Prelude (Underworld Lucian Fanfiction)

80 - Chapter LXXX: A Carousel of Wolves

It would have been fine if he'd not started dwelling on it. The next two days filling him with a strange confusion. Trying to understand precisely what was rubbing his fur the wrong way. His initial unease centring on the realisation that he would be spending three days surrounded by high society without alcohol. Which in turn had him thinking about how at least-if he had to handle it, then Reinette would have to handle it as well.

Which gave him some consolation. Until he began wondering why the cook had served him porridge for several weeks-citing rations as her excuse-when the entire time, Reinette had been dining like a queen. Which in turn made him think back to the chess game. And it ought to have stopped there...because for four years, although they'd been ignoring each other to some degree, he'd still seen her in her current state-and it had been inconsequential. But then his mind kept going.

To the point that he was now finding himself painfully aware of her idiosyncrasies. Things he'd known about her...for decades...but rarely thought about because they were so banal. Her manner of moving a bishop for example. Not a rook. Not a pawn. Just the bishop. As usual, considering her play, absentmindedly turning the bishop three times between her fingers. Touching the piece once to her throat and then decisively placing it on a square. A move he'd seen her do countless times.

Only it was...no longer...banal. The way her veil grazed her throat beneath the bishop. Like he'd wandered down a familiar path, expecting to see a dried up riverbank and finding a waterfall instead. Albeit frozen, but a waterfall nonetheless. Beautiful...and incredibly dangerous. At the time, he'd been confused by the feeling and rather than allow it to surface, he'd made a point of seeking out anything that could help him avoid acknowledging it. Suggesting they review the cigarette-burnt messages from Sabine so he could have an excuse for doing something mundane.

And so they'd paused-and they'd talked...and then he'd read his newspaper for the rest of the game. Trying to focus on things that irritated him. Surely a winning strategy considering he'd put together a lengthy list after living with her for twenty-three years, give or take four. For example-and this was just the tip of the iceberg-she habitually had blood-stains on her right index finger...not because she was a messy eater, but because she picked her teeth when she thought no one was looking. A second item. Rather than allowing Rena to clean her preferred riding habit, she tended to wear it several months in a row, wafting the smell of sweat, mud, and horse manure-long after it ought to have been burned. Even Sonja never smelled so rank. And a third. She had a tendency to run her tongue over the back of her incisors when she was hungry...and it made the slightest of sounds that once heard could not be unheard.

Also...

...she bit things. All the fucking time. There were notches on everything. Her pens. Her books. Her furniture. Even her bed had notches on it. And that was where things took an unfortunate turn. Realising that before he'd connected the biting to the bed, he'd just seen it as...mindless...biting. Mildly irritating at best, but bearable as long as he remembered how many of her chairs he'd destroyed during his tenure. But in the context of her bedroom-which admittedly he rarely saw now-he'd started seeing it in a new light. Seeing the same notches, the same bed...

...only it was...not the older Reinette, it was that...woman...in the photograph. Like his memories were starting to coalesce with her...existing state. All of which he had to ignore because to focus on it would be to admit that he was descending into a hell of his own making. One that required an extreme form of concentration for the sake of keeping his scent together. Particularly since he knew it was a passing thought-and given her history of being married to a madman, the last thing she'd want to do was climb into bed with another one. More to the point, it was exactly as he'd told Allegra. They were two mature individuals. They were not fucking.