That Sik Luv

Briony

I step out of the vehicle, clutching the extra fabric from my long silk dress in one hand, placing my other hand out for assistance.

Right on time, Saint grasps it, grinning at me behind his bronze Roman-Greek mythological-style mask. He’s so handsome in his fitted navy blue suit and crisp white button-up shirt. A fresh fade to his already short blonde hair has his jaw looking even more defined beneath the partial mask, his sparkling blue eyes lighting up with excitement. He helps me sturdy myself on my heels, adjusting the seams of the dress to fit right where they need to on my hips to allow the fabric to dip between my breasts as minimally as possible.

Mia is definitely slimmer than I am, but the silver dress fit me better than any of the others did when it came to covering my goods. She also helped to pin my long black hair back into a loose, low bun with some tendrils framing my face to accompany the classic look.

With my hand in Saint’s, I hold my white and silver Venetian mask by the stick, jewels dripping from the bottom to dangle from strings onto my cheeks.

“Like an angel,” he says, bringing my hand to his lips.

I flush beneath the partial mask as the chauffeur drives away down the tree-lined driveway. I don’t know if it’s Saint’s lips on me, or if it’s that I know Aero’s tongue will be on me later to erase it that brings about that tightening in my lower abdomen again. Rubbing my lips together, hoping my mauve-colored lipstick is still in place, I take my first step, threading my arm through Saint’s, knowing tonight is about to be an eye-opening experience. One filled with mysteries to be solved.

Guiding me into the massive, castle-like home of the Governor himself, I see Alastor Abbott on the other side of the colossal wooden double doors, greeting guests as they arrive. Special invitation to this event only. Big names. Only the most important men, along with their wives, congregate together to celebrate their success by marketing themselves to one another, praising each other for solidifying their pristine status.

“Let’s go say hello,” Saint says, ushering us towards the round, animated man.

I swallow what feels like a mountain of sand, aware of the fact that I’m seeing everyone through a new lens since meeting the vanishing man from the shadows who’s seeped his way into my bones.

He introduces us, shaking hands with Governor Abbot and his wife, who’s dripping in expensive jewelry as she holds her glass of wine in one hand, chin held as high as her implants. Governor Abbot eyes me for a second longer than what I would assume is socially acceptable as he shakes my hand.

“Ah, yes, Briony Strait. The first female Magnus Princeps of the Covenant Academy.” He pulls my hand closer towards him, causing me to fall into his chest. “They’ve never seen anyone like you,” he whispers before leaning back with a certain grin on his round, greasy face. One I can’t entirely place.

We continue into the ballroom, which is brilliantly decorated in art déco-style decor, with candelabras, string curtains with the finest drapery surrounding the dance floor, and an excessively ornate crystal chandelier hanging from the center of the room. The dimly lit ambience of the candlelight surrounding the room has me clutching Saint’s arm tighter than I normally would.

Masked faces pass us left and right. The anonymity of the entire event is not only hilariously ironic, but completely frightening.

In a room full of wealth, the rich decide to hide their identities for the evening, living out their demons for a night beneath the lies of a new mask.

I scour the room with my eyes, looking hastily for Bishop Caldwell’s arrival. A sickening sensation hits my gut as I part from Saint, bracing myself against the wall of the ballroom. He’ll most certainly be here, awaiting a conversation to ensure my silence. The inevitable moment cements a distasteful unease to the entire evening.

Saint gets roped into conversation with an older man in an animal-style mask with a long protruding beak and a dark gray suit. Turning his head, he quickly spots me near the wall and breaks off his conversation. He approaches my nervous self with concern written on his face.

“Hey,” he whispers, leaning against the wall along with me, tipping his head down as he talks. “Are you alright? What’s going on?”

I force a smile, nodding my head. “I’m fine. Just…catching my breath. The dress,” I wave my hand over my body, releasing a fake chuckle. “It’s making it hard to breathe.”

He stares down at me with concern still present in his worried gaze, my words doing nothing to take away from my obvious discomfort. His hand reaches out to grab mine. He pulls me forward until I’m pressed against him. Wrapping an arm around my lower back, the other finds my cheek, softly cupping my face. I hold my breath, my eyes darting around to the other guests who may or may not be watching us.

“I get it, Briony. These people…this place.” He looks around before shrugging. “It’s all a lie.”

My stomach drops at his words. What does he know?

“No one here can really dance,” he admits with a sexy grin. “They talk the talk, but they can’t walk the walk. Liars and con artists, these men.”

I release a sigh, chuckling at myself for overthinking.

Backing away from me, he extends his hands, pulling me along with him onto the middle of the dance floor where the guests are all forming a line across from one another. The violins sing their sweet, familiar tune through the air as couples prepare to begin the Baroque-style dance we’ve studied and been taught since we were young students in the Covenant.

“Let’s show them what we got,” Saint says with a confident smile, lining me across from him in the row of masked women.

He joins the line of masked men across from us, keeping his eyes on me while my gaze drifts down the line. Mask after ornate mask, I take in the men, unsure of who’s beneath each costume, when my eyes fall upon an older gentleman a few men down, glaring to the left of him. Directly at Saint.

It doesn’t take me long to figure out who it is. Callum Westwood glowers at his son as his son smiles at me innocently, his excitement almost palpable. Eyes shift eerily slowly, as Callum’s gaze makes a trail between us until they fall upon mine. We stare at one another for a moment. Chills sweep across my shoulders and up my neck as the danger looming in that one look has me shook.

Hatred. Loathing. Detestation.

At one glance, I know that man would rather I not be in attendance at all tonight. I’m the one ruining his son’s chance at becoming all he can become. It appears the idea of me gaining any sort of name for myself is simultaneously dragging his son through the dirt. The race to become the reigning bishop after Caldwell’s resignation in the years to come, the holy grail of achievements. One Callum clearly wants for his son alone. His legacy.

The graffiti on the windows of the school comes to mind.

BRIONY STRAIT IS A SLUT FOR SAINT

Aero didn’t write that to upset me. Tarnish my reputation in this community, sure. But a reputation in this congregation means nothing to someone like Aero. He didn’t even write it to upset Saint. Which is why the forgiveness message came through that morning. He needed me to know it wasn’t his style. Nothing personal about it. Only another move in his sick and twisted game of chess. He wrote that message to affect him. Callum Westwood.

His son. At the Governor’s Ball. With the slut of the Covenant. Not a good look.

Before I have time to wrap my head around it all, the chorus begins playing. The women in line with me all give a quick curtsy to begin the dance. The men step forward, approaching us, and I take Saint’s hand in mine. His father glares down the line at our intertwined hands as we all turn to the left to begin the dance.

We walk together as the men court us, pausing to face each other again as we hold both hands between us, the men bending their knees in a quick dip before the women follow. Saint winks at me, causing my face to break into a smile. I bite down on the corner of my lip, holding back my laughter as the heat rises in my cheeks.

He’s entirely adorable when he’s like this; giddy and goofy. I’m finding myself enjoying my time with him the more we’re together. The idea that he has some sort of vendetta against me like his father has, or even Jacob Erdman for that matter, seems nearly impossible. Either this guy is the most phenomenally talented actor I’ve ever encountered, or he’s truly insusceptible to his father’s hatred. The way he stood up for me before the deacon. The way he made it a point to congratulate me, knowing his family wouldn’t. Intuition has me thwarting analytic reasoning.

We break from each other as the women weave through the line of men, completing our first switch in partners. I link up with another older gentleman with grayish-white locks hanging down to his shoulders, and a white beard beneath his gold-tied mask that projects a beak from his nose. He grins, deepening the wrinkles near his mouth, and gives me a subtle nod. We raise our palms to meet between us as we circle one another, and before I know it, the men are now weaving through the line of women, switching partners yet again.

My heart practically stops in my chest as my eyes lock with the approaching Bishop Caldwell. Another man passes through as Caldwell’s dark, black eyes gaze into mine from beneath our masks. He pauses before me, his palm connecting with my raised hand. Time seems to stall as he communicates without words. Glaring through me with that same knowing look of condemnation, we circle each other before he disconnects and continues around me.

Saint’s towering frame approaches me next in line. We reconnect again, and his smile widens when he realizes it. He wiggles his eyebrows at me beneath his mask as our hands connect between us, sending a wave of comforting sparks within me. He pulls me in, then pushes me out before our hands drop and the both of us spin to face the dancer waiting behind us.

Callum Westwood awaits, and the comforting smile his son left on my face quickly fades as I absorb his enraged appearance. I knew I’d see these men here tonight, but what I wasn’t ready for was the strain of these deceptions weighing so heavily on my chest. The inability to breathe as Callum’s hand surrounds mine is present and entirely terrifying. His presence is like a firm noose around my neck. His scowl never strays from mine. He’s saying so much, saying nothing at all. It’s as if he can hear the loud, thundering beats of my anxious heart, finding fulfillment in the terror he provides.

The break in partners comes as the women thread through the line of men again. Masked faces blend in a horrifying display as I pass them, the masks suddenly feeling as if they’ve come alive before me. Evil, awful, terrifying men cycle me one by one as my heart pounds wildly beneath the confines of my weak body. The nightmare I’m living comes to life before me. It’s all too much, the noose of unfortunate knowledge tightening even more around my neck.

Feeling light-headed and dizzy, I turn, opening my arms to the last partner to complete this dance. Capturing me in his arms is a tall man with a broad chest. I bump into his hardened core in my disoriented state, feeling nauseous and entirely out of place. Strong hands grip me, one placed on my lower back, straightening my spine, as the other gentle hand finds my chin, lifting my gaze to him.

A wave of familiarity floods me when I gaze into those piercing hazel eyes meant for evil beneath the full, iron-clad face mask. The mask boasts a long, deep crack slanted through from the corner of the forehead down to the opposing jaw, striking through it like a deadly lightning bolt. He’s dressed in a fitted black designer suit, the edge of a neck tattoo peeking out through the collar of his crisp white button-up shirt. His dark hair is slicked back and tucked behind his ears, making the sharp angle of his jaw cut through, his full pink lips protruding above me with an obvious scar lingering near his mouth and along his jaw I hadn’t noticed before.

Aero’s breathtakingly handsome in his suit and, without a doubt, the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen, even with his mask in place.

I’m awestruck and breathless as my body continues the motions, and we step together before I spin in his arms, turning my back to his front. He towers over me, leaning his face down near my ear.

“Dare me, Briony,” he whispers beneath the mask, causing me to shiver, my body coming alive simply from the sound of my name rolling off his tongue. He turns me in the spin until we are face to face again. I absorb as much of him as I can in this light and small moment of time, breathing in a new musk of cologne as we step towards each other in the dance, our chests nearly touching. “Dare me to set fire to this night and I will.”

The seriousness in his gaze tells me everything I need to know about what this man would do for me. He’d burn churches to the ground, to nothing but ash and dirt. Murder and mutilate anyone intending to harm me. Teach me to explore sensations that human nature craves to be unleashed.

Grabbing my hand in his, I feel his touch everywhere. He allows me to curtsy along with the rest of the women, ending the dance before bending and bowing before me, those electric eyes locked on mine. I can sense the confidence in his stature as he slowly rises before me, somehow already knowing I brought it with me tonight.

He drops my hand and stands upright before rushing around me, brushing against my shoulder lightly as he does, the tips of his fingers sweeping along the tips of mine. As I attempt to clear myself from the sudden fog of seduction that man leaves behind, Saint approaches me from afar.

He talks animatedly about the dance, but I can’t hear a word of it. I can’t focus on anything but the ghost of Aero. I turn around, searching for the mystery man in the hauntingly handsome suit and iron-clad mask, only to have lost him in the crowd of masked party-goers now congregating together.

As I’m about to turn back to Saint, I spot Aero’s tall form taking the stairs to the second floor, two at a time in the distance. Reaching the top of the staircase of the ballroom, he stalls for a moment. His hand lingers along the black iron railing as he turns his cheek to his shoulder, pausing briefly as if just for my knowledge, effectively sending the message.

Then, just like the dark corners of this world in the dim light of a half-moon, he wisps away, vanishing from my sight.

Saint continues talking as I turn to acknowledge him, but I’m not listening or focusing at all. I’m mentally planning my escape. Simultaneously mapping all the fires I’m about to dare this devious man to ignite.