Warning: Due to Fanfiction Net ratings, some portions of this chapter are only available on Archive of Our Own. I am not saying this is the sauciest of saucy chapters; but as I am erring on the side of caution, if you prefer to read the WHOLE chapter, I recommend navigating to Archive of Our Own and adding the following to the URL: /works/749807/chapters/150817309

I will put a mid-chapter warning as well.

Chapter XCIV: The Parting of a Veil

For Reinette, it felt like she'd been walking for miles. Cold air in her bones. Wandering in search of answers that were not there. Answers that could not explain the hurt in her throat. The pain of foresight. Able to see the end, but knowing she'd go mad if she pondered the order of things. But the final curtain falling nonetheless. When she returned an hour later…

…and realised the side-door was locked.

And the back garden.

Eventually forced to circle the house, climbing the grand staircase through ice and snow, opting to avoid looking at the transport lorry. Refusing to see the box they'd placed in front of it. Assuming it would be Allegra or Raze in her path, but realising—as she came up from the east and saw his back to her in the west—that it was just him. No advisors this time. No guard rota. He alone was making this choice. And Rena knew of course. Her guard opting to climb into the transport, leaving her to take the long road of farewells. Her bags already gone…and the travel-box waiting for its occupant…

…while he waited for her.

Seated on that top step, his head bowed as the snow collected around him. From afar, looking so lost without his clocks and his bone folder…the hoard of papers that he hid behind. Like he'd forgotten how to exist without them. To the point he could not even open it, the book he must have been holding for all that time. The one object he sought to protect from the elements. Its spine nestled between his hands, covered by the coat he was not wearing.

Theophrastus.

The first book they'd shared.

And it broke through her anger. Reminding her suddenly of shattered glass and a carriage filled with fear and despair. The years she'd spent in his presence, clinging to a vision that in the end would have been her downfall. Her death. Hardly knowing now if it would…or would not happen. But she was too afraid to find out. Even though she wished he could have known.

That he could have seen.

All that she'd seen.

And felt.

Right to the end.

Each moment of their lives carried like a weight beneath her veil. Each step feeling as though it would bury her in the ground, that pain of walking away from him. Choosing life instead of death. Solitude instead of danger. And though youth was hers and she could finally…finally…slit his throat if she wished, it was fate that had changed her path. So that a blood-seer of a thousand years could steal behind a lycan in silence, knowing he could sense her all the same. The cold and the ice that she brought with her serving to set the tone, even though she burned inside.

"I suppose you'll be under house arrest after this," she said, seating herself next to him, so they could both stare ahead. As they so often did in a world where it was all they could do now.

He nodded.

She had expected as much. You could not stab an heir of the North in front of a hundred people without consequences. But it felt like standing on a train platform. Like he was going to war.

"How long?"

His brow pursed.

"It was…"

There was a brief calculation made.

"…four the last time, so…maybe double."

"Ah."

Eight years.

"Will you write?"

It was a facetious question.

But he shook his head.

Honestly.

The pendant-watch on her chest telling her to hurry. That she ought to have spent more time with Sabine after breakfast instead of going for the walk. Yet realising it would only draw more attention to the girl's activities in that moment. And perhaps she would see the girl in a week. Perhaps she would step out of her box in Vienna, and on the other side would be Sabine. But it was a longer road than she wished—starting with a lorry…then a train…and then a ship. All of it feeling odd and unfinished now in their final moment…

…not having any sense how to leave. Their years having included…touch…but only out of necessity. A reach for his shoulder. A hand if she slipped. Perhaps a dozen…or several…of him picking her up when she was inebriated. And of course, he hated shaking hands on a level that had made it exempt from their regular mannerisms, but after nearly twenty-four years he could make an exception.

She put her hand out.

Decisively.

"Goodbye."

To her relief, he took it. A slight smirk finding its way to the surface as he shook the hand once and let go. "Goodbye, Nette."

And that was it.

Using the book as her excuse for avoiding his face. Taking its spine and turning the pages as she climbed down the staircase, unlatching the one side of her travel-box and settling herself into her future. Keeping her eyes on the pages as he began latching the sides. Seeing through a glaze that it was not just Theophrastus, but a host of other treasures he'd placed in the silk interior. Furs to keep her warm. Blood to keep her fed. And of course…

…a new addition to her travel-box. Something she'd failed to notice in her previous evening of refusing to look at let alone enter the box. Like lying against a bed of essays, novels, and poetry, all of which had been built into one corner. On the one hand, fastened with leather straps, but on the other hand, taking up a quarter of precious space with hard objects. In short, it would be uncomfortable in transit…and if he'd thought to ask her opinion, she would have suggested more blankets.

But it was touching.

"Do you need the book back?"

"Depends if you still want to poison me," he said.

And then the cover came down.

A latch.

The sound of nails…

…as her heart began to pound.

Listening for the familiar sound of Line Runners. The crunch of snow as four sets of boots ventured forth. Careful in their manner, but still causing her to brace herself. Quickly reaching for the sides as she felt the box rise gently into the air. Heard…and felt…the scrape of wood sliding into the back of the lorry. Suddenly realising as they backed away that she need not have feared for the care that he'd take with her person. For there had been five sets of hands to send her forth…

…and like a fifth pallbearer to her coffin, he would not see her harmed. All of them working in silence to keep her in good stead. Fastening her with not only rope, but a circle of guards. The sound of hands holding the box in place. Hands to keep her from harm as they tore her away. Even as she could feel him on the other side of the wall. Reaching for his touch. The rough edges that he had sanded down.

Only it was too late now. To tell him that she loved him. That in the darkness of that box, she despaired. Unable to scream when the sound of her future was too loud. Roaring into life as she heard him…the fifth pallbearer of her misfortunes…dropping from the back of the transport. Backing away as the wheels began to turn. Forcing her to close her eyes and focus.

Seeing with every sense…

…and forming a final picture in her mind. As he climbed the stairs again. Lucian. Twenty-four years having given her ample time to mark the timing of his walk. The weight. And how slow it was now. How tired. Waiting until they were out of sight before—in her mind—he reached for his coat.

And she saw.

Without her gift.

She saw what would happen.

First to his future…

…and then hers.

Perhaps not for the first year…or the second…

…but soon.

So that in eight years time, if she did ever meet him again, he would be a different creature. Harsh again. Building his path on lies…and cruelty…and the drug he would now be seeking. Wishing with all of her soul that it had been a keepsake in his pocket. Perhaps a playing card. Or a scent-token. But she knew him too well. That he was reaching for the hip-flask. The one he carried constantly…

…and could not longer do without.

Everyone thinking it was simply how he operated. That it was better to let him seethe in his vices…because they were all—even Raze—too afraid to push him too far. Lest their entire world come crashing down.

Because of a myth.

This notion of a single man…a single blood-line…holding sway over a horde of savagery. A horde once feared not only by vampires…but by his people. Hiding in the pomp and circumstance of the present…yet constantly living in fear of their past. For it had been centuries since those times. Centuries since wild lycans had run the hills. Something she had never fully understood or believed. That it could only be him. That he alone could hold the line. But it was a lie that kept him in power. Kept him prisoner to a myth.

So much that his Council would now keep him under house arrest for a lifetime, unable to get rid of their monarch, yet so eager to keep him alive…and visible. Showing him off to society whenever his demons were conquered. Confirming to all that he…and his people…were in good stead. Kept in the shadows. Surviving the war. Building him up…so much…that every failure became a catastrophe that could endanger a thousand lives. And for the first time in three weeks, she began to question again…why…she was letting it happen. Why she had agreed to this construct. Thinking she required paperwork.

Or was too weak to survive on her own. Choosing safety…and diplomacy…over love. Burying her plans out of bitterness…and complacency…while she waited for his return. Assuming he would be fine. That he would tell someone. Or call out. But it was not in his nature…

…though she could see now what it would cost. This path of unspoken desires that she had chosen. Too afraid to say what she felt. And now wasting precious time, imagining for the first hour of her journey that it was not as serious as she thought. That he'd been flippant at the breakfast table…and if she were to go back, he would be doing exactly as the world expected of him. Packing his bags. Preparing for a different journey.

Only she could hear his voice now. Always. Sometimes dry…and warm….but now like a bullet in her head. Telling her to look to her surroundings. Think on how long it had been. Calculate. The pendant watch giving her the exact time. While a memory held the lay of the land. Warning her of how far she might be from the house now. No shelter for thirty-six miles in all directions, he'd said.

A train to Inverness.

And she could not hold herself back from him any longer. Her nails starting to grow. Easily…and without pity. Drawing the veil back from her face, and feeling that last glaze of water turning into ice.

Stone.

Like dreaming.

She raised herself by an inch.

Listening to the hand on the other side…

…and then like a cat, shoved her nails through the wood. Like it was paper. A guard shrieked, trying to throw himself back from her mercy. But there was no time. And she did not stop to wonder at why it was merciful. Why it was a beautiful thing indeed to pierce her travel box in a dozen places and inflict such terrible pain on the hands of those around her. Instead she listened for their hands…and their fears…and the voice in her head crooning songs, telling her to dance just as Áris had taught her.

Let justice be done.

Even though the world should perish, she thought. For a moment, losing herself in their screams…and then quickly reining herself back from death. Feeling her nails scrape wood as she finally climbed from the box and cornered the last guard. A weeping man. McNally. Taking care to silence…but not kill. Until all of them were sleeping. While Rena continued to drive peacefully as though nothing untoward were occurring in the back of the transport. Reinette taking the furs and placing them over her quarry. Wondering if it was worth trying to hide what she'd done. Or if Rena would give her more time, she thought, peering through the tarp…

…searching.

Feeling the wind at her face…

…and waking from the dream, pulling her veil down again like a curtain. Starting to breathe into her own lungs again. The snow falling quickly across the tracks. Covering her way back…but the road easy enough to follow. Wondering now if it would be faster to cross the open stretch…or if there would be checkpoints. Barriers to a future that seemed so far away now.

But still within reach.

At worst…

…thirty-six miles, she thought.

Stepping off the edge…

…and landing in mud. Ice. Snow. The trenches of the transport that was now leaving her behind. The wool of her dress already weighing her down. Her boots feeling damp…and soon to freeze.

Starting to run.

o…o…o

For an hour…

Two…

…before she saw the house.

Avoiding the open road, she trudged across open ground, using the drifts to hide her path. So many years of walking…every day…for hours…giving surety to her movements. An understanding of where sentries were posted. How often they changed. But it was the light that drove her north. Then the sound. Like a deer seeking warmth, no longer able to feel her toes, so many times had she fallen. Walking through creeks and crossing ice where she could…

…and seeing now that she'd misjudged him.

His capacity for survival.

A hammer loudly ringing out.

So familiar to her, yet so foreign, this workshop he'd kept to himself. Always on the north side of the property. Surrounded by forest when they were in Oppenheim, and dry stone walls now in Durness. The building itself older than the main house…perhaps older than the walls, but kept in good stead by a sturdy hand. Windows open on the second levels, allowing cold air to exchange with the heat. Yet she could see the change that had been wrought. The crates stacked by the closest wall.

Empty.

And through the window, she saw him—the man himself brooding over his work like Hephaestus at the fires of Lemnos. His face already marked by shadow and soot for the two hours he'd been working. Ignoring the crates. Instead burying himself in unfinished plans, perhaps thinking all would work itself out if he just kept to his routine…

…but it would not stop her, she decided.

Too cold to turn back, she pushed against the handle, feeling warmth coming from inside. The freezing stoop with its stone floors persuading her to step forward. Enter the forge. Slipping through the crack of the door, and in the instant of doing so, seeing how much she'd underestimated her task. Thinking it would be easy to find the source of his issues. And with her own hand, trapping herself in a cage.

A wolf's den.

Feeling the heat of the forge. A second fire burning to keep the building warm. Smelling the caustic scent of smoke, iron and steel. Her mind confused by how chaotic it seemed for one whose mind was so tightly ordered. Charcoal piled high in bins. Tools piled on shelves. Cupboards filled with solvents. A multitude of places where a stash might be hidden. And a door in the back, possibly a storage room, calling itself out when he turned, seeking the source of intrusion and nearly dropped his hammer.

Staring at her.

Through the dirt and the grime. Seeming to struggle against the impossibility. Like he could not fathom how she could be standing there. Let alone what it meant for his guard rota that no one had stopped her…

…and then suddenly turning away, taking up the tongs again. Unable to fathom her presence and therefore refusing to acknowledge it. Leaning instead on practicality and the safety of his work. Saying nothing of her crime. And in doing so, giving her leave to wander as she once did. On a ship twenty-four years prior. First to the shelves…and the bins, peering inside as though curious.

A cat wandering.

Knowing his eye was following her back as he pounded the metal. Brutal in his gaze, yet moving in time to a different mistress. His hands now too busy lengthening a hook to pay her any heed. Each step moving with ease to the next. Like he'd done it a hundred times before…

…yet so close to burning himself, she realised. His sleeves rolled up and a leather apron the only thing standing in the way of red-hot metal. The worst kind of place for an argument, she thought. Trying to see the room as he saw it. If he would have hidden everything that Rena suspected was here…or packed it already. He continuing to work and she continuing to stand there. Neither of them making a move. Like she was trying to…step on the wrong square. Trying to force herself forward…

…and then opting to call out instead.

"Lyosha," she said.

Waiting for his answer.

And though he did not look up, he met her at her name, even when it came with great misgiving. No longer a tone of warm farewell but wariness.

"Reinette," he said.

Finally.

"Can we talk?"

"You're meant to be on a lorry," he countered, raising his voice just enough so that she could hear him over the hammer. Speaking without glancing up. Continuing to work with scheduled precision, the hammer striking to a tune she knew was in his head.

And she wished she could alleviate it.

"Are you saying we cannot talk?"

"Not at the moment—no," he said.

Continuing to work.

And she continuing to ignore his chest, arms, and hands, as she moved to the other side of the table, closer to the backroom, but staying clear of his work area. "When would be a better time?"

"Talk to Weylan," he said. "He knows my schedule."

"I've already talked to Weylan," she lied. Evenly. Refusing to allow his schedule to get rid of her. "He said I should talk to you now."

"Well then we are at an impasse," he said. "You wish to talk…and I refuse."

It was like arguing with a wall…

…a stubborn eight-foot wall that had bones at its base, too many odd corners, and morbid charcoal scratchings across its back. Desiring to touch that wall…every day…for twenty-four years. And she did not cower at stubbornness. Or bones. Because she was reliable. She did not throw things. She did not break things. Instead she dwelled…and brooded…and focused on anything that would keep the peace while dealing with a man who made her want to scream at the sun.

She sat down.

Electing to use the bench rather than the stools, which all seemed to be shorter on one leg, despite him having an obsession with balanced furniture. Picking up one of his smaller tongs so she could examine the end. Starting to open and close it. Possibly aware that it was the kind of thing that…truly…got under his skin.

He snapped the metal in half suddenly, the piece he was pounding. "Why are you here?"

"Because you sent me off with another woman's dowry," she shrugged, opting for a half-truth, while studying the floor for any signs of a hiding place.

"You mean the shares that I rightfully own."

"It is her dowry."

"Was…" He was pounding the second half now. Barely stopping for breath, working at a fiendish pace. Loosening a winch, he moved the piece back into the fire again. "…and the moment I gave her my shares in the Northern Pass, the funds became mine."

She started peering at the storage room door again. "Lyosha, even if you think of them as yours, the moment you give them to me…" She put the tongs down. "…it becomes an issue."

"Because of Freyja?"

"Of course not."

"So her dowry is not the problem?"

She frowned. "No, it's the principle."

"Oh good." He had stopped his work finally to stare at her, his expression inscrutable, the glow from the fire adding to its enigma. "For a moment there, I thought it was a touch more complicated than that."

She crossed her legs, starting to brush mud off her skirt. "Perhaps if we talk about it, you can un-complicate it."

"And maybe I've already implied…" He looked down at his hand, counting the numbers off. "…twice…that we're not having this conversation." He turned his back on her, selecting another pair of tongs from the table. The sound of his work starting to become aggravating.

He was quenching the blade now, dipping the glowing end into a metal bucket, the water inside sizzling from the heat. Staring at the blade, now too hard and nearly like glass. Caught in a state of weakness. Fragile enough to crack if it was not tempered, she thought. Wondering if it was her past or her future that had taught her such things.

While he stood there.

Unaware of her inner turmoil. Seeming about to do more…and then abruptly leaving the piece. Stalking off to the other side of the room, already picking through scraps again. Because of course, this was the perfect time to start working on another knife…or trinket…or horse shoe.

The frustration building up. The years spent in patience. Holding her tongue. Adapting her words, her thoughts, her person to his blood-forsaken society…and his temperament. The anger in her head suddenly leaping forward as though it could possibly make things better.

"I'm not leaving until you fix this," she called after him.

He gave her the finger.

Perfect.

She scowled, watching his back for a moment. Trying to put her own finger on why it bothered her so much. Why she'd even mentioned the dowry instead of just…speaking the truth. All the reasons why…things…were not right. Not with Hangrove. Or the funds. Or any of it. Her scowl then fixing on the large hammer on his worktable. And all of it…her inability to guess the location of his stash…suddenly…becoming very simple.

o…o…o

Meanwhile.

Lucian had been working for exactly eight minutes before he noticed the bench was empty. Reinette had moved out of sight, but he could still smell her. Though he was trying…so hard….not to smell her, he thought. Staring at the bench…and then by rote, filling a bucket and scrubbing his hands with soap, getting the last of the grime off his fingers before he sat down to look at the next gear he'd be making. Pulling the drawing closer…only to squint in suspicion. Suddenly feeling a need to seek out whatever it was that was making the hair on his neck rise. Something very off about his work room.

Anvil, tools, knives, horseshoes…

…work table.

Hammer.

The hammer on his work table was missing…and the door to the supply room was slightly open. Two inches ajar. He stared at the door and then looked away, knowing what was about to happen, already starting to repeat the words in his brain. Inner calm…inner calm. There was a loud crash from behind the door. Calm. He was calm. There was another crash. And another.

He shook his head, forcing himself to finish cleaning the fire, shovelling the impurities out. Removing the few clinkers left behind, raking the coke back into the centre and then setting the shovel to the side. The steel brush went back into the bin, and gaining speed, he stalked to the door, pushed it, felt resistance and then shoved it the rest of the way open with his shoulder. Seeing the broken chair partially blocking the door before eyeing the rest of it.

All the shelves had been destroyed. A mountain of wood, scrap metal and tools lying on the floor behind her. But that was not the problem. The problem was that she was standing beside one of his supply tables. The missing hammer in her right hand and in front of her: his Ming Dynasty tea bowl, eight vials of powdered heroin…and a large pile of broken glass. Which she was now scraping into a rubbish bin filled with oily water.

He nearly raised a hand.

Be calm.

That was his entire supply for the next six weeks. The bulk of his precisely-labelled microcosm of order now lying in a pit beside the other five bins she had gone through before finding his stash. There were eight left, which meant she had broken the rest. Eight left. He was four steps too far away. The tea bowl closer to her. The remaining vials laid out in a line across the table. Like prisoners before a firing squad. The key to victory lying in his ability to negotiate.

"Put it down."

"No," she said. And blood, but did it remind him of that first…blood-forsaken…time she refused to learn English. Refused to get in a travel box. Refused to sign her petition for leniency. A finality to her tone. A firm refusal to go any further beyond a line. As though her hand, the one smelling faintly of lycan blood, was no longer willing to pretend it could not do…terrible things…to an opponent.

He took a careful step forward. Still keeping back, but…closer. "Reinette, I do…not…want to fight you."

She smashed a vial in answer.

And it was…

…immediately…arousing. The opposite of what he should have been thinking in that moment. On the one hand, fully aware that she was destroying his world, and on the other, captivated by the sight of her hand on his hammer. Taken aback by what she was doing. Because he ought to be seeing a warrior getting used to a new weapon. An opponent trying to adjust her grip. But she was—unmistakably—stroking the shaft with her thumb. And it was…very…difficult to concentrate while she was doing that. Readying herself for the next act of destruction, while simultaneously shifting him closer to an edge.

Only it was Reinette.

And he could not…do that…to her.

Not Reinette.

Because she was…indifferent…and an ascetic…and whatever was occurring in his mind had no reason for its existence. The heat starting to build in his groin. Trying to focus on his old memories, anything to remind him that beneath that veil, there was…nothing for him…

…but finding it impossible. Like she was daring him to see her. Every uptight portion of her scent, swathed in far too many layers for a sweltering forge, seeming on the one hand…stuck…in her ways and yet entirely aware of herself. A tumultuous sea of…anger…and power.

He felt an eye twitch. "Don't."

She shifted another vial into position, brushing the broken glass aside with the hammer. "You know, for years, Lyosha, your mistresses kept asking me how to make you feel something. And I kept telling them, 'If you really want to get under his skin…" She raised the hammer. "…don't…smash…the porcelain.'"

Crash!

He lunged for the supply table, catching her around the waist. Shoving the hammer up before she could wield it. He was not going to hurt her. But her strength took him aback. Like there was something…malevolent…beneath the veil, baring her teeth as she Changed, trying to wrench herself from his grip. Forcing him to improvise. Twisting her right arm around, so he could wrestle the hammer from her grip…

…only to be scratched across the face. A seething line of pain crossing his cheek. Causing him to jerk back, raising a hand to the wound. Dropping the hammer with a loud clunk that broke one of the stones they were standing on. The thought—firmly entrenched in the memory of having carefully laid those stones himself in 1681—catching on a feeling of domestic horror. She'd broken his fucking floor. Giving no quarter, she kicked out, taking his feet from under him so he fell with a second louder crash.

The breath knocked out of him.

The pain in his back…his hands, his neck failing to explain why she gasped. Why she'd backed away suddenly. A hand pressed to her mouth. Even then it took him a moment to notice. Not just breath. Or pain. The moment seeming unreal. That he should be staring at broken shards in the middle of what had been—up until a few minutes ago—the precisely organised centre of his existence. Refusing to believe it.

Until with shaking fingers, he reached out, lifting one of the shards from the wreckage of his Ming Dynasty tea bowl. Holding it as carefully as a bird with a broken wing…

…and then looking at her.

Reinette.

The level of shock…and uncertainty…in her scent making him realise it. The tea bowl had never been the target. It had just been posturing. And she was just as horrified as he was. Slowly getting down on her knees before him, as though in penance…

…and then removing her veil.

Letting it fall between them. Waiting for him to say something. Knowing what she had done. That it was not just a tea bowl. And yet he could see it building, the obstinacy that kept her facing him. Daring him to be angry with her. The barest hint of red, flushing out her lie even as her scent began to unfold. Ripples of apprehension followed by a depth of heightened awareness. A sense of waiting and longing.

Even in that moment, asking him to see her.

All that lay beneath the dark when he already knew every part of her, whether it was young or old. Reminding him of that first time he saw her feel something. Other than sorrow. Just after they got to Oppenheim. Her lips parted as they listened from the roof of an old opera house. Every note seeming to rob her of her voice. Like a drowning woman finding her way to shore, the sea having stolen everything but the scent on her skin.

Knowing he was lost without that scent. Unable to find his measure. The time that kept him breathing, the presence that kept him sane. Logic telling him to get the hell off his broken floor and leave before it happened. Because it was bound to happen—the two of them breathing in time, staring at one another. He could hear every second of it. Her heart beating across from him.

Beating in time with him.

Reinette.

He dropped the bowl.

Pulling her forward into a kiss, a deep, sensuous probe into a forbidden world. A memory of shadows where death held him by the throat. Tasting her lips, the scent of blood that was always there. A scent that was perfectly in tune with him. Sharp and tangy. Sweeter than hawk's blood. Each breath drawing him further into her embrace. Like being swallowed by waves, the tumultuous surface of water straying over his chest, starting to pull the shirt over his neck. His mind telling him to stop. Think of his responsibilities. Think of the council, his promises, his treaties…

But she was untying things, her hands making short work of the leather. Precise in her method, managing to remove things without tearing them. He could feel them sinking towards the ground, cold beneath his back, but his skin warm as her nails followed the path of her mouth. It was a sensation he had not felt in…centuries. The taste of poison, the tongue of a vampire on his throat. The breeches undone and her hands seeking their target.

Fade to black.

Content warning: This story is rated Mature. I am not saying this is the sauciest of saucy chapter, but as I am erring on the side of caution, the full text of Chapter 94 is on Archive of Our Own. If you want to read the full text, navigate to Archive of Our Own and add the following to the URL: /works/749807/chapters/150817309

Unfade from black.

Time seeming to abandon him so that he could not tell how how long it took them to couple, only that her scent was drawing her to the end of it. The dance winding tighter and tighter until she cried out, her body shuddering in his arms. Holding him in a vice-like grip that made him spasm in the same moment, his breath caught in the centre of a storm. As though every atom of his soul had drawn itself out from his arms, his legs, his chest…leaving him empty.

Spent.

His lust, his hunger, his need…all of it drawing to a close. A desperate, swift, and undeniable close as he pulled himself back, collapsing beside her. His breath held by her face, her chest, every inch of her being. Her breasts rising up and down. Every angle now holding a new wonder for him. And her body now covered in his scent. The hair free from its veil, just grazing her shoulders. A flush now moving quickly from her breasts to her cheeks. Trying to speak. The scent of all that she was feeling still riding on her lower half like silk floating on an open sea.

Looking dazed…

…but her breath finally transforming into a sentence.

"I think I broke your tea bowl," she managed. Glancing uncertainly at him rather than the hammer still visible through the open supply room. Her expression both foreign and familiar, reminding him of all the reasons he nearly left her behind so many years ago. And all the reasons he could not, he realised, reaching forward to shift a strand from her forehead.

"I noticed," he said.

Still breathing hard and forced to leave it at that. Her skin next to him. The quiet sitting between them for a measure. His world peaceful as long as they stayed in that room. His responsibilities, his council, his den…all of it left outside. He didn't even want to think about the broken vials of heroin. The hell that was about to put him through. And the moment suddenly broken as she shifted slightly away from him.

"Do you…" She sat up, looking to an overturned bucket. "…do you have clean water?"

He pushed himself up on his elbows. "I might."

She waited.

Clearly wanting him to do something. He waited for her to go on. Did she want a basin? Or a bucket? Did she want to wash in it…did she want to bathe?

She gave him a meaningful look.

Meaning what, he thought with a careless squint.

She sighed, the sound veering towards exasperation. "Never mind," she said tightly, shifting away from him. Starting to gather the remains of her torn stockings, her back now towards him. Trying to hide what they had both just seen, the blood-stain on the one she'd been lying on. Her frown suggesting she'd not quite figured something out and for that matter, he should mind his own business. A difficult ask considering he was unfamiliar with the concept.

He rolled himself off his back and sat up. "Is that what I think it is?"

A furious blush rose on her cheeks. "Of course not…"

Now he was concerned.

"Too rough?"

"No."

"Time of the month?"

"Oh my blood, Lyosha, can you please stop talking about my time of the month?"

"I wouldn't mind if it was."

"It is not that."

He pointed. "Then why are you…"

"It tore."

He frowned in curiosity. "But I thought…"

"Can you just get the water," she asked. There was no please this time. She looked harangued for some reason, the words coming out in a frustrated whisper. And this was the part where he sometimes…

…faltered.

Regardless of how much pleasure he could provide in a bedroom. Realising now that he'd been staring at her for ten seconds too long. Then quickly rolling off the table to find a clean bucket. Filling it at the water barrel and returning to the table. Feeling his brow furrow, he placed the bucket on the table and lay down beside her again, working the rest out in his head. Watching her dip the edge of her stockings. Trying to decide if he should say something. Was that even possible, he wondered. She was a thousand years old, so he'd just assumed that was…

…impossible.

Fuck.

He should say something.

She turned on him, whispering in a hiss. "Don't…say…a word."

"I didn't say anything."

"You were thinking it."

I might have been, he retorted inwardly. Not entirely free of several assumptions that—thanks to an uncomfortably long conversation with Allegra three hundred years ago—he now knew to be wrong. His frown now ambling to the spot where the 'H' on her side was. Because technically, that was a burn from…before…she fell off the roof. Which had not healed when she became young again.

So…

…how could a hymen…tear…if it was…unlikely…to be intact after a thousand years, he wondered. The thought continuing for another good measure. One that he knew was treading on dangerous ground, but still caused him to turn, regarding her in a manner that he hoped would come across as casual. "Are you sure you're alright?"

"I'm fine," she said. Like it was odd for him to be asking. And yet she still smelled mortified for some reason, like Lady MacBeth trying to scrub the red away. "I simply…was…" She made a gesture, not quite looking at him. "…not expecting…that…to happen, but…it's fine…."

"As long as it didn't hurt?"

"It didn't hurt."

"And you'd tell me?"

She'd given up on the stocking. The lack of something to do with her hands enough to make her look at him again. The faint smell of irritation starting to rise between the layers of mortification. The sense that she was having to deal with someone half her age. Relaxing again, but still on her guard as she looked at him. "Lyosha, are you trying to be patronising?"

"No," he said quickly. "I just…" He hated to point it out, but…yes, he had seven hundred years of sexual experience. "…I think if it bleeds…"

Her voice was cold and expressionless. "Then what?"

"Well, it…"

It occurred to him that he'd just put himself in a precarious position; that of a man attempting to cast…doubt…on the possibility of her hymen being intact after a thousand years of riding horses, regardless of who she had or had not been fucking…and by her scent, he was about ten words away from having her throw a hammer at him…

…but he digressed.

"…I just…think…it's…" Five words left. "…possible…that if you're bleeding, it's probably because…" His hand went up, partially in peace, but mostly as a potential shield. "…it's been awhile…and I was going too fast, so…" He indicated the space between them. "…maybe we can…do something else next time or…" He could hear his voice petering out. "…you know…not."

"Not?"

She looked confused.

Oh fuck.

"I'm not saying I don't want to fuck," he added. "But I can…take it…so…much slower…or do other things—or we can just pause—if that makes sense."

And shit.

He'd lost a handle on her scent.

Her eyes now suspicious, yet staring at him as though he'd said something profound. Even though he was just repeating what Allegra had explained to him during the same talk when he found out about hymens. But apparently he'd said the right thing. Reinette continuing to stare at him and then slowly leaning down to kiss him. "If there is a next time," she said, finally letting herself lie down beside him again. "…I will talk to you."

Good.

He settled back down.

And then he glanced over. "Was it…good?"

"I think so."

He grinned. "You think?"

She looked ready to roll her eyes. Her scent attempting to judge him for his cockiness, but the smile starting to reflect his own. "I have nothing to compare it to, but yes, I think…it was…good," she said. Looking at one of his hands. Focusing then on tracing his neck. And he knew it was hard for her. Not knowing her past. Not knowing how that…fuck of a vampire…might have treated her. But he was here…and Kolya was not. So if he could make her smile with a word, he would do it.

"Because if it was good…" He started tracing a similar line on her back. "…then I think—for the sake of comparison, Nette—you really ought to try me a second time when you're feeling up to it…"

"For the sake of comparison?"

"Yes."

She was examining one of his nails now. "And what if I wanted to compare you with someone else?"

"Then I would count myself lucky that you gave me a night," he said. Allowing her to entwine their hands…and feeling oddly…content. Like holding ice in the warmth of his palm. "Although I don't see any other contenders."

"Not yet," she said in warning. Her scent at odds with her words. Her tone starting to soften as it often did when he found the trick. The key to swaying her anger before it hardened again. But her smell abruptly distancing itself as she slipped off the table. Her practicality taking hold as she picked her way through the pile they'd left on the floor. Everything was torn.

He frowned over the pile. "You could blame Rena," he said. "Or Langley. He's rubbish at laundering."

She stood up straight, giving him a look that said she was not looking for his humour right now, and for that matter, if he wanted to be helpful, maybe he ought not to have torn everything in the first place.

"How about a horse-blanket?"

"Lyosha…"

"It's an option," he countered before she bit his head off. "Or we use the curtains," he said, indicating the upper windows. "…but I think you'll want those in about five hours."

"Shit," she said. Kneeling on the floor, staring at the time on her pendant-watch. Eyes going first to the supply room before peering at the windows on the second level. "Is there not a secret way back to the house?"

He indicated the walls, fully prepared to bask in her disappointment. "It's a forge."

She sighed. "No back door?"

He gave a slow shake of the head, simply content now to watch her standing naked in his place of work.

It was mesmerising.

The kind of thing he'd spent so long purposefully ignoring…or ravishing…that he'd failed to spend time simply…taking it all in. Her awareness of him staring at the dimples on her backside seeming to bother her less than her usual predicament of having him destroy her things by his carelessness. Holding the two pieces of her coat up and then dropping them on the grimy floor. "Does it not connect to the sewage tunnels?"

"You mean a grate?"

She looked up in hope. "Yes?"

"No," he said. "…because it's still just a forge."

She narrowed an eye, reaching for her veil, looking as though she were about to pin the thing. And then giving up when it became apparent she'd lost the necessary implements. As usual, now taking it in her head to choose a different topic when the first one wasn't going anywhere. "Are you going to keep lying there?"

"I can lie here as long as I want to," he reflected.

"Because it's your forge."

"Exactly."

"Not useful," she muttered. Finding her boots and proceeding to roll the rest of her undergarments into the ruined coat. She then stood up to scrutinise the room. "Did I leave anything else?"

"You mean on my forge," he asked, indicating the spot where she'd been straddling him about twenty-two minutes ago. Watching her take his words, eat them and spit them out again with a look. But anything to keep her standing there for another minute. Waiting for her to come back to him, even as he turned the wheel of his work table, slightly increasing the height. The view making him hard again. So…very hard.

She climbed onto the table, dropping the ruined clothing in a heap. "Are you insinuating something?"

He grinned. "No."

o…o…o

Twenty-eight minutes later.

It had taken a moment to figure it out. The possibility of her being sore leading him to lower quarry, only for her to stop his mouth before it could get too adventurous. But he would be ready when she was, he thought optimistically. Which brought him back to the present. Because she'd pushed him onto his back. And now there was…

…sweat.

Honest to blood-forsaken sweat coming out of every single pore of his body. His muscles felt like water. As though she'd sucked every ounce of liquid from his skin and then poured it back in with her lips. Leaving him exhausted. It could have been hours that passed…or minutes. He'd lost track of time. Blood…he'd lost track…of time.

"How is it…" His tongue was dry. Rasping. "…that you…know…something like that?"

She was catching her breath as well. Finally sitting up and straddling his torso. "I don't remember," she said, leaning forward and holding him down by the shoulders. "But that does not mean I have forgotten." She used a kiss to raise his jaw. "Do we understand each other?"

He let himself stay down…and then nodded, still breathing hard. "Perfectly."

"I have to go."

"Or you could stay."

"Where?"

His hand encircled her waist. Her scent. She smelled of him…everything they had just done. "Supply room," he said. Relaxing under the familiar weight, wishing he could keep lying to himself about their choices. "Or is there not a minor contingent of guards looking for you right now?"

"Depends if Rena kept driving," she mused.

Sounding tired.

He nodded, and then reached higher, his arms enfolding her until it felt like a warm cocoon. "Are you going to tell me what happened there?"

"No," she said.

Resting on his chest.

And then it took another turn.

Her hand reaching out from her cocoon, forcing him to look down at her.

"Are you going to stop using heroin?" she asked.

Bold and unashamed in her stare.

His Reinette.

Nestled in his arms.

Aware of how easy it was for him to lie before the symptoms started. The need to scratch. Tear off his skin. Feeling ill already as he thought about it. Ashamed that she could see through him, reaching her hand out again. Touching his cheek.

"Just try," she said, holding his gaze. Seeing the long road ahead. And then, ripping off the sensation of warmth with her next words. "Because you'll be going into withdrawal soon…and I need clothing, so you have to call Singe."

He started laughing. "I am not calling Singe."

"Yes, you are."

"Or?"

She got off him. "I'll throw your clothing into the fire."

"I feel like I could handle that," he said, rolling off the table as well. Blood, it smelled of…so much…Reinette. The kind of scent he wanted on him. But there was no…possible way…he was calling Singe. Like throwing ice-cold water on his cock followed by a two-hour lecture on the various methods one could use to silence a libido. Which he'd experienced so no…he was not calling Singe.

Or at least not yet, he thought, finding his watch in the pile. The calculation already starting. Five hours until dawn. His next Line meeting was at four…and he needed time to clean up the supply room. Warn Langley that he'd be having his dinner in the forge…with extra blood on the side. And yes…after that, he'd need to handle the withdrawal. Which left…

"Give me two hours," he said. Sinking to his knees as he looked up at her. Blood, she was beautiful. She now stank of wood-smoke…and he of charcoal…but she was beautiful.

"For what?"

"Something better."

He got up, heading to the supply room again. Picking his way through the mess until he found what he was looking for. Dragging his find about a foot before noticing how loud it was. Carrying it the rest of the way while Reinette watched, her scent suggesting a profound lack of trust in his ability to fit it through a doorway. Fortunately for her, he knew the precise measurements because he'd built the damn thing. So other than having to wait—and not say anything while he removed the door hinges—all she had to do was trust him.

And she did.

Fifteen minutes later, he was back at the forge. All the curtains drawn. Content now to finish the last piece he'd started. A knife. Knowing it was dangerous to be working metal while watching her, but feeling inspired by the view. She was using the old copper bath from the supply room, the water filled up with metal buckets from the barrel and heated with coals, her eyes watching him over the brim as she scrubbed her arms with soap, seeming more content in water than he'd ever seen her in clothes. It was like a drug. Watching her bathe.

And yes.

He'd get clothing for her.

Eventually.

A/N: Well, that took ages! Twenty-four years for Lucian and Reinette, and only sixteen years and counting in real life. On that note, thank you immensely to NightStalkers and Guest for your reviews! You were the wind beneath my wings for writing this chapter (in short, I received your reviews yesterday...and I finished the chapter today). That is why encouraging reviews are so important. Thank you. To anyone else reading, if you enjoy the story and wish to encourage, please read and review. On that note, onwards!