Chosen

Chapter Nine: Levi

Levi is standing on the edge of rooftop, just short of teetering over the edge.

The stars are shining brightly tonight, Orion's belt showing itself, occasionally blurred by the clouds. The wind blows through their hair, Levi's coat billowing in the wind. He knows Lysandra is there, he knows that she's propped up against a broken column, waiting for him to speak. He knows that silence makes her restless, yet he does nothing other than stand there, watching his father's workers rummage about. His fingers twitch, something out of habit, and one of them slips. It's a childish thing to do, but, Levi thinks, so long as there is no damage done, there is nothing entirely wrong with it.

He hears Lysandra sigh and jump down. He can feel her just behind him, feel the way her heart beats, feel her warmth. "I waited in my room for ten minutes," he says. He flinches at the sound of his own voice, never getting used to the rasp of it. Like stone against stone.

"I was made aware," she replies. Her hand wraps around his arm and pulls him back. It's not like he's going to jump—call him weak if you'd like, but Levi Arquette is scared of one thing. Death. So while he might look like he'll lean his weight forwards and fall through the air, he won't. His father always berated him for that. "Death comes for us all son. You are no exception."

Levi finally turns and faces her, his eyes widening a fraction when he sees what she is wearing. A beautiful satin gown, a murky green color with a short slit. She looks ethereal under the moonlight. Like a goddess. It's funny, really, how someone capable of leveling cities and look as if she would do no such thing. A demon disguised as an angel.

"Levi, what are you doing up here?" she inquires. The wind blows again, the chilled air harsh against their skin.

"You should cut your hair," he remarks, instead of answering. The truth of the matter is, he doesn't know why he is here. He doesn't know why he travelled twenty minutes from his home to this wreckage that he believes to be a library that his father is restoring. Just that he did, and that he's here. And after the meeting he had earlier, he is not sure he knows anything.

Lysandra looks annoyed now, either by the remark, or by the way he has kept himself distant. His voice flat. He doesn't know what she was expecting. She should know by now that he's never in the right headspace when his father is around. And he's almost always around, his voice lingering in his head, whispering how he isn't good enough. How he is a fool.

And maybe he isn't wrong.

"I'm not cutting my hair, Levi. Now, answer my question. I have to meet with Kamila at midnight, and its already ten thirty."

"In a rush, are you?"

She huffs. "Levi—you know what," she closes her eyes, taking a deep breath. Levi takes this moment to press his lips to hers. He feels her body relax, the muscles in her body loosening. He can sense that she's hesitant to give in—seeing as he does this every time they get into a near argument. He can also feel the second she gives in, running her hands over his arms and linking them behind his head, her thumbs brushing his jaw. He puts his hand in her hair, feeling the silky strands run through his fingers. He'll never get over this, this feeling of pure desire, this longing for someone. They've been together for three years, and for all three he's felt the same. He pushes her back until she's against a wall, his fingers digging into her hips. Her perfect hips.

She pulls away first, much to his disappointment, her hands resting on his chest. "You can't just do that every time you please, Levi."

This almost makes him smile. "You can always stop me." He rests his head in the crook of her neck, breathing in her scent. The scent of home.

Lysandra sighs. "Sweetheart, you're different right now. You're stressed—and don't bother lying to me about it. What did Orion tell you?"

Of course, she noticed. She always notices. He hates that about her. But just because she called him out on it, doesn't mean he wants to talk about it. He never wants to talk about it, but he eventually will. Just not right now, he tells himself. He lightly presses his lips to her neck, hearing her breath hitch. "Levi—"

"Drop it. Please, Lysandra."

She goes to push him away, but he grabs her wrists, pinning them above her head. "Please," he begs.

"Le—" His fingers twitch at his sides, and whatever argument Lysandra had, is shortly forgotten. Levi doesn't like doing this, controlling her the way he does others, but he must. She'll remember it later, he knows this for a fact, as he's done it before.

She won't remember who did it, as she never does. He doesn't allow her to. He's always scared that she might, though. Scared that if she does, she will hate him. Think of him as a monster. He's not that bad though, he's protecting her, he thinks. Protecting her from what her father plans on having them do. Because it will destroy her. Lysandra is strong—he knows this. But not strong enough for this. Even Levis' stomach churned when he heard their plan.

"Are you alright, mi amor?" He hears Lysandra ask. He takes a shallow breath, before letting the mask fall back into place.

"Yes, of course, darling," he straightens, letting her wrists go. "I had you meet me tonight because I wanted to ask you a question."

Levi can hear the way her heart hammers in her chest, like it wants to break out. "Go on."

It's a dumb question. He knows it, but he asks anyways. "If, hypothetically, I got you a dress, would you wear it?" he asks. "Hypothetically."

She laughs, a delightful noise. "For the event happening tomorrow night? Well, it depends on the dress. The hypothetical dress," she corrects herself. "What's the color?"

"Why don't you see it for yourself?" He walks away, grabbing the black garment bag he hung against a broken piller and walking over with it. He unzips it the smallest bit, so she could see the color and nothing else. He knows she will wear it, but there was some doubt lingering in the back of his head.

It's a red floor length dress, with thin straps. It comes with a pair of matching gloves, and a thin piece of fabric to wrap around your neck. He had it so it fit snuggly at the top and was loose at the hip down, knowing that Lysandra finds it difficult to walk in tight dresses, no matter the length.

Lysandra goes to reach for it, but he pulls it back. "I'll show you the whole thing tomorrow. I'm sure you can wait."

"Cabron."

"Mon Amour."

She rolls her eyes. "Fine. I'll wait," she glances towards the sky. "The stars are beautiful, don't you think?"

"Of course." He doesn't take his eyes off her. "Darling, don't you have to meet Kamila?"

Her eyes light up. "Yes—yes, I do. Te veo horita, mi amor."

"Yes, yes. Go. Have fun," he calls after her. He waits until she climbs into her vehicle before letting the mask slip.

He wishes he could protect her from this. This madness.

But he can't.

And by the end of it, the blood of innocents will be on their hands.