Killed By A Beauty

For so she was, even above him, in that position of his countless dreams: long blonde strands loose over pearly skin, loosely corseted, straddling him tightly between flawless thighs. Mercutio's Queen Mab again, that procuress of dreams and fantasies, her magic realized this once. But dreams had a way of turning into nightmares in the full garish light of reality.

"Don't move or I swear I'll kill you."

Enemies to enemies, he thought, wincing at the cool knick of the blade against his throat. Was this to be their fate? But then, he wasn't surprised. From the moment he had met her he had known, even as he had suppressed the truth deep within him, even as her beauty stunned and overwhelmed him—he had known she'd be the death of him.

"I mean it," she said, though her voice shook, "I will kill you."

Oh, love, he thought, heart at his throat, jumping inches before her blade, you already have.

First Impressions

A whirlwind of red and blonde between the guards. A gale of watery rose throwing her thorns, wildly and remorselessly. A tempest in pink.

"We caught her in the north gardens." Mercutio, his typical offhand casual tone belying his tense gait. "Unarmed and alone, and yes, we checked. Couldn't believe my eyes when I saw her, it's been years. The others were beginning to fool around a bit with her, idiots."

"Fooling?" The heir of Capulet! Were they mad?

"Don't worry, Benvolio put an end to that, you know how he is. Don't be too harsh on Val, though. Poor girl is pure jail bait."

Mercutio, ever clever and ever crude. And ever right. Now as a sea of crowing blue parted at his command, offering her up to view, she whirled on him, and beauty like like lightning struck him, lightening the pale twilight into a second day.

"You're Juliette Capulet?" In his absolute shock he flattened the question.

She gaped at him, almost uncomprehendingly. Then with a little shake of her fair head, faintly: "Yes."

What he would have given for another answer, a different answer. Beneath the coil of his whiplash, his father's voice came to him, a dark sing-song:

Beware the traitorous fair.

Bit late for that tosh. Mercutio's voice, insouciant as ever.

Pull yourself together. Benvolio's, firm and steady.

"Juliette Capulet," he said, though without any affect, unsteadily, "you have trespassed on our ground and so forfeited your liberty. I must ask you to come with us. I recommend you not resist."

Fear

Definitely a reaction he wasn't used to, especially from women. Quite the opposite: He tended to arouse strong passions in them—gushing in the maids, lust in the mature, disgust and aversion in the wise and/or embittered. Most of the time, though, it was the kind of passion that led him very pleasantly occupied in their beds. But this was not just any ordinary meeting of boy and girl in obscure corners, or at a glittering ballroom on a midsummer night. This was a meeting of enemies in a dank antechamber, and by God, he had to keep that in mind.

"My cousin will make you rue." But her voice trembled. Between the guards she looked so small, so delicate. "He will amass a force, is as we speak."

"Not if he wants you safe, he won't."

She exhaled sharply, blanching. "You dare—"

"What is necessary to dare." When she looked both cowed and mutinous (how did she pull that off?), he stifled a sigh. "Rest assured, my lady, you'll be given all due deference as befits your station. You need not fear us while you're under our protection."

He had turned before her voice, stronger now, stopped him. "For how long? Tell me that, at least."

He made mistake of turning, and catching her eye. Like magic, the magnetic pull acted; he even stepped forward unawares. But then a guard entered with a dutiful, "My lord, the Capulets have retreated," and Juliette's head jerked toward the door. It was enough. Reluctantly, he stepped back.

"For as long as necessary, my lady," he said.

Five Years

It had been five years since his father's death by Tommaso Capulet, five years since his mother's decline and death and his ascendance to the title, and five years since the family cold war warmed his life into a living hell.

"Ransom her and get it over with." Mercutio had crossed his legs on his desk, hands behind the back of his head, as easy as his posture. "Besides, she's a liability as a possible spy. You know the Capels aren't beyond that."

"It isn't right to involve non-combatants in this," said Benvolio, uncomfortably, rubbing the back of his neck. "Especially women."

"Oh, the women are as involved as we are, you know that. Spies, insurgents. It just isn't safe."

"You can't be thinking of keeping her. What if something happens to her—any little thing, an injury, a cold, and under our care? It'd be grounds for war."

"Not even the Prince of Cats himself would go to war over a damn cold. Hell, I'd like to see him try. It'd be hilarious, actually."

"Yeah, if you call a week of red barricade at the plaza hilarious. You know Tybalt is capable of such a thing."

His friends, he thought as they argued, ever constant and ever trying. Benvolio always stood by him, and Mercutio too, but now they were bound by more than just youthful interests. Lieutenant and right-hand, always. But they did not quite understand. Benvolio grew up as a ward of their estate and Mercutio was the Prince's nephew, both free from expectation beyond the usual imperatives of their class. Free to take the feud as seriously as they wished, and even that changed by the day.

Not him. Not anymore.

"She's seen too much," he said at last, and they both turned, Mercutio pleasantly surprised and Benvolio unpleasantly so. "That makes her a liability. But so long as have her, Tybalt won't dare go against us. So it evens out in the end."

Those carefree days were over now.

Cold

It was a hard thing to learn. He didn't think he was capable of it. There were just some things a noble youth did not learn or was raised up for, and having a noble heir only a few years younger than you as your de facto prisoner is one of them.

"You're only doing what your father would have done." His friend, of course, had her own point of view, wrapped herself over him, stroking his chest and his ego soothingly. "Capulet gave you great insult, called you martinet and boy. His very heir was caught trespassing on your territory." She sank her nails into his shoulder slightly, a discomfort she knew raised him. "If anything, you've always been too soft-hearted at turns. I think you've dealt with her with greater mercy, better than she probably deserves."

Rose, he thought as her hands dipped, fondling him, supportive as always. But for once, support and cool rationale wasn't what he wanted. He wanted argument. He wanted the flashing eyes of scorn, the passion of give and take, hurling accusation and stony silences. He wanted rage and rashness. He wanted a tempest in pink.

"A week," he said finally. "If Capulet calls off his forces."

It would prove the longest in his life.

Makeup

Invariably he preferred it. Let's be real here: Women looked so much better painted. Rose was particularly skilled at it—thick eyelashes, wisteria eyeshadow, and rose lips that beckoned like a tangible work of art. It was enough that he would retort to Benvolio and Mercutio's jests about dumping girls in water with his own point: No man in his right man would accept a girl without it. But that was before he saw Juliette Capulet sitting at the old desk, cross-legged in nothing but in an off-shoulder rose shift, looking dour.

"You could at least give me some parchment and ink."

"So you can send an S.O.S to Papa? Be reasonable."

"Then some paint. I know you have some, I found some old blush. I can't send notes in rouge, can't I? I don't know, I want employment."

Rouge! With that skin? Madness even to ask for it and even greater madness that he should care. "Why did you trespass, Juliette? You shouldn't have been here in the first place."

She stilled, suspicious. "Why do you want to know?"

As if he himself knew. "It doesn't matter. Answer me that, in full honesty, and you can earn your creature comforts."

He needed, he knew, to call on her to look at him, to gauge her reaction, see her face betray her guilt or her secret. That would be the smart thing to do. But he continued to look away, at the corner of the room, cursing his cowardice.

"I am comfortable in my lodgings," she muttered finally, and he turned around only to see her obstinate back to him, like the turning of a petal of delicate rose.

"What do you think?" Rose in blue-green silks and and forest green eyeshadow lounged, looking at him through the vanity mirror. "Is it a bit much? Tell me honestly."

"It's fine," he said vaguely as the image of Juliette's bare, pearly skin rose, overwhelmed.

Beautiful

That he hadn't expected this was the understatement of a lifetime.

"How do you find her, by the way?" Rose, trailing a finger along the library bookends, with forced casualness. "The Capulet?"

"Like fine silk." And waited until Rose's disinterested mask froze before adding, "costly, breakable, and ruinous."

The truth, he thought with grim satisfaction as Rose gave a snort. It always proved the very best of lies.

Perhaps it was her age. Seventeen on eighteen, that in-between look of girlish softness and lean, mature sovereignty. Maidenly vulnerability and steely command. Timid maidenhood and careless sensuality. Docile and obstinate at turns.

It was this obstinacy, of course, that had him put her in his mother's old chamber, albeit much stripped down. He had taken refuge in the old adage, at least confronted with his incredulous friends: Keep your friends close, but your enemies closer. Besides, the last thing he wanted was a full-on bloodbath. Reports on Tybalt's war lust already came thick and copious.

"The Cat is obsessed with her, you know." Mercutio, eyeing him as if he wasn't sure he was operating on all decks, so to speak. "Even the Capels are nigh frightened of him. A lot of baggage in that corner. I hope you know what you're doing, 'Meo. This is some white elephant you're hoarding."

Interesting metaphor, but inadequate. He had a better one already, all from the way she moved. He wanted to run through her the same way merchants handle their rich merchandise: Fingers rustling through watery smoothness, sinuous and rippling.

Paris

"Count Paris and Tybalt have joined forces." Benvolio, beet red, in unusual choler, panting slightly. "Romeo, this is serious. An Escalus, a fucking Escalus—no, not you, 'Cutio." (For an impatient Mercutio had called "What is it now?" from the other room). "You have to negotiate."

"This is not his battle to fight. Unless he is suddenly allied with the Capulets?" Not unlikely. The Prince's neutral policy was not without its limits or its exceptions. Internecine conflict could cut through non-blood ties.

"You mean you haven't heard?" Benvolio's face turned somber. "He is Juliette Capulet's fiancé. Of six months' engagement."

Of course he was, and of course the daughter of Capulet would have a match all lined up to her—of good blood, well-connected, the Prince's cousin, and most importantly, a family ally. This was no surprise—to be expected, actually. He should be relieved, grateful to have yet another excuse to pass her along.

"Your lover has joined with your cousin in our opposition," he told her caustically after dismissing the guard. "Very romantic of him."

Curled on the daybed, yawning over a book, Juliette frowned, if confused, tiredly. "My lover?"

"Forgot him already? Your fiancé, Paris Escalus."

"Odd, Tybalt and he have never agreed before," she said vaguely but then the news finally sank in. She scrambled up. "Leave my lord the count out of this."

Touching, this concern (deep love? Juliette's tender feeling?). But surely she'd be pleased her white knight fiancé would come to her aid? "He's your intended, isn't he?"

"That's not the point," she said, and she looked genuinely frustrated. "I would not have him involved in this affair."

She spoke decisively, as if saying the words would command the reality they willed. Intriguing. "Why not?"

She grimaced, and turned away. "It's too dangerous. It—it was my fault, anyway."

Dangerous indeed, he thought, heart pumping. He could feel it coursing in his veins already, thrilling, addictive—hope.

"Juliette." For some inexplicable reason, she started. "Please, one last time. Why did you trespass on our territory?"

For a moment he thought she wouldn't answer. But then at last she looked up, and for the first time in a long time, she looked him straight in the eye. The watery look on her hazel eyes made a chill run down his spine.

It was pure, utter hate.

"You have the Mute," she said, shaking. "She was my maid, my friend. I had to get her."

The what?

The Mute

One of the Capulet maids his boys had captured in one of the raids, a cute redheaded thing with a spunk that inevitably invited teasing. But that was two weeks ago, and since then she had settled in to her life as a factotum, not too dissimilar to her own life at the Capulets. Familiarity, in short, bred affection. Benvolio especially would tease her every time she came; he always did like his redheads. They eventually ended up in bed together, although how serious it was was anyone's conjecture. The Mute, for her part, looked well, her new blue petticoats a stark contrast to her flaming hair.

"But you are safe?" Juliette demanded, anxious eyes roving over her friend. "Unhurt, unmolested?"

The Mute nodded and even gave a roll of her eyes, and signed something with a mischievous air. And then Juliette did something he never thought he would ever hear from her, that made his heart somersault to his throat: She giggled.

"Mute! Really, now."

What the hell was he thinking, he thought as the mute servant and Juliette chatted, sometimes in voice, sometimes in sign language, pretending to stare at the corner of the room while keeping the two in his peripheral vision, insisting on hearing their conversation? As if the Mute girl had anything incriminating on them, as if Juliette would be so stupid as to tell her anything compromising. But he had not really been thinking at all about the feud. He had wanted to see her like this, in this rare moment, wanted to see her eyes light up in recognition and joy, her voice sweeten, if just for another. He wanted to dispel the memory of the terrible look of hate in her eyes with her loving look.

He was such a fool.

"Not now, Mute," said Juliette, suddenly stiff, bowing her head. She glanced at him quickly, a wary, furtive glance, and then away in a light flush. "We are not alone, remember."

Hate

Contrary to all action, all expectations, and even common sense, he did not feel it. Not for the Capulets, though their actions at times disgusted him, especially with the retaliation raids in town on their territory. Anger, yes, even the hot, righteous kind that would get him to take up arms—but hate was a slippery thing for him, too tricky to stick to his slippery, freewheeling nature. To him the feud was a duty, taken up out of love for his fellows and family, if at all. Privately, he wondered if this was not all a game on both their parts—if there wasn't some love for the thrill of it all mixed in with an ugly past. Less to do with hate and more with love, so to speak.

But Juliette did hate him.

It was there in the way she could barely stand to look at him, in the way she cringed away, in the way she held herself defensively in his presence, as if he did not deserve even the look of her. One time he had entered her chambers and saw her in deshabille, with nothing but a pink day gown; although it was a sultry summer, she had hurriedly put on a robe anyway.

"I don't see what the problem is in letting me out," she said, agitated. "I can hardly escape or pass on information to others."

"Think about it this way," he told her. "The less you see, the less you know, and the less compromised you'll be. I can return you to your father clean and innocent. Or is there a problem with your chamber?"

"It's too hot. The sun comes in strong through the windows."

"You wouldn't be so hot if you wore that gown all the time. Didn't the servants give you summer wear?"

To his surprise, and fascination, a blush bloomed. "Those will never do."

"And why not?"

The blush deepened, blending into an embarrassed, angry rash. "They're too revealing. I'm a maid, my lord, not one of your—your blue whores."

This by all accounts, should have irked him, and he did feel a slight tickling of the emotion. But once again, she surprised him in bringing out an emotions he never thought he could feel.

"Stop laughing. This isn't funny."

"You think those are from my lovers?" When she only sat stiffly, he sobered a little. "Our women are freer in their dress than yours. It's nothing to us to bare shoulders or even legs."

"Even so," she said in a low voice, but with gathering strength, standing up. "I am more than a maid. I am the heir of Capulet, however—slightly you may regard that. I'd like clothes worthy of my station, and that means those—free clothes would not do."

It was strange, how imperiousness suited her so well. "Antoinetta may have some of her old maiden clothes around. I'll see what I can do. Is that all?"

To his surprise, the color in her cheeks deepened.

"Yes. No." She visibly steeled herself, shoulders squaring. "That is...there are my womanly needs to consider."

One could have heard a pin drop in the silence that followed.

"That came out wrong," she said faintly.

He had to disagree. It was the most right thing he had heard. "Womanly needs, eh?"

"I meant my monthly courses," she said through gritted teeth. "It's about due, unless it's late." Then she paused, almost deliberately. "Unless you'll deny me."

Spoken as if in challenge, as if she were hoping to discomfit him. She will have to be disappointed. By this point he knew Rose's days, though not so much out of any deep intimacy than the fact that she would announce it every time, as a warning to stay away. Needless to say, he was desensitized. "It's well. As your lord, I am bound in duty to fulfill all of your womanly needs, whatever they may be,

to their fullest satisfaction."

"And what kind of satisfaction would that be?" she shot swiftly.

"Whatever you would deem it to be, according to their nature."

"You yourself must be satisfied to deem it, because you choose whether or not to satisfy them or not. You are my lord, after all."

"A lord that serves you, and so you are still the mistress of your satisfaction."

"So I may command you in my satisfaction? What a strange inverse." But there was a definite alert air about her; he sensed she was enjoying this. "This is chopped logic, my lord."

"Romeo." Suddenly the formal address felt awful, painfully inadequate.

And she paused, surprised, and so did he, the realization coming at the same time: They were less than a foot away and they were definitely flirting. A vision, almost like one of a future, for a brief moment suddenly eclipsed his reality: Juliette nestled in his lap, pert and hard against him, his wine-sweet kisses in his mouth—no, no, no, he would not get hard in front of Juliette, shut up, shut up.

"We're beyond the formal by this point, aren't we?" he said, almost to himself.

Was it a trick of the light or were her downcast eyes fixed on his lips? "Yes…"

They jumped at the knock on the door, Abram sticking his head in.

"My lord, Sampson and Gregory were spotted near the territory. Scouting, they say. We chased them out."

It's best this way, he thought miserably as Abram left and an overcast expression came unto Juliette's face. He would have forgotten himself else. They turned to each to other.

"I'll pass on your wishes to Balthazar," he finally said.

"All right."

But she was silent, almost broodingly so, and so he prompted, "What are you thinking?"

"I'm thinking," she said slowly, tying her robe about her like an armor, not looking at him, "that you'd be such a whore if you were a woman."

("Capulet one, Montague zero," said Mercutio in a mock-announcer voice as Benvolio mimicked a chalk-and-slate noise, and at last he found the humor to smile wryly).

Teasing

He did have his moments, though by all rights it shouldn't count. It just came too easily.

"I was right. Blue does become you."

She shot him a shut up glare, but otherwise did not answer. The dress she had chosen was among the more modest ones, with off-the-shoulder long sleeves and a V-neckline tied around the neck. That particular shade of blue pleased him greatly, though he couldn't exactly tell why beyond the golden sheen it gave to her skin. There was such a feeling of...rightness about it.

"This feels so wrong," she said, almost to herself, looking down grimly. "If my father or Tybalt could see me now..."

Oh, what an image, it was almost priceless. "What, they'd call you traitor for wearing blue?"

"No," she muttered, eyes darting quickly away. "Not just for that."

If only he could read her mind. Maddening. "House loyalty aside, they'd be blind not to see how becoming you look. Then again, any color would suit you, lovely girl you are."

To his surprise, she merely took a deep breath, as if to steady her. "I'm not a plaything, my lord, for your amusement."

"I don't mock beauty," he said truthfully, amusement quickly fading. "Beauty isn't a thing to mock."

This back-and-forth of teasing and earnestness, a seesaw, a whiplash. Were all their interactions doomed to tennis match-style converse? She was silent a moment, but he could feel the growing warmth in the charged air.

"I think we can agree on that, at least," she said at last.

That night he dreamt of billowing cerulean silk, trailing along bare rose.

Indisposed

He had planned to stay away for five days taking Juliette firmly by her word; he had learned the hard way from Rose, who turned into a towering fury during those days of egg-expelling madness. He didn't know how his prickly Capulet would react, but the safest course was to respect her privacy. He had Balthazar keep him abreast of any developments, but they weren't at all encouraging.

"She's fine," the latter said, shrugging. "Lethargic, quiet. Sweet, even. It's a little eerie."

This was just a courtesy call, he told himself as he took two steps at a time. It wasn't as if he didn't trust Balthazar, but still, it was better if he checked. It'd be quick, just in and out, just to see how she fares. Not that he was worried. It would just be a quick stop—

"Hello, my lord."

Fuck, he fucked up.

He found her curled up under some blankets on the divan, one arm over her stomach and the other holding a novel. When he entered, she raised her head—she did look drawn—but her expression was otherwise placid, calm, even a little sad. Perfectly normal—except that she was in her corset, her chest and shoulders completely bare. When he froze in his tracks, she gave a long-suffering sigh and covered her chest with the divan shawl.

"Anything wrong, my lord?" she asked wearily.

Nothing was wrong. Everything was right, and that was wrong. "Balthazar told me you were indisposed."

"It's my time, of course I'm indisposed."

There you go, that angry edge. So far, so expected. "I thought you may want for something."

For some reason, the sad cast of her face grew more pronounced at this.

"I am well," she murmured. She gave a little head shake as if to clear together. "You should go to your lover. You look very good together, by the way. Rose is pretty and…strong, I can tell."

And there it was.

(One day he had decided to invite Juliette to the dining chamber, a neutral lunch of pasta, pheasant, bread, and dates—for ulterior motives, of course, or so he told himself very firmly as he watched Juliette pick nuts from her enviable palm. He needed to find out more about Tybalt, her relationship with him, find out his next move. It had been Mercutio's idea, and a shrewd one it was—but of course, he realized that he was absolutely the worst person to do this psychological wine-and-dine trick when his casual question about favored cousins had Juliette pausing thoughtfully.

"Oh, my Nurse always had a fondness for the Mute," she said mildly. "But of the men, Tybalt is her favorite, for good reason. He's such a gentleman."

And as they engaged in a back-and-forth, increasingly incredulous and mild at turns, he completely forgot all about Tybalt and the Capulets, lost in the easiness of it all. Juliette had even begun to smile and in a gesture whose remembrance stirred him even now, she had indicated a bit of sauce on his cheek, fingertips hovering tantalizingly. They were laughing over embarrassing childhood memories (apparently Juliette's nurse's husband had the bawdiest sense of humor), when Rose arrived, in nothing but a gorgeous indigo two piece and a sheer robe.

"Mercutio, Val, and the others going to the pool," she had said, lightly enough, but her slanted eyes were coolly accessing. "Unless you're busy...?"

And after he could do no more than assure her, she gave him a departing kiss, deep and proprietary. Until that moment he never knew the taste of a girl on his lips could feel so wrong. Juliette said little after that.)

"Listen," he said at last, obliged to explain—but by what? "Rose and I...it isn't what it looked like—"

"You don't owe me any explanation, my lord," she said shortly. "I am but your prisoner, after all, despite your good dealing, for which I'm grateful."

This submissiveness, he thought as she looked stiffly away. It did not suit her, he disliked it. It was yet another gross reminder of their situation, their circumstances. That flawless pearl skin, it was never more untouchable than now, he never ached with longing for it more than now. "Rose is just a friend."

"With benefits?"

Not so sheltered after all. For the umpteenth time he wondered about her and Paris. "Yes."

As she fell silent, he felt an urge to—what? What could he say that would not be utter madness? That he scarcely even touched Rose in days? That all his nights now were consumed in longing for her? That he ping-ponged from fantasies of nibbling kisses to lovemaking, among other, less innocent activities? That her hatred toward him caused him more pain than any blow a Capulet could give him?

"Romeo." For the first time she spoke his given name, the sound shocking him to his core. "When will you return me to my house?"

It was an impossible question to answer. "I've already contacted your father. We meet for negotiation in a few days."

"Good. I can't wait."

But she did not look eager. In fact, the sad cast had only grown stronger. She rose, taking the robe on the bed and putting it on. She cinched it around her waist and he felt the familiar veil descend between them, hard as any wall.

Fever

The white elephant effect again. If only he had taken her complaints about the heat seriously.

"My lord, the Capulet girl has taken ill. She has a fever."

It didn't look serious, as the physician assured—some bedrest, plenty of ice—but seeing her toss and turn, moaning pitifully, wrenched something in him. Even bedewed in sweat, in nothing but a transparent nightgown, she was still the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. He wished he could take away her pain. It was beyond frustrating, not able to do anything.

He told himself not to visit, to stay away, but as before, as soon as resolutions are made, they are soon tried. He broke one night when the physician came out, wiping his hands ruefully.

"The worst part is tonight," he informed him. "Poor girl, she calls for her love. Delirium, of course."

So he entered as quietly as he could, wildly ambivalent, but too curious to care. So she had not been honest about the count after all. Either that, or she had some other lover on the side. He had no right to judge, or even be jealous, but screw it, he was, he couldn't help it. He was thinking about what a poor substitute he made for the likes of Paris when she stirred. She opened her eyes blearily.

He froze, braced himself for the onslaught, but it was not clear that she was even seeing him properly. Instead she gazed at him with an inscrutable expression, breathing audibly. Then she gave a moan that made all parts of him rise and turned to the side, shivering some more.

Well, if that wasn't a message, then what was? Heart sinking, he pulled away, turning to go. And then he heard it, faint and low.

"Romeo..."

He froze, but she was asleep, her body stilling. Brighter than torchlight.

Two days later she recovered, and if she remembered what had happened, she did not show it. Her manner was much the same as before, a paradoxical mix of deference and challenge. But something inside of him had opened, a door he hadn't realized existed, tempting him with another vision: Not of Juliette's slap, but of her melting kiss.

Hope. It was a dangerous elixir.

Who Is She?

"Who do you mean?"

She did not reply for a moment. She took a piece of imaginary lint from his doublet, examined it.

"The one you like now." She finally looked up, looking genuinely bored, almost weary. "So who is it? Antoinetta? Leonora? She's always liked you. Orsina?"

He suppressed a sigh. This was what he had been afraid of. He genuinely liked Rose: She was in many ways the most compatible with him. But it was no secret that her feelings ran deeper than she'd show. Fidelity was not much prized among their crowd, for both men and women; the only girls off-limits were the ones Benvolio and Mercutio favored, and even then Benvolio had practically begged him to lie with Carlotta during their off phase. He wouldn't have minded if Rose had others, even gave her to understand such, but apart from some one-night rumors, she still stuck with him. Despite it all, it was him she wanted. Perhaps even loved.

And he, well...

"There's no one else."

"Don't deny it, you cad. You think I don't know when you're thinking of someone else when you're together?" Rose rested her chin on his chest. "So who is it?"

How to throw her off-scent? Women, they had the finest noses for this sort of thing. "I do miss Carlotta a little." It was two weeks ago since he even thought of her, but Rose didn't have to know that.

To his relief, she laughed. "You're kidding me! Poor Benvolio."

"Poor Benvolio looks more interested in that mute girl. I think he'll live."

Rose seemed to consider this, and he could almost hear the gears of her mind turning in mental calculation.

"Funny," she said at last. "I could have sworn—but well, it's ridiculous—it may have been that Capulet girl."

But he had expected this and knew to react. "Her?"

"She's pretty enough," she said neutrally, and he had to bite his lip to keep from contradicting her. "You've always had an eye for that. You've been acting very gallant towards her lately."

Skating near the razor's edge, near the strain of Rose's tone. "She's an innocent of the feud, and in my care. There's no need to play the tyrant." He was awful at it anyway.

"True," she said easily. "But then, you really don't have to, do you?"

Something was wrong, he could sense it. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, you could always just designate the duty of keeping her abreast to someone else. Someone like, say, Mercutio. An Escalus, loyal to us, known to her. The heir of Montague, it's too much tension and bad blood. You always say she is difficult."

He preferred a thousand of Juliette's thorns to this passive-aggressive rose. "It's no problem. She's just a maid, after all."

"But why inconvenience yourself? I'm just saying, think about it." And he stiffened as he felt her hand trail lower, caressing. "Speaking of innocence, and lack thereof..."

He was screwed, and not in a good way.

Resemblance

Enough to make him curse his weakness.

"You will release my daughter to me unconditionally." Juliette's eyes bore into his, only old and flinty. "In exchange we will not raise a hand in retaliation against you. You have my word."

A jerk, almost a wince, but Lord Capulet shot his nephew a quelling glare.

"I wish I could trust you better, my lord," he said finally. "But while your word may be good, I'm not too sure about your nephew's."

"Fortunately you deal with me, not my nephew. I'd also like to see her, as soon as possible."

"First release some of your Montague prisoners." Sabrina and Sergio, among others. He had a list.

Capulet considered this. "Ten for Juliette. I think that is more than fair."

Implications that Montagues were worth less than a Capulet aside, it most certainly was. He'd have to be foolish to let these favorable terms slip by over a lack of nicety. "I'll have to think on your offer. Let's meet again tomorrow. I promise you shall know our mind, first thing."

"I would see them." In her chamber, Juliette paced restlessly in periwinkle gossamer, eyes anxious and bare throat pale. "Please, my lord, let me see them, they must be worried sick."

"I'm sorry," he said, and found that he meant it. "But I can't take the risk of them using you and conspiring an escape."

"We'll be supervised. Please, I beg of you. I'll do anything."

"Anything?"

The danger of the word lingered palpably in the air. She winced.

"Within reason," she amended.

Reason! As if any part of this had anything to do with reason or logic or even basic common sense. From the moment he met her nothing had reason, nothing made the smallest ounce of sense, either his actions or hers. It was a complete overthrow of his world. But if there was one thing that kept constant, it was this.

"Juliette," he said finally. "I'll let you see your father and your cousin on one condition."

"Name it."

"Look at me."

Silence fell, unbroken even by the clock ticking.

"What?" She sounded almost frightened.

"I will let you see your father and your cousin," he said, approaching her, "if you would look at me in the eye and ask for it."

Observant

He was not, admittedly, the most observant of youths. It took him way too long to realize Rose's feelings for him ran deep, and by then it was too late. But love had a way of sharpening focus and even he couldn't fail to notice that from the moment she stepped foot on the Montague estate, Juliette could not look at him for more than a couple of seconds, giving him a quick half-glance before her eyes darted away like a startled deer. He had assumed maidenly modesty at first, but Juliette soon proved to be no wilting flower.

"She actually called me coxcomb. Can you believe that?" Balthazar—not the guard, but the factotum and his late mother's lover—was fortunately the forgiving type and even laughed. "These Capels, they're like from another century. You know she even has a name for you?" He paused for maximum effect. "Lucifer."

("2-0, 'Meo," choked Mercutio and even Benvolio wiped tears from his eyes. "You owe me a new lung.")

It was clear: Juliette's anger was expressed in hot flashes, trembling, even in tears, but always in confrontation. Her avoidance of him, then, almost to the point of skittish fear, was a mystery, and became a kind of incitement. Without knowing it he found himself teasing her, even deliberately provoking her, just for a look. And even now, when it was something she so clearly, so dearly wanted, her head was still bowed.

"I'm sorry, my lord," she said to the ground. "I..."

Had this not occurred before his very eyes he wouldn't have believed it. He was offering a chance to see her family, be reunited with them once more, assure their fears and hers. As it was, the inevitable, irresistible conclusion arose, like the sweetest perfume, an most intoxicating spirit.

"Juliette, why don't you look at me?"

"I do," she said immediately.

"Not directly. Not to my face." When she remained silent, he prompted, "Am I so hideous to you as that?"

After a long moment, Juliette's shoulders raised as if suppressing a sigh. At last she raised her head and lifted those beautiful clear eyes to him, and in that moment the anguished truth he had known, though buried so deep he was only half-aware of it, burst to the surface in a rush of clarity. His bones melted; the blood within him simmered.

"Please," she breathed. "May I see them?"

She could have asked for the moon and he would have found some way to give it to her. Did she know how much she affected him, how much he needed her, that every second without her was like a slow death? If he poured this passion into her lips, cradled her like the priceless jewel she was, would she shy away? Strike him? Kiss him back?

"I'll bring you to them tomorrow," he said, voice ragged even to him, leaving that sweet madness behind him.

In Another Life

They could have met in better circumstances, perhaps. Somewhere festive, like at a party or ball. There he wouldn't have had no hesitation. The feud put aside, in abeyance, no obstacles, no walls. He would not have even hesitated to declare himself.

But this was real life, and this life they had met under the worst possible conditions. Juliette saw him only as her captor, and he had to weigh her life with that of countless others.

"Why the hell did you reject his offer?" Benvolio was staring at him like he had gone mad for a long while but was only just seeing it now and the truth of it appalled him. "That was the sweetest deal from a Capel yet. You're really going to try them further? We could have had Sergio and the rest by now."

Yes, he would absolutely drag out the matter because he was selfish and wanted to keep Juliette close to him. Eventually, true, he would be forced to give her up. He knew what he would do if that were the case, despite it all, as if he reading his future in the palm of his hand.

Love. It makes us selfish monsters of us all.