Strange house we must keep and fill. House that eats, and pleads, and kills.
▍ AN ORIGINAL STORY ╱ romantic melodrama!
❪ m!oc & m!oc ❫
❪ f!oc & m!oc ❫
written...
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CHAPTER EIGHT.Once Upon A Sailboat
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There was barely much air to breathe in the haste of soirée preparations. The house creaks under the stress of the looming evening filled with festivities, a slow groan that elicits the hairs to prickle along the skin of those who inhabit the premises.
Cassidy does not overhear, for he's too enthralled by the creak of the wooden pier. He recalls the scent of masculinity. The gruffness of a voice that haunts him. The pained, yet timelessly beautiful expression of forbiddance.
He gnaws on a piece of sugarless wax, flavored pepsin. Nervousness eats away at him, but the thought of Killian satiates the dull ache.
He's reminded of the phone call he'd made when he returned to his bedchamber the night prior. To Lorna. She was delighted to hear from him, though hesitant. To hurt such a kind soul arouses that steady throb in his stomach. It is carrying up toward his chest, now.
He couldn't think of her. Not now. Instead, he turns on his heels and makes a fleeting dash toward the Chevalier mansion. He had to see him again. Satisfy that ache.
Josette had been staring at Jack Shepard for approximately twenty-two minutes. She just couldn't help herself. He wasn't towing a shovel as normal, but cleansing the stained glass arranged into fours on the doorway leading to the Chef's quarters.
He did it often, but she figured he'd chosen today of all days by dint of the celebration set for eventide.
She threads her pearled fingertips through her ocher tresses, each motion meticulous. Her eyes do not stray from the fellow.
He doesn't cease in his work, even with the sensation of her eyes on him. He feels it like a feather to his skin. The sound of Charles Chevalier voice reverberates through the interior. It strikes a chord in his spine, forcing him to stiffen and stand upright.
Josette watches the change in his shoulders, how they harden. She grips the wrought iron balcony railing. His shoulders sag when he senses her eyes depart from him. It is then that he raises his crystalline eyes and gives his neck a slight twist so that he is able to make out the empty space for which she used to inhabit.
He could not possibly be besotted with the woman. It would be his certain demise, he thought as Charles' voice grew nearer.
He could not leave his mother with another grave to dig. He could not let her lose another son.
