Chapter 111 Opera
Silence stretched between us, and suddenly, the sound of rain.
We both turned to watch the first couple of raindrops hit the kitchen window like pebbles. Then Mordaine moved away from me, and reached for one of the pans from the ceiling pot rack.
“I would think a woman in your class knows what an opera is,” His voice was calm, but he set the pan down on the counter with a bang.
My shoulders jumped.
Those silver eyes glowed. “Surely, you have been to an opera?”
“I… Yes… I am sorry. No, not sorry.” I took a deep breath for composure. “I have been to operas. Several. My mother actually had me in one.”
He glanced back at the window as the rain intensified, beating harder against the glass, reminding of that night with Finn in the silver cage.
“She claims to not have been in a lot of pain.” I rushed to fill the silence, to drown out my own nasty thoughts, to perhaps pull his attention away from the fact that my cheeks were burning at this point. “And as she had waited two years to see that particular performance, she could not afford to miss it.”
I wanted to shut up, because he probably did not care about the story of my birth. But I couldn't.
“This birth experience turned out to be different from her first because she could not get to the hospital quickly enough when the contractions became impossible to ignore. She had me in the building.”
“Interesting.” He said with that very uninterested voice, and I wanted to chew off my tongue in shame.
He moved and stopped beside me, tugged a drawer open and pulled out glass bowls.
I frowned. Why were his hands shaking?
As he moved away, his arm roughly brushed my nipple, perhaps accidentally, but my head dropped, my fingers gripping the island tightly.
It was a sudden burst of sensations, a swirl of everything, pain and pleasure, tickles and tingles, and when I finally looked up, he was engrossed in his work.
He was chopping a ball of onion with decidedly efficient strokes. But he had not taken off the outer skin.
I bit my lip, hesitant.
“Yes, Lys?”
“The husk is still on. And you did not wash it.”
“I washed them already.” He threw his knife down, seemingly frustrated. His eyes swept up to mine, hard and burning, he opened his mouth to say something and then shut it again.
A hot lump formed in my throat. I did not understand this inconsistency. He had never acted this way, tilting between cool indifference and anger.
“Is that tears?”
“It’s the onions.” I hurriedly wiped my eyes.
Right now, I was not sure which was worse, the endorphins that stemmed from my hyper awareness of being half naked, a poster girl for BDSM.
Or my discomfort at Mordaine’s displeasure. I could not drown out the need to please him, firmly get on his good side.
I searched my brain for what I could have done wrong. Did I talk in my sleep, say something as damning as another man's name in my sleep?
After all, I had woken up to him watching me sleep.
“Chop the vegetables, fairy.”
I looked up to find a small smile on his face. I winced, unconvinced, but set to work. We worked in silence as it rained, the world going darker around us.
It would have been cozy if I was not stewing in sexual arousal. Every chop I made sent a flurry of sensations to my jiggling breasts, the accidental brushes of my inner arms against my nipples worsened the ache in my core till I was biting back moans.
“I do not like operas very much,” Mordaine said suddenly, and I glanced up to find him watching me. “Astre ruined it for me.”
“Astre?”
“Yes, she was an opera singer.” He picked up one tomato, twirling it in his palm, still watching me. And he must have seen my confusion because he said, “Astre was Nymphaea's last reincarnate. And before that was…” A shadow of pain crossed those silver eyes. “Flore.”
“I'm sorry.” I picked up my knife again.
“I did not miss your surprise, pet.” Chop, chop, chop. “What was so surprising, that a woman could ruin something for me?”
My hand shook a little, and I leaned the knife a little on its side. “I just don't know many Astres. I have only seen one other apart from myself.”
Chop, chop, chop.
I smirked. He probably did not hear me, detached again. I missed Hale then, even Finn. They listened raptly to anything I had to say.
“So, Lys is not your real name?”
I froze. He was listening. “It is. Lys Astre Grunder.”
Chop, chop, chop. “Beautiful.” He glanced up, eyes bored. “I bet your grandmother gave you such old names.”
I blushed, casting my gaze down. “Yes.”
"I thought as much. Astre does not sound like what your parents' generation would prefer to name their child.”
Chop, chop, chop. “A little biography on my wife, eh. Hale probably knew all this.” Chop, chop, chop. “What else does he know that I probably don't?”
This rivalry again. Hale did not know my full name. But he probably did not want to hear that, so I said. “My birthplace.”
“Interesting.” Chop, chop, chop. “And where is that?”
“France. The Royal Opera in Versailles."
DAINE
That was the point I nearly cracked. My control threatened to slip, but I held onto it, because the consequences of falling to do so terrified me.
It did not matter that the last time I felt this way was the morning I learned Astre was dead. It did not matter that the same blinding rage, the burning ache to roar and burn the world down, was now bubbling in my chest.
None of this mattered. I had to keep it all together.
Nothing good could come out of expression. Best case scenario, she was not Nymphaea, but this said lover and I distressed her over nothing.
Worse case scenario, she indeed was Nymphaea and I alerted Aionis to her presence and real identity. Gods. No.
I had to keep her from that demon for as long as possible. He had not been bluffing when he said he would know as soon as I found Nymphaea.
The only way I could hide her was to pretend I knew nothing. From now on, I will have to lie to her and everyone.
But my heart was ripping, my head banging in a headache. She had been here, the whole time. Worse, I had been preparing to sacrifice her at the end of twelve months.
I would have made the mistake of offering my wife’s soul to that damned Senate. She glanced up at me now, those innocent doll eyes and long, long lashes.
I kept my face neutral, a little menacing, and she hurriedly looked away.
Gods. It made sense now. That future I saw in her head made sense now. Hale would choose to do the right thing, pay our debt, and I would have to oppose him, go to war with the man I loved with my very soul.
I could hardly breathe, the thought of it made my chest hurt, but I could not even reach up and beat life into it.
She would notice.
I glanced at her and found her squirming, apparently horny. Perfect. I turned all my attention on that, shutting my thoughts down for later.
The thoughts of all the ways I could and would torture those tits kept me sane, helped me finish our little cooking experiment.
It was a test. The food. I had called the Ashbound Chancellor this morning, and realized then that Aionis had not been lying. So I decided on testing her, attempting to cook Flore’s favorite meal to get a reaction out of her.
We stared at the meal now. It was a disaster. Nothing like Flore used to like.
“What do you think, doll?” I turned to my little wife and flicked her nipple.
She jumped back with a gasp. But unlike Nymphaea or Finn or even Hale, she cast her gaze down instead of giving me a searing look.
A perfect little submissive.
If this quiet little woman was indeed Nymphaea, then the world have gone mad.
“It’s edible.” She whispered in her default soft voice, struggling not to show her disgust.
I turned, heading for the door. “I have something more edible. Come.”