The Colour of War

Chapter 11

The once vibrant Cabaret club loomed desolate before Evelyn, its laughter and music now eerily absent. She hugged her coat closer, scanning the empty street for Stefan, her breath a cloud of despair against the relentless cold. Time ticked with excruciating slowness, each minute gnawing at her hope.

"Excuse me, sir," she ventured, approaching an elderly man whose face conveyed kindness. "Could you tell me the time?"

"Almost quarter past seven, young lady," he replied, eyeing her with concern.

A lump formed in her throat, the realisation that Stefan wouldn't show hurt more than she cared to admit. Silly girl, she chastised herself internally, fighting back tears. But then his voice called out to her.

"Evelyn!"

She spun around, the sight of Stefan barrelling towards her igniting relief and anger in equal measure. His right eye, marred by a darkening bruise, drew her hand up instinctively before she thought better of it.

"What happened?" she asked with worry.

"Doesn't matter." He brushed it off dismissively, his eyes avoiding hers. He exhaled sharply. "I'm sorry I'm late."

"Is this still... Do you want me to walk you home?" His eyes searched hers, a plea hidden within them.

Evelyn hesitated, her lip caught between her teeth. Then she decided. "I'll stay."

His smile broke through, prideful and warm. Offering his arm, they left the club's shadow behind.

Stefan's abode was a polarisation to the lavishness Evelyn knew from Monika's house. Modest, homely, it cradled comfiness that her friend's place never could. The scent of aged wood and a faint trace of lavender welcomed her.

"You live here?" she enquired, her eyes absorbing the details of a life so different from her own.

"Was my grandmother's," he admitted, the word 'gone' hanging unspoken, but she detected the sadness in the tone. He gestured to a seat, tossing a glance at the fireplace where he'd claimed to have borrowed some coal, yet his tone implied theft.

Flames came to life under his coaxing hands, casting dancing shadows upon his features. "Would you like something to drink?" he called over the clatter of kitchenware.

"No, thank you," she responded, peering toward the source of the commotion. A question pressed at her lips, uninvited but insistent. "Did you go back to Monika's? To see Frieda?"

He paused, his head emerging from the kitchen. "No," he stated, a firmness in his reply that quelled any lingering doubt. Her heart fluttered with triumph.

A curse erupted from the kitchen, followed by the clang of metal on tile. She rushed in to find Stefan scowling down at a ruined pan of potato Gulasch, shaking a burned hand. Without hesitation, she soaked a cloth in water and wrapped it tenderly around the injury, pressing a soft kiss to the makeshift bandage.

"Thank you," he murmured, his other hand gently tracing her jawline, encouraging her to meet his gaze. In return, she kissed his palm, feeling the roughness of his skin against her lips.

Retreating a step, she faced him, her fingers reached for the top button of her dress. Each deliberate motion revealed more of her than she had ever shown. His eyes, dark with desire, followed her every move.

"Are you sure?" His voice was steady, barely containing the storm beneath.

Her heart thundered. "Yes," she said, a mix of certainty and eagerness in her voice.

Stefan's response was immediate, his lips capturing hers with a desperate need that she matched. She could feel his hardness pressing against her as he walked her backwards towards his dining table. Behind her, the sound of shattering porcelain filled the room as Stefan cleared the table with a broad sweep of his arm, sending plates and cutlery crashing to the floor.