In Cold Blood - Terzo x f!reader
Summary: Solitude had always appealed. Perhaps thatâs why you took on this project⊠The thought of transforming a dilapidated old Victorian farmhouse into a sanctuary of your own, to live in peace and the romanticisms of a gothic home you fell in love with.
After the structural integrity of the house is replenished, you fill your days with DIY and decorating, bringing to life a house that had been frozen in time and left to rot for decades. You could enjoy the solitude of the land already, a few miles outside of a town plagued by disappearances and a fear of the dark. But you couldnât escape the news of more missing people, nor the strange occurrences happening around your new home.
Were you imagining things? Or was there indeed a shadow haunting your sanctuary?
Rating: Explicit, 18+ MDNI
Word Count: 19.6k (i'm back bitchesssss)
Warnings: Dark fiction, horror fic, mentions of murder, coercion, manipulation, obsession, masturbation (f), voyeurism, manhandling, threat and mild violence, dubious consent (later turns to verbal consent), oral sex (f receiving), fingering, penetrative sex, blood, blood drinking, unprotected sex
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WARNING: This is a work of DARK FICTION. It is a horror fic, and contains mentions of violence as well as elements of dubious consent and manipulation. Please do not read if this is going to affect you negatively. You have been warned, and I take no responsibility if you choose to ignore the warnings and triggers attached.
a/n: well hello there. It's been a while, hm? Radio silence and then BOOM, a 20k word fic outta nowhere? Well, this was written for the wonderful @angellayercake's birthday, and she's been so kind as to give her permission for me to share it. I promise, more new content coming soon, and I'll be working on an update for The Mayor's Daughter ASAP! Happy reading, creeps...
âWhatâs the catch?â
The real estate agent blinked at you in confusion, as if youâd just asked her to recite the square route of pi to the 30th decimal.
âThe⊠the catch?â she asked, âI donât understand.â
âWell, itâs just so cheap, I have to wonder which closet the skeletons are hiding inâŠâ you joked, knowing full well the skeletons were actually in the backyard under the headstones that sat growing moss and ivy for the last six decades at least.
âMaâam⊠Iâve been very upfront about the state of the house. It needs extensive repairs and renovation, it has a graveyard out back, itâs way out in the sticks and the landscaping is overrun⊠What more could be wrong with it?â She rang out her hands nervously, chewing on her cherry red lips as you scrutinised her body language. Youâre sure there was something she wasnât telling you, but this was a perfect opportunity for youâŠ
Coming off the back of a decent chunk of inheritance left by a relative youâd long-since forgotten, you needed a project. Youâd always wanted to renovate a beautifully gothic home from the 19th century, and when you saw the listing for exactly that on the edge of a small town? Ideal. Perfect. Exactly what you wanted. The thought of being a little out in the country, surrounded by land and away from the bustle of the city you grew up in was all too appealing.
âIt has a charm to it, donât you think?â you smiled to yourself, fiddling with the dusty net curtains still hanging in the living roomâs huge bay window.
âUh⊠sure, yeah,â the agent agreed with reluctance, still so confused as to why you would be at all interested in this ruin that she couldnât even show you all of due to the structural integrity of the floorboards.
âIâd like to put in an offer,â you told her, turning back to face her with a smile on your face.
âYou⊠really? Oh, my god! Okay, great! Well, Iâll get the paperworkâŠâ she sprung into action, suddenly full of an energy that could only have been triggered by the whiff of her future commission.
It would take some work, sure, but this place had the potential to be the perfect project and future home for youâŠ
It took six months, but the structural integrity of the house had been stabilised by a team of builders youâd hired to take care of the place while you got your affairs in order and ready to move halfway across the country. You werenât taking much; a lot of the furniture left in the abandoned house was part of the project and with a little restoration would be absolutely beautiful. You were ready for the work, ready to create a home that you could be so proud of and had your stamp on it.
Moving into the house was quicker than you thought it would be, with most of your furniture sold and donated. For now, you had to live out of suitcases until you had a bedroom and closet space that was clean enough to hang your things in.
At the very least, youâd cleaned and stripped the four-poster bed that still lay in the master suite, checking the integrity of the bed itself and noting how⊠pristine it seemed compared to a lot of the other furniture left behind. But this was made of expensive, dark mahogany wood â it was built to last, and so with a polish, a new mattress and sheets? You had a gorgeous bed to sleep in each night, taking a little bit of pressure off when youâd spent an entire day exhausting yourself over more renovations.
One of your first jobs had been landscaping in the graveyard. Youâd felt pulled to the graves, wanting to give whoever was buried on your property a much more respectful resting place, rather than allowing them to be swamped by ivy and moss.
It seemed to be a family plot, probably the last family to have owned the home. Every stone had the same surname, dating back to the first of the deaths in 1904. What struck you as odd, however, was the nature of the stones themselvesâŠ
For the time period, you might have expected angels, cherubs, perhaps a cross or two. But whilst these stones were ornate and beautiful, they were not steeped in biblical references at all. Instead, the eldest stone had a decaying gargoyle sat atop it⊠Another, a ramâs head at the base. One had a stone skeleton laying above where the body would have been buried, carved into a slab of concrete as if it was protruding from the grave itself. Youâd never seen graves like this before, symbols and carvings you couldnât identify but had you on edge the minute you looked at them. But one of those symbols, you certainly recognised.
A pentagram.
Now, as a purveyor of the dark and mysterious, you hadnât minded the thought of a graveyard in your garden. For goodness sake, you loved the gothic aesthetic, the dark and macabre had always called out to you. But to find these graves had a theme to them, a darker, occult theme⊠It cast a deeper shadow over the home youâd purchased.
Who were this family? Were they part of an occult? You were itching to understand the history, to uncover more about the lost family that let their home fall to ruin and their graves be overrun by nature.
But it had to wait, the renovations taking over to make your house a far more liveable abode. With the graves at least clear from natureâs extremities, you could come back to them another time to give them a proper clean, to uncover the names in full and potentially use the information to gather more with a trip to the local library or a google search.
For now, you had to get to cleaning room by room so you could begin stripping and re-decorating where it needed it most.
ââŠThe Sheriffâs office have released a statement today to calm locals calling for more action in the string of disappearances throughout town. Last Monday saw the latest in the line of disappearances, 29 year old store clerk, Andrew Walton, taking the total up to 12 missing in the last nine months. Mr Walton was last seen on CCTV heading into the alley of the 7/11 where he workedâŠâ
The radio news bulletin caught your attention as you were working in the master bedroom, stripping the already peeling wallpaper from the panelled walls atop a stepladder. Youâd only moved in three weeks ago, and yet, the little radio you always put on to work to kept churning out the same story consistently â the string of disappearances in town that seemed to be getting more and more frequent. Â
It would seem it was the town with skeletons in the closet, not your precious new home. The estate agent failed to mention that oneâŠ
When you first heard about it, youâd made sure the house was secure, with locks on the windows, every entrance bolted and sturdy. Being so far outside of town, you werenât particularly worried since you rarely ventured from your home, particularly not at night when most of these disappearances seemed to have taken place. But it didnât hurt to be safe...
Still, the thought that there may be someone out there snatching people for God only knows what purpose was a little unsettling. You could only hope the sheriff would do his job and catch whoever was behind the crimes soon â but it had already been nine months⊠All you could do was lay low, stay as far away from the potential risks of heading into town alone in the dark.
As the lunchtime bulletin ended, the radio began to play one of the top 40 songs youâd heard at least three times already today. Whilst it was repetitive, youâd learned the words, and found yourself singing along as you scraped at patches of wallpaper residue with your little scraping tool. You lost yourself to easily in the renovation tasks, the monotony allowing for your brain to whisk you away to distant worlds, like shooting your own music videos to the songs as you sang along.
Drifting so far off into your own thoughts is probably the reason you hadnât realised the radio had actually cut out completely, and it was just you singing and the sound of the metal scraper to fill the silence⊠The batteries had died.
âAh, shitâŠâ you mumbled to yourself, stepping off the ladder and reaching for the radio youâd placed on the window sill. Upon closer inspection, you made the definite conclusion that it was in fact the batteries, and sighed in annoyance. Of all the things you didnât think youâd need for a while at least, you would now have to rummage around in the unemptied moving boxes that were still stockpiled in the dining room, filled with ârandom crapâ from your ârandom crapâ drawers â the drawers every home has⊠You just hadnât renovated enough of the kitchen to have a ârandom crapâ drawer yet.
Digging through the boxes, you pulled a tape measure, a pack of four highlighters with two missing, six bank statements dated four years ago and a set of tiny little wrenches from the collection, until finally, you found a pack of unopened batteries at the bottom of the box.
You fumbled with them, rushing to get them out and replace the dead ones in the radio so you could get your music back and get back to work. Just as you pushed the second battery in, the radio roared to life again, startling you with a sudden gasp. Your heart raced in your chest as you chuckled at yourself, laughing at how stupid youâd been to have forgotten to turn it off before you pushed the new batteries in.
But a sudden and much more frightening crash from beneath you had you jumping again within seconds, your grip on the radio faltering as it flew to the ground, the new batteries flying out at the impact and drenching the room in silence again.
Your head flew immediately to the old door to your left, the one that led beneath the house to the basementâŠ
You donât know how long you stared at it, your heart rate never calming down as your mind raced with scenarios. An animal? Old house falling apart? Ghost? Psycho killer from town? You had no idea what to think.
But you lived alone. No noise should be coming from down in the damn basement.
You stared for so long, you began to question if youâd heard anything at all. Perhaps your mind was playing tricks on you. But with a mental kick up the arse and a quick shake of the head to rid yourself of the fear, you marched over to the door to investigate like every stupid final girl in every horror movie youâd ever seen.
When you pulled on the string light, it buzzed and flickered before settling on a barely-there orange glow. Thankfully, it didnât matter so much, the small windows in the houseâs foundations letting in just enough light to deem the room visible. You could smell the must as you stepped down the wooden stairs, creaking under your feet as if some obnoxious special effects guy was dubbing the scene.
The movers had moved some of the restorable furniture youâd asked them to keep down here, stacking it in a far corner for you to come back to when youâd sorted the main structure and dĂ©cor of the house. They were caked in a thick layer of dust, fingerprints from the movers clearly visible.
But nothing looked like it had fallen, there wasnât anything broken or toppled over on the floor at all. The bang youâd heard had no source, that you could see. Even the cellar doors that led to the yard out back were still chained and bolted shut â you couldnât blame it on a gust of wind, and upon first inspection, there was no sign of an animal somehow making its way inside either.
But to be sure, you walked through the clear space in the centre of the basement and over to the furniture pile of display cabinets, side tables, some chairs and a wardrobe youâd had moved from the master bedroom. It was one of your favourite pieces, that wardrobe. You planned to only clean it up and revarnish it, matching the ornate wood of the bed that had been kept pristine and you now used as your own. Even the mirrors on the door â oval shaped with dark ivy carved into the edges â were in fantastic condition. No scratches, just caked in a layer of dust like the rest.
A closer look proved there were no animals in the basement, no rodents or critters to try and ferry back outside. But what you did notice were the fingerprints on the brass handles of the wardrobe. Perhaps the movers had peaked inside â you hadnât when you viewed the place. Maybe there were some old clothes still left behind from another decade?
Curiosity got the best of you, and you opened the door with a shriek of its hinges to find⊠nothing. The wardrobe was empty save for a few wire hangers that jingled with the opening of the door, and another layer of dust, albeit thinner, on the low shelf inside. But the dust was disturbedâŠ
In the centre, there was a rectangle in the dust, as if it had been carefully wiped clean with absolute precision⊠It was about the size of a shoe box, but the dark grain of the wood stood out around the greyed and dulled wood surrounding it. Something had been in there for years, and had been removedâŠ
Instantly, you blamed the movers. Theyâd gone nosing around and taken something they thought was valuable? Oh hell no. It got your back up immediately⊠Youâd trusted these people, and theyâd stolen from you? Theyâd be getting a phone call later.
Now pissed, you shut the door to the wardrobe a little harder than perhaps you should, the bang that sounded ricocheting off the stone walls of the basement.
That sounded like what youâd heard from upstairs.
You brushed it off, thinking nothing of it and instead looking up into the oval mirror of the door to check youâd left no damage to it.
But then you saw him. A man, in the dusty reflection standing in the far corner, the darkest spot of the basement. You could only see an outline, a silhouette. But one of his eyes seemed to gleam brighter than the other, the light perhaps hitting it just right. He was glaring at you, watching you intently in the dull reflectionâŠ
You shrieked, spinning in your place and slamming your back into the wardrobe behind you. Your chest heaved in panic, heart racing and breaths coming short and fast while your eyes searched the dimly lit corner and found nothing.
There was no man stood in the corner, nothing at all in fact. You were completely alone, your mind playing havoc on you in your heightened state of anxiety and anger. Even now, your heart was still hammering away, your lungs just beginning to regulate your breathing.
You straightened yourself up and wiped at your clothes that collected dust from the wardrobe when youâd slammed into it.
âDumbass,â you mumbled to yourself, heading back upstairs quickly and slamming the basement door. You tried your best to shake off the anxiety, putting your batteries back into your radio and rushing back to the master bedroom to continue with the wallpaper scraping in the hopes it might put your mind back at ease. But for the rest of the day, you felt an anxiety you couldnât shift, as if there truly was a man in the corner of every room you entered, glaring at you from the shadows.
It took a few days to get all the paper and residue off the walls in the master bedroom, careful not to mess with the panelling you wanted to sand down and keep as part of the dĂ©cor. But for now, you could finally get onto stripping the paper in one of the other bedrooms, hoping to strip all of the paper from the upstairs in one go before getting around to sanding and replacing any panelling so you wouldnât be spreading the dust into rooms youâd already finished and cleaned. There was method in your madness â strip everything down, sand, then clean.
The next biggest room upstairs had no furniture in it and was in the worst state, having been the room with the most extensive damage to the flooring and structural integrity. Builders had to replace the entire floor, and so had removed everything to do so. Apparently a leak in the roof â now fixed, of course â had caused irreparable water damage to the far corner, where theyâd also removed the mouldy panelling and cleaned the remaining black mould properly and safely.
But now the rest of the room needed its paper stripped, so thatâs where you found yourself. Your little radio blared the same station as always as you scraped away at the paper, making your way along the walls. It came off easier than the master bedroom, the damp of the room helping to already ease the adhesive from the plaster beneath.
As you moved to a section of the wall near the window, placing the stepladder on the floorboard, you heard one rattle beneath it. Having had the entire floor replaced, youâd assumed that every floorboard would be secured down. Perhaps the builders had missed one, but a few nails and you could fix that. So you moved the stepladder out of the way and crouched to inspect the plank that wobbled.
It had the holes in it where the nails should have been, and yet, there were no nails to hold it down⊠It was as if it had been secured and then pulled up again, except you couldnât figure out why.
Curiosity got the best of you, and you pushed on one end of it to lift it from the structured beams beneath it. It opened up to a crawl space filled with fresh insulation and piping beneath the room. But when you pulled out your phone to flick on the flashlight, you noticed a rather out of place looking jewellery box had been hidden just to one side of the loose floorboard.
Instinct overruled you and you reached for it, pulling it from under the floorboard and wiping the dust from the top of it. It was a beautiful jewellery box, made of dark wood with an intricate baroque pattern carved into it and filled with some kind of gold resin. It had no lock on it, only a hook to keep its lid closed.
It made no sense to you⊠Why would this be under the floorboards when the floor was so new? Where had it come from? Should you open it?
And then your brain connected the dots. This box was the same shape, and a similar size to the disturbed dust inside the wardrobe in the basement. This had come from the wardrobeâŠ
Logically, you concocted a story that maybe one of the builders had found it and wanted to hide it, come back for it later but forgot. But if they knew it was of value, surely they wouldnât have forgotten it? And that patch in the wardrobe seemed too fresh, too pristine⊠Still, you had no other logical answer. You refused to believe it had magically found its way up from the basement and under the floorboards by itself â or even more horrifyingly, at the hands of someone else.
But you had to open it, right? You had to see what was inside, to see why someone would want to hide such a pretty little box at all. So you flicked the hook open, and slowly opened up the jewellery boxâŠ
Youâd have to say you were disappointed. There were things in here, but nothing that screamed value at you, more like cheap and random items. There were some cuff links that you thought may have been silver, but were only sterling silver; a costume jewellery bracelet made of plastic pearls; a lipstick, worn down to within an inch of its life in a deep red shade; various little knick-knacks that together made absolutely no sense at all. The only thing that stood out to you as remotely unusual, was a watch.
This watch looked ordinary, something youâd pick up for cheap. It was broken, the glass cracked and the time clearly not moving on from 11:06 on the day it broke. It wasnât branded, the clock face not diamond-incrusted or made of any real precious materials. But just under where the hands connected in the centre was a tiny little rotating set of numbers for a date, reading as 19/03/24 â just over a week ago. The watch had stopped working just over a week ago.
You couldnât entertain this idea any longer. You stuffed the watch back into the box, slamming the lid closed and putting it back under the floorboards in the hope it might poof itself out of existence. You had to be imagining things, this wasnât real. First, hearing noises down in the basement. Then, seeing the reflection of a man in the wardrobe mirror, only for him to disappear when you turned around. Now, finding a box of trinkets in the floorboards with items that were completely out of place for the time period of the old house.
You were being ridiculous, making up things that didnât exist and had no significance at all. This must have been left by a builder, the battery being the reason it stopped, not the crack in the glass. There was just no way. No one had been by the house since you moved in besides the postman, and even he had quickly stuffed the mail into the mailbox at the end of your drive and run off quickly every time you caught him.
A creak in the floorboards in the hallway snapped you from your racing conspiracies, igniting your fight or flight response much like the noise in the basement the other day. This time you didnât freeze, you stood up quickly and ran to the doorway to see if you could catch whatever was making the noise.
There he was again.
The same silhouette, a man stood in the hallway, backlit from the large window behind him and the sun streaming in through it. You couldnât see his face properly, left in shadow but you could see those same eyes, glaring at you, watching to see if you would make a moveâŠ
Anger flared inside you, thinking you had an intruder in your home. You werenât one to back down from a fight or go quietly. If this man was skulking around your house in broad fucking daylight, you were going to confront him.
âHEY! Who the fuck are you?!â you yelled from the doorway, âGET OUT OF MY HOUSE!â
The silhouette said nothing, instead stepping to the right through the door to your master bedroom. Without a second thought you ran towards the open doorway, grabbing the scraper from the floor where youâd set it down earlier as some kind of precautionary weapon.
âI said, get out of my-â you stopped, frozen in fear. You couldnât believe what you were seeing, confusion replacing the rage inside you.
Nothing.
There was nobody in here. And you made damn sure to check⊠No one behind the door, no one in the en-suite, no one under the bed⊠No one.
You were losing your mind. You had to be. Perhaps you had spent too long alone in this old house, maybe you needed to socialise, head into town and meet some real people instead of chasing shadows. This wasnât healthy, all this obsessive renovation work. This was your brain telling you you needed a break, right? It had to be that, because you could come up with no sound, logical explanation as to why you were seeing a shadow man roaming around your house other than madness. None of this was really happening, this was simply a descent into insanity caused by too much isolation.
At least, thatâs what you told yourself to quiet the pounding heartbeat in your ears as the fear crept its way inside, burrowing deeper with every strange happening you seemed to experience.
A day off was all youâd needed, time out of the house to escape the need to be working, to essentially touch some grass and speak to another actual human being besides the shadow youâd conjured in your head. Youâd gone into town, done some shopping, sat in a local coffee shop⊠Youâd met a lovely older woman in there â Amelie, a widow and life-long resident â whoâd welcomed you to town, so excited to have a fresh and pretty face to say hello to.
Although, she had warned you to head home before the sun set⊠That you should never walk alone in the evenings, and should lock your doors and windows at night.
âHe likes the younger ones,â sheâd told you. âIâm no good, you see⊠He likes them young.â
That had chilled you to the bone⊠Perhaps the mad ramblings of a woman hitting senility, but already on edge after the last few days at home, it seemed to strike a nerve. But nothing could have prepared you for the look on her face when sheâd asked her where in town you had moved into, and you divulged it was the old farmhouse on the outskirts.
Her cheeks had sagged, smile dropping instantly. She shifted in the chair sheâd taken at your table, straightening out the skirt of her dress over her knees and avoiding eye contact. And then she clutched her necklace in her fist â a gold crucifix â as she reached to take yours in her other hand.
âYou must protect yourself, yes? That house⊠Something is there. You must be careful,â she told you, her voice as stern as she could make it to hide the tremble of fear.
âI-Iâm okay, really⊠It just looks old, itâs overgrown and falling apart but Iâm working on-â
âNo!â she yelled, turning the heads of other patrons in the coffee shop. Her grip on your hand squeezed tighter, her nails digging into your hand painfully. âYou should leave, before itâs too late. Such a pretty young thing, you shouldnât be thereâŠâ
You pried her bony, arthritic fingers from around your hand and gently held hers in both of yours.
âIâm okay, Amelie. Please, donât worryâŠâ you comforted her, but she seemed dissatisfied, her eyes wide as she conceded.
That entire interaction had sat with you for the rest of the day as youâd wandered through the local farmerâs market, picking up fresh vegetables to turn into a casserole for one tonight. It shouldnât have unnerved you the way it did, such an elderly woman was clearly suffering the effects of an ageing mind and yet, with the experiences of the last few days? Her warning unnerved you.
You headed home long before sunset, and locked the doors and windows like sheâd told you to. Did it make you feel any better? Absolutely not⊠But as you pottered around in the kitchen making the casserole youâd planned, slowly the anxiety started to ease, helped mostly by the music on your little radio.
You ate in peace, scrolling through your phone while you tapped your foot on the tiled floor of the kitchen. You didnât mind these lonely evenings so much, having grown tired of the bustling city long ago. These days, the quiet of your own company was quite welcome, easily sinking into your own little world.
Even as you stood at the sink, scrubbing at the dishes, you were in your own world, humming along to another overplayed song youâd heard time and time again. Youâd find yourself staring out the window in front of you at the sunset, the sky painted pinks and oranges and casting a tranquil glow over the little graveyard out back. Dusk was quickly approaching, the night drawing in as you cleaned.
Just as you placed your plate on the drying rack beside you, you looked out again at the graves, now like silhouettes as the sky turned to a deeper shade of bluey purple. But your heart dropped, every hair on your body standing on end.
The shadow figure. The same shadow figure⊠Stood out by the graves, looking down at them with its back to you. He seemed to be wearing the same thing as last time you spotted him; slacks, a black coat made of heavy wool that just passed his knees. He was just standing, staringâŠ
You froze in place, watching⊠You felt paralysed, like youâd spotted a large spider on the wall, staring at it to make sure it didnât move out of sight because losing it was worse than staring in fear.
It didnât move, just standing there, staring down.
A rush of anger hit you out of nowhere â this fucker was trespassing on your property, scaring you stupid. Youâd locked this prick out when youâd come home, and so he thought it was okay to skulk around your land, trying to frighten you?
Fuck that. No. Enough of this.
You wiped your hands on the dish towel to the side, instinctively reaching for the biggest knife in your knife block on the counter before running to the back door. You unbolted the top and bottom, and ran out into the evening with a surge of adrenaline.
âHEY!â you yelled, like you had when youâd seen him in your hallway, âWHAT THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOUâRE DOING?!â
The figure didnât move, still staring down as you approached quickly from behind. You stayed back a few feet, clutching the knife in your hand and ready to use it should this fucker try anythingâŠ
âAnswer meâŠâ your voice shook with fear, no matter how hard you tried to keep it steady and strong. âWhat the fuck do you think youâre doing on my land?â
A dark chuckle⊠The shoulders of the figure shook with his laugh, and it only pissed you off more.
âYour land? InterestingâŠâ the figure muttered, his voice thick with a heavy Italian accent and gruff like he hadnât spoken aloud in decades.
âI-Iâll call the copsâŠâ you threatened, âjust leave and no one gets hurt.â
His head cocked up at that, turning to look over his shoulder. For the first time, you got a small glimpse at his face, and the eye that gleamed brighter than it should. He seemed to be smirking, as if this situation was somehow funny to him.
âYou would hurt me, cara mio?â he teased, his eyes flitting down to the knife you held extended towards him. âI did not have you pegged for a violent woman.â
It caught you off guard, the way he spoke to you. Was he trying to belittle you? Make you question your own self-defense to weaken you? You wouldnât let that happen.
âWhat are you doing here?â you asked him defiantly, ignoring his comments and still wielding the knife.
âPaying my respects,â he grumbled, as if he were annoyed by an intrusive question.
âTh-this is my property, and you need to leave. Iâve seen you in my house, and you need to go before I call the cops,â you repeated yourself, your voice shaking.
âWhy did you buy this house?â he asked, frustratingly ignoring your warnings.
âNone of your business-â
âIt is my business,â he snapped, âThis house belonged to my family,â he span on the spot, finally facing you. His expression was intimidating, his eyes â now visibly different colours â were boring into you, just begging you to try something. âThese are their graves. This is their house. It does not, and will never, belong to you.â
âWell you might want to tell the bank that, Mr, uhâŠâ his name escaped you, forgetting the surname that youâd uncovered weeks ago on the graves behind him.
âEmeritus,â he smiled sadistically. âTerzo Emeritus, and this house is mine.â
He took a step closer to you, and naturally you stepped back in fear. The grip on the knife readjusted with the second step he took, readying yourself to use it should you need to.
âBut a pretty thing like you? Iâm willing to shareâŠâ
âDonât make another moveâŠâ you jabbed the knife forward a little, raising your voice in an attempt to appear threatening. âI know thereâs some creep going around town, snatching people⊠And now youâre here, in MY house, threatening me?â
âI think Iâm the one being threatened, cara mioâŠâ
âSHUT UP!â you yelled. âLeave, now. Or I will call the fucking police.â
His hands, encased in leather gloves, shot up in a defensive pose, his smile widening sickeningly. He stopped approaching, but his morbidly beautiful eyes slowly scanned you from head to toe, taking you in, analysing. For a moment, you were locked in a stalemate, staring each other down. You thought maybe he was sizing you up, waiting for the opportune moment to strike like a predator hunting its prey. Â Â
But instead of pouncing like youâd expected, he turned back around and knelt down before the graves.
âPenso che forse lei non Ăš cosĂŹ affezionato a me come io sono di lei, non siete d'accordo? (I think maybe she is not as fond of me as I am of her, donât you agree?)â he mumbled, as if the dead could hear every word. âNon temere, non lascerĂČ che questa bellezza mi scaccia, i miei fratelli. Questa Ăš casa nostra e imparerĂ a godere della mia compagnia. (Fear not, I will not let this beauty drive me away, my brothers. This is our house, and she will learn to enjoy my company.)â
âW-what did you say?â you stuttered, still wielding the knife. He looked briefly over his shoulder at you.
âNon vedevo tanta bellezza da piĂč di un secolo, (I havenât seen such beauty in over a century,)â he spoke to the graves again. âNon dal mio esilio e ritorno. (not since my exile and return.)â
You were growing more and more frustrated as he spoke his mother tongue to thin air, waiting for him to do something â even if that something were to force you to defend yourself. This was just⊠bizarre.
He stood again, kissing the tips of his gloves and pressing them to each headstone, save for one on the end. Why he missed that one, you werenât sure, but you couldnât focus on that right now. He seemed to be saying a goodbye, as if he were actually going to leave upon your request.
âUntil next time, bella cosa (pretty thing),â he bowed his head a little and began to walk towards you, giving you a wide berth but keeping his eyes trained on you at all times. You figured he was simply making sure you didnât try to stab him as he passed, walking himself out of the gates of your land and a little ways down the street before he turned back to you, and blew you a slow, calculated flying kiss.
As he continued to walk away down the lane that stretched towards town, you quickly glanced back at the graves, noting now that the names did indeed all share a common family name.
Primo Emeritus. Secondo Emeritus. Copia Emeritus. Terzo Emeritus.
Your eyes widened. You were sure that was the name he just told you belonged to him? That wasnât possible⊠Such an unusual name, and heâd made no mention of being a âTerzo Juniorâ, or âTerzo the secondâ. And it was the only grave he didnât plant his kiss toâŠ
You span around in the grass beneath your feet, looking out down the lane youâd just seen him walking down and yet, he was nowhere to be seen. He wasnât in the fields that lined the lane into town, and the road stretched with no bends for at least two miles, no obstructions at all. You should be able to still see him walking, running even if he had chosen to. He hadnât had time to vanish like he had, in mere seconds.
Your head whipped back to the grave â his grave? â before you shook your head of the nonsense that he might well be some kind of spirit who can appear or disappear in the blink of an eye. These âoccurrencesâ were nothing more than fuel for a spooky story around a campfire. None of this was true, youâd just⊠lost sight of him, or misjudged the view of the road. Something, anything, had to explain this away.
But it didnât stop you from bolting back through the garden and into the kitchen, slamming the door behind you with the knife still in hand and bolting the door shut, heart thumping in your ears.
You slept with that knife under your mattress that night.
His face haunted you, both day and night. No matter what you did, or how you tried to refocus your mind, to fixate on only your renovations, you couldnât shake the feeling of being watched. In the few days since the incident by the graves, you were questioning your sanity more than ever.
Had that even been real? Was he real? He couldnât possibly be⊠The way he disappeared in an instant every time you saw him led you only to the conclusion that youâd lost your mind, officially. You must have concocted this spectre after seeing his name on the grave when youâd cleared the landscaping around them. You told yourself that over and over again.
That became harder to do though, when youâd spot him out by the graves again not even a week after the first time. Youâd been installing some small curtains to the window by the kitchen sink for you to hide the site from view when youâd spooked yourself at the mere thought of that night, and yet there he was again.
You stared in shock, frozen and motionless, as he turned his head towards the house, looking it up and down, before his gaze settled on you in the window. He raised his hand, but before he could gesture a wave at you, you shut the new curtains and obscured his view, darting out of the kitchen and hiding in the dining room still full of packed boxes.
Your heart pounded as it always did when your imagination ran away with you and spooked you like this. You shook your head, told yourself to snap the fuck out of it.
But then you saw him every evening.
Always by the graves, always turning to wave at you, no matter from which window you were watching him from. You did your best to hide, to ignore it and tell yourself he wasnât real. You just had to keep going, to continue your work and maybe find a good psychologist in town one of these days.
This plan of wilful ignorance was barely working, but what else could you do? Giving this apparition any kind of attention would surely only make it worse, whether he was a figment of your imagination or a genuine ghost from the past.
Ignoring him was hard. There was such a large part of you that wanted more information about him, to learn where heâd come from, why he haunted you. He was intriguing, if terrifying. The face that followed your dreams, both day and night, was starting to become all too familiar, all too comfortable. If it werenât for that ghostly white eye of his, heâd have quite a charming face. His glare wouldnât seem so dark if it wasnât pierced by the white glow, and perhaps he wouldnât be so threatening⊠Home invasion and grave haunting aside.
Still, you did your best to continue as normal. The renovations continued, and before long you had stripped every room upstairs of the aged and withered wallpaper that desperately needed replacing. Finally, you could start decorating to your own tastes â starting with your bedroom.
After a trip to the nearest hardware store, and a delivery of wooden slats, you got busy creating the wainscoting that was to run along the bottom three feet of the wall in your bedroom. The idea was to panel it, and then paint everything a beautiful deep shade of royal purple. The hardwood floor was going to be stained a dark shade throughout the entire upstairs, but youâd managed to source a stunning Persian rug in a purple that matched the aesthetic you were hoping for. The furniture â the items youâd had moved to the basement â were already perfect for the room, matching the bed that had also been left behind. Youâd chosen gold metal accents to replace the handles on the wardrobe and chest of drawers, and sourced lamps and trinkets in the same gold to match.
After no longer than a week, youâd completed the room with a mix and match of modern and Victorian gothic aesthetics. Frankly, it looked like a Pinterest board â but it was so inherently you.
When youâd laid the finishing touches to the room, you stood in the middle of it, proudly looking around with a wide grin on your face at the beautifully finished space. That estate agent couldnât see the potential of this house, but you had the second you stepped foot inside. And whilst it was only one room, the rest of the house still just the bare skeletal bones of a home, this was a huge victory.
âI like what youâve done with my bedroom, bella cosa (pretty thing).â
Your body stiffened at the sound of his voice, coming from the doorway behind you. You squeezed your eyes shut, shaking your head and willing for the nightmare to stop. You hadnât heard him, you were imagining it. You had to be.
Except, you heard footsteps behind you, on the hardwood floors. His shoes clacked with every step, slow and deliberate as if he was taking in his surrounding, inspecting your work. When you braved opening your eyes, thatâs exactly what he was doing.
He really was here.
âGrazie for keeping my furniture, cara mio. I was always fond of it, and youâve given it new life,â he said, ogling the wardrobe as he dragged his gloved fingertips along the edge of the wood.
âAnd purple, tooâŠâ he span on his heels to face you, a warm smile crossing his dark features, âMy favourite colour.â
âHow did you get in here?â you asked, voice shaking as you watched him look around the room.
âI told you, cara, this was my house. I know every entrance and exit there is,â his mismatched eyes settled on you again, âeven the ones you donât.â
He was lying. There were only three ways in or out of the house, and they were all locked â bolted, latched, even the cellar doors in the basement were chained shut.
âThis is not your house,â you argued, spitting the words through grit teeth. âYou need to leave. I will call the police.â
His eyes darkened again, a veil of threat overcoming him.
âAnd I told you, this has always been my house.â
You weighed your options. Your phone was on the kitchen counter downstairs; if you were fast enough, you could run down to it and out the back door before he caught you, calling the police as you ran along the road into town. If you didnât fuck it up, you could even lock him in, taking the key from the back door and locking it shut behind you, leaving him gift wrapped for the cops.
You just had to be quick.
And you tried, you really did. You bolted out of the bedroom, running down the length of the long hall towards the top of the stairs. You hadnât heard him behind you, his shoes making no noise behind you and so you imagined heâd been left stunned by your sudden departure, giving you a head start.
So you hadnât expected a pair of large, strong hands to grip you by the tops of your arms at the top of the stairs, and slam your body into the wall. A sharp pain radiated up through your spine, but you cried out in fear more so than pain when you realised heâd trapped you, palms flat against the wall by your head and arms encasing you.
Instinct had you closing your eyes, squeezing them shut and waiting for the next blow, or for this nightmare to end. You could feel a cool breeze against your cheek as you turned your head away from the man trapping you, as if his breath were ice cold.
âLook at me, cara mio,â he ordered, his voice deep and slow. You whimpered beneath him, trying to plant yourself flat against the wall to get as far away from him as possible. âPer favore, I want to see you.â
You wanted to deny him, but his silence said heâd wait for an eternity until you did. And you didnât want to find out just how aggressive he could be, if given the chance. So slowly, you opened your eyes, looking at him through your peripheral vision before you turned your head ever so slightly.
His face was so close to yours, hovering above you. His eyes flickered across your features, like he was looking for something, or maybe mapping every feature and committing it to his memory for some nefarious reason.
This close to him, you couldnât stop yourself from doing the same⊠You avoided his eyes, noting instead how his skin seemed pale for an Italian man, but soft and smooth without a single imperfection. His jawline was chiselled, like youâd cut your palm if you tried to slap him. He had frown lines in his forehead that came with a life of frustration, yet forked lines from the outer corners of his eyes that came with a life of happiness; neither made him look haggard, yet showed he wasnât quite as youthful as you.
Despite his pale complexion, his lips remained a soft pink. They were full, parted as you both silently examined each other up close. That breeze you felt was most definitely his breath, which youâd expected to be warmer but given the situation, perhaps it was your fear adding to the chill.
Running out of features to scan, you landed on his eyes; the eyes that haunted you more than any youâd seen. At first glance, the colour mismatch was disconcerting. It would put anybody on edge, perhaps make them wonder if heâd fallen victim to some kind of accident or birth defect but the more you stared, the more you fell into them. You couldnât place why, but they seemed older than the rest of his features, holding more wisdom than you might have expected.
âAre you real?â you asked him, logic and reason battling against the very real fear that you were imagining him, that he was some kind of spirit that haunted his family home youâd never be rid of. But youâd felt him. His hands had been the ones to throw you against this wall, his body was imposing on yours as he trapped you. He was solid, flesh and blood. But there was an innate and visceral fear that something was wrong.
At your question, his eyes met yours, and his lips quirked into a playful smile.
âI am very real, cara mio,â he assured, taking his hand from beside your head and wrapping his gloved fingers around your wrist. He lifted your palm, gently laying it flat against his chest. âCan you not feel me?â
You could. He was solid, like youâd now discovered and you could feel his heartbeat beneath his shirt. Still, something felt wrong. He had no body heat like a normal living man through a simple cotton shirt should, and the heartbeat you felt was significantly slower than it should be.
âWho are you?â you whimpered, palm to his chest without even an attempt to remove it.
âI told you who I was. Terzo Emeritus.â
âJ-junior?â you asked him. His brow creased in confusion, missing what you were asking entirely. âTerzo Junior? The grave, it⊠it says Terzo.â
Now he understood, sensing your confusion and chuckling lightly at it.
âJust Terzo,â he told you, gentle grip still on your wrist. You could pull your hand away if you tried, and yet, you kept it in place as if his own slow heartbeat was somehow reducing your own to a more comfortable pace.
You were at a loss for words now, brain running far too quickly to settle on something suitable to say to him. But at least now you had grown aware of your palm still settled on his chest, prompting you to rip it from his grip expecting him to put up some kind of resistance, to which you met none.
âWhat do you want from me?â you asked him, unable to tear your eyes from him in the same manner youâd torn your wrist from him.
âPerhaps only your company,â he shrugged slightly, raising an eyebrow in suggestion. âTo exist with you, here.â
âThis is my houseâŠâ
âSĂ, so you keep saying.â A beat of silence passed as you thought of what he was truly asking, what that even meant.
âI want you to stay away from me,â you insisted, finding a shred of strength within you. Terzo took in a deep breath through his nose, letting it go as he studied you.
âI donât think I can do that, cara mio,â he sighed. His admission had tears forming in your waterline, a new fear that you wouldnât be able to shake this manâs seemingly growing obsession with you. All you wanted was peace, solitude and an escape but youâd fallen into a web, and the spider was crawling towards you agonisingly slowly.
You took a few deep breaths, each exhale shaky. You just wanted him to go, to leave you alone. Maybe this had been his house once before, but it was yours now, and he couldnât stay here. He already seemed infatuated with you, if the way he looked at you now was anything to go by. His eyes drank you in like he was a starving man, and you were the ripest of fruits for him to devour.
âPlease, I just want to be left aloneâŠâ you begged, tilting your head back against the wall and letting the tears fall as you squeezed your eyes shut, suppressing a sob in your chest.
Silence descended, and suddenly the weighted oppression of his presence vanished with a swift breeze. Even with your eyes shut, you could feel he wasnât entrapping you anymore but when you opened them, you saw he wasnât anywhere near you at all.
Heâd vanished again, faster than a snap of your fingers.
And you were left wondering if any of that, once again, was real or a fantasy of your own making. You were so sure you felt a solid body, a real heartbeat. You werenât a scientist, nor a paranormal specialist but you would assume if he was the spirit of the man buried in your back yard, you wouldnât be able to feel him in such a way.
But now he had vanished, the feeling he left with you felt very much like an oppressive presence, a lingering energy. Now he left you with the anxiety of another visit without warning, another appearance to trick you into believing your delusions were true.
You expected to see him again.
Another week passed, a surface layer of anxiety lingering persistently. All you could do was focus your attention on your project, doing your absolute best to continue as normal. Now you had finished the master bedroom, you moved onto the upstairs bathroom, which had needed gutting and refitting.
Youâd had a small team of plumbers in to replace the pipes through the house just as you had electricians to rewire the place before youâd moved in, and until now, all youâd had was the bare bones of a shiny new bathroom. Youâd installed some counters with a new sink, the gold hardware matching around the bathroom. The marble top was a beautifully tasteful black with gold veins to match the black wood of the cabinets.
Even in here, you stuck to your darker aesthetic. The walls were painted a beautiful matte black, the floor tiled with black and white squares. It took you all week, two of those days on tiling alone. But it was something to focus on, a room that you knew would be frequently used and so needed to be finished now your bedroom was complete.
When it came to adding the finishing touches, it felt like the cherry on top of another beautifully made cake. Your house was quickly turning into a showroom, a place that could be featured in home renovation magazines had you been willing to open it up.
But already, youâd had one too many visitors in your home for your likingâŠ
By the end of the week, you were exhausted â more so than usual. The anxiety of feeling watched, monitored, stalked was taking its toll on you, and you needed some respite. For all you knew, Terzo Emeritus could show up at any moment to frighten, repulse and excite you. It was weighing heavy, and your mind was just as spent as your body was.
As you headed to bed that evening, you allowed yourself some self-care in the bathroom youâd now finished. The point of renovating this house was to enjoy it, right? So why deny yourself thatâŠ
You filled the new clawfoot tub with hot water, brimming with bubbles and scents that had you falling into a state of total calm before youâd even sunk into it. Your tiny little radio joined you in the bathroom, tuned to a station that played nothing but classical, and on a bath shelf youâd bought you rested some candles, a book and a full glass of red wine to enjoy as you pampered yourself.
Sinking into the water, you relished in the feeling of being submerged in its warmth. Almost instantly, the tension in your shoulders melted away, eyes closing in bliss as your head slipped back to rest against the tubâs edge. You couldnât help but let out a hum of satisfaction, the relief and pleasure accumulating in a soft moan.
As you let your body relax, a noise caught your attention; a floorboard, creaking just outside of the bathroom door. Your eyes shot open, your body reacting and freezing in place. However when you let your eyes roam over to the mirror above the bathroom sink, you saw himâŠ
By force of habit, youâd left the bathroom door ajar, a small gap just large enough to be able to see that ghostly eye of his in the dim hallway, and the outline of him peeking through the door. Your heart rate hammered in your chest as it always did when you saw him, but you remained still. For now, he wasnât making any kind of move, and he didnât seem to be aware you had seen him.
But he was definitely there, watching you as you bathed. It was violating, invasive, perverse⊠And yet, you did nothing about it.
Instead, you sank further underneath the bubbles, reaching for your wine glass with your eyes trained on the mirror. You took a sip, relishing in the taste and releasing another satisfied moan as if putting on a damn show for him. What possessed you to do so, you had no idea, but heâd been tormenting your mind for weeks now â why couldnât you do the same to him?
Reaching for your loofah, you dunked it under the water and sat upright, back exposed to him. You stretched your arm out, running the loofah along your skin in a slow and deliberate manner. You were careful to never expose yourself too much, but to tease with the expanse of pretty, bare skin to conjure enough suggestion in his mind that would leave a man desperate to see more.
When you ran the loofah up the length of your leg just above the water, you heard the floorboards creak again, like he was fidgeting on the other side of the door. You checked in the mirror to see if he was still there, and he most certainly was, but you were having the effect on him you hoped for.
Perhaps you stretched it out a little longer than necessary, running the loofah over your body more than needed but you were making your point. Your wicked little mind was ticking over, aware he could only see what you wanted him to; your shoulders and head above the bubbles from behind. Do you dare to cross the line�
Perhaps the thrill of being watched was having an effect on you too, because you came to the conclusion that yes, you did dare to cross the line.
You lay back against the tub again, using the loofah now to run across your shoulders and down between the valley of your breasts, which the bubbles were barely covering in your relaxed position. You trailed the loofah further down, reaching over your stomach and between your legs.
Your breath hitched in your throat as you brushed the loofah over your core, now realising that washing yourself so intimately â and being watched while doing so â had aroused you more than youâd first thought. A flash of pleasure had you squeezing your eyes shut again, and you couldnât stop yourself from grazing over your centre with added pressure, hips rocking in the water.
Before long, you abandoned the loofah all together, and from where he was stood, Terzo could see it float and bob up to the surface which had him drawing only one conclusion; you were definitely not just washing yourself.
You worked slowly, methodically. It had been so long since youâd let go like this, since youâd last touched yourself at all and you wanted to savour it, to enjoy it. You were in no rush, working your fingers in gentle and slow circles over your clit under the water. The moans that you let slip werenât at all restrained or controlled; for all you knew, you were alone, right? So why would you hold back?
 It was impossible not to keep checking the mirror, to make sure he was still there and every time, he was. You couldnât help but let your imagination run away with you, picturing him entering the room, kneeling down beside the tub and reaching his hand between your legs for you. You pictured him taking you from the bathroom, into the bedroom and having his way with you, dark, handsome and brooding as he always had been.
You imagined his hands beneath his gloves, his bare fingertips tracing patterns into your skin, his full lips trailing kisses down your still wet body. What did he look like under those layers of his? How would he feel under your own fingertips? How would he feel inside you?
But Terzo made no such move. Instead, he watched silently from the shadows, and each time you caught that glimpse of him your hips bucked towards your hand until eventually, you couldnât hold back anymore and allowed yourself to fall over the precipice.
Your orgasm was powerful, thanks to not only the lack of self love recently, but also, the arousal of becoming an exhibitionist. It rippled through your body like the water around you, and had you crying out wordlessly as you sank further into the water up to your chin. You hadnât felt so good in a long time, and it worked perfectly to relieve the remainder of that tension in your body.
As you came down from the orgasm, you dared to glance back at the mirror only to find that heâd vanished. Another little disappearing act, only this time, you found yourself free of the anxiety that usually came with that, and instead smug with the knowledge you might have got one over on him for a change. Youâd teased him to a point that he couldnât tear his eyes from you until it was over, and for a moment you felt truly powerful. At least, if he were real⊠and not a fantasy youâd concocted for yourself. There was still the very real possibility that all of this was just your own madness and loneliness, and you were just now starting to lean into the delusions as a form of self-preservation.
For a little while longer, you stayed put in the tub, enjoying your book, the rest of your wine and the music in the background. Of course, you kept checking on the mirror to see if maybe heâd return for another look, but nothing. It was twisted, the way your stomach drooped in disappointment each time, but you brushed it off. You were sure before long, you would see him again â whether real or fictional.
Once you had finished in the bathroom, draining the tub and rinsing the suds away, you floated back into your bedroom wrapped in a bathrobe and ready to sink into bed with your book. You pottered around, changing into some pyjamas and crawling under the sheets when a glimpse of colour caught the light beside your bed, earning your attention.
Hanging from your bedside lamp was a pendant, and most certainly not one of yours. They were stored in a jewellery box atop the dresser, not hung on display like this⊠but it was beautiful, and you reached over to lay the charm in your palm and inspect it properly.
It was simple, yet elegant. The charm was shaped like a water drop, except the stone was purple; perhaps amethyst or a rarer sapphire but it caught the light exceptionally. Surrounding it, were smaller stones that resembled diamonds, but your knowledge of precious stones couldnât confirm whether they were in fact real, or if this were costume jewellery. It didnât matter though, it was beautiful as it was, sparkling under your bedside lamp.
You had no idea how it got here, but you could hazard a guess. It had been left for you like a gift, delicately placed in a position that would get your attention. There was only one person it could have come from, and as you played with the unusual pendant under the light, you began to realise that maybe he wasnât the figment of your imagination you were trying to pass him off asâŠ
The next morning, you had a revived energy, a spring in your step from a decent nightâs sleep. The time spent on self care seemed to do the job, relieving the stress enough for you to be ready to tackle the downstairs living room next. Truthfully, your new found vigour may have also had something to do with a large part of you giving in to the idea that Terzo was not a fantasy, heâd been very real this whole time.
You still had no idea who he was, or how he was a real person. You were beginning to think that perhaps spirits did walk the earth, just by how he seemed to appear and disappear on a dime. But you remembered the heartbeat, the solid chest under your palmâŠ
There were so many questions. Who was he? A descendant of the family this house once belonged to, and rested in your garden? How does he keep getting in? He mentioned entrances you might not know about, but youâd searched thoroughly, or so you thought. Was he obsessed with you? Stalking you?
Was he dangerous?
His behaviour was most definitely shady â people donât just come and go in other peopleâs homes as they please. But youâd never reported him, no matter how much youâd threatened it. To begin with youâd hoped the threat of calling the cops would be enough to deter him, but he always came back. And at every opportunity, he could have done something to hurt you, yet never did. Even last night, you were in a completely vulnerable position. And whilst peeping on you in the bath was absolutely a violation and a crime in itself, all he did was watch. And you let him.
His existence was confusing, but youâd surrendered to the notion that he did in fact exist; and honestly, that in itself was quite freeing. It felt like some kind of weight had lifted, and it made beginning work on the living room easier to stomach.
This room had suffered in the years the house sat in decay. The old windows had made way for black mould to grow around it, and whilst youâd had the windows replaced since, the mould was still present. Your first job was to clean the walls and potentially replace some of the floorboards, if the moisture had taken hold of the wood.
Armed with a bucket of diluted bleach and a sponge, you got to work scrubbing at the walls and the large window sill that you were planning to convert into a cosy nook; a perfect place to sit and watch the world go by, book in hand. Your little radio sat on the mantelpiece of the stunning fireplace you were going to bring back to life, blaring out the same cycle of tunes you were used to now youâd tuned it back from the classical of last night.
You let yourself zone out as you scrubbed at the mould, singing along to the radio now you knew most of the songs blaring from it. It was a wonder you werenât sick of them yet, but you still hadnât got around to unpacking your record player that was supposed to have a home in this particular room. First, you had to finish it though, of course.
As one song ended, the radio host announced a lunchtime bulletin. By this time you were only half listening, fixated on the satisfying cleaning job.
âItâs 1pm, youâre listening to 108.3fm â hereâs your lunchtime bulletin. Police have made a shocking discovery after the disappearance of 25 year old Amanda Riley just three days ago.â
Your ears perked up at the news, now getting your attention. Another one? This was concerning, terrifying even. And now theyâd made a discovery?
âHuman remains were discovered just outside of town in a wooded area yesterday, which police have now confirmed are that of Amanda. Family members formally identified the body, and police have given a statement to locals urging caution and vigilance. Sheriff Ansel had this to sayâŠ
ââWe believe Ms. Rileyâs murder to be connected to the string of disappearances in the area in the last few months. The victim was found with all her personal belongings still on her person, including wallet, cash, ID and mobile phone, however when the family came to formally identify the body, they noted that the only thing taken from her was her unusual pendantâŠââ
Your blood turned cold. The hand still scrubbing at the wall froze in place, and slowly, you turned to look at the radio as if it was speaking directly to you.
ââThe pendant is recognisable as a purple amethyst in a teardrop shape, surrounded by smaller white diamonds. While the item is valuable, we believe that the killer may have taken such a personal item as a trophy, which could be part of their M.O. Still, we are urging the public to please keep an eye out to see if we can trace this item, either in pawn shops or perhaps being sold online. We ask that you not panic, and please get in touch if you note anything suspicious. Thank you.ââ
Your hand dropped the sponge back into the bucket of diluted bleach, drifting up to your chest where that very same pendant was sat against your skin. Youâd put it on that morning, barely even thinking about it, just because you liked it.
But heâd given it to you. Left it out in the open for you, like he was proud of it. Heâd given you a dead girlâs fucking necklace. And there was only one way he could have got itâŠ
You stood up, running into the kitchen and colliding with the sink before your body displayed itâs disgust by vomiting violently. All those unanswered questions, and yet, one of them had been answered.
Who was he? A murderer.
As you coughed and spluttered your breakfast into the sink, your mind raced. She wasnât the only missing person, just the first body to have been found. There were others. So many others, for nine months. Thirteen missing people, one of which found dead with this fucking necklace missing.
You felt dizzy, like a wave of vertigo hit you in an instant. You hobbled over to the fridge, clutching at the kitchen counter to keep yourself steady and rooting around for a bottle of water. Your hands shook as you unscrewed the lid, taking a sip to rinse out your mouth as you stumbled back to the sink to spit. You took another sip, this time swallowing and trying your best to focus on the sensation of the cool water trickling down your throat. But your head was too busy.
Trophies. He was taking trophies? Why? This sick bastard must enjoy it, he must relish in his kills, wanting something to remember each one by. What else had he taken� And then you remembered.
The box under the floorboards.
You slammed the water bottle down on the side, a jet propelling out onto the work surface from the force. Before you knew it your feet were moving of their own accord, up the stairs and down the hall. You were unsteady, tripping into the walls as you walked. You needed to know, but you didnât want to.
Stumbling into the bare room, you fell to your knees with a hard smack where the floorboard was loose. Shaking hands lifted the plank, reaching underneath to check the box was still there; it was. You pulled it from its hiding place setting it down on the floor while you racked up the courage to open it again.
In one quick motion, you unlocked the latch and flung the lid open like ripping off a band aid. All the items were still there, just the way youâd left them, including the watch that had made you question them in the first place. It looked like it could have been vintage, save for the date wound to March of this year.
You looked at the collection of random items; the watch, the cuff links, the old red lipstick, the cheap bracelet, a skeleton key, a tiny used bottle of perfume, a red comb, an old butterfly hairpin, a daisy pin badge, a rusty swiss army knife, a fountain pen and a vintage zippo lighter.
Twelve items.
With the necklace, that made thirteen. Thirteen items. Thirteen victims. Thirteen trophies.
âI should have hidden them better, eh?â
The sound of his voice had your body stiffening in fear, skin instantly peppered with goosebumps. You hadnât even begun to think about confronting him or having to see him. You werenât sure what you were going to do yet, but youâd have hoped to have time to calm yourself down and think rationally about your options.
But you were going to have to do this ad-hoc.
âI donât often make mistakes, bella cosa, but when I do⊠They haunt me. I suppose my kindness is coming back to bite me on the culo (ass).â
He sounded surprisingly calm for a man whoâd just been found out to be a serial killer. It unnerved you, and no part of you could figure out his next move. You were a sitting duck.
Slowly, and carefully, you stood up, turning around to look at him. Part of you worried if you startled him with sudden movement, he might strike like any predator would its prey.
He was stood in the doorway, leaning up against the wood with his hands buried in the pockets of his slacks, coat pushed back behind them. He looked far too casual, his face hinting at neither anger nor humour â nowhere on the emotional spectrum.
âKindness?â you asked, ruminating over his use of the word. âThereâs no kindness in what youâve done.â Perhaps it was dangerous to speak so ill of the murderer in front of you, but you couldnât help yourself.
His neutral expression darkened in a warning glare, his chin tipping up so he was looking down on you, adding to his intimidating aura.
âNot everybody deserves kindness, cara mio. Some deserve far less,â he challenged, pushing himself off the doorframe and taking slow steps into the room, keeping a distance from you still.
âNo one deserves thatâŠâ
Terzo scoffed, looking off to gaze out of the window and shaking his head as if what you said offended him in some way.
âSo now you know,â he shrugged, looking back towards you, his hands still shoved deep in his pockets. You kept an eye on them, mind racing with all kinds of possibilities â he could have a weapon of some sorts hidden from view. You needed to be on your guard. âI suppose you will report me now, sĂ?â
There was a playful glint in his eyes that you didnât miss, like he was taunting you, waving a red flag to a bull. If you said you were, would he attack you too? But surely he couldnât simply take your word for it if you said you wouldnât either⊠Truthfully, you werenât sure what you were going to do. Your only instinct was to run â fast.
You let his question linger in the air, far too much silence going by as he watched you, assuming youâd frozen in fear. He hadnât expected you to dart towards the door, your only goal to get downstairs and out of the house as quickly as possible. So when you did exactly that, he watched for a split second, anger snapping inside him.
You barely made it out of the room before you felt a sudden force slam you forwards and into the wall of the corridor. A scream erupted from your chest, blood-curdling and gut-wrenching to anyone who would have heard it â but out here? No one would. How heâd moved so fast, you had no idea, but he had both of your wrists behind your back, and his whole body weight held you tightly against the wall.
âYou are leaving so soon?â he asked, leaning in to speak directly in your ear as you writhed under him to try and escape, but his grip was too strong even without him putting seemingly any effort into it. âI was just getting used to you living in my houseâŠâ
âThis is MY house,â you growled, gritting your teeth and avoiding his eyes.
âThen why should you want to leave? Are you scared I might hurt you, cara mio?â
Tears spilled from your waterline, giving away your fear and distress. Of course you were scared he was going to hurt you. Heâd already hurt so manyâŠ
When he received no answer from you other than a sob in defeat and the stilling of your limbs as you gave up fighting his grip, he manhandled you until you span around, your back now against the wall just like it had been the other day.
âTh-this isnât real⊠Youâre not realâŠâ you whispered to yourself, squeezing your eyes shut in the hopes you might wake up from your nightmare. You did not.
âIâm quite real, cara. Weâve been over this, no?â he lifted your wrist again like he had the other day, this time settling your hand delicately on his cheek and holding it there with his much bigger palm. âSee?â
His gentility confused you, and when you opened your eyes, you saw a strange softness in his face. For a moment, you almost thought his expression was one of admiration. It didnât matter what it was, but you couldnât look away. This man â this serial killer â was being so gentle with you, his eyes cast over you like he was utterly obsessed with you.
âWhy?â you whispered, more tears spilling over your cheeks. Still, you held his, despite his grip on your hand lessening ever so slightly. You wanted to understand, talk him down maybe just enough to let you go. You wanted to appeal to the softness you saw in him.
âI have no choice,â he said flatly, almost with a hint of shame. But that only crossed the wires in your mind more.
âI⊠I donât understand.â
âI choose them carefully⊠They are not good people, cara. They have ruined others lives, even taken them and I-â he stopped himself, looking down at the floor in shame. Your brows creased together, trying to piece your thoughts into coherency.
âItâs always a choice,â you started to argue back, softly so as not to raise any more rage within him in such a precarious position such as the one you found yourself in beneath him. But his head snapped back up nonetheless, his hand gripping onto yours and throwing it back down beside you. He kept you caged beneath him still, hands planted firmly on the wall.
âI assure you, bella ragazza (pretty girl), there is no choice. It is me or them.â
Slowly, he raised his head from where heâd stared at the floorboards between your feet. His eyes watched you closely as he tilted his head back a little, and his lips parted until you could clearly see two very white, very sharp fangs protruding from under his top lip.
For a moment you didnât react at all, calculating what you were seeing. His hands hadnât moved, so he hadnât put them in himself. Youâd seen him so many times, and up close too, and never saw them before⊠They had to be real. He had fangs.
âThatâs impossibleâŠâ you whispered, âthereâs no such thing as-â
âVampires?â he finished your sentence for you, âIâm sorry to shatter your illusion of a perfect world, cara mio, but I can assure you, there certainly is.â
Finally, your survival instincts kicked in, adrenaline pumping through your veins almost in an instant. You shoved your hands against his chest and pushed with all the strength you had, trying to get him away from you, to preserve yourself. All this time you had felt like prey, and it had been instinct all along. You were prey.
Your shove did nothing. He remained unmoving, like stone encasing you against the wall. You thrashed your arms around, trying to escape him but it was completely useless. You were already trapped, and at the mercy of a real vampire.
âIâm sorry, cara mio, but you will not overcome my strength nor my speed. This is useless, I assure you.â His voice had no hint of patronising, instead of genuine sorrow. It felt as if he knew he had to kill you now, but he didnât want to kill you. You gave up, your fists balling up against his chest as you lay your head back against the wall, out of breath and sobbing as you accepted your fate.
âPlease⊠donât kill me, TerzoâŠâ you wept, head lolling forward to look into his eyes for what you thought might be the last time.
His brow was creased, his lips parted in horror as he looked back at you. He raised his gloved hand and wiped at the tracks on your cheek. âI donât wish to kill you, cara mio⊠You understand, no? I must kill to stay alive, but not you â never you.â
You barely registered what he was saying before you were shooting questions at him again, needing to know more, to understand why he chose those people. Why he kept their trophiesâŠ
âWhy them? Why did you choose them? They were innocent, just like me. Why did they deserve that?â you sobbed, your chest heaving as he held your cheek, still caging you against the wall.
âThe girl they found? What the polizia (police) donât know is she was behind the wheel of an intentional hit and run a few years ago. The store clerk a few weeks back? You do not want to see what was on his hard drive. All of them, vile humans. There is more evil in this world than you could possibly fathom, tesoro. They even tasted differentâŠâ he shrivelled his face in disgust, âbut it keeps me alive, and my conscience semi-clear.â
The shock of his revelation did nothing to help your racing heart or foggy mind, processing everything far slower than you would like in this tumultuous situation.
âSuppose that was true, why do you keep their things?â you prodded further â there must be some part of him that enjoys it. Even if only the fact he were proud of removing scum from the earth, if that were true.
âBecause I carry their souls with me⊠No matter how evil, they are people, and I take their life. Each one is a burden, and I must never forget that.â
There was genuine sorrow, genuine regret there. You could see it. But it changed nothing, he was still a murderer, a monster. And you were still trapped underneath him, literally backed up against a wall and inches away from deadly threat.
âBut⊠itâs sick, Terzo! Theyâre kept like trophies, like youâre proud of what you do to them!â you protested. He hollowed his cheeks in annoyance, becoming more defensive as you accused him.
The hand that wiped your tears lowered to your neck, his fingertips tracing along the chain of the necklace you had yet to take off, until it reached the unusual pendant, where he played with it against your collarbone.
âAnd yet, you still wear it. You had time to take it off, if you were so disgusted by it. But here it is, looking so pretty around your⊠beautiful neck,â he sighed, his eyes roaming hungrily over the exposed skin he so clearly wanted to puncture and drink from. The fear in you started to rise again, your pulse that had just started to settle raising. More hot tears fell over your waterline as you took a deep, shaky breath.
âWhat⊠what do you want from me?â you pleaded, your voice trembling and squeaky. His eyes flickered up to yours, fingertips still playing with the pendant, grazing the skin so gently it left goosebumps. You would never admit to the thrill his touch seemed to be giving you, knowing what you know of him now.
But Terzo leaned in further, his hips meeting yours and pressing you further against the wall. The hand that had been keeping you caged against the wall all this time dropped to your waist, holding you just enough to send a wave of curious gratification through your abdomen. He was close enough that your noses would touch, should he tip his head down to you. You could feel his icy breath against your face again â a symptom of his state of undead, you now understood.
âI want you to love me, tesoroâŠâ he confessed in a whisper, watching for your reaction.
âI only fear you,â you defied, unable to admit the curiosity his request sparked.
âAre they not the same?â His eyebrow arched up in question, waiting for your response. But honestly, you had none. You were dumbfounded, wondering what on earth he meant by that. Of course they werenât the same, nothing about love and fear are the same. The attraction you had felt towards him in recent encounters was fleeting; a right place, right time kind of attraction. It had nothing to do with him, and now knowing what he was, it could never be him again.
Terzo understood your silence to be an internal monologue, a debate in your own mind. He pressed further, illustrating his point.
âLet me ask you, tesoro, does the thought of me make your hairs stand on end?â his fingertips grazed along the length of your collarbone, the grip on your waist squeezing slightly, âDoes it make your stomach fill with the flutter of butterfly wings? Does it make your heart beat like the thrum of a hummingbirdâs wings?â
You couldnât deny it, but those were markers of fear as well as love. It didnât mean they were synonymous. You refused to answer him.
âI can hear it, you knowâŠâ his hand flattened against your collarbone, âThe pounding in your chest, the rushing of your blood through your veins. I hear them, working so hard when you are near me.â
Terzo leaned into your neck, his nose brushing against your jugular so tenderly as he breathed in deeply, enjoying your scent to the point of near intoxication. Little did you know, it was that scent that drew him out of hiding in the first place. He simply couldnât stay away from you, and when he saw where the scent was coming from, saw your sheer beauty, he understood why you smelled as tempting as you did.
âFear smells just like love to me, tesoro. It adds a sweetness to your already saccharine scent. Just like nectar appeals to a honey bee, you appeal to me much the same,â he continued to nuzzle his nose against your skin, his breath fanning over your collarbone. Every so often in his clumsy, inebriated state his lips would gently tickle the skin, sending a rush through you that now you were certain he could smell. âThat nectar can be turned into honey, no? I wonder if I could do the same for youâŠâ
You bit your lip, looking up towards the ceiling in an attempt to avoid his eyes that frankly were too hypnotic for their own good.
âThey are all markers of fear, TerzoâŠâ you whimpered. You felt his breath as he chuckled against your skin.
âThen tell me why I can smell the sweetest honey already pooling between your legs, cara mioâŠâ
Your head snapped down to look at him, and you met his eyes already waiting for you, a smirk on his lips. You wanted to deny it, to slap him, to push him away from you but what was the point? He was right. There was no denying it. He could smell you.
The shame you felt, letting a monster like him have such an effect on you, was astronomical.
âPleaseâŠâ  you pleaded; for what, you werenât sure.
âWhat is it, cara mio? What can I give you?â he asked, straightening up and again cupping your cheek with his gloved hand, still holding your waist, still pressing his hips to yours. His lips were so close, all you could do was stare at them until you snapped yourself out of it, looking him directly in the eyes.
âEverything.â
It took no longer than a heartbeat for Terzo to process your answer, before his lips attached to yours so fast and hard you felt his fangs scrape against your bottom lip. A thrill zapped your core, and your balled up fists against his chest gripped the lapels of his coat to bring him impossibly close. You succumbed so quickly to him, desperate to feel his lips against yours.
While you were sure this feeling was not love, it was certainly not fear either. âInfatuationâ felt closer to the truth, borderline obsession just as Terzo had exhibited towards you. But denying it was futile now, and so instead, you leaned into it. The pair of you desperately held onto each other, kissing as if this was the only way you could get oxygen, and youâd been suffocating without each other.
Terzo started to move, trailing his passion down to your jawline, underneath your ear and down to your neck. Your heartrate quickened again, knowing that his mouth near your neck could go only one of two ways. Both options seemed to excite you in equal measuresâŠ
âW-will it hurtâŠ?â you asked him, as you felt his fangs graze against your skin lightly, like he was holding himself back.
âJust for a secondâŠâ he panted like a dog laying out in the sun. And he wasnât wrong, the pain would be momentary, his fangs emitting a small amount of venom that acts as an anaesthetic. That wasnât the problem, and it wasnât what stopped him in his tracks. âBut I canâtâŠâ
You cupped his cheeks, lifting his head to look him in the eye again. âWhatâs wrong?â
He looked as if he were in pain, his face screwed up in utter agony. He kept shaking his head, like he didnât want to say it, like he was hiding a secret that would break him just to say aloud.
âIf⊠If I do this, I might not be able to stop,â he whined, âand even if I do, how could I ever let you go after tasting you?â
You searched his eyes, saw the pain and the uncertainty in them. He truly didnât want to hurt you, and right now he looked more vulnerable than you would think a creature of the night was capable of being.
âWhen you moved in I couldnât leave you, I couldnât stay away⊠And that was merely your smell, Tesoro. Iâm afraid if I taste you, I could never leave you alone again.â
His admission floored you, and as much as the idea of giving yourself over to him willingly seemed to appeal to you, the rational part of your brain was still working enough to understand that that was a line that should not be crossed just yet.
âItâs okay⊠Itâs okay,â you told him sincerely, comforting his distress before bringing his lips back to yours and resuming your heated exchange. Perhaps someday you would allow him that taste, a way of committing deeper than you could possibly comprehend at this stage. But there was a reason for the phrase âblood pactâ, and it didnât originate with the exchange of open wounds between two mortals.
As enthralled as he was in your lips, feeling your pulse beneath them tempting him, Terzo had to push the thought to the back of his mind. He couldnât lose himself to the temptation so soon. Heâd frighten you away if you saw him so feral, and he couldnât let you disappear like everyone else in his life â not the only woman to ever have smelled so divine to him. Only he knew what that meant, that pull⊠ You were it for him. His obsession was unavoidable, you were his promised love.
It happened instantaneously for his kind, but for you? It would take time for you to see it, to feel what he felt. Human sense of smell was nowhere near as powerful, and so you could never know just by his scent that he was the one for you, the soul on the other end of the red string tied around your wrist.
To rid his mind of the temptation, he focussed on the moment at hand. His intense grip on your waste drifted over your hips and to the backs of your thighs until he was lifting them, using his hips to ground you against the wall so you wouldnât fall. It was as if you were weightless to him, his inhuman strength making such light work of carrying you further down the hall and into your bedroom â his bedroom â until you both fell onto the bed.
No part of you thought for even a millisecond of stopping him, an intense need for him screaming from within you. You pushed his coat from his shoulders, diverting to his shirt buttons as soon as he began pulling at his sleeves to rid himself of the heavy wool. In no time at all, his chest was bare to you, peppered with dark hair that youâd expect from a man of Italian descent. You pulled him closer to you, reattaching your lips desperately.
His gloves disappeared as you kissed him, and you couldnât help but flinch at the touch of his cold skin on yours, his hands sliding up under the hem of your shirt to hold you. He paused for a moment, searching your face for any sign his touch wasnât welcome.
âJust coldâŠâ you assured him, running your fingers through the dark locks of hair that had fallen over his face as he hovered above you.
âI, eh⊠sĂ, mi scusi, I am cold to the touchâŠâ he apologised, a wave of insecurity flashing through his expression.
âI donât mind,â you smiled sweetly, pulling him down with your hand woven into his hair and kissing his insecurity away. He regained his confidence, grip returning to your bare waist under your shirt and tightening with gratitude at your reassurance.
The way he kissed you was like worship, like he valued every second you allowed him to touch you, to be with you â and as he slowly began to undress you, his worship continued. He started with your shirt, pushing it up your abdomen and peppering the skin with more kisses as he exposed it. Over the curve of your breast peaking from above the cup of your bra, you felt the low rumble of a groan against your chest that was suppressed as he buried his face into your flesh. He was so gentle, so calculated in his motions and it was driving you crazy already.
Once your shirt was finally above your head and discarded somewhere to the side, he pulled the straps of your bra down, kissing along your shoulders and down your arms until he reached behind you to unclasp it. Your breasts bounced before him, and he immediately began to leave open mouthed kisses over them, laving his tongue over your nipples as they stood to attention under the chill of his lips. His free hand worked at your other breast, kneading like he was making the finest ricciarelli biscuit dough.
You couldnât help the soft whines and hums that left your body as he worshipped you, hips rolling under him in a desperate attempt to feel something more. You wanted him so badly, already overcome with desire.
His hand came to rest on your hip, squeezing and he continued to suckle at your breast. His fingers dipped easily into the waistband of your paint-smeared sweats â one of several pairs you alternated when working on the house renovations. Before long, he was dragging them down your thighs, his cold knuckles grazing at the skin and sending a pleasurable shiver down your spine.
Terzo was taking his time without wasting any. He knew what he wanted, what you wanted, but he spent just enough time working your body, lavishing it to build anticipation. But before long, his kisses began to travel south, leaving a path of wet little marks down between the valley of your breasts and your navel until he was tracing the hem of your underwear, daring to run his finger along the sensitive skin.
It took a formidable amount of strength and restraint to keep your hips as still as you did, and even then, you were wriggling under his touch. But when he could tell you were growing restless, he wrapped his arm underneath your thigh and lifted it above his shoulder. Naturally, you spread wider for him, giving him complete access to your covered core where he could see so clearly the stain of arousal.
He was so close to you, the scent of your sweet honey so intoxicating. You could never understand how divine that scent was with your own human senses, but to him? It cemented itself in his memory. He knew that after today, he would never forget it. He didnât want to rush, but frankly, it was getting impossible to resist a taste.
He lifted the hem of your panties and pierced the material beneath it with his fangs, easily tearing it away from your body before he pressed his nose to your mound, and took in a deep inhale. He growled between your legs, the vibration and exhale teasing your nerves until you were clenching around nothing.
He could wait no longer, his tongue reaching out to lap between your folds in one slow motion. He savoured the taste on his tongue, making sure to collect as much honey as he could for a truly overwhelming taste. You watched as his hips rocked into the bed below him, his hands tightening on your thighs. His tongue felt cold too, but the pressure was so welcome, a wave of euphoria passing through your core.
Expertly, Terzo used his whole mouth to bring you the pleasure he thought you deserved and yet, not once did you worry about the sharp fangs heâd used to strip you. He had the ability to retract them should he need to, and for this particularly delicate activity, he did just that. But his lips and tongue worked together to have you moaning at every lap, hips rolling underneath him.
Your hands found their way to his hair for purchase, tugging at the roots every time he sent a surge of pleasure through your clit. He loved it, moaning with you as if he too was close to an orgasm. Both of you had lost yourselves to the moment, completely enthralled in lust.
Terzo was becoming more and more desperate to have you finish on his tongue. Each pretty little sound he caused only made him want to hear more, and as you grew closer and closer to orgasm, you sweetened with added hormones that drove him wild. He unwrapped a hand from around your thigh and easily slid two fingers inside, not bothering nor needing to tease with how your body already gave itself over to him. He curled his fingers inside you, a shock of pleasure forcing your back to arch from the mattress as he found the perfect position.
His pace increased with every moan he elicited, the tension in your lower abdomen growing until you were on the verge of snapping.
âT-Terzo⊠Please,â you begged him. He chuckled darkly as he buried his face deeper within you, his nose adding to the equation and making your hips writhe until finally, that tension inside you snapped.
He didnât stop, holding you down with inhuman strength as you erupted in cries of bliss. Your muscles contracted, thighs trapping his head in place and fingers pulling painfully at his hair.
Terzo slurped at your core, not letting a single drop of arousal go to waste. You tasted different as you came, the rush of hormones adding something so damn addictive that it wasnât until you physically tried pushing his head away in oversensitivity that he snapped out of his trance, his head jolting up to look at you with his mouth and skin shimmering. He looked completely feral, his eyes wide, and you watched as his fangs returned with a snarl of a hungry animal locking onto its kill.
Your heart jumped in your chest; out of fear or lust you couldnât be sure. But he heard it, the irregular thump as you lay vulnerable and weak beneath him. It only served to make his erection twitch in his slacks⊠Fear was a powerful feeling, and mixed with lust it was one of the most erotic combinations.
He crawled his way back up your body, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand before diving into a punishing kiss that knocked any remaining wind out of you. You could feel his length pressing into your hip, and while you were certainly already struggling with exertion you wanted nothing more than to know how heâd feel inside you.
So you reached between you both for his belt, fiddling with the buckle as you kissed him. Taking the hint, he kicked his shoes off over the edge of the bed, and when youâd managed to undo his belt and slacks, he helped to kick them with his underwear passed his knees to follow suit. With him bared to you and pressing into your hip once again, you could feel just how endowed he was, and just how ready for you he was.
âYou are so beautiful, cara mioâŠâ he mused between kisses, his cold fingertips trailing down your neck and arm, then back up. âAnd you canât ever understand how exquisite you taste.â
âTo an extent, I canâŠâ you teased with a flirty smile, âI can taste myself on your tongue.â
He stared down at you for a moment, until realisation finally settled and his lips curled into a devilish grin.
âTu sei una tentatrice, amore mio⊠(you are a temptress, my loveâŠ)â he whispered, lowering himself to your lips once again.
As you both lost yourself in another steamy kiss, you couldnât help rolling your hips up to meet his. He hummed into your mouth, understanding that you wanted him completely, and reached between the two of you to grip himself. You spread your legs a little wider to make it easier for him, feeling how he prodded at your entrance once heâd lined himself up.
âAre you sure, amore?â he stopped to ask, and you nodded, biting your lip to contain the smile as you cupped his cheeks. With your permission, he slowly pushed forwards, filling you slowly as he glided through your slick. You fought to keep your eyes open, if only to watch the look of bliss that overcame his face â and boy was it worth it.
He looked so ethereal, like his pale skin had been carved by the finest of Greek sculptors in marble burdened with the curse of perfection. The chill of his skin did nothing to quell the burning heat of yours, finding the perfect balance.
âYouâre so⊠warm,â he moaned, burying his face in the crook of your neck while he enjoyed the feeling for a moment. âSembra fottutamente incredibile. (feels fucking incredible.)â
Given a moment to compose himself, he began to slowly rock his hips back and forth, gritting his teeth from the sensation alone. You would be the first to admit that he, too, felt incredible inside you, reaching places his fingers had only moments ago and sending waves of a dull pleasure through you once again at the embers of your last orgasm were being stoked.
His hand gripped your thigh and lifted it around his waist, obtaining a better angle and something for him to grip onto to stop his mind spiralling into sheer madness. Already, you were so difficult to resist; temptation was calling to him in the form of your steady, yet thundering pulse where his face lay against your neck. But if he lost himself, lost control like he was so terrified to, he was afraid resistance would fail him.
It was like torture. How could he feel so incredible pumping his length inside you while simultaneously experiencing the physical strain of holding his thirst back. You were his, heâd decided that long ago. But to truly make you his, all he would need to do was to give in, to sink his fangs into the skin he was peppering with kisses. He felt like a recovering addict desperately trying to resist as someone waved a hit under his nose. In some ways, that was exactly what he was.
But not yet. It was too soon. He had to resist for now, to let you make up your mind without ancient ritual influences before he allowed himself to truly make you his. He couldnât bind himself to you, only for you to walk away when it all became too much, or hell forbid, you found someone more human to settle down with.
Instead, he focussed on the pleasure filling his cock as he pistoned in and out of you. He focussed on your pretty moans, and the way you clenched around him. He focussed on kisses to your neck instead of bites, groaning against your skin as he indulged in you. But too easily he lost himself, and soon he couldnât help but drag his tongue from the bottom of your neck, to right underneath your ear.
You loved how it felt, completely oblivious to just how close you were to becoming a meal to him. To you it was simply another thing to drive you wild, and when you once again wrapped your fingers in his hair, your other arm pushing down on his back to pull him against you, you had no clue you were making it so much harder for him.
He kept suckling, licking, even nipping so gently at your neck â so fucking close to what he truly wanted as his instincts began to take over. He fought them as hard as he could snarling at himself in warning but still, you were oblivious to his internal fight and mistook his anguish for noises of pleasure.
Truly, he hadnât meant to let it get this far; but when the sharp tip of his fang grazed just a little too close to where your pulse thundered against his tongue, and you writhed under him with a targeted hit to your g-spot, he nicked your skin just enough to draw the tiniest spec of blood⊠He hadnât even noticed, your scent already filling his nose that he didnât sense it intensify just a fraction until it was too late, and heâd laved his tongue over the graze.
It all happened too fast, then.
You were mid-moan when you felt an excruciating pain where his tongue had just been, the noise catching in your throat with a sudden choke. Your fingers naturally tightened in his hair, and your nails dug into the cold flesh of his back as a scream travelled its way through your ribcage and you couldnât help but let it out. Your back arched and your muscles constricted, but Terzoâs hips never stopped and now that heâd got a taste of you â a real taste â he growled a visceral growl that you felt rumble in the pit of your stomach.
If he thought youâd tasted good between your legs, this was the most intensely delicious thing heâd ever had the pleasure of tasting. Such pure, untainted blood coated his tongue, dribbling down your neck as he ravished it. Heâd known this was dangerous, that one bite would bind him to you for eternity after the first whiff of your scent when you moved in. But now that heâd tasted you, he couldnât for the life of him remember why heâd fought so hard to stave off.
âT-Terzo, you-â you tried to stop him, remembering how pained heâd looked when he explained why he really couldnât do this, but it truly was too late. All it took was one drop. He cut you off with a hand clamping over your jaw, his other holding your hip in place with bruising force.
His hips never stopped, every sensation he felt only pushing him to fuck into you harder like a rabid monster. In that moment, that was exactly what he was. In that first split-second, he frightened you. You saw the side of him heâd tried so hard to hide, and coupled with the pain in your neck, your body flooded with adrenaline â which of course, only added to the sublime taste of your blood.
But like he had promised, the venom acted fast. The pain ebbed away into nothing but a sensation of being prodded and sucked at. Still you held onto him tightly, unable to deny that this was possible one of the most intimate feelings youâd ever felt, and the pleasure started to stack up.
Even to a point, where the rush of blood through the two puncture wounds in your neck became a pleasurable experience. Youâd have trouble explaining just how, but it felt unbelievable, like a massage that tickled and sent endorphins flooding your mind. Little did you know, that was also the venom coursing through your body. But it didnât matter, because coupled with Terzoâs cock thrusting against your g-spot it was the most glorious feeling in the entire world.
As you barrelled closer to a second orgasm, Terzo ripped his fangs from your neck and looked down at you beneath him. He had a look in his eye that was so predatory that you knew immediately you belonged to him now, whether you liked it or not. As luck would have it, you did like it; very much. That obsessive look, that ownership turned you on to a point that had you squealing for him beneath his hand.
Quickly, you reached your peak for a second time, holding him so tightly you thought that maybe even you would draw blood with your nails in his back. Just as that second burst of pleasure coursed through you, Terzo reattached himself to your neck, drinking in the newly sweetened blood that a rush of hormones created for him. If you could imagine the most expensive, and decadent wine you had ever tasted, it wouldnât hold a candle to the taste of your blood to him right now.
Suddenly he lurched back again, this time removing his hands from your body and holding himself up, only to dive in and sink his fangs into the swell of your breast as it bounced with the force of each of his trusts. Again, you were met with pain the flooded your body but mixed with the high of your orgasm, you could only scream in pleasure. He drank from you again, kneading at your other breast as he too hurtled towards an orgasm.
The pain subsided quickly thanks to another dose of his venom, but he continued to drink from you, prolonging your euphoria just long enough for him to finally and violently reach his own high.
He erupted inside you, his head throwing back as he growled and lost his rhythm, pounding sloppily into you with each twitch of his cock. In your post-orgasm haze, you witnessed the look of bliss on his face, seeing for the first time the distinct red that coated his lips and dripped from his fangs down to his chin. He looked manic, but holy shit it was intensely erotic.
With the small amount of strength left in you, you sat up just enough to push your lips to his. You donât know why you did it, or even that you had until you could taste the metallic twang of iron on your tongue. Terzo collapsed into you, wrapping his arms around you as he rolled to the side, taking you along with him. With the mess he created of your core, he slipped from inside you, now simply intent on holding you close while he processed that you were kissing him, despite being tainted with your blood. But it grounded him, and slowly, his orgasm subsided and his mind cleared of its fog.
Your kiss came to a natural end, the pair of you exhausted, and without a word you lay yourself on his chest, not bothering to wipe away the smears of blood around your own mouth as you caught your breath.
âIâm so sorryâŠâ he whimpered, pulling you tighter against him and obscuring your view of his face so you wouldnât have to witness the shame that settled there. You didnât have the energy to speak, instead hoping that the circling of your thumb over the cool skin of his chest was enough comfort for now to show him you didnât mind, that youâd wanted that as much as he had.
You let some time pass, calming yourselves down in each otherâs arms. His grip on you lessened as the minutes passed, and eventually, you were able to look up at his face. To your shock and heartbreak, you noticed his cheeks were wet with something other than blood â Terzo was crying.
âHeyâŠâ you soothed, shuffling further up the bed to hover above him. He covered his face with his hand, hiding himself but you pulled it away, cupping his cheek and swiping at the tear tracks. âNo, no no⊠Stop this, itâs okay.â
âMi dispiace tantissimo, (Iâm so sorry,)â he cried, âI hurt you. I did the one thing I should never have doneâŠâ
âShhh,â you hushed him like a newborn who couldnât sleep, âI wanted that, remember? I told you you could.â
âYou donât understand, I⊠I have bound myself to you, and now, when you leave⊠it will devastate me,â he sobbed, staring straight up at the canopy of the large bed, unable to look you in the eye.
âWhat makes you think I will leave?â you asked him gently, still gently swiping his fresh tears away whilst fighting your own.
âAmore mio, I have lost everybody I have ever cared about,â he told you, finally looking you in the eye. âI have either outlived them, or watched as they turned their back on me. And now I have selfishly bound myself to you, knowing that I cannot ever let you go.â
His admission broke your heart. You certainly had no intention of going anywhere, the bond you now shared with him feeling strangely cemented and more intimate than any youâd had with another. But in the end, time would come for you just as it had the rest of his family, lying under the earth of your own back garden.
âHow does someone⊠become like you?â you asked tentatively, absentmindedly, playing with the chest hair the covered his pecks.
Terzoâs brow creased in confusion. âWhy would you ask such a thing? I couldnât condemn you to a life like thisâŠâ After all heâd been through; the killings, loss, isolation, and even the exile heâd faced decades ago when the townspeople discovered what he was⊠He couldnât put you in a position like that. He didnât want you to become part of the dark legend of the Emeritus house, another spooky story passed from generation to generation to tell around campfires for years to come.
âJust tell me, how?â you pressed. He sighed, laying his head back on the pillow and staring back up at the canopy.
âYou would need to drink the blood of my kind,â he stated simply, his nose wrinkling in disgust. âI could not ask that of you. The process is not an easy one, and to become like me is to be condemned to a life of heartache.â
You thought for a moment, acknowledging his concerns but deciding that whilst that had been his experience, it didnât need to be yours. Not with him beside you â neither of you would need to be lonely ever again.
âIâm so sorry youâve felt that heartache, but I believe that the two of us together could avoid that.â
He raised his head to look at you again, examining your face for a moment while he contemplated what some kind of future might look like with you.
âPerhaps not yet, I understand. But Terzo, I will prove that I intend on going nowhere. And when you feel like you might be ready to trust that, Iâll be waiting,â you promised him, cupping his jaw and stroking your thumb gently over his cheek. âUntil then, I can be your very own personal supply, hm?â you smiled, âYou wonât need to take a life, so long as you have me little and often, right?â
âYou⊠would do that? For me?â his eyebrows creased together in question, truly in disbelief you would offer him such a thing.
âMhm,â you nodded, âI mean as long as every time feels as incredible as that,â you giggled. âAnd besides, youâll get a decent meal at least once a month,â you joked, lightening the mood a little with a cheeky smirk.
Terzo rolled his eyes with a laugh that vibrated his chest beneath you. He shook his head at the absurdity of your offer, no matter how technically practical that sort of arrangement would actually be to a man of his kind.
âOh, amore⊠sei davvero una tentatrice (you really are a temptress)âŠâ he grinned, leaning up to capture your lips in a sweet, blood-stained kiss.
A/N: Huge thank you to @her-satanic-wiles for beta reading!
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Of Lemon Tarts and Tiny White Rabbits
Secondo, Earl of Griftwood, cannot believe his eyes when a tiny white rabbit scampers into his study. He is stunned even more when he meets the lovely owner of the pet â and promptly falls in love.
pairing: secondo x female!reader // regency AU
content: 4.6k words, regency AU (not 100% historically accurate but I tried), pov third person, forbidden romance, age gap, first kisses, social hierarchies, mildly suggestive at times, soft!secondo, pining and yearning etc., wingman terzo
This is a birthday present for the lovely @tasty-ribz , also special thanks to @angellayercake for allowing me to bring Snowbell into this story âšđ°
Masterlist â Ao3 link
The curtains sway gently in the soft breeze that carries a fragrant spring air into his study. Secondo lifts his gaze to take in the lovely view through the open double doors which lead to a balcony and the well-kept gardens of Emeritus Manor. Lush rose bushes climb up the stone walls and wrap around the railings, dark green speckled with the pink of countless flowers. Somewhere in the trees the birds break out in song, their melodic chirping a pleasant background noise that accompanies him as he maintains his correspondence.
After this short reprieve for his eyes, he dips the quill back into the black pot of ink on his bureau. A few more letters and he can settle outside in the shade for his afternoon tea, perhaps even indulge and allow himself a lemon tart to go with it. He canât remember hiring a new cook and yet he swears the smell of freshly baked pastries has filled the halls of the estate more frequently as of late, their taste tempting even him who is usually not one for desserts.
A movement in his peripheral vision distracts him momentarily but when he looks up there is nothing unusual to be seen. Secondo watches the curtains, assuring himself that it must have been the wind playing tricks on him. With a frown on his face, he focuses back on his letters. After a moment, however, he glances back up, suddenly sensing a presence in the room. When he still cannot detect anything out of the ordinary, he assumes that it must have been a ghost wandering the old halls of the manor â it would not be the first time.
Over the scratching sounds of his quill he almost misses the tiny squeak that passes his ears only a moment later. A mouse? No ghosts that haunt him after all. He lets his eyes roam the walls that are lined with bookshelves, trying to spot any scurrying movements on the elaborately patterned rug that muffles the sound. At last, he glances down to his feet and surprise takes over his stern features.
A white baby rabbit sits next to his shoe, its tiny pink nostrils moving rapidly as it sniffs the leather with utmost interest. The creature cannot be bigger than his palm. Where could it possibly come from? As far as he is aware, they do not keep any rabbits, let alone breed them.
âSnowbell?â The voice that suddenly sounds from the balcony is soft and melodic, a young woman he cannot quite place. âSnowbell, where did you go?â
Her figure appears in the frame a mere moment later and she flinches back when she spots Secondo at his desk through the open doors. She immediately averts her eyes, her hair falling into her face and covering her features.
âPlease, forgive me for the disturbance, my lord.â
âThere is nothing to forgive,â he replies. âI understand you are looking for this little troublemaker here?âÂ
Secondo leans down to pick up the rabbit. Indeed it fits neatly into his gloved palm and he regrets that he cannot feel the soft fur against his fingers. The bunny breathes rapidly, its small body excited or scared, he cannot quite tell.
âOh, you found her! Thank the lord, I thought she was lost forever.â
âWill you relieve me of her, then? She seems quite restless.â
The young woman who he cannot remember seeing before cautiously enters and with a lowered gaze approaches his desk. Secondo admires her for a moment, her striking complexion and the mesmerising way with which hair shimmers in the golden sunlight. Young and innocent, the daughter of a servant perhaps if the state of her dress is any indication. Yet it does not diminish her beauty nor her youthful radiance; he can tell that she is perhaps five-and-twenty.
She reaches for the bunny and he hands it over the desk, feeling her fingers brushing against his. Again he regrets the barrier between his skin and the world around him but even so he can tell that the heat has risen to her cheeks. She does not seem to be used to the presence of her superiors. Heâs well aware of his reputation as a rather reserved and intimidating employer.
âI am not certain that I know your name,â he says before she can scurry off, skittish like the tiny animal that appears a little taller now in her smaller hands.
She replies with her name and a curtsy, not quite lady-like in practice but Secondo can tell that she must have enjoyed a good upbringing. Perhaps she has experience working for nobility.
âWhere do you belong to, my girl?â
âI am Françoisâs daughter, my lord.â
âAh, sĂŹ, the new gardener?â
âYes, my lord.â
He nods, watching her pet the rabbit with her slender fingers as if to calm herself. âAnd how do you like it here?â
âIt is extraordinarily beautiful, my lord. The estate is magnificent and I quite enjoy the work in the kitchens.â
âThe kitchens? So it is you who prepares these scrumptious lemon tarts?â
She nods, smiling a bit shyly. âIt is a French recipe, my lord. My mother taught me how to make it when I was a wee girl and she worked for the Earl of Carlisle.â
âAre there any lemon tarts today, per chance?â
âI made a fresh batch just this morning, my lord.â
âWonderful. Now, bring your Snowbell to safety before she scuttles away again.â
âThank you most kindly, my lord. I promise to be more careful when I take her outside.â
He watches the young womanâs retreating form, reminding himself not to covet what he should not have. It is quite hard at the sight of such a sublime creature, though he rarely allows himself to indulge in thoughts of his carnal desires. The way she takes care of the animal tells him that she has a kind soul and how he could he ever taint it with his rotten hands?
Secondo stands to take his afternoon tea, looking forward to a generous serving of the fresh lemon tarts. He closes the balcony doors before he departs, his correspondence quite forgotten.
⊠⧠âŠ
He is too absorbed in his brotherâs letter to notice the music at first.
When he finally does Secondo stops in the middle of the hallway. Rarely does he hear such sweet sounds these days, busy with politics and finances as he is. Ever since inheriting his fatherâs title as the Earl of Griftwood he is subjected to ball music, loud opera pieces and the talentless daughters of the other lords of the ton.Â
This subdued private concert is much more to his liking.Â
He folds the letter and pockets it before investigating the source of the music. Primo has written to him from Italy where his clerical duties keep him occupied. Secondo is relieved to learn that his brother is in good health and filling his new role as the leader of their secret church for which he has forsaken his role as the head of their family. A title that has now fallen to Secondo.
Following the trail of the music carries him further down the hall until he stops in front of a double door that stands slightly ajar. The sitting room beyond is abandoned safe for the person who has taken up residence behind the pianoforte and is now delighting the house with their pleasant tunes. Secondo is not one to swoon but when he discovers the gardenerâs daughter, watching as her fingers glide over the keys in an elegant dance, he is quite taken with the sight of her.Â
It is only after quite some time that he spots the rabbit in her lap.
The piece ends all too soon but Secondo cannot bring himself to reveal his position. He watches on as she lifts Snowbell and places her tiny paws on the keys, playing an easy melody as she giggles and compliments her petâs musical talent. He thinks that the snow white rabbit is an emblem of her most becoming properties â her soft and lovely presence, her gentle disposition and ethereal beauty. Two creatures that heaven must have forged together. Not for a moment does he think he could ever be worthy of her, no matter if his nobility raises him above her in this strict society. She transcends the rules of birthright and social rank, rules that he has always rejected, if not openly. Perhaps this is why he feels so drawn to her â she represents all that he has ever longed for, all that they strive to achieve with their church of Lucifer.
âI did not know we had a musician in the house,â he finally comments. âOr need I say two musicians?â
She jumps, again, startled by his domineering presence that takes over the room the moment he steps inside. After a few deep breaths she recovers and offers a polite greeting. Snowbell sits in her hand now, no bigger than a baby chick and just as restless. Her head rises as if to greet him as well, tiny button eyes shimmering not without mischief.
âYour brother told me it was okay for me to practice in here and that it is his instrumentââ
âI am sorry, my dove, I did not mean to accuse you of anything untoward. Of course you may practice your music in here. We have been deprived of such beautiful sounds for way too long with no ladies in the house.â
Her shoulders sink in relief, the tension finally leaving her. âI hear that his lordship is quite a gifted musician himself. As are his brothers.â
âAh, sĂŹ, sĂŹ, if only there was more time for it. I find that without pleasant company I cannot persuade myself to dedicate the time.â He steps further inside the room and takes a seat on one of the velvet settees, moderately close to where sheâs now lowering herself back on her stool. His black breeches strain over his thighs and he adjusts his emerald green waistcoat that has ridden up, rights the knot in his cravat. âYou play well, piccina. How did you come to master the pianoforte?â
âI may not be of noble upbringing, my lord, but my parents used all their means to ensure that I was educated, perhaps more than befits my station.â Her voice is sharp, not unfriendly but defensive nonetheless. âA personâs rank in society does not determine their talent for musical play.â
âI apologise if I offended your sensibilities, my dove. I did not mean to imply that your origin should have anything to do with your capability of learning an instrument.â
âNo apologies are needed, my lord. It is true that such opportunities are not provided to many of my status. I cherish my privileges every day.â
Her eloquence and quick wit impress him, the dignified countenance with which she holds herself even in the face of an older man much above her in station. It would be easy to think that she is a noble lady, if it werenât for her lack of fine clothing and jewellery. He fights off the urge to accoutre her, to dress her in the finest garments he can find in all of London and Paris or Rome. How lovely she would look with her hair done up, her slender neck exposed for his eyes alone.Â
And not just for his eyes.
Before he can inquire any further, Snowbell suddenly leaps from her lap. The rabbit lands on the soft carpet and scampers over towards the settee on her tiny legs.
âOh, not again Snowbell,â the girl laments, but then she notices the rabbitâs direction and smiles softly. âI suppose she has taken a liking to you, my lord.â
âI hope she is not the only one,â he counters, allowing himself this moment of reverie.
Flustered, she averts her gaze, reacting in much the same way that he hoped she would. âWho could not be taken with him when his lordship is so very generous and kind of heart?â
Secondo smiles to himself as he leans down to pick up the cheeky rabbit, removing one of his dark leather gloves to finally feel the softness of her fur. âHow did you come in possession of such an animal?â he finds himself asking. âShe is quite unusual, no?â
âOh, my father was engaged to work for another noble house in the city just before we came here and he found a nest in their garden. Snowbell was the only white rabbit of the litter. While the children of the house were allowed to keep the other rabbits they thought her cursed and wanted to kill her. I begged him to let me save her and bring her here.â
How charitable, he thinks, saving those who are unwanted, those who are abandoned by God, not differentiating between human or beast. How perfectly she would fit into his family whose ideals and values would have them shunned from society if they lived them openly. Perhaps it was not God who sent her but Lucifer himself. For him to love, to cherish, to worship.
He is aware that he is getting ahead of himself.
Snowbell allows him to pet her but he eventually stands to place the rabbit back in her saviourâs hands. This time, her fingers brush against the bare skin of his palm. A shiver runs through him, tingling down his spine before settling warmly in his lower belly.
Her heated cheeks are evidence that she feels the same way.
âDo you enjoy reading, my girl?â he asks, only now noticing the book she must have placed on the instrument. A romance novel, he notes, not without a hint of disappointment. He could not be any more different from the heroes of such tales if he tried.
âI do, my lord.â She cradles Snowbell gently against her bosom, almost protectively, and he has to tear is his eyes away from the soft skin there. âI am an avid reader when I do find the time.â
âPlease, feel free to use my personal library at your convenience. I am sure that you are in want of new reading material. This book appears to be⊠well-loved.â
âAre you quite certain, my lord? I would not want to imposeââ
âOh, nonsense. Many of the books have been collecting dust for way too long.â
Perhaps this suggestion stems from him wanting her to frequent his spaces and not those of his brother, if only to raise his chances of running into her. If Terzo offered her his instrument then he is sure that his eyes are not the only ones that she has caught. Secondo shares many a thing with his brother, but he will not share her.
âThank you, my lord,â she says. âI am not sure what I have done to deserve your generosity but I shall cherish it forever.â
âHm, your services are well-appreciated, my dove. I merely wish to make your life here a little more pleasant.â
She giggles. âHis lordship must really like the lemon tarts.â
Her laughter shakes him to his very core. He is tempted to smile, or to tell her that it is not the tarts that have captivated him, but all this foolish impulse does is distort his stern features into a grimace. Before her eyes can linger on him, he departs with quick steps and a racing heart, making sure to leave the door open.
A few moments later the soft tunes of her music accompany him back to his study.
⊠⧠âŠ
The rustling of the page is a steady noise in the background as he works away at the desk he strategically positioned in his library. The expense reports of the estate are all in order and yet he goes over them once more â if only to stretch out the time in her presence.Â
He looks up to find Snowbell happily munching on a carrot in her little crate on the floor. His true heartâs desire, however, is reading a romance novel that he so graciously stocked the library with. Not that anyone will ever see a report of this particular expense.
âAre the new books to your liking, my dove?â he finds himself asking.
âThey are quite enjoyable, my lord.â She looks up, marking her page before she closes the book. âAnd yet⊠I find that I do not want a love like these books promise. It sounds rather boring to me.â
âHow so?â
âThe true appeal of a person lies in his or her imperfections, my lord. Not even the finest, most handsome young man could tempt me when there is no flaw in his character that captures my interest. If I should ever fall in love it should be with a man much older who has been shaped by the hardships of life, with rough edges but a core that still carries a soft heart that he only shows to those he holds dear. I should like to uncover this heart and have it beat only for me.â
Secondo pauses for a moment. Could it be true? Could a beautiful young woman like her truly fall for an old man such as himself? Accept that their love would be flawed and rejected by society and love him all the more for it? If it is true what she implies then does he dare hopeâ
âYou are quite different from what I expected, my lord,â she says before his thoughts can carry him away. âI have heard many things that I now know to be untrue.â
âAnd how so?â
âEveryone told me that you were quiet and rather cold, polite but not in the habit of keeping anyoneâs company and while generous with your staff they said it is rare to see you outside of your study. And yet⊠I have only ever sensed your warmth, your generosity, and while you are a private man I feel as though I got to know you merely by being in the same room and striking up idle conversation. You have requested my presence almost daily as of late and I must admit that I find great comfort in spending my time with you, so much so that I feel sad when a day goes by and I cannot see you.â
Secondo stands abruptly, overwhelmed by the sudden sparks of emotion that ignite the fire in a heart he has long since thought to be withered. His long legs carry him to where she is sitting on a plush settee, the golden sun from the window illuminating her like an angel incarnate. She is a dream he finds himself caught in, and not of his own volition.
âMy dove,â he says as he kneels down in front of her, grasping her hand tightly in his. âYour companionship is the greatest gift that I have ever received.â
He presses a fervent kiss to her knuckles, quite overcome with his desires. How he longs to pull her into his embrace, to kiss her plump cheeks and soft lips, to keep her trapped against his chest and stroke her hair for hours.
When he meets her eyes, she seems surprised by his sudden outburst, but not at all repelled like he had feared. âMy dear lord, how I wish we could have met under different circumstances.â
Secondo releases a shuddering breath and buries his face in her lap. When she begins to caress his head, running her soft fingers along the sharp lines of his cheekbones, he feels like he wants to weep.
⊠⧠âŠ
The delivery goes smoothly â until his brother appears in the doorway.
âA new instrument?â Terzo asks. âWhatever for? You could have asked to use mine, fratello.â
Secondo grumbles in reply, wishing his brother would finally leave. He is dressed smartly â a dark purple brocade waistcoat with a matching tailcoat, black breeches, a white cravat, high leather boots and a brand new top hat â ready to leave for a picnic or whatever social event he is planning to attend in pursuit of his latest sweetheart. He has always mirrored Secondoâs expensive taste in clothing but decided that his colour was purple instead of green. If it werenât for Secondoâs lack of hair and Terzoâs thick black locks their brotherly relation would be uncanny, if not a little ridiculous.
âDo you not have to make an appearance somewhere else?â Secondo asks when his brother lingers while they set up the pianoforte under his watchful eyes.Â
âOh, I still have enough time to observe my brotherâs folly. Tell me, did she bewitch you so that you are wasting the familyâs funds now? How exactly do you plan on introducing the gardenerâs daughter to polite society, fratello?â
A deep breath. Secondo cannot strangulate him in front of the suppliers. âI do not know what you are talking about. I merely wish to possess an instrument of my own.â
âMhm and the ornate rabbits carved into the wood? Are those to your taste as well?â
âI am very fond of animals. I quite enjoy the design, do you not find it endearing?â
Terzo merely chuckles in reply, the words altogether unfamiliar from his botherâs tongue, and pats his shoulder with a heavy hand. âI will make sure that the pamphlets are filled with someone elseâs transgressions, should you decide that a diversion of the tonâs attention is needed in light of your imminent marriage to a commoner.â
Secondo refuses to argue with him, Terzo is too smart for that. Instead he waits until they are alone again and his brother further inspects the pianoforte. The tunes he lures from the keys are splendid, much richer in sound than any he has heard before. A good investment, Secondo decides.
âWhat a splendid instrument,â his brother says. âI shall hope that your little rabbit plays it for you on many an occasion.â
âI plan to have her play it for me every day for as long as I live.â
Terzo raises a brow. âSo you do intend to propose? My, my! I did not expect you to ever let go of your determination to stay alone for the rest of your days. What has changed?â
âI met the loveliest creature to walk this earthly plane, fratello, I have been touched by her angelic hands and saw the true meaning of paradise. I do not care much what polite society has to say about our union. I am quite ready to be selfish after I sacrificed my freedom for this family.â
âAnd politics, your favourite subject?â
âI do not plan to advertise this marriage, fratello. I shall be ready to face all the consequences, for her love will carry me through the worst of it.â
âOh, how you have changed!â Terzo snickers but not unkindly. âI am very happy for you, brother mind. She will make a lovely wife for an old grump such as yourself.â
âYou are just as old,â Secondo says dismissively. âAnd yet you act like a bachelor in the prime of his youth.â
âAnd I shall continue to do so for as long as I can. If you will excuse me now, I have a rendezvous to attend and I am already late.â
The moment Terzo departs, Secondo allows his own hands to explore the pianoforte. He is quite out of practice but the finely tuned instruments sounds wonderful even under his stiff fingers. An old song finds its way into his head and he allows his memory to do the rest of the work.
When he finally finishes, he is pulled from his trance by the loveliest of voices.
âMy lord, you asked for me,â she says timidly as she approaches him. âI do not wish to interrupt when you play such lovely songs.â
âYou are not interrupting, my dove. Please, come here, sit down in my stead. This is yours now.â
âOh, but my lordââ She trails off, her pupils widening at the sight of the brand new instrument.
He is not certain what he did to upset her. âIf you would rather play a harp or a lyreââ
âNo, no, that is not what I mean, my lord. I just⊠I am not worthy of such an expensive gift.â
âOh, but my dove, you are more than worthy. And it is not entirely selfless. I hope I will be hearing your sweet music more often while I am working in here.â
She smiles affectionately. âI shall play for his lordship whenever he wishes. I shall⊠I shall play until my fingers hurt!â
âI would never allow for this to happen,â he decides, reaching for her hands and massaging them gently in his. âNo pain may befall my dearest for as long as I am here to prevent it.â
She holds his gaze, hope shimmering in her irises. âI shall play with caution then, I would not want my lord to be in distress on my behalf. Would you hold Snowbell for me, please?âÂ
Before she sits, she pulls the rabbit from the pocket of her dress where the she must have napped for she perks up sleepily when she is set down in his broad hands. Secondo does not make a move to stand.
âMy lordââ
He uses his free hand to pull her into his lap and she gasps before her fingers find the keys. He can feel her shivering against his chest, her breathing as rapid as his heartbeat.
âI am not sure that I can play under his lordshipâs scrutiny,â she whispers.
âI am quite certain that you can.â
With another shaky breath she begins to play. Heavenly tunes fill the room, her hands working their magic on the keys of the fine instrument. It is a song he has not heard before, slow and rather quiet but all the more powerful on his emotions. Her confidence soon returns and she plays in the same carefree way that he has grown to enjoy, only this time she is in his space, where she belongs. She is in his arms, breaths the very same air that flows through his lungs, and he can sense that made the right choice.
The moment her hands come to a stop, he places Snowbell back in her palms and turns her sideways over his lap. Flustered by the proximity she glances down to her hands, only to notice that the rabbit has a white ribbon loosely tied around her body.
âI will ask your father for your hand,â Secondo says bluntly and her eyes widen.
âMy lord, that is⊠it is impossible.â
âIt will be possible, if it is your wish as well.â
âBut, I am justââ
He stops her, taking her chin between his fingers to force her eyes to meet his. âMy dove, I need a clear answer.â
âYes.â
Overcome with relief he closes the distance and devours her lips in a passionate kiss. She presses against him with the same fervour, though careful not to squash to rabbit in her hand. Her body feels heated underneath the thin fabric of her cheap dress and he vows to have the modiste come the very next day to take her measurements. His hands roam her curves without shame now while he ravishes her, kissing her with a passion that threatens to make his heart burst, unused as it is to such feral emotion. She tugs at his cravat then, and he relents, allowing them both to break away for air.
Her forehead falls against his, their noses brushing as their heavy breaths mingle in the space in between. Suddenly Snowbell squeals in her palm and when they both look down the rabbit leaps from her hand onto the keyboard. As the off-key notes penetrate the room, they both smile. Perhaps they have to hire a different musician for the wedding after all.
Thank you for reading! Hope you enjoyed â kudos, comments, rbs etc are as always much appreciated âĄ
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