Our Dark Prince (The Scottish Play) - On Hold

LXXIV. Eat Your Darlings

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   The evening was like something out of an art piece for Lolita, and Robin was the rough painterʼs streak that brought everything full circle. The antipasto was an exquisite Milanese salad; the room steaming with the warmth of saffron risotto. Voltaire sat at one side of the table, wordless, like he had just seen a ghost, and Lolita sat at the other half, studying the room.

Robinʼs guests, the famed, fabled Filippino knights, Aniko and Amadís de Gaul of Spain, did little to ease her anxiety. Their eyes were like the sun, burning and smoldering, a mirage where the sunʼt fiery breath would cut them all to the ground. And the worst part of their beauty, and the beauty that surrounded them, was the fact Lolita was enamored by Robin. Desperately, deeply attracted. Intoxicated.

    The memories of her breath wrapped around Lolitaʼs lips like smoke rings and cigarettes, and she succumbed to her will slowly; swallowing her. She was her sugar, liquor that makes a one-too-many a one-more-ʼcause-itʼs-never-enough. As she brought her white wine to her lips, yearning for the ache they provided her tastebuds, for the duality of it all – the pained thoughts they provided. She ate wordlessly, a sharp, brief pain that tremored through her. A sweet, sweet pulse through Lucifer. The Italian cuisine, the wine. Everythingʼs full, heated. Kissing her until kissing is torture.

    "Eat up," Robin told the room. "Foodʼs too good to go to waste."

    Drunken poison.

    Lolita starved, her hunger eating her up in morsels, but she didnʼt touch the food. Voltaire and the de Gaul twins were frozen, not eating as well.

    "Theyʼre not moving," Lolita noted.

    "Weʼre using borrowed time," Robin replied simply. "This conversation isnʼt meant for prying eyes...prying ears."

    Translation: weʼre alone and sheʼs going to kill me.

    Lolita twirled, unflinching. The sight of blood terrified her no longer, just the sheer hunger and the ease her body was willing to surrender to. Nice things were often dressed up in chicanery.

    "Start from the beginning."

    Robin dipped her fork delicately into the risotto, drizzling it in cheese. She smiled softly, never leaving Lolitaʼs gaze.

    "What would you like to know, Lolita?"

    "Everything. Start from the beginning."

    Robin smiled, coy.

    "My name is Robin DeMarcus."

    Lying, smug b*tch.

    Lolita folded her arms together, deciding to call her bluff.

    "Who are your parents?" she challenged.

    Robin swallowed, cocking a brow, curious.

    "Margaret and Peter Tudor."

    Bullsh*t.

    "Your biological parents," Lolita snapped.

    Robin held her tongue, her gaze icy and cold. Lolita thought sheʼd had Robin memorized up to this point, and yet, the woman before her was a stranger. Her lover, or the façade, billowed away like the steam from the risotto. And Lolita, through it all, felt hungry.

    "My biological parents are dead to me, Lolita. Margaret and Peter are my parents."

    Drunken poison.