Chapter 7
Author's note: This a bit of a long chapter. It was quite difficult to write (it took about 2 weeks!) simply because there is so much to unpack in the psychology of these two. I hope I did it justice and I hope you won't find it too fragmented or redundant. Thank you very much for your support and encouragements!
"Do you really not know who the man in the Black Mask is, Oscar?... I can tell you that he would never think you look ridiculous in a dress." Fersen's voice echoed.
Oscar sank to the floor, burdened by the enormous weight of her epiphany.
"A-Andre…?"
But why?
Why would Andre take such a huge risk as to disguise himself and attend a ball - at Versailles of all places? And then to attempt to court her. Her, Oscar Francois, the head of the Royal Guard and his childhood friend.
Had it simply been a prank?
She trembled at thought of his lips on hers the first time he had kissed her. No, Andre would never take it that far.
That is, unless…
The wheels of her investigative mind began turning, as the Captain of the Guard resurfaced to aid her in this dilemma.
Hadn't she herself contemplated wearing a dress in disguise so she could attend a ball and dance with Fersen once? She had decided against it at the time, but if one closely examined her motivations for that, then…
Then did that mean that Andre… harbored feelings for her?
She absent-mindedly stroked the satiny gloves.
No, Andre could not have feelings for her.
If he did, then he wouldn't be so cold and distant. He would not avoid her and address her in monosyllables and always act as though he was in a rush to be somewhere else, as if another moment in her company would cause him the plague. No, these were not the actions of someone who was in love.
A lump began forming in her throat as she grasped the extent to which Andre's absence in her life made her feel so suffocatingly lonely.
But then, if it wasn't Andre… who did I kiss? Whose warm lips did I taste? Whose hands touched and caressed me? Whose heart did I feel beating against mine? To whom did I so easily give myself to? If not Andre, then who?
The mere thought that Andre may no longer wish to have anything to with her, that she had been with a man who was not, in fact him, made her feel cold and stranded.
The tears rolled down her face uncontrollably as she realized that she desperately wanted it to be Andre.
…
Andre awoke to the daylight filtering through his windows. The advent of the morning signalled the arrival of a new day and with it, the bitter realization that all of his memories of the night before were but fragments of an illusion.
A dream.
It had all been a dream.
He slumped deeper into his pillows and sighed, remembering that mysterious woman from last night. The excitement had worn off, leaving behind it the sombre stifling reality that was his everyday life.
There was no way in hell that that woman could have been Oscar. How could he have been so ridiculous as to even entertain that possibility?
He willed himself to sleep again but the headache he felt every time he attempted to close his eyes was too overpowering. He finally gave up the fight and instead allowed his heavy eyes to adjust to the light in the room.
That was when he spotted a shiny object on top of the dresser across from his bed and subsequently leapt at it like a panther pouncing on its prey.
He twirled the object around and scrutinized it. Now, with a clearer mind, he could see certain details in on the blade that had went unnoticed last night. For one, it was old and worn out. And for another – and perhaps most importantly – there was an "R" inscribed onto its side. His fingers traced along the curves of the letter.
"Hm," he smiled to himself, recognizing the script. "Rosalie."
There was no doubt that this was the dagger Oscar had given Rosalie when the latter began her training and tutelage at the Jarjayes manor. The very same dagger that Rosalie attempted to assassinate the Polignac woman with.
Andre tore his eyes away from it and stared out the window.
Rosalie was gone now. She had gone to the Polignac's. Which is probably where this woman, whoever she was, got the dagger from. Had she stolen it? Ah, but knowing Rosalie, something told him that she must have given it to her for some reason. Perhaps that maid had needed her help? Perhaps she wasn't even a maid to begin with… Although, under what circumstances would Rosalie part with a trinket that reminded her of the woman she loved?
The woman they both loved.
"Argh… Oscar." Andre groaned to himself. All roads eventually led to Oscar, unfortunately for him.
However, this momentary lapse into his Oscarienne thoughts was exactly what the irrational side of his mind needed to present him with another possibility: what if Rosalie had left the dagger here? And what if Oscar carried it close to her to remind her of her dear friend?
So then… what if that woman last night… that woman you held in your arms, the one you embraced, the one who had stoked the fire in your heart… what if that woman was Oscar?
His grip tightened and he shook his head vehemently. No, he had promised himself yesterday that he would no longer hope. After all, Oscar had been with Fersen last night. He had seen them. And…heard them, he recalled with bitterness.
But if there were still that infinitesimal chance, wouldn't you want to know? That hopeful voice said.
"To what end?" he said to himself out loud as he lifted a black velvety item with two slits off of his bureau and held it loosely to his face. He regarded himself in the mirror where the man in the Black Mask stared back at him in defiance. "To what end, indeed?" he said to him. "Even if it had been her, it wasn't really me she wanted."
With that, he dropped the mask and proceeded to gather up his costume, which was strewn in a messy heap on the floor, to tuck it away. That was when it dawned on Andre that the gloves were missing.
"You fool!" he smacked himself on the forehead.
…
"Grandmere."
"Oui, ma petite Oscar?" the elderly woman responded as the two crossed each other in the hallway that morning.
Oscar reached into her pockets, pulled out a silvery white garment and handed it to Grandmere.
"I… found these gloves," she said hesitantly, heart pounding. "I think they belong to Pere."
Grandmere took them in her hands, pushed her spectacles closer to her eyes and inspected them.
Oscar tapped her foot with impatience. The anticipation was gnawing at her; Grandmere's response carried massive repercussions with it.
"Ahhhh!" the old woman finally announced.
Oscar stiffened; her palms balled into fists as the mystery of the man in the Black Mask was about to unravel before her, along with the identity of the man who kissed her.
"I took these from your Father a long time ago and fixed them for my good-for-nothing grandson," Grandmere said, shaking her head in disapproval.
"So…they're… Andre's?" Oscar felt the wind almost completely knocked out of her as her suspicions solidified.
"Well, they used to be," Grandmere responded, her words inadvertently arresting the internal turbulence that was raging within the young woman.
"I thought I threw them out last year with the annual donations we send to the church. Strange that they should turn up here again," Grandmere continued in good humor. Then, seeing Oscar's expression frozen in what appeared to be incredulity, she hastily added: "But don't you worry, I would never let Andre attend court in these. How embarrassing! I will make sure to burn them so they never…"
Grandmere was cut short as Oscar snatched the gloves from her.
"No, don't," she exclaimed. "I…I'll keep them."
Grandmere stared at Oscar with incomprehension.
"Merci Grandmere," the latter murmured and walked away, leaving a befuddled Grandmere behind her.
"De… rien?"
…
Oscar let out a loud exhale as she closed her bedroom door behind her and pressed her back onto it. Her legs felt weak and wobbly. She unbuttoned her shirt and proceeded to rub her chest, taking one deep breath after the other.
She knew that asking Grandmere about the gloves would give her the confirmation she had been looking for. She just wasn't fully ready to hear it. She brought her fingers to her lips. That man… she had kissed him. And he had touched her in places that no one – not even herself – had ventured before.
He had awoken something in her.
Could that man have really been Andre?
She shivered at the thought, flashbacks racing in her mind and the image of the man in the Black Mask was forcibly replaced by Andre himself. An unexpected sigh of pleasure escaped her, the sound of which broke the silence around her and sharply drew her back to reality. Since when did thinking of Andre provoke such a reaction?!
She glanced at the gloves, limp in her hands.
Alas, she still could not ascertain the man's identity with complete confidence, despite the fact that all the evidence was pointing in one direction. There always remained the possibility that a random stranger had taken them from the donation stock. In that case, it could have been anyone and she will never know whom.
The only option she had to was to rule out the obvious. And to do that, she needed to confront Andre himself. But how?
"Andre," she imagined herself saying. "A strange man kissed me not once, but twice and I have a strong suspicion that it was you. No, you say? It wasn't you? Well, then put these gloves on and prove it!"
She pinched her nose bridge with her index and thumb. Oh, the ridicule, if it turned out not to be him.
Then there was the matter of the dagger. If it had indeed fallen into his hands – or anybody else's for that matter – it could easily be traced back to her. She was compromised. How could she have been so careless?
No, the situation required a more delicate approach than a direct assault. She would observe him closely. Very closely, whilst ensuring to keep herself as guarded as possible. There was no one who knew her better than Andre and she needed to make sure to avoid any slips. Surely, the smallest hint of anything could give her away when it came to her best friend. It soon became clear to her that this just might be the trickiest mission she had ever encountered.
…
"Ah, Oscar!"
"Bonjour, Pere," a disgruntled Oscar walked into the dining room. She could barely see in front of her, seeing as how little sleep she had gotten the night before.
She had pulled her chair halfway when she paused abruptly. Her eyes shot wide awake as they rested on the servant who was pouring tea for her father.
There he was, in his usual forest-green waistcoat. Tall and broad-chested. Jade-black hair tied back, leaving a few loose strands to frame his perfectly sculpted face. She detailed the muscles of his flexed arm as it moved elegantly and with precision. To say he was handsome was an understatement.
Oh, Andre. Do you know how beautiful you are?
Oscar's hand flew almost instinctively to her chest as if to muffle the pounding of her heart.
Their eyes locked in an intense stare as each of them sized up the other, wondering, questioning. Could it really have been you?
Was that you, Oscar? Was it you whose lips I tasted last night? Who cried in pleasure and trembled at the touch of my hand? Did you seek me out because you liked how it felt the first time? Oh, but you weren't really seeking me, were you? You were seeking another man, an illusion, a stranger. You would love all the men in the world first before your eyes would even see me.
"Bonjour, Oscar," Andre greeted her warily. He had made up his mind to be as guarded as possible following the revelation of his missing gloves. If there was even the smallest chance that that woman was Oscar, it would only be a matter of time before she found him out. His goal? To detract her as much as possible until he uncovered all he could about the mysterious woman before he himself was discovered. It was a race against time and it required all the finesse he could muster. Thankfully, having been practically raised at court had taught him a significant amount on how to put on a face, to conceal and to act. A skill that had served him so well in the past in hiding his true feelings for Oscar.
It took her a few seconds to respond, during which her father, who had been contentedly eating his eggs, had suddenly stopped to stare at the peculiar interaction that seemed to be unfolding in front of him.
He looked from Andre to Oscar, back at Andre and then back to Oscar, who seemed completely fixated on her valet. You could cut the tension with a knife.
"Bonjour," she finally returned and sat down, without taking her eyes off of him.
It dawned on Oscar in that moment that, if she were only just now beginning to notice how charming her friend was, surely others had caught on long before her. If anything, the ball last night was evidence of just how popular and desirable Andre was. "My dear, a man like that is never alone," Fersen's mocking voice had said.
The thought made her feel unsettled and disturbed. She looked away, knitting her eyebrows, the anger rising within her, for when she confronted the facts, not only did Andre not love her, but he had revealed himself to be nothing more than a libertine. A man who would take any random stranger to bed. Except that, it just so happened that the random stranger in question had been her last night.
Yet all of these musings remained in the abstract, for she still had no concrete proof, other than her intuition and a few loose threads, that it had in fact been Andre. Thankfully, the surge of temporary indignation that just coursed through her supplanted the defeatist melancholy she had felt earlier, thus propelling her towards her mission by renewing her resolve to unmask this man and uncover the truth.
"Dormi bien?" she addressed Andre pointedly, as she unfolded her napkin and proceeded to fill her plate with bread and eggs.
The General fidgeted uncomfortably. Just what reason did Oscar have to start such an informal conversation at the breakfast table? And to address her valet before saying a word to him, her own father and the lord of the house!
"Why shouldn't Andre have slept well? I hope we are not overworking you, Andre," her father cut into their conversation before Andre could answer, partly not wanting to be left out and partly to restore some decorum.
"Ah, it was the servants' masquerade ball last night, Monsieur!" Grandmere chirped as she entered the room, carrying a tray of porridge for Oscar. "Such fun! I remember those days!"
"Did you enjoy the ball, then, Andre?" the General asked.
"I did not attend, Sir," Andre responded, keeping his eyes steady on Oscar, watching for the smallest reaction.
"Ah," the General merely uttered.
"What about you, Oscar?" Andre ventured.
"Me?" Oscar's reply came out shriller than she had intended. She took up her utensils and began spreading butter on her bread, attempting a nonchalant attitude. "I certainly did not go to the servants' ball."
Grandmere and the General exchanged a dumbfounded look.
Struck by the silence around her, Oscar looked up to see that all eyes were on her.
"I meant to say, have you slept well, Oscar?" Andre clarified. "Of course, you would not be at the servants' ball. Why would you?"
A faint smug smile danced at the corner of his mouth. Oh, he certainly suspected.
Very well, Andre. I can play the game, too.
"I slept remarkably well, actually, thank you for asking," she flashed him one of her court smiles, confident that her resolute response would put all doubts he may have to rest. Nothing will move her.
Alas, Andre proved to be a more formidable opponent.
"Oh?" he returned. "I would have thought you stayed up late given that you had guests over."
"Guests? What guests? I was not informed we had guests!" her father barked, fearful that he had missed an important social occasion.
Oscar threw daggers with her eyes at Andre, whose face betrayed absolutely no emotion other than traces of concealed amusement.
"There were no guests, Pere, don't worry."
"Mais bien sur!" Grandmere put in. Oh good God, Oscar thought to herself as she placed her elbows on the table and propped her head with her fist.
"It was just a friend, Pere," she attempted to explain it away.
"Oscar, get your elbows off the table!" Grandmere chided her.
"What friend? Who visits you so late at night?" her father pursued.
I cannot believe this is happening. She glared at Andre, who was now positively gloating.
"Indeed, I thought I saw Monsieur Fersen," Andre offered with feigned innocence, further incurring Oscar's wrath.
"Fersen? What, the Swedish count?" the General spat.
"Yes, Pere, we're friends. We have been friends for a long time."
"Oscar, we cannot be seen consorting with someone like Count Fersen," her father lectured her. "The Captain of the Royal Guard CANNOT and should NOT be seen giving private audiences in such manner! Do you understand the implications of this?"
Her father's monologue fell on deaf ears as she continued to fume in the direction of her servant.
"Oui, Pere," she concluded the discussion with her father.
Andre registered his victory and began to make his way out of the dining room with Grandmere in tow, the latter completely oblivious to the invisible battle that was currently in action between her two young charges.
"Andre?" Oscar called out.
"Oui, Oscar?" he turned around. She couldn't help but be momentarily disarmed by his usual "Oui, Oscar", which was starting to take on a much more sensual sound than it should.
"Are the horses ready? Because I would hate to be late this morning," she remarked in a snarky manner.
He couldn't help but flinch. She was exacting her revenge by trying to make him look bad in front of her father – a trick he knew all too well.
"Bien sûr, as usual," he answered coolly. He bowed to the General and excused himself once more.
"And what about yours? I see you're not even dressed," Oscar said with a mouthful.
He turned around again, visibly agitated.
"What do you mean?"
"Well, you'll be accompanying me to Versailles… naturally."
"But… I have things to do and tasks to finish here…" Andre trailed off. Not to mention that I planned on sneaking into the Polignac's residence. Grandmere placed her hand on his elbow and motioned for him to stop. It would not do to show disobedience in front of the General. While Oscar had allowed Andre his freedom to come and go and did not require him to be present at Versailles every day, for all the General knew, Andre Grandier never left his daughter's side.
He was thus caught in her snare.
Oscar neatly placed her fork and knife on her plate and dabbed at the corners of her mouth. Beneath the white cloth, Andre could see a wry smile trying to break through.
"Come, Andre," Grandmere whispered.
"Do make sure we're not late," Oscar's triumphant voice followed him.
"À tes ordres," he mumbled.
How he hated it when she pulled rank on him. it was the dirtiest trick in her book and she only reserved it for rare and special occasions. Like the time he had pranked her on Valentine's Day several years ago into making her father think she had a secret admirer. That did not end well for him. Especially when Grandmere found out. He had the scars to prove it.
It was evident now that she, too, suspected him. He needed to fortify his defenses.
"Hehe," Oscar congratulated herself. She pushed her chair back and excused herself when her father's fist slammed onto the table.
He regarded her with disgust.
"You are unbelievable! How old are you now?"
"Pere?" Oscar was confused.
"How many times do I have to tell you to treat Andre with respect? You are not EIGHT anymore! He is Grandmere's only grandchild and we are his family. I will NOT tolerate this behaviour, do you understand?"
Oscar stared into her lap. If you only knew, Pere…
"…whatever is going on between you and Andre…"
He tapped the table with his finger threateningly. Oscar regarded him with alarm. Was he onto something?
"…FIX IT." He bellowed at her.
"Oui, Pere," she said sheepishly, breathing an inward sigh of relief.
Alas, the conversation was not over, for the next thing she knew, her father yanked her neck by the chin and scrutinized her. "…what in the world…" he uttered as Oscar registered increasing horror in his eyes.
"… is that… are you wearing… ROUGE?" he hissed, barely able to pronounce the word.
She tugged herself away from him, her cheeks turning beet red. Oh heavenly merciful Lord. She had fallen asleep without washing her face. Could this morning possibly go any more wrong?
"N-no.. no! Of course not!" She shot up, as if bitten by a snake, almost causing her chair to topple over. "Of course not, it's… it's just the wine. Yes, the wine. I had too much last night."
She could almost see the smoke coming out of her father's ears.
"Go at ONCE and clean yourself up and don't let me SEE you in this STATE ever AGAIN! OSCAR!"
…
Oscar stood by the kitchen door. She had resolved on putting an end to this madness. She had followed her father's instructions, straightened herself up, washed every remnant of last night and proudly donned her wine-red decorated uniform.
She shall confront Andre now and get it over and done with. Who was she fooling? A delicate approach was simply not her forte.
She placed her hand on the door knob and took a deep breath. In she goes!
"… no, just leave it."
Oscar stopped in her tracks as she heard Grandmere's voice. She brought her ear closer to the gap in the door and listened.
"I won't leave it, it's too heavy for you to carry," Andre's voice carried through.
"Don't be a hero, I have been carrying heavy things since before you were born, what do you take me for, you little…"
"Ouch, ouch! Grandmere, stop with the ladle already!"
Oscar put her hand to her mouth to muffle her laughter.
"If you don't go now, you will be late and Oscar will be angry."
"It's fine. Don't be stubborn, let me help…"
Oscar's heart skipped a beat as she took in these words. The very same words that man had spoken to her last night when her hair got stuck onto the hook in the wall. How could there be any more doubt that that man was Andre?
Her Andre.
"ANDRE! Go, now!" Grandmere shooed him off.
…
"I'm sorry, I know I'm late."
A breathless Andre appeared in the doorway of the stables. Clearly, he had rushed to change after helping Grandmere and then ran over as fast as his legs could carry him. He did not pause to catch his breath and proceeded to saddle his horse and adjust the reins on Oscar's.
"It's alright," came her nonchalant reply.
"You're… not angry?" he asked, carefully, having prepared himself for the worst.
"If you don't go now, you will be late and Oscar will be angry…How many times do I have to tell you to treat Andre with respect?" Grandmere's and her Father's words guilted her for how she treated him with condescension, practically attempting to humiliate him in front of her father. The realization that he could have been a libertine and the fact that he did not love her hurt her more than she cared to admit. She lashed out despite herself. Still, it was no excuse to become a tyrant.
She shrugged.
Her indifference disappointed him. It reminded him of what little regard she had for him. He was pitiful, preferring even her wrath and scorn over her indifference. He nodded and headed over to his horse.
"Wait."
He turned to face her.
Their gaze locked once more, but this time, there was a look of fierce determination in her eyes that made the hair on his arms stand up. Had she finally figured it out?
In an instant, the atmosphere became still and heavily charged. Neither one of them moved nor said anything. The pair of forest-green emeralds gazed incessantly into the wide expanse of the ocean that was Oscar's eyes and vice versa. They searched and questioned each other tirelessly, each of them teetering between sustaining their guards and defenses and giving themselves away as they became conscious of the fact that they were being unmasked by the other.
Holding his gaze, Oscar walked decidedly over to Andre.
She stopped barely an inch from him. Andre held his breath, The anticipation welled up unbearably in his chest. Was that it? Will she unmask him here and there? Perhaps he should act first. Alas, he was arrested in place by the awareness of how dangerously close she stood.
"Your collar," she finally uttered in a small uncharacteristically feminine voice, which caressed the skin on his neck, sending electrifying ripples up and down his spine.
"Hm?" was all he could muster as he swallowed with difficulty.
"Your collar is all wrong." He watched helplessly as she brought her hands up and gripped his collar. Her fingers absently grazed his neck.
The icing on the cake came when she lifted her gaze to look at him again, her eyes ablaze with something he had never thought he would see within Oscar: desire. Pure, flaming passionate desire. Which was directed towards him. Him, Andre.
It was like a déjà vu.
His heart leapt in somersaults as he recalled the very same expression on that woman from last night, right before she asserted to him that she was willing to go as far as it took to find out who he was. It had been this precise moment, this bold and poised declaration that had driven him over the edge, ignited his desire to a point-of-no-return that he would have done anything to possess her.
He placed her hands on hers.
"Oscar…" he said, his voice laden and raspy. He closed his eyes, mentally holding onto the last threads of self-control he had left.
Oscar, was that woman you? Tell me, tell me please and relieve me from this torment… but hard as he tried, he couldn't bring himself to ask her.
"Oui, Andre..." came her response, sensual and sultry.
She looked at him pleadingly, eyes half-closed, and there was no mistaking what she was asking of him.
"Oscar…." He could only manage once more before their lips crashed into each other, finally shattering the suffocating tension that had impregnated the space between them since the night before.
…
"Mm," Andre moaned, as Oscar tugged forcefully on his collar, pulling him closer to her, deepening their kiss.
It had been an improvised plan. The mere sight of this man had become so destabilizing to her to the point that she could not trust herself to confront him directly. She knew instantly that she would lose, just as she had lost that duel on All Hallow's Eve. If anything her career in the military had taught her about battle strategy is that battles were more likely to be won on one's territory rather than on enemy soil. If the man in the Black Mask was indeed Andre, then he would have the advantage over her in a direct confrontation, so she needed to draw him out.
And this time, it was her who played on his weaknesses. A dirty trick, she knew.
Alas, she did not factor in just how terribly and deliciously good it felt when her lips committed the first assault, followed closely by her tongue which unapologetically penetrated his mouth, eliciting throaty moans from her partner, which only served to egg her on in her quest.
Her mouth devoured him just as he devoured her and she seemed to have no intention of stopping.
She knew he would surround her with her arms before long and she needed to act before she found herself trapped in that situation once again.
Although… would it really be so bad? A voice in her head said.
But this was no time for internal monologues and debates. Oscar Francois de Jarjayes had made up her mind.
Her lips glued to his, she became more aggressive in her attack, forcing Andre across the stables, where he found himself plastered to a wall, completely succumbed to her.
"O… Oscar…" he moaned, signalling to her that he was not in the least displeased with this decision.
She should stop. She should stop it now. Execute her plan and simply stop but she could not. Would not.
Instead, her lips took on a life of their own, possessed and propelled by the fire that burnt within her, which had been stifled for so long.
To his surprise, she disengaged from him, placing one hand behind his neck and the other on his hip – dangerously close to his crotch – as she allowed her tongue to trace humid lines across his freshly shaven chiseled jaw. Her lips then skillfully caressed his earlobes, prompting a loud groan from Andre, as he gripped a metallic bar nearby to steady himself.
She then descended to his neck, where she could taste the bittersweet fragrance of his perfume mixed with the saltiness of his sweat. "Mm," she muttered appreciatingly. His skin was soft, tight, warm and absolutely delicious.
Her hand moved lasciviously up his chest and down his right arm that was holding on for dear life.
"Oh… Oscar… Oscar…" he called out, breathless. She observed him avidly: the way his head was thrown back, his dark locks clinging onto his moist forehead, his cheeks flushed, eyes closed and lips parted, allowing all kinds of appreciative noises to escape from his chest which did not cease to heave, breathless with anticipation and desire. He was in raptures. In the thralls of ecstasy. And she was the cause of it. Oh, Andre, you are so beautiful. If only you could see how beautiful you are now.
And to think that she, Oscar Francois could elicit this reaction in a man… And not just any man. To think that she could have such an effect on Andre, that she had the capacity to transport him to such a state, to make him happy, to satisfy him.
It was at this moment that Oscar realized that she had fallen in love with her childhood friend.
And just as she arrived to this life-changing conclusion, her hand had simultaneously landed onto his wrist.
It was thus with the utmost hesitation that she made the next decision. It was now or never.
"Oh…Oscar… Osc-Oscar?" Andre's moans transformed into a panic. "What are you doing…"
I'm sorry Andre. I'm sorry. But I need to know. I hope you will forgive me.
Having felt his partner fumble around with something and then a rough material graze his skin, he instinctively withdrew his hand from her.
But he came up empty as he perceived, with horror, that he was being tied down.
While he was being distracted by her caresses, Oscar had expertly bound him to the metallic bar he was holding on to.
"What the…"
And before he could finish his sentence, she grabbed his other wrist and tied it to a hook in the wall.
"Oscar!" he cried.
He froze in his struggle to free himself as she produced from her pocket a pair of silvery-white gloves.
And with a pained expression on her face, she slipped them onto his hands.
She inhaled sharply and stepped back.
Perfect. It was the perfect fit.
"I… I can explain!" he burst out as he grasped what just happened.
And this was all the confirmation she needed.