His words, emitted in a cold and dispassionate timbre, shocked Elle to where her senses were slow to register their meaning as a tremor scaled high on her spine.
Her heart beat in all manners beneath her skin, its rhythm gripped by a heap of cold, contracting emotions; forcing her breaths in rapid succession. Monster Beast. Murderer. All the things that incited terror, wrapped in three bone-chilling words: I killed her.
Although he had not alluded to the her in question, Elle knew as to who he referred – this frightening specter that even now, had such powerful persuasion over him. She chose to remain reticent on that ghost from his past, so as not to expose Lucy and the fact that the maid knew far more than what was deemed appropriate discourse between them.
"I have shocked you," came his reply.
Shifting her weight from one foot to the other, she wrestled with brisk exhalations, her heart matching each fleeting breath in like momentum. "It was nothing I had not requested." She replied, stunned by his candid and alarming revelation.
"Nay," Rossetti protested, "If I recall, you endeavored to be moved by fear, but you are not afraid, are you?" he asked with a trace of wonder.
Inclining her head, Elle took a moment to assess her feelings, for there were many that fueled the frenzied rap of her heart, some unintelligible, others painfully transparent, but namely, a strong unwillingness to believe him anything but a monster. As for fear – she imagined it lay somewhere subconsciously, but surprisingly, it had not materialized despite his grim admission.
"I would have you know," Rossetti continued, his voice assuming an inflection of inexorable hardness, any infrequent softness quelled by some dark, incomprehensible sentiment. "Where I'm concerned, the rumors fall nothing short of the truth."
He gave his heart to a de Ceville witch, Lucy's daunting account stirred at the rear of her bustling thoughts, and she found herself asking, "Is it true then? Are you cursed?"
"'Damned' would be a far more befitting term."
"How is that possible?" Elle asked, bewildered.
Silence lengthened between them, but the uneasy air crooned with subdued friction, coiled tight beneath his deceptive calm. It imprinted on her senses, this asphyxiating darkness indicative of insurmountable pain and anguish. It filched the breath from her lungs, like a cunning thief pilfering precious treasures.
"I courted an evil," Rossetti offered, "And in consequence, forfeited my soul."
And your heart ... she wondered forlornly.
Prone to an open mind, but retaining a good measure of practicality, Elle struggled to accept his outlandish admission. A bit of unruly hearsay hardly constituted as proof that a man was cursed, or that a person had the innate ability to wield or weave supernatural power over another being. It was unheard of – unthinkable. Then how do you explain your visions of the sea? Do you not believe that a phenomenon in itself? Dismissing those contrary thoughts. "Why would this ... witch, curse you?" she impugned, disinclined to believe that such things existed, much less give it voice or reason. "Why this ... lasting misfortune?"
A prickling sensation hurried across her skin and somehow, Elle knew that his eyes canvassed her, taking in every little detail, roving the bared parts of her, that heated regard goading in her, a sudden fidgeting.
"You have a knack for softening things meant to be harsh, nymph." Rossetti paused, then added in a huskier tone. "Including myself."
Her mouth fell open, his unforeseen honesty stealing a tiny parcel of her heart.
Elle moistened her lips, feeling the dryness there, wanting him to say more, needing more. She wanted to amass all his secrets, even the untried, horrific parts eclipsed by apathy and rage. No matter the risk to herself.
Her nails curled inward, catching the heels of her hands with a slight smarting. "Will you tell me?"
Rossetti remained quiet and she knew he warred with that internal impulse to evade her inquiries, to deflect her questions with inherent hostility and snarls, as he was apt to do, so she was not prepared for when his reply came. "I betrayed Sera."
Sera. The name shuddered across her mind like an ominous whisper, a shiver trailing the ridges of her spine as she recalled those Lucy had rendered earlier in secret. Veda and Seraphine. The de Ceville sisters. The de Ceville ... witches.
"And then you ... k-killed her?" Elle queried in a restricted breath.
"I took lives for her," Rossetti stated, evading her inquiry. "An entire village to be exact."
Her breath stalled.
Nonchalant, that was the nature of his tone. The words cold and detached from any real emotion. Intuitively, Elle knew he was being callous – a deliberate stab to frighten her, and though she tried to appear unaffected, on the inside, her stomach heaved with a modicum of alarm and disbelief. "All those people ..." she muttered more to herself, retreating a step. "Women and ..." she paled, her hand coming up to smother a gasp. "Children."
His boots dragged against the floor, drawing him closer, advancing her step and more. His massive frame filled the spaces all around her, immersing her in rich spices and a heady, masculine heat. Seizing her hands in his much larger ones, he crushed them against his bare chest, saying in a low and rough murmur. "Touch me and you will find the monster you have refuted. You will find that my wrongdoings are not without consequence."
Her breath sputtered in her throat as her heart answered with an echoing leap. You wanted this, came an insistent voice at the back of her indecision.
"Have I dissuaded you?"
Elle nearly recoiled at the rancor in his tone, but was taken aback by something else entirely, something, she surmised, that would have gone undetected by others. But for someone like her, with ears heightened to an extraordinary degree, it had rung palpable and clear. Beneath all that inflection of rage and fire, there had been a small, involuntary break – a glimmer of emotion that most would have believed him devoid of.
Remorse. It was there. An imperceptible aperture to the wounded, broken soul within. To endure regret would imply that one had committed a terrible and unspeakable injustice. Just what did he grieve? The lives he alleged to have taken? The village destroyed? The woman, Sera, whom he had loved and then ... murdered?
Biting her lip, her fingers flexed tentatively beneath the bruising force of his hands, finding the muscle bunched beneath. Heart pounding, she felt a heat gather behind her ears at the intimacy of touching a man's naked chest. Shifting uneasily on her feet, her teeth found her bottom lip, worrying it as a feeling of ambivalence crept over her.
"Come now, nymph," Rossetti's dark but strained voice encouraged, his hands at last falling away, "Do not shy away from that avid curiosity of yours."
Her heart stammered against her breast with momentous thumps; certain that he could hear its thunderous vibration. Unable to draw in a deep, heartening breath, she settled for a shaky, fragmented inhale.
Despite his urging, Rossetti had gone terribly still, and Elle understood that this was no easy feat for him. Knowing that, she wanted to soothe away his discomfort – relieve the strain from his unyielding muscles and mend his dismantled soul. A force to be reckoned with, this self-professed monster, and yet, he would endure her touch. What did that mean for them? Did he trust her? Did he feel something for her? It was enough – that small, unspecified entity, to embolden her.
Hands trembling, Elle drew them in a slow and unhurried manner across his chest, keeping her touch innocuous, although the rigid brawn beneath belied his stony, casual indifference.
His chest was simply – enormous, and although having no sight to support or compare her claims, she was confident that his stature and size was remarkable – incomparable, with shoulders twice the breadth of other men, easily filling every threshold, and strong enough to support his incessant demons. She felt this in the electrically charged air circulating them, in the harsh, ragged breaths that rumbled through his massive chest and in the virile energy that pooled all around her.
She drew her fingers gingerly across his torso – and stiffened with a sharp intake of breath.
His hands immediately shackled her wrists, thwarting further exploration, those fingers curling around that fragile part of bone, the force of it almost crushing.
For a space of several erratic heartbeats, neither of them moved, nothing was said, no sound permitted but the rush of their mingled breaths as she braced for his anger. And yet, the air was alive with all the dizzying suspense and thought-provoking intrigue.
After what seemed a lifetime of measured breaths, to her surprise, his grip slackened and released, leaving her to her own devices.
Rossetti's breathing changed, the sound deepening, growing louder and uneven in her ears.
Beneath her fingers, the skin stretched taut over solid muscle and bone. It emerged, not smooth and unmarked, but rather a labyrinth of thick, angry scars. They met in a vicious, violent pattern beneath her palms; jagged lines pitted against ravaged ones, running in all directions of the protruding muscle that defined his upper chest and abdomen. With bated breath, she delicately traced her fingers across his ribs, each indentation coming away as webs of marred flesh. They were reminiscent of pain and suffering, the savagery of it fracturing parts of her heart, bringing the stinging presence of tears to her eyes. How could anyone do this to another person? Did they run the entire length of his body? His face?
Her throat drew tight around the emotion that welled there, and she managed in a tremulous voice. "Do they hurt?"
"That was the idea."
His response tugged at her rupturing heart and she had to quell the urge to massage that pang away, but his scars, his pain, was etched permanently into her brain.
As she grappled with the disheartening depiction her fingers had made visible, Rossetti broke away from her hands with a deep growl. "Do not waste your tears on me." He snapped, his voice turning acrid, each syllable strained with mounting disdain. "I do not want your pity."
A tear slipped beneath her lashes as she said in a gentle voice, "This changes nothing."
A stunned silence, and then, "How can you say that?" Rossetti demanded, incredulous.
Elle shook her head, entwining her hands and pressing them against her chest, resisting the impulse to reach for him. "You are not your scars any more than I am my blindness."
He made a deep, guttural sound before she was snatched by the arms and hauled against him. "Damn you!" Rossetti hissed, his breath a roar of warmth against her wet face, realizing more tears had crested her cheeks.
Instinctively, she stiffened against the shocking hardness of his body aligned with hers, feeling a flicker of alarm, but it was short-lived for, even snared in his crushing embrace, she knew he would not hurt her.
Time stood still as he clutched her to him, his grip unbreakable, but not painful. Their bodies meshed. Their breaths collided. Warmth spread across her chest as he turned his face into the crook of her neck, that hard, unsmiling mouth climbing to nuzzle the sensitive skin just below her ear.
"You are untried by fear," Rossetti whispered, sending chills to sprint in a maddening thrill across her skin. "Had you any real experience, you would not let me touch you – want you." His mouth dipped south, the scar there grazing her naked shoulder. "Had you any self-preservation, you would resist me."
Before she could fully grasp his meaning or recover from the dizzying effect of his mouth, he shoved away from her, the sound of his boots receding behind the deafening slam of a door.