Damn, is it Monday again already? I don't know about you, but I'm in dire need of some longer weekends! Well, here's another chapter for you to hopefully help get you through the week... and many thanks to Scarlet Empress, She-Devil Red, Arwen17evenstar, cneajna, and RavenHuffle for the reviews over the weekend!
CW: sexual harassment... but is it really harassment if the offended party is secretly kind of into it? (I'm going to hell for that, I know...)
Copyright © 2021 TSM. All rights reserved.
Chapter 17
Old Friends & Familiar Games
The following evening proved significantly cooler as the autumn weather began to transition into what promised to be a hard winter. The heavy clouds forming over Budapest threatened a torrential downpour that the parched city was more than ready to receive, but Dracula only hoped that the rain would hold off until he had reached his destination.
Since his escape from the palace, he had made it a habit of visiting with his old friend, Antón Bernardini, in person at least once a week to touch bases. After all, it had been Bernardini who had set him up in the city, complete with a comfortable living and established alias, and it was in the company of the Signore that Dracula did not have to pretend to be someone else.
With Antón, he was only ever unapologetically himself.
The two had been friends for well over six-hundred years now, the Italian having proven himself time and again as the most trustworthy of confidants in all aspects of the man's life – especially when it came to those more private and vulnerable matters. There was nothing that went on in Dracula's immortal existence that Bernardini did not know about, and that included the details of the prophecy of Antón's late wife, Mariella.
The only secret that Dracula had yet to reveal to his old friend was the identity of this foretold "undying bride" – and that would, of course, change this evening.
The vampire king continued to make his way through the labyrinth-like streets, keeping to the shadows and careful not to attract any unwanted attention by shrouding himself in an unnaturally summoned mist that moved with him. It took some time, but at last he found it – Bernardini's townhouse, located on a quiet street where few ever wandered. The windows of not only his friend's home, but of the surrounding structures were all covered – heavy drapes with iron bars or planks of wood shielding the glass; the front doors similarly gated and locked.
As Dracula made his way up the familiar walk to the front door, he paused for a moment, checking behind him to ensure the coast was clear. He knocked three times, and then once before turning to reveal the pendant of concealment Bernardini had given him in the direction of the small security camera tucked away in the corner above the entrance. There was a buzzing noise and then the click of the deadbolt releasing, and after checking behind him once more to make sure no one of ill-will had followed, Dracula entered without a word.
When he was safe inside, he removed the necklace from his person, sighing in relief when the weight of the enchanted charm no longer rested on his neck. He placed it in his pocket just as a familiar voice called his name from the hall.
"I'm in the study, Vladislaus!"
Though he'd never say as much, it was such a relief to hear his own name spoken aloud instead of the usual Leinhart that he had grown so accustomed to. With a soft smile, he made his way down the hall past the stairs and into a comfortable looking room on the left.
Bernardini's study was probably Dracula's favorite chamber in the entire house. Over three-quarters of the walls were lined in dusty bookshelves that stretched from floor to ceiling – the rest covered in dark hardwood panels that were furnished with a number of old framed photographs and paintings placed in clusters where there was free space. The oak floor was old and in need of a proper shine, but most of it was covered in a number of Persian rugs. There was a desk at the far end of the room, littered with an assortment of papers and several stacks of books, along with an antique gramophone, which was filling the air with a familiar Mozart piano concerto.
And seated in his usual chair by a gas-lit fire was the Signore.
Antón Bernardini, had been the bastard son of an Italian courtesan and a visiting Danish noble whose name had been lost to time. The only thing remotely Italian about him was the darker hue of his hair, his otherwise prominent facial features giving him a look of cold, yet elegant severity. His eyes, vibrant in color and unwavering in focus, were his most distinguishing feature.
The man had a gaze that seemed capable of seeing through a person, as if his eyesight was unrestricted, allowing him a look directly into a person's soul. Elegance clung to him like a second skin, from the tastefully tailored three-piece suit he wore, to his posture and personal hygiene. Not a hair was out of place, nor an inch granted. Antón's late wife had often described him as curiously handsome, and, as Mariella often was, she was correct.
Bernardini raised his gaze away from the book he had been reading, his smile spreading throughout his face.
"Vladislaus! I am pleased to see you."
"And I you, old friend," Dracula replied, making his way across the room so he could take the seat across from the man.
"I trust you're well?"
"As well as can be, given the circumstances," he admitted.
"And how is the young Rémy Chase? And the rest of the alliance?"
"All well. We've finally managed to get Miss Guillermo and the dhampir situated in their new location, though there are still a number of renovations to complete."
"Ah yes! I remember you mentioning how you had been wrangled into manual labor," Bernardini said with a cheeky grin, closing his book and placing it on the small table at his side, giving his sovereign his complete and undivided attention.
"It's proven to be surprisingly cathartic."
"No doubt."
The next hour was spent in the usual formalities, a comfortable conversation about the alliance, the state of the city in general, any reports Bernardini's secret sources had acquired regarding the council and the movements of Augustine.
Though Dracula had never considered himself particularly chatty, it had always been easy to converse with his old friend. Antón was the best listener he had ever known, and while he would tease the Italian on occasion, referring to him as his therapist or psychologist, in truth, there had been many moments in their lengthy relationship where the man had been just that. There was not only a mutual sense of trust and respect between the two, but Dracula had come to depend upon the man's advice in nearly all matters of his unnaturally long life – from romantic entanglements to political intrigue.
Bernardini had always been adept at giving sound advice. He had a talent for knowing what his friend needed to hear and when, and though he was often blunt in his insights and instructions, the Italian always made an effort to be tactful in his delivery.
"So – how far down the rabbit hole have you gone in relation to Augustine's treachery since we last spoke?" the Signore asked after the usual pleasantries of their dialogue had run their course.
"It grows far more deep and disturbing than I think I had ever anticipated," Dracula replied.
"Not to be too on the nose here, but how does that make you feel?"
He paused for a moment, considering.
"Angry, of course. Betrayed. But at the moment I feel more disappointed in myself than anything else."
"Whatever for? You are not responsible for Marcus' actions."
"True, but I am the one responsible for placing him in a position of power, for ignoring my instincts. I've known of his bitterness toward me for centuries, but I had hoped that after everything that had happened, we'd be able to put our past grievances behind us. I never dared to believe he'd go as far as he has."
"You were grieving for the loss of your children… not to mention the humiliation that came with…." and he waved his hand in the direction of the man's lower half.
"Yes… and he exploited my moment of weakness. I should have known better."
"That's easy to say with hindsight," Bernardini replied knowingly. "You forget that you were damn near the point of madness when you lost the Dracul Sânge – and, you'll forgive me for saying so, but you were also unstable, and Marcus took full advantage. He took advantage of us all."
Dracula said nothing as the man spoke his piece.
While he took no pleasure in hearing this account, he could not deny the truth of it. With very little effort, he was able to conjure up memories of those black days – soul rent in twain from the loss of his blood-bound children, only made worse by the humiliation of Lilith's newly conjured curse. He could still hear the whispers of his court, those insidious rumors like nails on a chalkboard as they floated through the halls with their deceitful smiles.
A bloodbath would often follow whenever he lost his temper.
Dracula cringed internally, embarrassed at how violent and uncontrolled he had been in those days. He had rationalized his behavior at the time, insisting that he had to make examples of those that dared to speak ill of their king in the open. He had always been a theatrical executioner.
Perhaps Francesca had been right in her previous accusations toward the nobility and, by extension, toward himself.
The corruption, the depravity – all made worse because their king could scarcely even control his own rages and impulses. No wonder Marcus had been able to so easily manipulate his way into a position of power.
"He may have taken advantage," Vladislaus conceded after a moment or two of silence, "But that does not negate the fact that I chose to trust him, that I believed for even a moment that he had changed, that his desire to prove himself wasn't really what it had always been – a vie for power unchecked." He paused, deliberating with himself. "Every day, Antón, I walk the streets of this city and I see the suffering of my people. I long to help them – to pull them from this state my selfishness and neglect has left them in. We fought so hard to step out of that eternal night, to coexist peacefully with the wolves, the humans – with our own kind. The tension Augustine has managed to conjure in a matter of decades is nothing short of breathtaking… I'd admire his work if it wasn't completely eradicating everything I have dedicated the last century and a half of my existence to building."
"It's always much easier to destroy something than it is to construct it – it speaks volumes to your character, and to Marcus', how you have both chosen to spend your time. You are not the same man you were when I met you all those centuries ago, Vladislaus."
"And according to some, I'm still not the man I ought to be," he added with the faintest hint of vinegar, the shift in his tone catching the Italian's attention.
"I've noticed we've yet to discuss the topic of this Miss Chase you've spoken so much about previously," and the Signore took a sip of his blood-spiked tea, trying to appear as nonchalant as possible. "I take it by the sudden change in your demeanor that the two of you are still at odds with one another."
Dracula smirked a little, emitting a low and hollow chuckle as he continued to stare blankly ahead of him, clearly somewhere else. His elbow was situated on the armrest of his chair, hand holding up his head as he leaned a bit to the side, the side of his finger lightly moving over his lips in a distracted manner, as if he were thinking.
"I can't help but wonder if I will ever truly understand that woman."
"Do you need to understand her?" the Italian followed-up, hoping his gentle hinting would lead the conversation into a direction he clearly wanted to travel, but when the man fell silent again, his eyes narrowed a little impatiently in the direction of his sire. "You've learned something," he cued.
Dracula's face suddenly appeared almost haunted, eyes still fixed on nothing in particular.
"I'm afraid if I utter the words aloud, it'll make it all the more real," he whispered, his voice so low, Bernardini had to strain his ears to hear him.
"Well, it's about time you figured it out."
That caught Dracula's attention.
Vladislaus finally snapped out of whatever stupor he had been in, gaze moving up to meet that of his friend, his expression suddenly marred with suspicion.
"You knew," he accused after a moment and Bernardini's eyes lit up in a look that was pure mischief.
"Knew what?" he asked, taking another sip of his tea, unfazed when the man across from him smacked his armrest.
"You knew who she was this entire time! You knew and you never thought to tell me?"
"I'm sure I have no idea what you're talking about."
"Don't treat me like I'm some sort of fool, Antón! How long have you known who she is?"
"What I'm more interested to know is how you found out," Bernardini replied, deflecting.
"We'll get to that in a minute. But first, I demand to hear the reason why you thought it was acceptable to keep me in the dark."
"What does it matter, now that you know for yourself?"
"It matters because had I known from the beginning…"
"What? You would have gone about things differently?" Bernardini pointed out with a narrowed, accusatory look. Dracula's mouth snapped shut at the irrefutable truth, and he shifted in his seat. "I'm just surprised it took you this long to unearth the truth of who she is."
Vlad glared daggers at his friend but offered no reply, clearly not as amused as the Italian was proving to be.
"So Miss Francesca Chase is your undying bride foretold; the infamous Léonide of Venice."
Still, Dracula said nothing, the disapproval in his countenance intimidating to anyone else, save his friend who merely chuckled in the face of his sire's displeasure.
"I would have thought you more pleased by this news, the way you've been not-so-secretly pining after her for centuries," Bernardini added, continuing in his teasing, but his own amusement did nothing to smooth out the scowl on Vladislaus' face. After several moments of tense silence, the man finally conceded. "Very well – I apologize for keeping her identity from you. Had I known you would have behaved like an absolute boor upon your first meeting, I would have offered you warning first."
His sire scoffed, grumbling something under his breath in his native tongue.
"Will you tell me how you happened upon the truth?" he asked, the question delivered in a much more gentile and penitent tone.
At last Vlad replied, albeit rather mockingly.
"Intuition."
"Intuition? Not exactly a man's province, last I checked. You mean to say that you still don't know for sure?"
It was Dracula's turn to chuckle that time, though his amusement proved far more acerbic than the Italian had anticipated.
"Trust me – I just know."
"And?"
"And what? There is no and. There's physical attraction there, certainly, but outside of that, I can't even be certain she likes me…"
"You mean you as Leinhart or as Dracula?"
"More so the latter than the former – not that it matters either way, because she insists on keeping me at arm's length."
"Maybe if you stopped teasing and challenging her at every turn, she'd open up to you."
"I wish I could believe that," Dracula said with a resigned sigh as he covered her face for a moment. "You've never met her, Antón. I will gladly admit the woman has her qualities, but she's so proud and bloody suspicious."
"Sounds familiar."
Vladislaus sent the man a scathing look in reply.
"A lack of trust is often a sign of fear," Antón explained. "And the distance that accompanies it evidence of unhealed wounds. Sounds to me that the woman has been hurt one too many times – something I would think you of all people could relate to."
"It's hard to relate to much of anything when she surrounds herself by such impenetrable walls."
Bernardini actually rolled his eyes that time.
"Are you actually pretending to be put off by that?" he asked, sounding offended. "I would have thought you relieved to find that your intended is her own woman. You've never cared for the shrinking violets, Vladislaus, those delicate, pliable things that were always at the ready, eager to obey your every command, to be whatever you wanted them to be. If she was an easy conquest, you'd be bored to tears!"
Dracula shifted a little in his plush chair, a half smile tugging at the corner of his lips.
"She's clever," he admitted. "Strong willed, sharp as a razor… positively vicious in her verbal repartee."
"And I'm sure her ignorance regarding your identity has left her with no qualms at besting you at your own game."
Dracula's eyes brightened.
"She's merciless." A delighted accusation. "There's a passion in her that she keeps tightly leashed. I've seen flashes of it when we argue or debate, but I'm still struggling to get my foot in the door. Every time I make an attempt, she's holding me at a distance again."
"Any reason for that?"
"I think she enjoys being the one in control."
"Or perhaps the dominance is what makes her feel safe," the Italian pointed out knowingly. Vlad could certainly empathize with the suggestion, and it made him pensive all of a sudden. "So what happens now?"
"I'm not sure," Dracula admitted.
"What are your instincts telling you?"
Another spell of pregnant silence.
Perhaps not the correct question to ask at this stage. Bernardini changed his tactic.
"Seems Miss Chase isn't the only one keeping herself on a leash. Why are you holding yourself back, old friend?"
Vlad grimaced and the Signore's amused grin faded as he realized –
"You're afraid that you might actually fall in love with her."
He was met with silence and a darkened expression – not one of anger, but of unease, a flash of that rare vulnerability.
"Vladislaus, you have never allowed fear to rule your life before. Don't start now."
Frankie absently drummed her fingernails across the counter in the kitchen as she tuned out the sound of Vesper's reading, much too occupied with staring at the front door of the bar through the small opening between the main room and the kitchen. Of course, she hadn't been this distracted the entire evening. When she had originally arrived, she was quick to learn the news of Leinhart's absence and at first she was pleased. Then that pleasure turned to indifference as she had made her way to the kitchen where Vesper was awaiting her lessons – a bit eagerly, too, which was abnormal for the teenager, but she didn't question it.
As the evening wore on, however, Frankie found herself noticing the difference that ensued with Leinhart's lack of attendance. It was so strange not being able to sense him somewhere in the building, the lack of his familiar footfall whenever he would pass by or the oddly soothing baritone of his voice when he spoke. Now that several hours had passed, she was finding the evident disparity his absence created rather agitating.
The tedious pounding of the construction upstairs, Vesper's monotone reading voice, the rain outside beating mercilessly against the roof – another moment of this and she swore to herself that she'd go mad.
She couldn't believe she was admitting this to herself but she actually missed Leinhart.
Perhaps not the man himself entirely, but she missed having him around, his strong and soothing presence. She missed glaring at him when his back was turned, missed plotting her next attack secretly to herself while he was in the other room; she missed hearing him speak – how his words seemed to glide into her ears like silk… slick, sensual, stroking her from the inside out.
And when her thoughts made that noted turn, she'd immediately recall that time on the bridge when he had been the closest he had ever been to her person, his breath lightly fanning her face, his gaze brazenly washing over her like liquid fire. Only in these imaginings, instead of him distancing himself from her like he had, he'd move in closer. Then those large, skillful hands of his – the ones that had put in those hardwood floors and had built and carved and polished furniture – they would rest on her shoulders before moving slowly down...
Frankie allowed herself a moment of indulgence as she briefly shut her eyes, imagining what it would be like to have his hands on her skin. He had threatened to spank her. The mere suggestion of it made her shiver a little, the involuntary reaction causing her eyes to snap open in alert, making sure no one had witnessed her moment of weakness. The instant she knew she was safe, she then continued to stare almost longingly at the front door, hating herself for wanting that man, but absolutely incapable of doing otherwise.
"Frankie, are you even listening to me?" came Vesper's voice, unwillingly dragging the woman back into the present.
"Of course I'm listening," she replied, begrudgingly discarding her illicit fantasies to the wayside, returning her focus to the girl next to her. "Have you finished the chapter yet?"
"I finished it like, five minutes ago. I was just telling you that I wanted to go see if Rémy and Carmen finished my new room."
"Oh. Yes, I suppose that's fine. You're done for the day."
Normally, Vesper would have been ecstatic, but instead, she carefully slipped off the stool and glanced over at Frankie with a puzzled expression.
"Are you okay?"
The woman brushed off her question with a wave of her hand, managing a soft smile.
"Of course I am. I just have a lot on my mind."
"Is it about Leinhart?"
Her eyes widened considerably and she quickly became defensive.
"Excuse me?" she exclaimed, her voice a little louder than she had intended. "Of course not! Why on earth would you even suggest such a thing?! That is absolute nonsense, Vesper, honestly…"
"It was just a question. Sheesh," Vesper insisted, a bit taken aback by the sudden outburst. "Besides, I was only curious because you've been staring at the front door all night."
Damn it! She had noticed!
Frankie frantically attempted to come up with some excuse for her lack of attention. After quickly composing herself, she lied,
"I was just thinking about my next interview."
"Oh, you mean those secret ones that you're still doing?"
"Yes, dear. The ones you're not supposed to know about."
"I know none of the particulars. Just that the job exists. How many do you have left?"
"Three. And I still haven't heard back from my informant as to when my next one is."
"Oh. I guess that makes sense. These are really important, aren't they?"
"Yes, they are."
There was a moment of silence until Vesper grew tired of the awkward tension.
"So… can I go see my room now?"
"Of course you can, love."
Vesper didn't need to be told again. She quickly ran out of the kitchen and Frankie was ready to peruse the chapter she had just completely ignored when she heard the front door open. That familiar presence she had been missing all evening suddenly washed over the entire building like a flood. Without even meaning to, Frankie actually sighed in relief when she felt him cross the threshold.
"Vlad! Glad you could make it!" bellowed Rémy from the other room. The woman turned to peer out into the main part of the front room, eyes already in search of the man, as if she couldn't help herself. "I trust that friend you were visiting is well?"
"Very much so. And I do apologize again for missing out on this evening's festivities. I am more than ready to make it up to you, if you have any work for me to do before the night is over."
His offer was met with numerous exclamations of gratitude and pleasure, but for Frankie, she couldn't help but be a little suspicious of him – even if she was secretly gratified that he had returned while there was still an evening left to be had.
But who was this supposed friend and what was their meeting about?
Was it actually a member of the council?
Was it some other enemy of Rémy's?
Was Leinhart a double agent?
Had he been with another woman?
She watched as the two conversed and in that moment, as she studied the man with a purposefully vacant expression, Francesca found herself wishing that she too could be so at ease with Leinhart as her brother and everyone else seemed to be.
But before she could get too carried away with the sentiment, she suddenly realized that Leinhart had turned his head and was now observing her intently from a distance, his expression void of any discernible emotion. He inclined his head once in acknowledgement toward her and she almost refused to follow suit, but deciding to at least meet his offered civility, she did the same before carefully turning her head away from him, gluing her eyes to the book in front of her. The woman looked at nothing in particular, not that it mattered – so long as she kept from staring at him.
"Can I see my room now? Please?!" Vesper whined impatiently as she tugged on Rémy's arm.
Rémy gave the ok and raced her down the hall past the kitchen and up the stairs toward the newly furnished bedroom. Everyone followed after them, but Frankie stayed put, seemingly unmoved by their passing. She could hear Vesper squealing in delight from here, however, and she smirked faintly at the sound. That girl deserved all the happiness in the world.
Idly, Frankie turned a page in the textbook she was glancing through.
"Why aren't you up there with them?" came Leinhart's question from behind. She turned around to find him leaning against the frame of the open door, his arms folded in front of that broad chest of his, eyes watching her carefully.
Vesper was still squealing upstairs, jumping up and down from what they could hear and Frankie dared to smile more fully.
"I am in no rush and she has a large enough audience," she replied, returning her attention to the book in front of her, trying to hide the faint flush she was certain was in her cheeks. That man had no business looking as effortlessly attractive as he did.
"How did her lessons go today?" came his next question as he moved into the room.
She could feel each of his steps from behind her, the increasing proximity making her anxious, maybe even a little excited.
"Quite well," she answered casually, turning another page. "She soaks in anything I give her like a sponge – unless it has something to do with a foreign language," and she chuckled slightly, completely aware that he was now standing directly behind her. "I swear, that girl's aversion to French is outrageous. I'm starting to wonder if her resistance is what's causing the difficulty."
She turned another page and froze suddenly, recognizing the full-page print of a classic, erotic sculpture – Auguste Rodin's The Kiss. Frankie could feel her cheeks grow hot and she quickly moved to turn the page when she felt Vlad lean over her, his hands resting on either side of the counter, strategically blocking any possible escape route.
"No wait… don't turn it just yet," he insisted softly, his lips inches from her ear.
He moved in closer, his cheek brushing just barely against her own as he studied the picture. Frankie was mortified, paralyzed in her seat as his body practically enveloped her. She was trapped between him and the picture of that suggestive sculpture, and his hands were within eyeshot, on either side of the book.
Sweet devil in hell, he smelled positively sinful – clean and masculine, with sensuous, spicy musk undertones that turned her insides to liquid.
A certain four-letter word skidded across her brain in a silent groan of protest.
"I've always liked this piece," he confessed in low tones. "The sleek suppleness of the sculpture, the way the pair are practically fused together in passion. Have you ever seen the original?"
And God damn it if his voice didn't tie her nerves up into knots.
All she could do was shake her head once, not trusting herself enough to speak.
"The attention to detail in particular has always impressed me," he continued, fully conscious of how she was watching with unintended fascination as he took his finger and began to point out various things in the picture. "Rodin's emphasis of muscle structure, for instance. The shape, contours – are all in scale to an actual man. Do you see the strength in his arms as he rests his hand on the woman's naked hip?"
Frankie had to suppress the desire to shiver at the words naked and hip, miraculously managing to remain at least outwardly composed.
"And then there is his lover," he added, his voice a bit more hushed. She immediately noted the lower register of his voice and it was difficult not to lean back into his chest to soak in the vibrations of his words as he continued to whisper. "You'll notice the sensuous ripples, curves, and creases of the woman's back." His finger ran along the side of the woman in the picture and Frankie felt herself tremble slightly as if he had touched her instead. "The arc of her spine," he went on, running his finger along the spine, stopping right at the lower back, "the fullness of her breasts. A staggering creature." She could feel his eyes on her without even looking over at him. His gaze burned her skin like fire, like the heat of the sun at noonday. "So soft, so pliable; exactly as God had intended."
Like you.
It wasn't spoken, but she could feel the words radiating off of him, hanging silently in the air.
An invitation.
"And would you look at that..." he hummed darkly into her ear, and she watched as he dragged his finger over to a small block of text beneath the printed sculpture. It described the original inspiration for Rodin's infamous masterpiece – the affair of Paolo and Francesca, from Dante's Inferno. "I thought I noticed a resemblance."
That voice – his words, the layers of implicit suggestion – it was like damnation and salvation simultaneously, and Frankie wanted nothing more than to drown in it, in him, in the fire he was stoking between them. But instead of succumbing to her base desires, she returned to herself with a sudden and violent force, quickly snapping the book shut, almost catching his finger. He recoiled immediately, pulling his hand back and ultimately giving her the perfect opportunity to slip off the stool and out of his "unintended" hold.
"That is quite enough, thank you," she stated, clearly flustered.
That smirk of his, which had always gotten so easily under her skin, was now plastered to his face.
"I apologize if I have offended you. Believe me, it was inadvertent."
"I'm sure it was," she said, though it was clear she didn't mean it. "And if you would be so kind, I'd appreciate it if you would make a point to not invade my personal space again."
"Ah, so it wasn't the portrait that offended you?"
"Oh don't be ridiculous-" but he cut her off before she could finish.
"Then I will be sure the next time I discuss anything of a sensuous nature to do so at a distance."
The expression on her face was beautiful – a mélange of panic, offense, and astonishment.
"That is not what I meant …"
"Oh, so you'd rather have me discuss such things with you when we're close," he teased, moving toward her and delighting in how she seemed to shrink in his shadow, the way her body involuntarily swayed toward him, even as she attempted to retreat. "Perhaps I should whisper them into your ear."
The horror and desire now battling within her for dominance had her choking.
"MISTER Leinhart, that is enough!"
"Frankie? What is going on?" she could hear Rémy call from upstairs.
Rattled, but unwilling to grant him more ground than he had already claimed, her gaze narrowed in his direction as she quickly clung to that twinge of righteous indignation, feeding it with the adrenaline making its way through her body.
"What has gotten into you?" she suddenly asked him, lowering her voice as to not be overheard.
"Nothing at all. I didn't know that art offended you," he teased.
"Oh, for heaven's sake," and she slammed the book down onto the counter, her embarrassment giving way to frustration, "I think I'm a little more open minded than to have erotic art offend me," she declared.
"Then what have I done to deserve your censure?" he asked silkily, aware that the others would soon be within earshot, if they weren't already.
Frankie was about to inform him of his previous actions when she noticed her brother in the hall, along with the knowing look on Leinhart's face. His smug arrogance only fueled her mortification at making a mountain out of a molehill, for giving him power over her with her incendiary reaction, but she was too far-gone to reclaim control. Without even intending to, she yielded to her emotions.
"Don't insult me by pretending to be guiltless. You knew exactly what you were doing!" she snapped.
"I confess, I did not," Vlad countered calmly.
"Oh please!"
"Madam, I've already apologized for offending you, though you have yet to tell me what it is I have done."
"Stop it," she seethed, pointing an accusing finger at him and taking a few bold steps in his direction, rising onto her toes so she could be more level with his face. Why did he have to be so damn tall? "Stop it, right now. You are not going to turn this against me! You are not going to make me look like the fool!"
I believe I already have, his expression seemed to say.
His condescending smile only rubbed his victory into her face, and now he was eagerly anticipating her next move. Frankie couldn't believe what had just happened. Not only had he been successful in arousing her – and with barely any effort – he had only added to her humiliation by somehow manipulating her into embarrassing herself in front of the others now standing out in the hall, watching with looks of utter confusion.
A part of her wanted to scream, maybe even to strike him, but what she wanted even more had to do with that delightful little colloquialism Carmen had used several days earlier.
Hate-fuck.
Yes please, her inner-demon seemed to purr, loving the suggestion, and for just a moment, Francesca found herself wondering what it would be like to dig her claws and teeth into him, to draw blood even as he pounded his hips against hers. It sent a dangerous shiver down her spine, but Frankie had given the man enough control for one evening. So she quickly collected herself, tightening the leash on her lust while accepting her defeat with what little dignity she could conjure.
She may have lost this battle, but she refused to lose the war.
"Very well," Frankie relented at last, her tone perfectly even. She then repeated the phrase once more, mostly to herself as she collected what things were hers, clearly preparing to leave.
"Frankie, where are you going?" Rémy asked, speaking for everyone.
"Home," she answered simply. "I apologize for the misunderstanding, Mr. Leinhart. Although, in answer to your unasked question, no. This is not over."
Vlad's smile was Machiavellian at best, but he gave her a barely discernible nod in acknowledgement.
"What's not over? Frankie, what is going on?" Rémy demanded, following after her as she exited the kitchen.
"Nothing of importance. Your best friend has only declared war on me, and I am going to need what strength I have to remain civil around him tomorrow."
This new bit of information evidently stunned Rémy, but Dracula's eyes in particular had never been so wide.
Frankie had revealed what was intended to remain between just the two of them. This undeclared war wasn't supposed to be known by everyone! It was supposed to be private! Now whenever Vlad acted in the future, everyone would know what was going on. It was an extremely underhanded move on her part – he had clearly underestimated her.
A pity she had missed his reaction.
Frankie excused herself, and after her departure, all in the present company turned to look back at Vlad, eager for an explanation.
"Is this true?" came Rémy's question, clearly unwilling to believe what he had heard.
"Honestly, I have no idea where she got such a notion," he lied carefully, the disinterestedness in his countenance very deceptive. "The words never left my lips."
"What happened exactly?" came Danny's query, his eyes narrowed somewhat, not as willing as Rémy to believe that Frankie would fabricate such an accusation without a legitimate reason.
"I noticed her sitting alone and decided to be social. She was studying one of Vesper's art-history books and I commented on a picture of a sculpture, and the next thing I know, she's shouting at me."
"You must have said something," Danny insisted, taking Frankie's side, but Rémy proved a little less willing to grant his sister the benefit of the doubt.
"It doesn't matter," he replied resolutely. "Vlad, I apologize for my sister's behavior. She's under a great deal of stress right now and she probably misinterpreted something you said."
"She had mentioned how stressed she was about those secret interviews," Vesper chimed in.
"What secret interviews?" Dracula inquired, but before the child could give him an answer, Carmen had hushed her, ushering the girl out of the room.