't know how to respond to that. Draven doesn't seem to care if I do. He walks away, leaving me physically speechless but mentally incapable of shutting up. My mind fires off what happened earlier over and over, repeating his calm remarks and wondering if there was a certain lilt to his voice to signal that he cares more than he lets on. Or should the fact he said anything proves he cares? I'm scared to hope so and scared not to hope at all.
"You unfair bastard," I whisper, clutching my hand over a heart that refuses to stop singing.
- - ┈┈∘┈˃̶༒˂̶┈∘┈┈ - -
Oop, we got a bit of a glimpse into Cyan's past. What do you suppose his childhood was like? And Draven called Cyan beautiful! What a rare compliment ;D Will these two ever talk about their Unspoken Thing? Do you want to know what Draven was thinking during all this? Check out the upcoming story branch!
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