"Get up," Tenebrarum ordered. "You said anything."
"Yes," Aurelia whispered. "Don't hurt her… please."
She rose slowly, her movements careful, one hand lifting to wipe the tears that refused to stay away.
The word anything echoed in her mind, heavy and unavoidable.
"That anything begins now," he said coldly. "Remove your clothing."
"My lord?"
Her voice faltered as she looked at him, confusion and dread tangling together. She did not understand—could not understand—what he intended. The command struck her like a blade, sharp and humiliating, leaving no room to retreat.
Her fingers trembled at her sleeves as the weight of his judgment settled fully upon her. Whatever this was, it was not mercy.
Her breath came faster. Sorana's face flashed through her mind—fearful, bound, waiting for death. Aurelia pressed her hand briefly to her forehead, as if steadying herself, as tears welled again despite her effort to be strong.
She swallowed.
"Yes…. my lord," she whispered.
Her hands moved slowly, unsteady, obeying even as shame burned through her. She did not look at him. She could not. Each motion felt heavier than the last, not from desire, but from the weight of what she was surrendering.
When she stopped, she stood still, exposed and naked.
Her dignity laid bare before him.
Why was she so ashamed, he had seen this before...haven't he?
She walked toward him slowly, certain he wanted her closer. Her fingers drifted over his chest.
Slowly pressing her bare chest on his body.
"No, Flavia." His voice cut through the room, calm and final.
"You stay on the platform. I draw."
She walked to the platform and stood upon it, straight and rigid, her posture defensive.
"No. Lie down." Tenebrarum's command was quiet but absolute.
She obeyed, settling onto the cold surface, her gaze fixed downward.
"Chin up."
She lifted her head. Then, in the heavy silence, she heard it—the soft, grating whisper of charcoal beginning to move across the page.
His hand moved as his eyes did—from the fall of her hair down the landscape of her body. Charcoal outlined, then paint followed, mixing to capture the faint gold, the rose, the blue-veined white of her skin.
Fatigue was a weight in her bones. Hunger gnawed quietly. Her shoulder sank down, just a centimeter, a silent plea for respite.
"Do not move."
The command froze the air. With a pointed stare, he willed her back into the previous line, the previous breath, as if erasing her will with his own.
Time dissolved into the scratch of charcoal and the scent of drying paint. The longer Aurelia held the pose, the more her eyes betrayed her, returning again and again to the shape of him in the shadows. She hated the traitorous heat under her skin, the way her heart tapped a frantic rhythm against her ribs. Especially because he hadn't come closer.
Tenebrarum's hand never paused, but his gaze lifted from the page and found hers in the semi-darkness. A long, silent look passed between them—one that felt heavier than any touch.
Then, without a word, he set the charcoal down.
The silence it left behind was no longer that of a studio, but of a shared room heavy with what was unsaid.
Then, he was moving—not toward his palette or his tools, but toward her.
Tenebrarum didn't mount the platform. Instead, he knelt beside it, bringing his mask same level with her lips.
"You're shaking."
His voice was lower, closer than it had been in weeks.
Aurelia couldn't speak. She could only feel—the tremor in her limbs, the memory of his touch, the cold space that had grown between them since he'd last reached for her like this.
He watched the pulse fluttering at the base of her neck. His own stillness felt like a question.
"Is it fear?" he asked, the words quiet, intimate, and weighted with everything they hadn't said. "Or is it something else?"
"I'm done. You should leave."he whispered into the space beside her ear. His breath stirred the fine hairs at her temple, but the words were a dismissal.
She stood, the movement stiff with spent energy and something colder. She gathered her clothing in silence, the fabric rustling softly in the charged quiet of the studio.
Her hand was on the door when she stopped. The cold metal of the handle beneath her palm was a sudden, sharp anchor.
A memory surfaced, sharp and unbidden—the heat of his breath, the nearness of his lips to hers.
She turned to face him. His mask, that polished, expressionless shell, stared back, reflecting the flickering candlelight and the uncertain shape of her own face.
What are you doing?
Thoughts flew into her head, but she couldn't control the fact she wanted him.
"Can I stay?" Aurelia asked. The words felt too fragile for the silence they broke.
"And why?" She heard the ghost of a laugh pass his lips—a dry, humorless sound. "You are tired. You are hungry. I have finished my work. Give me one reason you should not go."
"You asked if it was fear," she said, taking a single step toward him. "It wasn't. Let me stay, and I will show you what it was."
Her words struck him like a physical blow. The certainty of her desire— for him—cut through the drawingroom slowly.
It was not a plea. It was her confession.
He moved suddenly, closing the distance between them in two sharp strides. His hands came up, cradling her face, his thumbs pressing against the pulse points beneath her jaw.
His mask was so close she could see the faint, flawed brushstrokes in its lacquered surface, her own fragmented reflection staring back.
"You want to be real?" His voice was a low, rough scrape against the silence. "Then feel this."
He lifted his mask slowly, just enough to reveal his lips—a silent offering in the dim light. Then he closed the final breath of distance between them and kissed her.
It began as a question, soft and searching, a delicate touch that asked for permission her body had already given. The stiff leather of his gloves gentled against her cheeks, cradling her face as if she were something fragile and infinitely precious.
Aurelia melted into him. A sigh escaped her, warm against his mouth, and her hands rose to rest upon his chest, her fingers curling into the fine fabric of his shirt.
Tenebrarum deepened the kiss.
His lips parted, inviting hers to do the same, and the touch of his tongue to hers was a slow, deliberate exploration.
It was not a clash, but a dance—a deep, languid reunion that tasted of longing and the sweet, familiar heat that only they shared.
There was only this: the shared warmth of their breath, the gentle, claiming pressure of his mouth on hers, and the slow, sure rhythm of two hearts finding their way back to the same beat.
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To be continued...