Page 6 of Stutter

He belongs with me.

Us.

But I have to wait for him to come to me. No matter how much agony I’ve been in without him, his dominance, his reign, his power over me. I have to stay patient.

So I dance.

“Dance, butterfly.”

I roll my eyes at Stephen Prescott, a Syndicate elder, from beneath the mesh lining on the eye holes of my mask. It’s a moth. Intricate, beautiful. Positively poisonous. But I dance. Jonas and Damon stay in their respective places at the bar, not drawing attention to themselves in their own masks as Maverick watches from afar, drunk on spirits he doesn’t need because I’m his specter. His little mouse.

Siren.

Angel.

Ofdeath, of course – I never proclaimed I was a saint.

On the contrary, I gave Maverick the evidence. Not mine, per se, but the Syndicate’s. The ledger that holds so much power, villainy, sacrilege within the copied and printed pages of the binder I gave him – along with Inferno’s flier soliciting a dancer. I purposely rolled the ball in Maverick’s court and gave him all the evidence to put me away for life. To be thrown back into Lorne Wood, where they would drug me for the rest of my life, keeping me in a vegetative state, trapped in my mind and yet, in a sick way, it would beheaven, to be trapped with my memories of Maverick, Jonas and Damon.

Tortuous bliss.

To be mentally trapped in a world away from here with nothing but the men I love.

Except there would be no home visits this time. No way for me to wean myself from my medications and feel alive again. The way he makes me feel alive.

But he saw the evidence himself. Saw the video of me limping across the lawn… likely saw the pictures of the crime scene.

And yet, here I am, a moth, free of her overturned glass confinement box,dancing.

He watches me now, as I writhe on Stephen’s lap, his large hands on the tops of my thighs. It’s the first night he’s alone, without anyone else, to speak to of Syndicate matters, not now that both Whitmore’s are six feet under. And Ashleigh.

Once Damon had… unalived the elder Whitmore, the Syndicate decided to hold off on a funeral for Thadd and Ash until an autopsy was performed. They found nothing. No tampering. The footage of the hospital was clear. No nurses could say anything suspicious happened. They questioned Damon, of course. Good thing I told him to take some flowers.

Like a good colleague he had ‘simply been there to drop off flowers, and when he saw Dean Whitmore sleeping soundly, he left to let him rest. Why, he hadn’t evenknownthe Dean died until he received the message from the board while he was at home, curled up in bed reading a book.’

I’m not sure if Maverick knows it’s me beneath this mask mostly because his pupils are dilated and he looks one drink away from spilling them altogether on the floor. He takes a step forward, and when purple lights flash, he winces like a vampire at the sun.

The light is too bright.

But until he accepts the comfortable darkness that is me, it’s where he needs to stay.

“Chloe…” Stephen breathes against my earlobe, breath hot and it skitters down my spine like a delicious omen. And yet, my lullaby hasn’t taken over. I am still without all the answers… and until I have them, members of the Syndicate will continue to fall until I’ve torn off the head of the snake and eaten it to nourish my blackened soul.

Because that’s what I am now, a mere mirage of who I used to be. A silver specter for all to see. And in the sick way that is my mind, IwantStephen to touch me.Hiscreation. A pretty little winged demon grinding on his lap. I mean, they made me like this, didn’t they? Each curse, each laugh, each hit, each wish for my death as I waited in a locker for my shadow that never came. No lovely kiss from Death awaited me. No angel to take me away.

After all, Thadd said I was the Monroe Tyler didn’t want. He wanted Axel, my stepbrother. But even if I had been purchased for the younger Prescott, it would have, no –should have- guaranteed my safety. I should have been placed on a perfect gilded pedestal, not a cage and be seen as untouchable.

So why wasn’t I?

Before my hour is up, I make sure to stay seated on Stephen’s lap, pay him the attention he pays me for. I don’t need his money. And tonight was a waste of time. it’s only him, no other members of the Syndicate gossiping.

But I have plenty of time. I have it in spades.

When the bartender/cage master comes to take me away from Stephen when his alarm rings, I ask to be taken to the back room, so I may dress and leave through the dancer exit, where I am secure, my identity remains hidden, so I don’t get stalkers.

I wonder if Stephen would try to stalk me. Would he put me back in my little confinement box, an exhibit for all to see? Trapped, unable to escape?

“Dance, Butterfly…”

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