IN FULL COLOUR - Dark Fantasy

Axel

It was 19h00 on the dot when I walked into the private dining room in the Alpha’s wing of the main building. The room was dim-lit with magnificent crystal chandeliers hanging from chains embedded into the high ceiling and a collection of short fat candles gathered in the centre of the white stone table. Dark green vines of ivy were draped around each candle, the same colour as the fabric napkins that have been folded neatly and placed in the centre of each plate setting.

The table was big enough to accommodate six people, but there were only two chairs. One on each end, furthest from each other.

Wonderful aromas of meat, gravy and steamed vegetables floated around me as I took my first reluctant step into the room. In the soft glow of the stubby candles, I could see her already seated at the opposite end of the table. She did not look up, but I knew she was well aware of my presence.

Without a word, I made my way towards the empty seat and pulled it out. The wooden legs of my chair scraped along the floor and echoed through the silence. As soon as I sat down, her eyes glazed over, and two maids entered. Swiftly and effortlessly, they glided through the room carrying a plate in each hand.

One came to me and the other went to her. The maid placed the large plate, which was covered by a shiny silver lid in front of me, and to my right, she placed a slightly smaller plate with a roll of freshly baked bread and two cubes of butter. It smelled wonderful.

As she lifted the silver lid, I gave her a nod of approval and saw her cheeks turn a bright red. Even with a black eye, I still had my undying charm.

She nodded back and scurried out of the room like something had chased her away, the other maid short on her heels.

I looked up, but she was avoiding my gaze, keeping her eyes focused on the plate in front of her.

Her long, dark lashes hiding the caramel orbs from my view. I had only ever seen her briefly, except for that photo my mother had sent, and this was the first time I truly got to look at her. Her dark brown, almost black hair was pulled back on one side of her face and fastened with a golden hair clip. The rest of her hair hang in soft curls over her back and a stray curl had escaped, hanging over her delicate shoulder.

She was wearing a pale blue summer dress with a tiny golden print, perfect for the occasion. I wasn’t entirely sure what to wear myself and eventually settled for a deep blue button-up shirt and charcoal pants. I hadn’t bothered to shave either, so a shade of stubble had formed over the bottom half of my face, which I knew would look even darker in the dimness of the room.

She had begun eating, but kept her gaze low, avoiding mine. Not once has she looked up to even sneak a peek.

The food smelled wonderful but as I looked down, my courage dropped. On my plate, sat a beautifully cooked lamb shank drizzled with rosemary, crushed peppercorns and surrounded with mixed vegetables infused with just a hint of garlic. The problem however was my hand. I wouldn’t be able to use it for cutting pieces of meat from the bone, which left me with vegetables and bread.

I wasn’t a big fan of vegetables at all, and my mouth watered for the delicious, tender red meat. With my battered hand, I wouldn’t even be able to cut into my roll to spread some butter onto it.

My stomach grumbled and I peered up at her again. She was eating peacefully, and I was immensely jealous and way too proud to ask for help.

Vegetables and dry bread it would be.

With a huff, I picked up the silver fork and jabbed it into something green. It could have been either a piece of baby marrow or some sort of a tiny squash. I didn’t want to look at it, so I quickly shoved it into my mouth. The moment I did, I regretted it.

The bitter taste pervaded the inside of my mouth and I lunged for the crystal glass filled with semi-sweet rose-coloured wine. It almost buckled in my hand from the clumsy uncontrolled movement, but I caught it and only managed to spill a tiny droplet onto the white stone surface of the table.

Gabrielle snapped her eyes up to see what was going on and it met with mine just as I pressed the rim of the glass to my mouth and took two huge gulps of the rosy liquid.

Her caramel orbs were glowing in the candlelight and her perfect brows pulled into a frown as she studied me. What a sight it must have been.

“Do you need medical attention, Mr Scott?” She asked as she set her fork down, her face pulled into a canvas of calm and poise.

“What?”

“You have a terrible black eye,” she said, her voice unfaltering.

Lazily, I leaned back into my chair and took another sip of wine while my eyes stayed fixed on her. Chin held high.

I didn’t want her help and I sure as hell didn’t want her pity.

“Do I?” I replied with just an edge of sarcasm.

Even from across the room, I could see she was not amused, “I guess no medical attention is needed after all.” She simply said and picked up her fork again to continue her meal.

It was the first time I had ever heard her speak and her voice was nothing like I had imagined it to be. It wasn’t high pitched and shrill like I had convinced myself it would, instead, it was sensual, melodic even, and it had a soothing essence to it I couldn’t help but want to hear again.

After my stomach growled a second time, I eyed the rest of the untouched vegetables. I wasn’t willing to try another. I knew I hated vegetables, and nothing was going to change that, no matter how much garlic, butter or salt they had sprayed over it to mask the taste.

“You haven’t touched your food,” she commented after a while without looking up.

“I’m not that hungry.”

“I can hear your stomach growling,” this time she looked up. Looked me straight in the eye and waited for my reply.

Her expression was cold and distant.

I glanced down at my plate again and grabbed the bread roll off its tiny plate and took a bite out of it, leaning back casually into my chair.

Surprise flickered in her features before she pulled her brows into another frown. This time her expression said, ‘disgust’.

“Do you teach your pack about table manners back home?” She asked.

“The pack does not belong to me. And yes, we do.”

I took another large bite and chewed slowly on the dry hunk of bread while her fiery eyes burned into me. Scrutinized me with that piercing, judgemental gaze.

Her chest was beginning to heave up and down ever so slightly and I knew I was beginning to get to her.

A second later, she placed her utensils onto her plate, stood up and gracefully left the room.

Even though she looked calm and poise, I knew irritation simmered just beneath the surface. It was the thing that had propelled her to leave. She was a lady after all and would not be expected to lash out at guests.

Especially not her father's guests.