𝐃𝐎𝐖𝐍𝐅𝐀𝐋𝐋 . pantalone

( CHAPTER THIRTEEN )

CHAPTER THIRTEEN . THE HOUR BEFORE PROMETHEUS

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⸻ ZAPOLYARNY PALACE PRICKCLED WITH A FINE TUNE OF GRANDEUR AND INVINCIBILITY.

     To outsiders, it was an eerie castle built on ice that was every bit unwelcoming and cold; a perfect Imperial house to their sovereign Archon who was just as reticent. Like a star perched upon a sky, Zapolyarny was free for all to admire but far too inaccessible for them to dream of reaching.

     Pantalone had been to the all-imposing citadel more than he could count, more times than he could ever remember. Even when the Tsaritsa opened the Palace's doors for her dearest Harbingers to enter and leave as they pleased, none of them ever really considered Zapolyarny as their permanent place of residence, much less called it their home.

     And while his attendance for today's banquet was more mandatory than voluntary as he detested seeing the faces of his colleagues while keeping up with their equally detestable theatrics, he regaled in the fact that he had you to bring along.

     There was a certain shift in the air the second Pantalone had learned what you felt like under his fingertips— his hands digging into the soft plush of your skin, more so the taste of you; the sweet essence of promised heaven he couldn't seem to get enough of. 

     It was a miracle, really, that he managed to resist touching your thigh so close to his right hand now in this constricted vehicle.

      The ninth Harbinger thought that once he had satiated his desires, his fascination over you would be thrown out of his system and he can move onto his life as you do with yours. Unfortunately, that had not been the case. If anything, he was more enamored by your presence, so much so that he found himself cursing at the dastardly cravat covering the expanse of your neck from his sight, or wanting to rip the excellent fit of the pants on yourself as it perfectly clung your figure, every curve and flesh highlighted by the tailoring.

     Even now sitting beside you in this damnable space of the carriage had him acting up, the need to claim you so strong he almost pushes you against the cushion— 

      "Pantalone," you snap at the man, irritation visible with the furrow of your brows.

     He shakes his head, "You were saying, dearest?"

     He must be sick. Surely that was all this was.

     "Will you stop it with the endearments?" you hiss at the man upon hearing the nickname and play with your gloves to divert your attention, "And I was calling you because we've already arrived." 

      "Have we now?" Pantalone smiles at your reaction before reaching for the curtains that covered the carriage windows to reveal the frosted-glazed view of Zapolyarny's main entrance. He checks his watch to see that the both of you have managed to reach your destination five minutes early despite the heavy snowfall, a huff escaping his lips at the knowing thought that Tartaglia would likely use the weather as an excuse for his lack of punctual manners to arrive on time.