Page 25 of Hellebore

And when it was over, our hands crusted in dirt, our eyes emptied of tears, Isabel walked away silently, mouth downcast, returning to her duties as though nothing had happened at all.

Upon the makeshift bench, where Francesca and I would draw sketches of our future, hope and optimism bleeding through the ink, she sat.

Though not alone.

She was aglow with streaks of high moonlight, her lashes pressed shut, the tendons in her throat visible as she clenched her jaw. I had watched from the shadows that evening, as the Rabbit thrust his body against hers, his chest laced in sweat, his palm pressed to her breast, the edge of her tattoo peeking out beneath his skin.

Her mouth twisted into an expression I’d never seen before, her cheeks flaming red as her legs shuddered beneath the man’s convulsing body – yet the image of it drew a rapid flutter in my stomach. Something sinfully familiar, as I watched the pleasure glisten in her eyes.

I inched closer to the broken window, longing to see their union. I knew it was wrong, it was a sin to voyeur others, to allow the sick curiosity to take hold.

And yet I couldn’t stop myself as my feet pressed into the earth, and my fingers gripped the crumbling wood of the window frame. Within moments, it was over, their bodies slumped together, Francesca’s fingers winding through the dark hair tucked beneath the ties of the rabbit

mask, as he drew heady breaths.

He pulled it from his face with glistening fingers, my mask, my persona now sullied as his eyes prowled across Francesca’s bare chest. Cole’s eyes, dark and ravenous as he slipped himself from her, licking his lips.

The age of him had begun to show in his skin – the way his neck wrinkled and eyes creased. His hair showing flecks of shimmering silver in the low light. Much too old for Raven, yet jealousy had begun to fester as I watched the way

his fingers still remained on her bare skin, the way his eyes

watched with such hunger it made my own stomach hurt. Why were his hands so gentle upon her, yet so severe against my own body?

“The winter feast is coming,” Cole said, as though Francesca should understand the weight of its meaning.

“So it is,” she responded as she slipped her top over her head, a sly smirk across her mouth.

“And what are your plans?” he questioned, his finger gently brushing hair from her face. My stomach rolled as I watched, anger and sadness splitting me in half.

“That is none of your concern,” she said with a dry laugh.

“Come now, Raven. I thought you loved me.”

“Firstly, that name is not for your lips. Secondly, love is not something I feel for you. Lust, certainly. Disgust, undoubtedly.

But love has no space between

you and I.”

He blanches momentarily, stepping away, his hand dropping to his side.

“Right. So, what is this?” he asks, lip twisting into a defensive snarl.

“Oh, don’t pretend you’re offended. You knew this for what it was. A frivolous affair of the flesh. A secret. And now it is done.”

“Done?” he questioned, stepping closer to her with sharpened eyes.

“Yes Cole, done. Finished. No more midnight meetings. No more fingers beneath skirts behind the church pews. My flesh is no longer yours,” she says with finality, turning away to leave the hideout.

I ducked as she neared the window, my hair catching on a loose nail, tearing it from my scalp. I breathed through the smarting pain, listening with intent.

“Let go of me!” Francesca said sternly, though her voice wavered in a way I had never bore witness. Frightened.

“You’re mine, Francesca. You shall always be mine. You won’t be rid of me as easily as that.”

“Oh, but I will. Because my body belongs to another now. It wouldn’t be right to offer myself to you any longer.”

Another? If not Cole, then who? Who else is there for her to offer herself to?