Page 28 of Threads Of Madly Whispers

But it is her eyes that hold me prisoner—windows to the depths of a soul long caged, yet still burning. Her left eye, a shade of frozen gray, holds the chill of winter mornings, the stillness before a storm. Her right eye, verdant and wild, mirrors the heart of an untouched forest, lush and secretive, where shadows dance. Together, they weave a contradiction, a silent tale of conflict and harmony.

Freckles dust her porcelain skin, scattered like constellations across a pale sky. They lend her an air of innocence, fragile and soft, as if she were something too delicate for this world. Yet, the illusion shatters with the curve of her lips. That cherry-red lipstick, bold and unrepentant, speaks of rebellion and temptation. It promises deviance in every smile, every unspoken word, a silent dare wrapped in crimson.She is both sin and salvation, a paradox that leaves me wanting more.

She is an angel draped in malice. One that could bring men to their knees, begging to be graced by her. And what a fool one might be to try now that I have set my sights on her.

She digs her fork into the tender filet, and the thought of feeding her twistedly corrupts my mind. I’ve barely touched my food other than the glass of bourbon I continue to nurse, simply because the meal I want is not splayed before me yet.

The liquor burns down my throat when I take a swig as I shamelessly take her in. Odessa is mayhem in a pretty dress, and when she showed me just how much she was not willing to break for my satisfactions, dare I say I was amused. She was not submissive to all the details in the contract but only if she understood how little say she has in it all. How the truth of it is muddled in my deception.

“It’s rude to let your guests eat alone,” she arches her brow. “Common courtesy”

“I think you mean etiquette.”

“No, I mean what I said.” She sips on her wine, and the way her lips wrap around the glass threatens to push me out of my seat.

“Is that so—” my hand strokes my chin “— because courtesy is when one behaves in a manner to please others.”

“And your point is,” she snides.

“Would it make you comfortable if I ate?”

“Yes, it would.”

“How unfortunate that my intentions are the opposite. I quite enjoy the sight of you unnervedThatis pleasing to me.”

The moonlight spills into the glass rosarium, pooling like pale silk over petals and thorns alike. It is almost dreamlike,a quiet realm where time seems to still, where beauty and solitude intertwine beneath the night’s gentle gaze. Roses of every kind bloom along the twisting vines, their tendrils weaving through archways and wooden beams, binding the space in nature’s delicate embrace.

Father built this sanctuary for his wife, a tribute of love etched in living color, where blossoms whisper secrets in the hush of midnight. I lost count of the endless varieties long ago, yet I never forgot her favorite—Blanc Double de Coubert. Their ivory petals gleam beneath the starlight, fragrant ghosts of memory that drifts in the air, a scent both tender and haunting.

At the heart of it all, a tree stump table stands, its weathered surface bathed in the soft flicker of candlelight. Here, we dine, surrounded by a garden of glass and roses, the world beyond fading into shadow. Enveloped in this sacred bloom of nature and memory, it is easy to forget where we end and the garden begins.

“Tell me another story,” she demands, and there’s a certain delight in watching her tug at strings she doesn’t yet realize she can’t control.

“Only if you dance for me.”

Her gaze sharpens, a spark of challenge flickering in those wild eyes. The tension coils between us, electric and irresistible.Come on, Wild Rose,I think,be my music box, and let me wind you up to my rhythm.

“I need music,” she says, her voice smooth but laced with resistance.

“That can be arranged.”

I rise from my chair, extending an arm she takes with a hint of reluctance. I lead her out of the rosarium, leaving the glow of candlelight and the scent of roses behind as we step into the cool night. The air hums with the distant sounds ofcrickets and rustling leaves, the moon casting long shadows across the path. We make our way back into the house, the warmth inside wrapping around us like a familiar touch.

Through the grand entrance and down a corridor, we reach the symphony room. Behind the double doors I push open, dark olive walls cradle the space, while towering windows stretch from floor to ceiling, overlooking the endless sprawl of forest outside. In one corner sits the grand Victorian piano, its polished surface as familiar to me as the pulse in my veins, the worn stool beside it a place I’ve occupied more times than I care to count.

She slips her hand from mine, drifting into the room like smoke, her steps slow and measured. Her eyes roam on the piano’s charcoal curves before shifting to the expansive crystal windows that frame the distant cemetery, its gravestones softened by the moonlight. There’s no chandelier here—I refused one. Why compete with the way the moonlight pours itself so graciously into this space, casting shadows that dance on their own accord?

I settle onto the stool, letting my gaze trace her silhouette as she stands bathed in the soft glow, staring out into the darkened grounds.

“Come here.” My voice is rougher than I intended, but she turns, the defiance in her eyes tempered by curiosity. She walks to me, and when I say, “Give me your leg,” there’s a flicker of hesitation, a question unsaid. But she complies.

Her heel presses into my thigh as her hand grips my shoulder for balance, nails biting into my skin with just enough sting to make my pulse quicken. Her scent—rosemary and something darker—fills my senses, making my mouth water, craving not just a taste but a surrender.

Her eyes meet mine, a silent battle of wills. Heat smolders in those mismatched orbs, desire rippling beneath thesurface like a hidden current. I trail my hand from her thigh to her ankle, slow and deliberate, never breaking the bond of our gaze. I feel her breath hitch, see the way she bites her lip, the subtle shiver of her skin under my rough touch. She’s soft, pliant, yet there’s a fire beneath that submission, one I want to stoke until it burns uncontrollably.

I slip her shoe off with care, revealing toes painted in glossy black, a stark contrast against her pale skin. My tongue brushes over my lips, the temptation to taste her skin almost unbearable. I repeat the act with her other leg, drawing it out just to watch the flicker of anticipation in her eyes. When I finally set her shoes down, the space between us feels charged, like the moment before a storm breaks—silent, breathless, and full of dangerous promise.

“Thank you,” her voice slips out breathless, and it pulls at my restraint. I want that voice to make a million more sounds—sounds drawn out by my touch, sounds only I can coax from her.

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