"Violet," his Countess.
"Violet," the tiniest marks trailing her collarbone.
"Violet," the flower that blooms under his touch.
In daylight her eyes watch him with reproachful passion; smoldering hatred, perhaps, as she busies herself with herding empty bottles. She repeats the mantra that she is here under duress, against her will. She has been here for years. And yet, every time he kind-heartedly shows her the door, she snubs her nose at the prospect and turns tail. He's never said it, never even implied it, but her self-righteousness assumes that leaving would result in the death of her siblings. No, nothing was done against her will, no matter how much she has tried to convince her pretty, little head.
It happened one night. A night scented of rubble and money. His pretty, little wife had spied him through the crack in the door, like so many eyes on the wall, as he'd begun undressing another in his bed. At first he'd frozen, staring out over his chosen's shoulder at the eye in the door. Perhaps, too, he had some reproachful passion as he continued to kiss the woman's neck with his eyes on the door. One blink, and she was gone; all his desire gone with her. The woman left in a huff as well. And that was when the trouble began.
"Violet!" Olaf called as he ascended the stairs. The Countess was nowhere to be found, but oh, he knew her better than the siren whisper of a lit match. She was huddled on her old, doll-sized bed. The one she had last used when there were two other bodies. He'd hoped it would toughen her soft orphan hide; it had succeeded yet failed so miserably.
"You kissed her!" Her newly adult face contorted with childish tears.
Olaf's heart stopped, if only for a moment, "And why should that matter to you?"
"…It shouldn't," her gaze shifted to the floor.
He grasped her chin with little resistance, her gaze meeting his, "And yet?"
"I'm… I'm your wife." She struggled to find the righteous reasoning within herself; why she should care about the wicked doings of a wicked man.
"Only on paper."
"I hate you!" She spitefully spat, tears rolling onto his fingers. He moved in to kiss the salt on her cheeks away. "You like that I'm crying, don't you?" She sniffed.
"Not the act of crying, no," Olaf commented cryptically. "Join me for a drink?"
She wiped her face on her sleeve. "And what reason would I have to drink with you?"
"You're recently of age aren't you?" He spoke, "And it might stop that hideous leaking from your eyes."
She threw a pillow at him, resentfully following down the carpeted stairwell.
"Red or white?" He held up two of his best.
"How should I know?" She put her hands on her hips.
"You look like more of a white." He appraised.
"Then, I'll take the red." She deftly uncapped the bottle and prepared two glasses, knowing his preference after so many years.
They settled on two opposite sofas, "To victory," Olaf toasted.
Violet scoffed and gulped the liquid, sputtering bitterly. Once she regained her breath, "It's gone bad!"
"Exactly." Olaf smiled behind his glass, "That's what wine is, good grapes gone bad, referred to as-."
"I know what fermentation is," Violet avowed. "But is it supposed to taste like that?"
"Keep drinking and see." Olaf commented and downed the glass, ready for another.
An hour passed and her steely eyes became soft. "Why do you hate me?" She pouted, "Why have you always hated me?"
"No tears." Olaf titled the second or third bottle in her direction. "This is supposed to stop those."
She looked down at the blood-red liquid in her glass. "Is that why you drink it so much?"
He swallowed and rearranged his jaw. "I drink it because I like it. I burn houses because I like it."
"You kiss other women because you like it?"
He briefly looked at her parted lips, "Yes."
"And would you kiss someone you hate?"
Olaf placed his half-empty glass on the table. "Would you?"
"Kiss me and see." She looked at him defiantly.
He lowered his face slowly towards her, afraid in all her boldness she would go for his jugular. But this was Violet he was dealing with, her virtue wouldn't let her. Her virtue…
She was inexperienced yet hungry. He'd noticed the starvation in her eyes whenever he'd left her alone to sulk. She needed his touch and he'd yet to give it to her. He was all but waiting for her to ask. And after so many years of depriving them both, she would have to beg.
Olaf retracted. "I've kissed you." He breathed, "But, I've yet to feel any hate in it."
She roughly grasped his collar as she straddled his lap on the sofa; his eyes wide at her assertiveness. "Let me put it in there for you," she crushed her mouth against his, teeth nipping at his upper and lower lips and extracting a groan from the man beneath her. He took the opportunity to explore the shock of her opened mouth with his tongue, mingling hers with the taste of Merlot. This, in turn, earned him a moan from her.
She pulled back, face red, "Get off of me," she pushed meekly.
"You seem to be the one straddling me, Countess." He smirked.
"Don't call me that." She made no effort of moving.
"My wife."
Violet blinked before she hid her face behind her hands, "You're infuriating! You're the one who made me your bride and I had no damn choice! I never had I choice! How can I do anything but hate you?"
"Hate, hate, hate!" He rattled off. "Each new day it seems you have something more to hate." He grasped her shoulders, "if this is the hate you've been talking about, then I'm happy to be the most wicked man you've ever known."
"You are the most wicked man I've ever know," a cunning smile popped out from behind her fists. "But as I was saying, you've got everything you ever wanted from me. How could you be so cold, so cruel, how could you ever come to hate me for doing as I was told?"
He didn't hate her. No, not in the least. Sure, he hated her parents once upon a time, but that grudge had been long paid for with blood and money. And, as a double tap, that grudge had been copiously drowned in wine. Still…
"I haven't gotten everything I've wanted from you, orphan." Perchance she preferred that more than 'Countess' or 'wife.'
"What more could you possibly want?"
"You're correct, you know, you're not my wife."
"I'm not?" Her nose shriveled.
"We've never consummated the marriage."
"Oh." Her eyes widened, "Oh!"
"That's why there were other women."
"Oh." Her voice went down an octave.
"You don't like that?" Olaf tilted his head.
"And why should that matter to you?" She wrapped her arms around herself.
"That's exactly what I said to you an hour ago."
They both stared at each other in a mutual unnamed emotion before bursting out in laughter.
"I hate you," she murmured.
"I hate you too," he smiled.
"No, you can't hate me! We're opposites!" She pointed as his chest as if it were a known fact. "If I hate you then you must-"
"Love you?" Olaf's brow furrowed.
Her eyes were watery, he could tell she wanted him to say it again, even if he hadn't meant it. It must have been so long since anyone had told her that they loved her. But for him, it had been even longer. Even if he wanted to, the words couldn't escape his lips so he brought her into a kiss. Not hard or passionate, just enough to feel the petals of her lips. "Violet…"
"I'm your wife." Her eyes were determined.
"My wife?" His brow raised.
"Damn right. I have been for years."
Violet never cursed, he liked the rarity of her dirty words. "And?"
"And I'm going to show you. Follow me." She commanded as she grasped his tie and led him precariously up the steps toward his bedroom.
"Orphan- Violet!" He tripped up the steps, "You need to slow down," he began to sweat. "You've never been drunk before, you don't know what you're doing!"
"I've had two glasses over the span of an hour, husband, perhaps you're the one who doesn't know what you're doing."
Violet was sober when she- Oh sweet mother of fire.
She turned back and smirked at him. "Lay on the bed and let me show you how much I hate you."