Sometimes I dream of him.
She emerges from the bedroom, her eyes cast low to the tap of her own heels and she feels powerful in leather lace up boots. The corseted backings pulling tight from ankle to knee make her skin tingle in anticipation and each resounding footstep falls with a boom that tells her she made the right choice.
Her costume is close enough to what she was hoping for, a flare of steampunk meeting seafarer, so that she could pass for a modern day Grace O'Malley, Anne Bonney or Mary Read.
Her hair is knotted in sea-salt sprayed, dank tendrils, coiled and ratted to perfection and falling the entire length of her back and she roughs a hand through it, smirking a little, pleased with herself.
From the thick black belt and silver dagger synched tight at her hip to the skin tight black leather pants, she's not done badly at all. With the added addition of the black corset tightened over the white gypsy shirt that slips from her shoulders and the dark slash of eye shadow and the thick line of mascara - Kate's certain she looks the part.
The Pirate Queen.
Scurge of the sea.
This Halloween she embodies the spirit of women who took no prisoners, lived the life of outlaws on the open wave with no one to lay claim to them. They forged their own path and would plow the sandy depths with nothing but the code of the water as their guide, the salt air their lord and master and the turning tide the only justice they would ever need.
Kate sighs, this night she feels free. Free to cast off the shadow of the cop recently returned to work and aching from bullet wounds. Free to think of him.
And she does.
Alone in the darkness of her apartment, she makes ready for his party and allows herself to get lost in the fantasy that perhaps this night could mean more to them, more than she ever expected it to.
Her skin prickles as she wanders through her home and she freezes, awareness washing over her like ice water, hand dropping to her hip and sliding back, only to find a sheathed knife instead of a gun. She spins, panic flaring like fire to the center of her chest and from the shadow he emerges.
She's not sure why or even how he came to be here but the mere thought of him racing through her mind seems to have conjured him, like magic, and she stares, mouth falling open at the sight of him.
She knows the man before her, the man who steps from the darkness and into her light like a man possessed and yet she knows him not at all.
His eyes loom in the silence, in the ether of early evening, wide and coal black with want. The sun sets slowly through the windows, throwing flames at his feet, and at his back a ripple of movement catches her eyes and she focuses in on his costume.
Immaculate as ever in his pristine jet black suit, it is the cape fluttering at his back that draws her attention. No mockery of superhero, no spandex or tights, there is a sophistication to the man before her that takes her breath away. A nod to a bygone era and an elemental spark of danger that holds her enthralled.
The material flutters again and it draws her eyes up, slowly following the curve of his thigh, his waist, arms and shoulders. The high neck stops level with his ears and fall of the silk somehow expands his already broad chest.
His eyes meet hers and somewhere at the back of his throat he lets out a long, low growl, giving himself up to the night.
His eyes roam her body like a lover's caress until her skin is quivering and the blood rushing through her veins feels like fire and ice in tempestuous battle.
His gaze alone does this to her, god only knows what will happen when they touch.
And they will touch. She can feel it in her soul.
He will touch her because perhaps this night has set him free too and she may be the Mistress of the Sea, but here, here stands the man she has dreamt about for months, if not years. The Master of the Macabre.
He is the man she knows. The man she craves. The man she loves. Only this night he is more.
He is burning forests in the pitch of midnight, he is dry cracking timber splintered in white hot flame, he is the thunderous roar of horse hooves and the deafening cry of her heartbeat.
He is her Castle ... only darker.