Blades of Men (on hold - sorry!)

Chapter Fifteen: Conrad

Okay. There is un peu de gros mots (a little bit of bad language). I think it still rates PG, but I'm not sure, so I bumped it up to PG-13. It doesn't really need it - but hey! Better than it getting taken off Wattpad/ my profile being deleted/etc.

Anyway, don't read if you're offended easily by such.

Enjoy!

XOXO

SleepyBug

Chapter Fifteen: Conrad

   I pulled back, casting one last, long look at Athalia and noticing the way her face darkened with shame, along with the fact that her eyes wouldn’t meet mine. I could feel my hands bunch into tight fists as I turned to glare at the jealous bitch who had decided that a private moment – our private moment – was something which could be turned into a public spectacle.

   “What do you want?” I asked, fully aware that her suspicions had been confirmed and that she wanted payment for her silence. I struggled to stop a red haze of rage from clouding my actions even as a part of me happily contemplated tearing her to shreds.

   It had been the first time Athalia had trusted me with any amount of her body, even if I had been the one to initiate contact. Yet the guilt in her expression indicated it would also be the last.

   I regarded this woman carefully, determined to memorise her form in order to exact my own brand of vengeance at a later date. Any allure she could have held was spiked with the contortions of her jagged features, vanity clouding her eyes and smugness turning her pretty face ugly. Even with her chest thrust out in a demand for attention, her body was too predictable, too average, for it to hold any attraction that I had not already sated with various other women. Some small part of my mind compared her to the faceless girls that danced in my memory, and then to Athalia.

   Glancing at my stolen maiden, I could see the crimson tinge to her cheeks still riding high on her cheekbones, the gentle curves and the strength of her muscles that only served to complement her supple figure. The cascade of chestnut hair flowed down her back to reach her waist before her legs tailed off into eternity.

   There was no contest, no hope of comparison between the blonde’s bloated lines and the smooth length of Athalia’s body.

   “Why, nothing other than a pocketful of coins and a tumble between sheets,” she said crudely, faking surprise. For a second I saw through her bawdy facade, to the insecurities and the need to lose herself in something that made her feel wanted. Even as pity stirred in my heart I was sizing up her actions and mulling over her words. The first of her requests I might give, but the second she had no chance of getting. I could feel Athalia’s sharp gaze on my face, trying to decipher the carefully constructed mask. From the corner of my eye, I could see hurt flash through her expression, the feeling that in comparison with the blonde she would fail in her endeavours to keep me to herself.

   I felt a twinge of guilt. I was well aware that I had seduced her into this desire, that it had always been my plan to gain her body and her secrets. Yet I still wanted both, so much so that I could not even bear to think of this wench with lust in my eyes or with a vague interest in matters of the flesh. The searing kiss we had shared held a promise of affection which the woman standing so callously in front of me could not hope to give.

   “The first I can give you; the second you will have to do without.” Her greedy eyes raked over every line of my being. I was mildly disgusted at the openness of the leer coming from a woman before realising the hypocrisy that raged throughout society like a plague. Men were expected to take lovers, yet a woman was labelled impure if she so much as kissed a man with any hint of desire or anticipation. She was supposed to exact the dance of wills and wiles and take her trophy in the form of a husband.

   With that thought, I realised that the actions of the woman in front of me fitted the game perfectly – force me to make an honest woman of her with the threat that she would expose my ‘affair’ with Athalia.

   I couldn’t do that.

   “I think you can,” she said, making me wonder if my thoughts were written plainly across my face. “After all, if you aren’t brother and sister, then what are the two of you doing together? Making an escape to Gretna Green like those fancy lords over in England?” Her rough accent was laced with malice and poison in a way that hinted at the bitterness of the scorned. I wondered where the ethereal beauty had gone, the glimpse of purity and physical attraction I had seen whenever I had first set eyes upon her. The lost girl was fighting to remain lost in dark emotions – something I could sympathise with at the very least.  

   “Maybe we can work out some kind of arrangement,” I replied, frowning whenever I heard Athalia gasp. I carried on; refusing to endorse the look of disbelief that I could imagine was scrawled across her features. “Perhaps gold would work just as well – it’s more lasting than memories, at least.”

   We continued our bartering, eventually settling on an obscene amount of money that wouldn’t even begin to put a dent in my coffers.

   Once she had finally left, I turned to Athalia. Her eyes glinted with tears and shame, even though neither of which had any right to be there.

   “Can we go?” she asked quietly. “I just want to leave.”

   I winced at her expression, so world weary that the hardiest of angels would weep at her feet to alleviate the suffering of her bitter tears. I could feel desperation roll off her in waves, and I had no idea as to what to say.

   So I didn’t say anything. I gathered her up in my arms, ignoring her struggling and protests, and held her to me, letting her feel the whispers of skin on skin. She subtly relaxed, her arms winding around my waist, her head buried in the fabric of my clothes. I thanked the Lord that I was allowed this moment with her, allowed to lean down and breathe in the delicate scent which wafted up from her hair. I felt humbled as I realised that I was allowed to touch her, to feel her silky smoothness against my calloused hands.

   We stood there, the room nowhere near as private as I wanted it to be, knowing that at any minute another memory could be tainted by the presence of a maid or the return of Blondie. My hands made lazy strokes over her hair, my fingertips smoothing along the strands in the vague hope of making her feel safe, even just for a moment.

   “Sorry,” she said, releasing me as she tried to discreetly wipe tear-tracks from her cheeks. I didn’t ask what she was apologising for, knowing that she would hate for any reference to what she perceived to be a display of weakness. I only nodded my acceptance and proceeded to try for patience and strength.

   God knows, the girl demolished both.