Tattoos, body chains, and dark lipstick.
Ina and Amé are two women who rewrite the game.
Follow them into their never ending world.
Written by Ina Seele and Amé Fengári
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He rubbed his face with both hands and took a deep breath. If you tried to look at this man from the angle of another woman who's eyes were not filled with love and/or desire, he was a God. No, not holy, not divine in justice and all things righteous. He was a Hades. No, better yet, a Titan.
He removed his brass knuckles and pushed his hair back, slick with his sweat, which had dripped down his nose, jawline, and chest and seeped into his bandages. His bandages– bloody, sweaty, and dirty, and yet perfectly wrapped we're capable to withstand strenuous physical work. He looked down at his knuckles, bloody and gauged and sore, and stretched them out, before looking back up. His heart beat remained quiet, like a slow-paced beat of a timpani, in a rush that's only given to animals with rabid anger. His eyes, which usually glowed, were dark and matte, with specks of gray and the hooded shadow of his long lashes, he sent a glare to the man beside him.
He gave him a nod and took his shirt, patting his neck and the blood off as much as he could, before making his way up the glass stairs.
Julian trailed behind him, like a zen over his head. Ivaan wouldn't say it, but he was thankful for his presence. It reminded him of Idina Seele. It reminded him to be a man, not an animal.
"Take me to Amé," he told one of the men in black suits; he nodded and walked in front toward her room.
"Mr. Adinov would you like me to get you new clothes?"
"It's alright Selena," he said and gave her a cold smile. She smiled back and moved out of the way.
"You should see Damon Holland first," Julian said, like a cricket on his shoulder. "It is vulgar of your family to see you like this."
Ivaan knew was right. It is vulgar, to show up to his family bloody, dirty, sweaty and with bruised, cut up knuckles. They were ladies, and a man should pertain to always be respectful to a lady's presence. He knew his mother would scold him and send him to shower first, had she been there.
But he had to see them first. Amé had woken up and him not showing up is a disgrace. It makes him a disgrace.
But disgrace he's been since he was born.
The doors were opened for him and he stepped in, head lowered. The ladies split and he walked inside, approaching the bed in which Amé Fengári laid.
"Ivaan," she whimpered and he leaned down, sat beside her on the bed and kissed her forehead. "You look okay," and Ivaan hugged her, planting kisses over her cheeks. She hugged him back, her fragile arms dangling over his back, a beautiful porcelain doll.
"How do you feel?" He asked.
"Like that morning after I turned 21," she whispered and he laughed. "Ina is safe and so is the baby," she smiled.
"I know," he smiled back. "And so are you."
"Why are you so bloody?" She asked, touching the bandage. It was torn right on that spot, but it still somehow held on around his body.
