It starts off with a knock.
One so soft and seemingly filled with trepidation that, at first, he thinks it might be Lucciola. But he quickly lets those hopes fly by because he knows that's not the case. It never is.
"Dio," she says. "Open the door."
He bristles as her voice reaches his ears. The way she says his name is so soft it makes him cringe. It's amorous yet innocent– and completely deceiving because he knows what lies underneath it.
"Dio," she repeats again, more firmly.
She can open his door, if she really wants to. She is Delphine Eraclea and can do anything. But she prefers to stand outside, waiting for him. She leaves the choice up to him. She likes it when he is the one to open the door. Maybe in her mind she sees it as approval, of her or of them.
Or maybe she just knows that he cannot blame her for what comes afterward once he allows her inside.
Yes. The choice is supposedly his... but truthfully isn't.
They both know that.
So he doesn't get up to open the door. Not yet.
The last few weeks had been a time where his sister's oppression hadn't weighed so heavily upon his shoulders. Now it seems that time has come to an end as he finds himself walking on shaky legs toward the door, each step closer takes him farther away from freedom.
He pushes the button and the door slides open, the last of his free will is shut away with a 'swish' as the door slides back closed.
"It's not polite to keep your sister waiting," she says as she walks inside.
She sits on his bed and pulls both her gloves off, revealing silky fingers. Her hand pats down gently, signaling for him to join her. It's the last thing he wants to do, but he does it anyway, obeying flawlessly and feeling like a prisoner.
Go away. Go away. Go away!
He puts as much distance between their forms as possible when he sits down on the bed. But his sister won't have any of that. She narrows the gap and grabs the hair at the base of his neck, forcing icy blue eyes to meet steel grey ones.
"Show your sister some compassion, or she might just make you regret it." And he knows this to be true. Her threats are veiled but never empty.
"Don't leave her so..." She searches for the right words, probably for one that will cause guilt. "...Unsatisfied."
Her words have always been her greatest weapon and now they are forcing him into submission. Delphine would always have her ways to control him. If not in this way, then in some other.
As she begins to undress him, he finds her hands are surprisingly warm for someone so cold. Her hands are so extremely hot... they burn him.
The thought dies in his head when she descends upon him again, like a crow feasting on carrion. Her scent is everywhere, honey and roses, and he realizes how bad it tastes in his mouth.
She starts to trace her tongue along his jaw and everything is so backward. What should have smelled good smells bad, and what should have felt bad feels good.
So good...
It sickens him, the way his body is responding to her feather light touches. The way her hot hands brush against his shoulders as she leans into his lap. The way her body clenches him as he slips inside.
He hates her for the way she burns him but hates himself more for the burning his own body is creating.
It's a better one. One that doesn't feel so hollow.
He calls himself a traitor but can't deny the ecstasy that singes his insides. He can't stop and finally he cannot control his primitive urges any longer. He lets go and it hits him hard and fast. His blunt nails dig into her skin, holding onto her for dear life. It's over before he can remember the beginning.
She feels it too as she tilts her head back and sighs, a long puff of honey-sweet air escapes past her dark painted lips. "We should play together more often," she whispers into his ear, running her fingers through his damp hair.
His eyes are clenched shut, but he can hear the rustle of fabric and feel the material of his suit as she tosses it over his naked body. He feels her weight lift from the bed and is suddenly disgusted with himself when he misses her familiar warmth. She's gone and out the door before he can count to five.
Now he can only wait until the next time. And there will always be one, it's inevitable.
That's all he's capable of doing: sitting and waiting for the knock at his door.