Fifteen hours away, as the crow flew from the deciduous trees of the jungle, Dr Pavel awoke in a cold sweat. He'd managed to snag a nap, shouldn't have, the time spent with his eyes closed was plagued with nightmares of his life's work being commandeered and manipulated into an instrument of a single person's war.
A vain vendetta.
A vapid attempt at revenge.
Doctor Pavel was sure he was being watched, whether by his own government or hands for hire, he couldn't be sure.
It was both.
Doctor Leonid Pavel was a prized acquisition to any person's personal plight, he was the sherpa that would lead them straight to the top of Mount Olympus, where they'd gut Zeus and lift the lightning bolt high.
Whoever captured Doctor Pavel would control the drift of the continents.
Whichever group came out on top and directed Doctor Pavel's hand could affect the very position of the sun along its ecliptic.
Whomever scooped up Doctor Pavel would control the ebb and flow of the Atlantic tides before they brought forth a nuclear holocaust.He was terrified someone would harness his scientific achievements and subvert it to becoming a nuclear meat grinder.
Dr. Pavel's pale hands shook as he pulled the cork out of a bottle of potent booze, he drank heavily, belching uncomfortably before the strong alcohol spread warmth throughout his scrawny chest and soft belly.
The ulcer-inducing alcohol provided a soothing balm, gave Dr. Pavel a few hours of needed sleep.
Doctor Pavel would continue to be surveilled; his every waking thought consumed with fear that his work would be abducted by someone who held no value for human life.As Dr. Pavel's inebriated brain blocked any dreams that encroached his deep sleep, fifteen hours back in the middle of South America, the men returned from the market, each exited the sturdy vehicles, encumbered with bags and bulky packages.
A swarm of similarly dressed men and women descended upon the returning men, their hands reaching for all the various parcels destined for individual quarters, the kitchen and adjacent wine cellar or livestock area.
The time before the banquet would pass differently for everyone.
In his spacious quarters, Barsad took a long shower, the water ran with grit from the open market and walking through the stables.
He dried off before tying the bath towel around his waist.
He ran a brush through his wet hair, pacing, never taking his eyes off the inexpensive bauble he'd bought for Clara.
Barsad's eyes traced the dark pink blown glass curves.
It was fragile, like Rava.
But, Clara was not Rava.
It looked like a delicacy, caught the light, and reflected the sun, like Rava.
But, Clara was not Rava.
Barsad wrapped up the glass sculpture, hiding it in one of his boots, should anyone ever search his room.
Across the estate, closer to Clara's suite, Bane also showered and dried off, the towels didn't easily stay in place around his broad body.
He also paced the room, staring at the pile of clothing that Maya was en route to retrieve and deliver to Clara.
Bane stared down at the shopping list written in Fabiana's writing.
For a woman of such exquisite beauty, possession of an ethereal body and poisonous tongue, she had the most atrocious handwriting of any living being he'd ever come across, the Rosetta Stone couldn't begin to decipher the anomalous scrawling of the she-wolf Fabiana Fyre.
He was certain that Clara had no participation in the composing of the list, he'd added items that he knew from the hours, weeks, and months of surveillance footage that she would prefer wearing.
Bane had tucked the items that weren't on the list inside the neatly folded stacks of the required purchases. He'd placed the seditious linen hidden from plain view, having used his own money to buy the treasonous fibers.
He wore the only set of clothing he owned that was devoid of bullet holes, shorn threads from serrated knife edges or burn holes from getting too close to the fire when night fell off the south face of a tall, peaked mountain.
Bane pushed the matte black monochromatic buttons through the stitched fabric holes, the clothes were snug, hugging his body. He opened the door when Maya knocked, they nodded at each other before Bane held open the door further.
Maya collected the several large, handled bags and left Bane to finish readying for the evening festivities.
Nearby in the most opulent of all the living spaces, Fabiana walked back and forth across the plush rug of her room. She didn't pace, every movement was as though she could be photographed at any moment, aware of every part of herself from sipping a sangria to driving around the estate and feeding her husband's pet pigs, considered invasive by other's in the country.
She was clad in only a miniscule pair of green panties, unsure of what she was going to wear to dinner.
Fabiana frowned at the three gowns she had hanging on the back of one of her many closet doors.
She blew out a low breath and tossed her lush mane of hair, looking over her shoulder when her husband opened the door.
"You look lovely," he murmured as he locked the door.
"Darling," she whispered and started to walk towards him, pausing when he held up a hand.
"Don't move," he growled, "turn around," he added as he came to stand behind her, molding his body against hers.
Fabiana relaxed back against her husband and savior the Crimson King as he smoothed one hand to her barely covered center, massaging the pad of fat that kept her wet opening hidden.
"No," he growled when she reached back and fumbled for his hardening cock.
He'd seen her rising tension, the small cracks in her glorious façade.
He wanted her to not think about anything for just a little bit.
"Look at me," he ordered, his rasp delivered on a hot exhale as he nipped the top of her shoulder.
He deftly slipped his hand down the front of her panties, sliding his fingers through her silken folds, growling to find her soaking wet, anxious for his intimate touch.
Fabiana gasped, her chest heaving when he teased small circles around her clit, varying his rhythm, licking the smooth cartilage of her earlobe as he slid his middle finger inside her wet center, feeling her tighten around him as he moved in and out of her.
Neither blinked as they held each other's gaze in the floor-length mirror.
Fabiana panted in time with each plunge of his finger, inhaling sharply when he began massaging the sensitive spongy cluster of nerve cells.
She cried out, throwing her head back, arching towards him, their lips crashing together as he craved her lips just as much.
As Fabiana and the Crimson King basked in the afterglow and their shared ragged exhalations, Talia brushed her silken hair until it gleamed, the scarlet gown hanging on the back of the bathroom door, a thigh high slit, paired with spiked heels, would make her a statuesque goddess.
At the heart of the compound, while all of the guests dressed and felt no outside atmospheric pressure, the kitchen was a bustling hive as they prepared a veritable food orgy in the style of the Roman Empire.
Chefs were busy tying up pork crown roasts, boasting twenty steaks a piece while tomatoes blistered in a nearby ban, swimming in copious amounts of butter and uneven chunks of sea salt.
As pastry chefs piped chocolate on the edges of edible flowers and decorated table centerpieces with spun sugar creations, Maya briskly returned to Clara's room, her arms full of the bags.
Clara looked up from where she was painting her toe nails a delicate shade of opal.
"What's all that?"
"Miss Fyre requested these items brought to you, should you need anything else, you only need ask," Maya murmured, keeping her eyes lowered, hating herself for having to pretend to be penitent.
Maya also despised herself for the growing fondness she felt for Clara.
Maya busied herself around the room, moving things around unnecessarily as Clara looked through the stacks of clothing and personal care implements.
Clara found herself mystified at the diametric opposition between the two types of clothing.
She frowned, two people had collaborated on the list she thought as she reached for a small burlap sack of aromatic bath crystals.
Fabiana would never really notice that Bane hadn't picked up many of her poorly written directives in regard to beauty products for Clara.
Every product that Clara would smell, pulling the scent deep into her lungs was selected by Bane.
Each cream that Clara rubbed on her hands and smoothed on her kneecaps was hand-picked by Bane.
Clara didn't know that the shampoo she'd later use to get ready for the banquet was one that Bane had held to the front of his mask.
She didn't see him raggedly inhale as much as he could with his broken respiratory system.
Clara didn't witness his struggle to discern the delicate aroma he longed to catch in the air around Clara.
As the kitchen remained a fever pitch of activity, the orbiting residents who weren't paid to serve, could afford to languidly ooze as they readied for the elegant banquet.
Bane received an encrypted message on his satellite phone from Talia directing him to fetch the political heiress and escort her to the dining hall.
He fought for maximum control from the nanosecond that Maya opened the wide double doors and his eyes landed on Clara Leroux all dressed up for the party.
The sight of her was like pressing the red button, all hands-on deck, he struggled to lock down the neural electricity that buzzed inside his skull, threatening to burst his eardrums.
Clara was a vision, the bare slope of her lower back was breathtaking, he fought to keep his breathing steady and not trigger a delay in his breathing apparatus.
Bane kept his gaze neutral but didn't miss the swell of her breasts within the brilliant peacock-blue gown, the liquid silk looked like it had been painted onto her body.
Clara smiled easily at Bane before she plucked a brilliant turquoise orchid from a hearty bouquet and turned towards the mirror.
Bane's fingertips twitched with the rising kinetic energy, the struggle for containment as he watched her tuck the bloom into her hair.
He walked too fast as he accompanied Clara to the outdoor banquet hall.
In his effort to put a distance between them, not wanting to risk his gaze from lingering too long, he made her struggle to begin to match his stride.
Bane recognized what he was doing and abruptly stopped.
His sudden pause made Clara stop too fast for the heels she was wearing on the cobblestones underfoot.
She fell forward; her initial thought was surprise. She'd stumbled twice since violently meeting Bane, she hadn't even tripped when being hounded by political correspondents as she took the stairs to The Capitol two-a-time when her uncle was voting and wanted a show of familial support.
Bane reached out and caught her without thinking.
He closed a hand around her wrist, looking down at where his fingers overlapped.
He could've snapped the feather light, fine bones without a shred of effort.
He could've easily snapped the bones until the splintered ends protruded through her ragged flesh, hemorrhaging the cellular matrix of their rich marrow.
With his free hand, Bane caught the falling orchid blossom before it could hit the cobblestones.
Clara looked down at the vivid bloom in the center of his massive palm, his surprisingly gentle touch had kept the petals from bruising.
"Apologies Miss Leroux," Bane murmured on a mechanical hiss as Clara delicately picked the blossom up from the center of his palm.
Bane forced himself to suppress a shudder as the brush of her fingertips against his scarred skin practically produced visible sparks.
Each of his deep breaths was supported with aerosolized assistance as he watched Clara reattach the bloom which bled a vibrant blue from its velvet petals.
Bane kept his visible expression neutral as he released Clara's small wrist, keeping his lower arm held aloft in the air.
Clara gave him a small smile, always courteous and always polite as she laid her hand on top of his vascularly striated forearm. "Thank you," she murmured accompanied with a small dip of her head.
Bane echoed her nod, remaining wordless and staring straight ahead as he escorted her the rest of the way to the gratuitous feast, platters of fat-laden food next to bowls of sugar-slathered pastries and honey-glazed fruit.
They walked in silence; he slowed his stride to match hers as the music from the violin quartet grew louder the closer Bane and Clara drew.