Signature Moves
Exquisitely manicured fingernails drummed a contemplative beat upon the worn leather surface of an ancient, painstakingly hand crafted, oak desk. This desk had seen an awful lot of the Mikaelson family history, its owner being so very attached to it that it was moved to every new place he resided; its surface had seen letters, treaties, love notes, orders of execution, all pressed into it with delicate swirls of quill, pencil and pen through paper. It had seen Chinese tea, Colombian coffee, French wine and English mead spilled onto it. This desk had seen a lot and right now it was silently watching its protective owner retracting his considerable protectiveness from where he had cast it.
A crystal cut glass tumbler was placed gently onto the leather surface, the dregs of a painfully expensive liqueur lingering in the bottom.
The fingers continued to drum, each beat of creamy crescent against the burgundy leather tapping another stitch into the fabric of the owner's emotional cape. The human stereotypes often had vampires wearing high-collared, black capes, so why not live up to the expectation and keep a figurative one wrapped tightly around his heart?
Another tap, another stitch.
The latest plan for peace had failed; his gambit to win the girl who had quietly slipped into his unbeating heart had failed; his endless efforts to keep his family together had failed. Lips twitched, baring white teeth for a split second. Failure had a nasty taste. He rose slowly to his feet, moved to refill his glass and wished, not for the first time, that he could let go in the same drunken fashion as his brother and Marcellus.
The refilled glass was quickly emptied.
Turning away from the wine cabinet, he leaned against the sturdy bookcase that lined the entire wall of his study and gazed at his desk. He tried not to think back to the secret fantasies of bending a certain dark haired female over it and having his dark, evil, sinful way with her.
He failed. Naturally.
Arousal stirring unwillingly within him, he twisted his lips and moved his gaze to the window. The moon was full, not that it mattered any more; the crescent wolves were regaining more and more of their humanity every day and their bayou home would soon extend into the city.
He was being overrun.
Drawing himself up, tilting his chin and taking on the haughty facade everyone expected of him, he straightened his pocket handkerchief, snagged a bottle and two glasses from the wine cabinet and headed downstairs.
He needed to have words with his brother.