manhattan.

Victoria

At the very least a week has passed between the moment when the Silver Fang left her suite in Norfolk and when his assistant relays a message left for him by Ms. Wilmington. It's a very simple, impersonal message : If you would please let Mr. van der Valk know that I'd like to arrange a meeting. It's quite possible that there is a day of scheduling, his assistant contacting her to offer available times, she checking her schedule and needing to return the call. In the end, though, they settle on a time (after dark, between seven and eight pm) and a day (soon, a day after and no later) and a location (wherever Konstantijn happens to lay his head). 

When she knocks it's with just four minutes to spare. Hands smooth once over a black, pencil skirt, attempting to smooth out faint wrinkles from her flight from Norfolk to New York City. He would immediately notice that she's taller than he recalls. A glance down the length of her curvy body would quickly contribute the extra five inches of height to the black satin stiletto pumps she's wearing. Fingers arrange the collar on her white button front shirt, as if she needed to be certain just one more time that her appearance was neat and orderly. With her clutch in one hand Victoria waits outside of Konstantijn's door with all the patients of a saint.

Constantine

Konstantijn's assistant is exactly what one might expect: crisp, professional, with a lovely voice.  The scheduling process runs smoother and faster than one might expect; if there are delays, they come from Victoria's end.  Then again, that was always the case.  Konstantijn's people are efficient and effective.  Konstantijn himself is eminently without patience.

It turns out Victoria's 'suitor', as she would put it, lives in a Tribeca loft.  But then, there are Tribeca lofts and there are Tribeca lofts, and this is the latter.  In the lobby a uniformed doorman calls upstairs for her.  She is escorted to a private elevator, which begins to move seemingly of its own accord.  Whatever straightening-up she performs is done on the swift trip upward; when the door opens, it opens on a penthouse suite with a sprawling view of lower Manhattan and the river.  It's a striking affair of exposed brick and soaring spaces, powdered black steel and glass, latticed stairs and unusual, sophisticated lighting: the new and the old, the modern and the vintage juxtaposed.

In front of the elevator is a decorative brick wall that stretches up to the ceiling some thirty or forty feet above.  Spot lighting spills down that wall like water.  There's a grouping of two armchairs and a table at the foot of the wall, all sleek angular things.  A bottle of scotch and two poured glasses waits on the table.

Konstantijn lounges in the armchair on the right.  He is waiting for her, one ankle crossed over the opposite knee.  He is not dressed for company.  He's in an undershirt, thin and plain white.  He is not wearing a belt.  The braces on his slacks are shrugged off his shoulders, falling to loop at mid-thigh.  He is smoking; it smells like marijuana, and a rather choice strain at that.

The corners of his mouth curl upward.  His tawny eyes glint and narrow.  He takes his time looking at Victoria.  Then, when he's had his fill -- momentarily, anyway -- he uncoils from his seat, a thoughtless sweep of his hand snagging up one of the glasses.  He approaches her, but his rage hits her first.  It feels like a weight, like gravity, like beach sand giving way beneath one's feet as a wave rushes back out to the ocean.

"Victoria."

His acknowledgment is a greeting; his greeting is her given name.  He's never used her family name, though surely he knows it.  Surely he knows who she is.  Konstantijn holds the glass out to her, but not very far; she has to come close to take it.

"Pleasant flight, I hope.  I would have come to you in Norfolk if you'd asked.  Or are you here to personally inspect my holdings and possessions?"

Victoria

Her eyes are allowed to roam appreciatively over the opulence that Konstantijn calls home. Pale eyes travel over the exposed brick and ornate the smooth reticulation of the stairs. The understated yet masterfully placed series of spotlights that send soft illumination running down one exposed wall catches and holds her attention for a few beats before she's moving on. He can hear the even staccato clicking of her designer high heels coming down the polished corridor of his loft. The Garou may know very little intimate information about the kinswoman, but with little to no effort exerted he can easily identify the sound of her stride.

Her expression is a carefully guarded thing. Whatever he is allowed to see is nothing more than what she wants him to know. Everything else is window dressing. Her smile is practised and perfect and as close to genuine as any woman could ever manage. But when Victoria lays her eyes on the Silver Fang the surprise that registers upon seeing his attire is all too easy to read. It's expressed by the drawing up of her brows high above her eyes and the slow to form smirk that threatens to tug her mouth into a sharp and harsh slash across her pale face. The pungent odour of what could possibly be marijuana wafts toward her followed up by the cushioned blow of his Rage against her face. It firms her jaw up. Pulls her spine a little straighter. Her shoulders back just barely.

Victoria he says, sweeping up a tumbler of scotch and offering it to her should she desire to get close enough to take it from his hand. Which she does, though whether it's to be in the pulsing embrace of his Rage or just because she wants the god damned Scotch in that tumbler is hard to discern. She's in his personal space now. This woman who's scent he cannot (won't ever) claim. She lingers there, a riddle to his senses, drawing the scotch to her mouth before dragging her eyes up his chest and to his face. Not quite to his eyes, she isn't that stupid or brave, but close. Close enough. 

"I'm going back to Virginia." She states, as if that should matter. "I thought a visit to my mother would be appropriate." Though the dry and insensitive tone of her voice seems to say she cares very little for what is appropriate where her mother is concerned. Victoria gives the Werewolf her profile, a soft curtain of flaxen hair hiding her relief from his eyes - all save for the tip of her small nose and the ends of long dark eyelashes. 

"The flight was horrid." A pause, "Would you like for me to personally inspect your holdings, Konstantijn?" There's no coy or demure flick of her eyes toward his. In fact, she doesn't even turn to face him. The tumbler is tipped up and drained of Scotch as they stand there facing opposite directions despite being less than a foot or so away from one another.

Constantine

In a matter of moments they are closer than what could strictly be called -- how did she put it? -- appropriate.  She is in his personal space.  He does not step politely back.  Her heels make her five inches taller, which brings her five inches closer to his height; leaves her some eight or nine inches short all the same.  When she stands close to him, the whole of his focus seems to curve in on her.  Though his carriage is as balanced and poised as ever, he seems to loom; he seems to surround.

She takes the scotch he offers.  She drinks it, and if she has a tongue for such things -- which she must with the way she pulls that drink down like she owns it, like she means it, like she knows just how to drink it -- she'll discover it's the same label as the one she served him half a continent away.  He has an eye for detail.  She turns away from him, which she always seems to be doing, and he watches her,

which he always seems to be doing.

There's a near-silent scoff of a laugh as she questions him in return -- needles him in return, perhaps.  "You know what I'd like," he replies.  It's only been a week, and yet somehow the subtle timbres of his voice are so hard to commit to perfect memory.  It's different in person.  His very presence is different in person -- more savage, more feral, more complex.  "You know what I want."

And down her throat pours the last of the scotch.  As she lowers her glass, he takes it back from her.  "Careful," he cautions.  "Any faster and I'll suspect you're in search of liquid courage.  Or just plainly alcoholic."

This time his fingers fold over hers; even after he's worked the tumbler from her grasp and set it back on the table, his hand is on hers.  Firming, actually.  He takes her hand in his grasp, leading her farther into the loft.  This is as open-plan as it gets.  Different spaces are delineated by light and color, not by walls.  Hot bright light glows off the subdued sheen of stainless steel appliances: a kitchen.  Warmer pools of light bathe a living space, an entertainment center.  A modern-day cavern -- that's what the penthouse is reminiscent of.  The civilized eked out of the primitive, the primordial.  The intricate staircase stands boldly near the center of the space; it's a placement a lesser architect would not have dared.

Konstantijn leads her to and then up those steps.  Perhaps he's taking her to his bedroom.  Perhaps she should protest.  He's a step ahead, which is perhaps impolite, but is also a mercy: she would not want that rage at her back, pursuing her.  Once, about midway between the soaring first level and the second, he glances at her over his shoulder, down the length of his leading arm.  There is something covetous in his eyes, but the hand that holds hers is unexpectedly courteous, even gentle.  He doesn't drag her up those stairs like an errant child or a spoil of war.

And on the second story, where the ceilings are mere fifteen-footers, he does not in fact take her to a bedroom.  He takes her to a set of doors which open out onto a terrace.  The tail end of summer is fading fast, and the night outside is cool.  There is a table laid out there.  Two place settings.  A small and intimate dinner: seared steaks, red wine.  Victoria's hand is released as Konstantijn moves to draw out a chair for her.

"Please," he invites.  And if she sits, he pushes her chair in: the perfect gentleman tonight, it seems.  If one discounts the attire, the joint, the look he gave her when she arrived in his loft, the prize delivering herself.

Konstantijn takes the seat across from her.  He spreads a napkin on his lap, and then he reaches to uncork the wine; to pour.

"Why have you really come?" he asks.  "To accept?  Negotiate?  Question?"  Those questions of his again: a slow and deliberate sequence, like hunting.  He finishes pouring for her, giving the bottle a twist to catch the drop that wants to spill.  Filling his own glass, then, "Or are you just lonely; looking for a little civilized company after so long in the backwaters?"

And now he's smirking again.

Victoria

He takes her tumbler and would find that the grip she'd had on it wasn't all that firm at all. Her fingers had only been loosely curled around the crystal. Just tight enough to keep it from shattering all over his fine floor. There is no mistaking one's preferred brand of spirits and Victoria knows her Scotch. Maybe she should say something to him: How thoughtful of you, Konstantijn or I'm quite flattered you went through the motions of trying to impress me. Perhaps she ought to, but she doesn't. The amber liquid is drained in but two drinks. This is a woman that has learned to handle her liquor with responsibility and confidence. It would be impossible to imagine Victoria a giddy drunk, laughing and being loud or obnoxious so that everyone is aware of her inability to control herself. No, that's not Victoria Wilmington at all. So, as the warmth of the fine whiskey brings a flush of soft pink hue to her cheeks, she lifts her eyes toward his face with an air of casualness. As if it meant nothing at all the way she allows her gaze to wash over his chest and throat, lips and nose to the piercing eyes of a man-wolf too filled with white hot Rage. 

Her gaze seems somewhat fragile this evening, but certainly not helpless.

He's watching her. Studying her. Observing the most minute of mannerisms she may bear. It doesn't seem to bother her, not in the least. Her spine stays straight, chin lifted - proud.

When he speaks, she listens. Head tipping to one side and gaze lowered, thoughtful, the full natural pout of her heart shaped mouth stretches wide and thin when he says that she knows what he wants. His fingers touch hers, tangle with them and he would find them to be  lovely, like the rest of her. The nails beautifully shaped and polished and only very slightly tinted.

They're moving. Through the open layout of his rough-yet-modern loft. He can hear her the sharp clicks of her heels with each step, that sound so telling of her grace and poise in shoes that are not as easy as they may seem to walk in. Now, she ought to stop him. Just then is when her hand should tug itself from his grasp and withdraw it back into her own body. She doesn't. For the briefest of moments, he is allowed to lead them - her - wherever it is he wants to go. 

Which thankfully is his terrace. He pulls the seat out, ever the gentleman, and she sits. Her knees are pulled close together, feet tucked under her seat all very proper. With her scotch refilled, she takes a drink and relaxes back just slightly in the chair. He wants to know why she's really there. What she could possibly want that would bring her all the way to New York. 

"To talk. Not about your proposal. Or about me accepting it or not accepting it. But to talk. Who are you? Why me? How long are you here for?" 

It's the simple things, really.

Constantine

Fragility.  Yes, there is that about her; the subtle, treacherous keystone to her undeniable allure.  He wonders if she knows that.  He wonders if she knows that he would have been bored if she were merely an arctic maneater, a polite and devastating seductress who made a game of toying with men, who had no flaws at all, no damage beneath her perfect skin, no unexplained gaps in her past.

He wonders if she knows that's what he wanted.  A lovely, boring, ultimately ordinary Silver Fang kinswoman to hang on his arm and place on his trophy shelf.  A nice, placid, emotionless mateship.  Separate, unattached lives.

And he wonders if she knows: she could not be ordinary if she tried.

And now Victoria wants to talk.  About him.  Who he is.  He leans back in his chair, setting the bottle back down on the table as he regards her with hooded eyes.  There's an indolence about him: he is the lord in his domain.  Yet something about it feels false, feels like a veneer.  He is a wolf in his lair.  He is a wolf, a wild, hungry, savage thing,

and she is something he wants.

"Those are dangerous questions," he says - abrupt, deliberately light.  Jet black lashes shade those extraordinary eyes.  He reaches for his wineglass, idly turning it against the tablecloth.  Once.  Twice.  "Mateships of convenience depend on emotional detachment, and emotional detachment depends on ignorance.  If you don't know who I am, you can't possibly grow to care for me.

"And that is what you would prefer, isn't it?"  His eyes rise to hers again; it's a genuine inquiry.  "A loveless alliance.  No jealousy.  No possessiveness.  A wolf who knows how to share; isn't that what you said?  A clean, cold partnership that benefits both parties, uncluttered by emotional strings.

"It is wholly possible to lust and still share the object of your lust, Victoria.  But it is not possible to care for someone, to love someone, and share that person with another."

A brief, restless pause.  He has not started in on his steak yet.  He takes a small sip of wine.  Her scotch has been refilled, if that's what she wants, but he himself is drinking only a robust red with his dinner.  Maybe he wants a clear mind.  He watches her; his attention is heavy on her.

"Or perhaps you don't want to be shared after all.  And perhaps you don't want to share."

Victoria

The sensory input at that moment was astonishing - the smell of the seared steaks, of scotch and red wine, the heat and weight of his Rage and the fierce intensity of his eyes on her person. There is something to be said about Garou: rarely do you find one that is unable to bring a blush to the skin. Victoria is certainly not immune to the tug and pull of natural attraction built into the genes of both Garou and Kinfolk. Konstantijn bore an undeniable and scorching force of will that sucked the air from her lungs. The intense magnetism he exuded grew in strength, becoming a near-tangible impression of vibrant and unrelenting power. He's talking and she draws the Scotch to her mouth while her eyes take a more intense inventory of his face and features, appreciating the inky black hair that framed a masculine, impressive face combined with bone structure that could make a sculptor weep with joy.

His mouth was a firmly etched thing and his eyes made him savagely beautiful. Her attention fixes on those eyes - predator to prey. Knuckles turn white with her grip on the tumbler and when lastly he idly wonders if maybe she wants someone or something that isn't shared or loveless or impersonal or simply there for convenience her eyes narrow slightly, features otherwise schooled into impassivity.

Victoria did not avert her gaze. Her heart beat a quickened rhythm, a war drum that rattled the bone cage of her chest. Still, she doesn't look away. She finds his gaze shrewd, assessing. There's murder in his eyes. A viscous and unforgiving promise of violence just waiting to be fulfilled. Small yet full lips part to accommodate faster breaths. He smells sinfully good - she knows this from being so close to him just a handful of minutes prior. It isn't cologne. Or body wash. It's not his shampoo. It's him. It's the undeniable natural scent that made him who he was in an olfactory capacity. It was what she didn't and wouldn't ever own.

She didn't know the name for it. Couldn't define it to someone without the capacity for understanding the way their world worked. It just was, and the idea of how it threatened to effect weighed down the outer corners of her mouth.

"Perhaps your right." Blue eyes snap quickly from his and she clears her throat, fingers uncurling from the serving of Scotch to pick up her cutlery. Victoria's leg's shift in that narrow A-line skirt - some throw back from the 1950's when combined with the back-seamed sheer pantihose that clings to her pale legs. One leg crosses the other at the knee, her hips shift so that her body is turned at an angle, toward the Garou. Her attention is on her food, or so it would seem.

"I've a feeling, Konstantijn, the less I know or care or like about you...the better of I'm going to be." Her meat is cut properly, fork and knife held in such a way that says she's been schooled on that very thing: This fork is for this, here, hold it horizontally by balancing it between the first knuckle of the middle finger and the tip of the index finger while the thumb steadies the handle. You're butchering it like a heathen. The knife is to be used with the tip of the index finger gently pressing out over the top of the blade to guide as you cut your meat. Very good, Victoria.

Constantine

"That's quite likely," he replies.  It is almost gentle, but what little humor there is scorches away so quickly.

What's between them is primal and undeniable as any force of nature.  The sort of attraction that exists in any complementary pair.  See how they complement each other: the rawness of his edges against the smooth refinement of hers.  The ferocity of his rage; the stillness of her presence.  Where she is classic he is savage.  Where she is soft he is utterly unyielding.  They are nothing like each other, but creatures such as they were quite literally created for one another.

They share a tribe.  They share a blood.  Who knows how many times their spirits have met in the past; how many times he's had her, how many times he's lost her, how many times he's killed her, how many times he's loved her.

He doesn't remember those past lives.  He's not sure they ever even existed.  This might be the first time; the very first.  Still the rules are the same.  Ten thousand years ago, a thousand lifetimes ago, there would not have been this song and dance.  He would have seen her, wanted her, taken her, ripped her from the clutches of those who held her if there were any.  Claw and tooth.  Blood and sweat.  He would have pursued her, harried her, brought her down, made her submit.

The arena changes.  The time changes.  The game is more subtle now.  It's still the same bloody, primal contest, and he is still a beast.  He is still drawn to such cool, frail beauty.

He never stops watching her.  Amongst humans this sort of unwavering attention would be well past rudeness.  Even amongst their ilk, it rides the edge of discomfort.  He watches her shift, he watches her flawless posture, he watches those neat little movements, so well-entrained, by which she cuts her meat.

There are sides on her plate.  Herbed potatoes, a small salad with a light fruity dressing.  Soup perhaps.  It's an elegant, if simple meal.  He must have a cook somewhere in this modern-day fortress of his.  There are no such accompaniments on his plate though: he has a slab of beef steak there, charred on the surface and red inside, and nothing else.  He is a carnivore.  His eyes are on the subtle pulse in her neck while she speaks to him.  He can see how quickly her heart beats.  Her words drift past his ears; they register but it takes him a moment to respond.  He is thinking of laying her over this table and devouring her alive.  Perhaps he'll find her scent then.  Between her thighs.  At her throat.  In the loops of her entrails.

He closes his eyes for a moment.  No; no.  Back from that brink.  He reaches for his wine.  He takes a deep swallow, and then he sets his glass down.  Reaches across the table; plucks her utensils from her hands.  Whoever taught her to hold a fork and knife would have a paroxysm at the sight of him: the fork gripped in his fist, all the strength in his considerable right arm bearing down on the edge of the knife.  In three or four strokes he carves her steak into a collection of fingersized strips, ragged at the edges.  Then he just tosses her utensils over the side of the terrace.  It is all quite effortless, quite casual.  Pity the stray pedestrian on the streets below.

"I'm sick of pretending to be civilized."  He doesn't even cut his steak.  He tears it with his hands, tips his head back to snap meat from his fingers.  "You want to know who I am?  This is who I am.  Sovereign Winter, heir to kings, scion to savages.  A Garou, an Ahroun, the wolf at your door.  You want to know why I want you?

"I didn't."  His teeth flash; the word is almost a snarl.  He's suddenly answering those very questions he all but warned her not to ask, tossing his words out like pebbles, flicked, deceptively light.  "That's why I chose you.  You looked boring.  Typical.  You'd seen enough trouble in your life that I doubted you were still holding out for some mythical prince who would save you.  I assumed you would be after the same thing I was: a convenient alliance that would serve its purpose but leave us both free to pursue our own interests.

"That would have been nice, don't you think?  Pity that ship has sailed, and now I do want you.  You sit there so straight and dainty and proper, but you're wearing five inch fuck-me heels and I keep imagining what you may or may not be wearing under that skirt.  I can hear your heart pounding and I can see the blood racing in your veins.  God help you if I ever feel anything more than lust for you, Victoria; I don't know what I would be capable of then."

A moment's pause.  His breathing has shifted too: deep and steady, swift on the inhale and deliberate on the exhale.  After a while his eyes fall to the topmost button on her blouse.  Rise again.

"Unbutton it," he says.  Soft now.  "Let me see you."

Victoria

Quiet. Shh. If she closes her eyes and focuses she can hear the blood soaring through her veins, the quick racket her heart is making as it beats too loud in her chest, thrums like with rhythmic bass in her ears. If Victoria is still enough, she can weather the storm of his overwhelming intensity. He doesn't afford her those moments. Her fingers are wrapped around the half full (half empty?) glass of Scotch when he speaks. His words are harsh, violent things that batter against her strength of the fortifications that she's erected to protect her from things like the Garou in front of her. Like heavy artillery shells they blast against the foundation and small holes begin to appear. Pretences fall like so much broken brick and mortar. 

She's taking a drink when he snatches up her knife and fork. Victoria does not flinch or fall back in her chair in an attempt to be away from his reach. That would be futile. Ridiculous. So she remains stalwart and unflinching, though her jaw firms and that vein in her neck that pulses and throbs with every beat of her heart begins to pound against the pale cover of her flesh. It betrays her. She cannot hide that from him. 

Time stalls, she has a handful of seconds that pass as long drawn out moments to realise that she may have very probably made a mistake. No, when he tosses the meat over the railing and snaps those dangerous fucking jaws like some mad wolf hovering over his kill, defending it as Alpha who has the best and first of it, she knows she's made a grave miscalculation. 

Again, he assaults her with verbal violence. Each word threatens to knock the air from her very fragile lungs. Each sharp punctuation of a statement is like a sharp blade stuck deep into her gut. Victoria narrows her eyes, immediately thinks better of it and withdraws her gaze. Eyes lower, face turns just a few degrees to the right or left - whatever direction bears it away from him. She's still holding that tumbler of Scotch, though her arm is outstretched on the table and the glass is safe resting upon the surface. At least for now. She can imagine him sweeping an arm across it and sending the exquisitely prepared meal and that glorious whiskey sailing to the floor. 

"Yes." Wouldn't that of been nice? He asks her and she nods once, half of a nod actually...not even what could be labelled a full up and down of her chin. His next demand - request? - finds her eyes rounding on him. Sharp and hawk like, keen and wild like a doe who knows she's not outrunning the wolves nipping at her heels. 

"Why would I do that?" Her tone is pitched low. Intimate, though it's only spoken in such a way to mask the tremble that might be there should she speak any louder. "When you've given such articulate and beautiful speeches on the necessity of neither of us wanting the other any more than convenience dictates?" Her hand releases the Scotch and she drags pale fingers through the soft wave at the front of her blonde hair. When she rises to stand it's with elegance and grace: knees kept together, weight balanced and even on those too high heels. The hand that had only just run through her hair drops to smooth over the curve of her hip. 

"I don't believe in God, Konstantijn. So who's going to help me when your lust becomes more than either of us have bargained for?" Not if, but when. Her clutch is still on the table, off to the side and opposite the Garou. Her eyes shift toward the thousand dollar handbag and then avert to the city laid out beyond his terrace. 

"If you go to Virginia, you're going to die." It's said quite matter of factly and without care or concern as her hands lift and fingers start to unfasten the top three buttons. He can see the milky white softness of her cleavage and no more. "Which is why I ought to go. This was a horrible idea." 

Constantine

She agrees: yes.  That would have been nice.  Surprise flares in his eyes; it shears sideways into something a little more treacherous, just a hint of ache.  He didn't expect her to surrender that point.  It's so intoxicating, every time she surrenders just a little to him.  Then it's gone.  She stands, and his eyes are instantly alert.  Is she fleeing?  Is she capitulating?

Why should she, she wants to know.  "Because I want you to," he says.  The necessity of convenience, she says, throwing his words in his teeth.  Those teeth flash - a snap of a laugh, and then the wineglass swept off the table.

"Absolutely nothing about you is convenient."  Drained, every drop.  He refills.  His eyes never leave her.  "Unbutton it," he repeats.

And she talks about god, she talks about death, she looks at her handbag and he thinks in a vicious flash if she reaches it he'll throw it off the terrace too.  But she doesn't.  She didn't stand up to leave at all.  They talk like they're in a war; their words are aggressive and edged, a push and pull, but there's a lie in that.  What they say and what they do don't even remotely resemble one another.

She's reaching for her buttons as she informs him that following her to Virginia would kill him.  And a muscle is flashing in his jaw, and his tone is equally callous, equally blasé.

"If I stay in New York City I'll die.  That's life.  An invariably fatal condition."

He has his wineglass in hand again as the first button slips from its hole.  They're good at deception, both of them; they can keep their reaction out of their voices.  But they're only flesh and blood in the end, and his train of thought shudders on its tracks when that second button comes undone.  His face is a mask; he's trying not to tip his hand.  But his eyes are molten gold, the pupils huge and black, and he drains that second - third? - glass of wine in a single long pull.

Down he sets the glass, so carelessly it falls on its side.  Rolls, clinks against his plate.  He's forgotten his dinner.  She's barely touched hers.  Three buttons undone now; the upper curves of her breasts white as cream.  His breathing is visible, a powerful rhythmic expansion of his chest.  She tells him what a terrible idea this all is, tells him she ought to go while she's making a slow torturous production of the unbuttoning of her blouse,

and he grabs her around her waist.  There was a trace of steak juice on his thumb.  It's on her shirt now.  He drags her down on his lap; she can sink down gracefully or she can fall.  It's up to her, really.  Her dress is too slimfitting for her to easily straddle his thighs, so he rucks her hem up, his big hands wrapping around her thighs, his thick wrists pushing the fabric of that pencil skirt up.  He finds the edge of those backseamed stockings; so classic.  Garter belt if she's wearing one.  Then the palms of his hands are on her ass; it's a shocking presumption on his part.

Here's another one:

"If you were going to leave, you would have never come," he says.  "Now the rest of the buttons.  Quick, or I'll tear it off myself.  You wouldn't want me to ruin your pretty blouse."

Victoria

And what a production she makes of it. A thick thread of blond is drawn down to rest against her cheek as her chin drops toward her chest faintly. It covers one eye, dark eyelashes brushing against pale strands. All her fingers manage is three buttons out of ten or so before he hooks a hand about her waist and draws her into him. He leaves her very few options - fall or move with the motion of his grip and go easy into his lap. Victoria opts for the latter and he'd feel almost immediately her small hands pressing firm to the broad line of his shoulders. Her hands are cool against the Rage heated surface of his skin, his hands are like two small furnaces against her sides. 

And that steak sauce? It'll never come out. 

He tells her that he's suffering from the terminal disease of life and she frowns at him - faint as it is there's no mistaking the tugging down at the corners of her mouth or the disapproval that threatens to spark behind the pale hue of her eyes. She is straddling him, his hands drawing up the hem of that narrow skirt to her hips, exposing the silk of her pantihose and the midnight blue and black garter along with a slash of her pale thigh between. His hands are rough things, meant for killing and violence rather than anything that might require a gentle touch. A gasp skirts across her lips when he grips her ass. The way that her head is tilted down he might think she is going to kiss him. Blond hair tickles his cheeks, creates a curtain to hide their faces. 

Now the rest of the buttons.  Quick, or I'll tear it off myself. 

Victoria leans back as quickly as she'd leaned forward. Her eyes narrow to fine blue slits. "Your arrogance is disgusting." She says, and it almost rings true in the tone of her voice, the narrowing of her eyes. But she's not moving, she hasn't gotten out of his lap or slapped him for presuming she'd allow him to cup and feel and hold the firm curve of her backside. "It isn't at all flattering." 

But she doesn't move. 

Not just yet, at least.

Constantine

No.  That steak sauce is never coming out.  But that's hardly a concern anymore because

she's not making a move

so he moves instead: he seizes the front of her shirt in his hand.  It's quite impersonal, really.  With a single vicious tug he keeps his promise; his strength is such that it's not even brutal, merely effortless.  Buttons go pinging off the front of her shirt, scattering around the terrace.  A seam pops on her shoulder.  Suddenly there's a whole lot more skin on display, and she might expect him to rip the blouse off her entirely now, she might expect him to grab her around the waist and throw her down on the table, on her back, tear her skirt off.

He doesn't.  He leans back in his seat.  There's something shockingly delicate in the way he folds the halves of her blouse back, smooths it off her shoulders.  Little by little he reveals that lovely body of hers.  Unwraps her rather like a present.  She can see him looking at her, staring, taking her in without a whit of self-consciousness.  She can see him taking a slow breath in, too, trying to catch the scent he'll never find.  His palms on her body then: smoothing over her abdomen, curving around her sides.

He's gentle with her now.  He doesn't reach for her breasts -- not yet, anyway.  He meets her narrowed gaze instead, and there's a dark sort of humor in his eyes; dark and unapologetic and

warm.  Odd, that.  Or perhaps that's a trick of the light.

"It's not arrogance if it's the truth, now is it?" he murmurs.  "Are you going to kiss me, or should I take that for myself as well?"

Victoria

His hands grip her shirt and tug - effortlessly - and she looks down at what he's doing, what's happening, and her lips part in shock. Palms leave his shoulders and find purchase on his forearms as if she might just push him away. A muscle ticks in her jaw. The bra matches the garter, the panties. Black lace and midnight blue satin. It's the sort of bra that cups her breasts perfectly. The sort that costs too much money because the lift it gives her chest is outstanding. Through a curtain of thick dark lashes she watches the Garou lean back in his chair, satisfied with the destruction he's just wrought on her expensive blouse. She watches his chest rise and fall in slow and rhythmic movements. Her spine straightens and she slowly shifts from sitting there straddling his lap to kneeling above him with both of her knees tucked in tight against his hips. 

With an amazing amount of patience he drags hands with fingers splayed up her abdomen. Victoria bears but one war wound: a horizontal scar below her navel, no longer perhaps than his index finger That is the only flaw he'd be face as his hands slide up to her delicate shoulders and push down the material of her ruined shirt. Spine straightens and she shifts her weight from one knee to the other, shrugging just faintly out of the expensive material he ripped apart so carelessly. 

When his hands curve  around her slender waist her hands crawl up his arms, feeling the curve and shape of muscle beneath tan skin. Fingers spider-walk up and over broad shoulders to cradle his jaws in the palm of her hands. The pads of her thumbs sweep up and over the apples of his cheeks, beneath his eyes that she's flirting with with her own. 

He wonders if she'll kiss him or if he'll have take that too. She wonders that too and maybe that's why she holds his face that way. Becomes acquainted with the strength of his features once again. Victoria sighs. It's a soft whisper of air that could mean oh so many things. Leaning in the tip of her nose touches his, her mouth hovers precariously above his own. They share breath, her lashes threaten to tangle with his own. 

Lips touch lips, her tongue rolls across the fullness of his bottom but she doesn't dive in and kiss him deeply. She presses soft her mouth to the corner of his, the middle of his lips and then his chin. 

"There's your kiss." She tells him, leaning back enough that she can look at his face, her hands slipping back down to caress the curve of his shoulders.

Constantine

Aside from that transient touch of her hand to his wrist a week and a half ago, the first time she's touched him was a moment ago, when she caught herself against his shoulders as he toppled her onto his lap.  And that barely counted.  This, though: this slow pass of her hands up his arms, across his shoulders.  This counts.

He's still in his undershirt.  Her palms find bare skin: the warm thick musculature of deltoids, shoulders.  A brief interruption of the strap of that plain sleeveless shirt -- and even here his clothing is quality, is soft cotton, could never be mistaken for the ribbed thin scraps that one might buy in packs of three or six from Target, Walmart, the like.  Then his skin again, rougher as her hands find the line of his beard-bristle at the angle of his jaw.

He doesn't look much like the stereotype of a Silver Fang.  It's hard to see white Russian ancestry in him, or even the Nordic blood that runs through so many of his house.  He is quite dark, his hair thick and black, his skin olive.  He has the lean taut cheeks of a nobleman, though, and the angular, symmetrical features.  And in truth, the purity of his blood is one that goes back farther than Normans and Russians; back thousands of generations, perhaps tens of thousands, right back to those Indo-European progenitors who first arose on the banks of the Caspian Sea.

His blood is so pure.  So is hers.  She can't see his, though, but he can sense hers.  It's the closest thing to a scent that she has.  Even so she's looking at him, holding his face between her small hands, looking at him as though she were not so much learning his face as recognizing it.  There's something dangerous about this, too.  It's not good for them to know each other.  That way lies ruin.

Still.  She sighs: he closes his eyes, and it seems instinctive, like an animal lulled by a gentle touch.  A camera would love his face.  Women, though -- the truth is she's one of the very few strong enough to see him through his rage.  He wears his rage and his threat like a royal mantle.  It is always with him, and like a solar corona, it is too much for most to look at; too much for most to bear.  She's different, though.  She didn't enjoy it when he made her look at him.  But she could do it.  She could bear it.  And that, too, is a rare thing.

The tip of her nose touches his.  He raises his chin a fraction of an inch; then a tilt, almost reflexive, sliding her nose alongside his.  Making room, until her mouth can touch his.  Her tongue finds his lips parting, a slow humid breath escaping.  He seems so patient; she can't even tell, doesn't even know, that it's not patience at all but control.

She kisses the corner of his mouth.  Then the center.  Then his chin, where an eighteen-hour beard prickles against her lips.  When she starts to lean back his eyes open, the lattice of his soot-black lashes unweaving to reveal those animal's eyes -- that color like amber, like gold; the pattern and thread of his irises wholly inhuman.

Not for the first time, his hand wraps behind her head.  He holds her fast for a moment, his spine straightening, his shoulderblades coming off the back of his chair as he rises to close that new distance again.  He kisses her this time, parted lips closing around her lower; the faintest scrape of teeth.  It's more than reciprocation.  It's the slightest of escalations before he lets her go, runs that hand down her body to rest at her waist again.

"There's my kiss," he corrects.  "You're making a habit of leaving me wanting more.  I can't decide if it's a good idea or a bad."

His hand moves again.  She can feel the distant echo of that motion in his shoulder -- the complex interplay of bone and tendon, the tension in those thick muscles.  His palm runs up her midriff until his fingertips find that scar.  It's only one.  He has more than that.  But then he's an Ahroun; he's born to fight and born to die.  It's different when it's her flesh that is marked.  That doesn't seem right; it upsets some natural order of things, the same way her scentlessness hangs in the air like a hole.

There's a knit in his brow when he raises his eyes to hers again.  "Where did this come from?" he asks her.  "And who was it that guarded you so poorly?"

VictoriaHis hand wraps round her head and grips it with strong fingers. Mouth to mouth, he holds her to him and at first she is stiff, palms flat on his shoulders once more. Cool fingers against the warm balls of his shoulders. Victoria never really relaxes into that kiss. Her spine remains rigid and whatever slight muscles she bears in her thighs and calves are tense. The kiss parts and it's a bruise of a kiss: strong and passionate and imbued with just a little bit of that lava like Rage in his soul.

Pink tongue swipes over her lips and the blonde kin remains seated in his lap - straddling him - narrow skirt hitched up around her thighs, silk back seamed stockings affixed to a garter belt. Pale, milky skin exposed in bits and pieces here and there. Her eyes narrow on his face, fine pale slits curtained by thick dark lashes.

A very regal chin lifts by degrees when his palm moves up her shoulder. It feels good. She's tense, he can feel the threat of knots in her muscles quite easily. It isn't until his fingers and palm drift down and round to become familiar with the scar that's slashed across her lower belly, beneath her navel. Victoria's face twists, brows furrow and the emotions that ebb and flow over her expression run the gamut from anger to frustration to indignation and humility.

Her hand slaps at his and she starts to wiggle free of his lap, hands hurrying to tug down her skirt hem.

"That's none of your business." She says stiffly, eyes lowered so she can try to set order to her clothing.


ConstantineThere was more than a hint of dominance and claim in that kiss, but the truth is it wasn't brutal.  At least -- it wasn't as brutal as he could be.  She's never seen him fight.  She's never seen what a monster he is, huge and hulking, sides that heave with every breath, jaws that snap bones like twigs; paws that thrash everything asunder.  White as winter, and as pitiless.

There's a hint of that brutality now, though.  So quickly he flashes into cruelty: she slaps at his hands and he moves like lightning.  He retaliates, his long fingers wrapping around her wrists, those slim bones there gripped in his palms.  She tries to get free.  He yanks her closer, suddenly enough to jar her breath from her lungs.  In his eyes there's a certain flat possessiveness: like an animal snarling at anyone who tries to take his kill.

Softly: "Tell me."


VictoriaHer heart races inside of her chest, rolling up into her throat and vibrating in her ears. Bones so light and delicate they might be hollow, avian, are gripped in strong, dexterous hands. The frown on her face deepens, creases form laugh lines. Constantine jerks her, the insistence in it isn't something she ought to deny. He could hurt her quite easily: grip to hard and break a bone or bruise her flesh. Of that she's well aware.

Blue doesn't met wolfish gold. Gaze averts, lips pursed. Defiance and arrogance run through her expression and posture despite how he holds her.

"It's nothing. It's private." It's everything, it's nothing. "I told you, I had a son."  Her tone is dry, hands shake. "It isn't any of your concern." She can feel his breath and the beat of his heart. The weight of his gaze lingers heavy on slender delicate shoulders. Victoria denies him that, though. She doesn't let him have her eyes, not just then.


ConstantineA moment ago he was ordering her out of her clothes.  A moment ago he was tearing her out of her blouse.  A moment ago he was this close to laying her out on the terrace table, and she, perhaps, was not so far from letting him.

Something's changed in the air since then.  She is closed now.  Tightened down; batten down the hatches, seal the doors, shade the windows of her eyes.  Her defiance is a dangerous thing, wakens the beast in him, makes him want to insist, but

perhaps he is not wholly a monster yet.  He doesn't want to be a monster; not here, not with her.  That realization is one that surprises him.

Konstantijn sighs.  It is a soft sound, barely heard.  He raises those stiff resisting hands of hers to his mouth; he kisses her knuckles.  Then he lets her go, sitting back, taking his hands off her to allow her to climb off him or remain on her own terms as she will.

"You didn't tell me it was a son," he says.  "And you didn't tell me they cut him out of you."

It is early September.  The end of summer.  The wind coming off the river is moist and cool.  They are rather exposed here, if we are honest: his building is taller than most, but even so theirs are not the only eyes here.  Anyone looking over here would see them, assume them to be lovers drifting inexorably toward a rooftop exhibition of a tryst.  Anyone looking over here would think them strikingly contrasted, beautifully matched.  She is so small; she is so delicate his hands could almost span her waist.  And he is massive, powerful, lounging like a tiger; watching her with those animal's eyes.

"It is my concern," he says.  "You are my kin."  A longer pause; and for the first time, something almost like hesitation.  "You could be mine."


VictoriaShe wants him to hurt her. Twist her wrist. Squeeze the carpals until he can feel them threaten to give way beneath the insistence of his grip. She wants him to lay claim to her mouth - lips and teeth and tongue fierce against her own. She'd be happier if he smacked her or threw her from his lap, lips peeled back - viscous.

She'd rather he do any of those things - or all of them - than what he does. He sighs. The sound tugs at something inside of her. He is the heat to her cold. She is the comfort to his need. Victoria is kinfolk - his kinfolk - and he is a warrior of her birth tribe. She will blame it on that. Some mystical link that refuses to allow her to continue denying him. She'd blame it on the moon hiding in the sky somewhere.

Release comes soon enough. Wrists are drawn into her chest, buttons unfastened just enough that he can see the milky white mounds of her modest breasts.

The wind is cool. He speaks and Victoria's eyes drift closed, lazily. The breeze is like the fingers of a lover through her blond locks, pushing them back off her face. Constantine doesn't care who might be spying on this unexpected, intimate, moment. Victoria doesn't much seem to mind either.

She'd rather he push her away that kiss her knuckles. Anything would be better than that edge of hesitation in his voice when he says, You could be mine. And just like that hitch in his voice, there's a stutter to her movements. Hips wiggle and knees guide her back - then stop. One high heel presses to the floor, the other in the seat next to his hip.

She'd rather he throw her over the rail like he did the silverware than make her want to look at him that way.

"Would that of mattered? That it was male? How he was stolen from me?" She stands, finally. Finding her resolve she clings to it, hands smoothing down her skirt. Fingers attempting to set her hair straight.


ConstantineThe shake of his head is slow.  Something about that is animal too.  Feral -- as though sometimes his humanity gets away from him.  As though sometimes, faced with someone like her - who calls to him in a way he could never have anticipated, who coils into the marrow of his bones like poison, like memory - he can't even remember how to pretend.

"It doesn't matter to the world," Konstantijn answers.  There's just enough volume to reach her ears.  A faint furrow to his brow, as though he doesn't understand this himself: "It matters to me."

She stands.  His hands rest on the arms of his seat now.  He sprawls quite at his ease.  Kingly.  Savage.  But there was a moment when she was slipping out of his touch, a twitch of his fingers like a reflex.  He breathes evenly because he makes himself breathe evenly.  She strives to set herself back into order.

"Stay with me."  He hadn't meant to ask that of her.  He thought about having her; fucking her; taking her.  Of course he thought about it.  Look at her.  But he didn't think he would ask for this: stay.  Don't go.

Softer now: "Stop running from me."


VictoriaHer shirt is in such a state of disarray that she couldn't leave his loft without borrowing one of his. Still. She makes an attempt of drawing the ripped edges together around her body. Chin to chest she looks at the designer shirt, lifting her gaze to his face just in time to watch him shake his head in that slow, nearly feral manner.

It matters to me, he says.

Slender fingers push silky hair away from her face so that she isn't hiding behind a curtain of pale gold. He sprawls, owning that chair and the ground it resides on. The balcony it's settled on. He could own it all and burn it down with all of that Rage writhing insistent and demanding beneath his skin, shades darker than her own.

Stay with me. Stop running from me. His words roll around in her head. Mix and jumble up - but they always mean the same thing: Too much, too little, too late. Victoria looks unsteady on her feet. She looks like she might scream at him. Throw something at him. Curse his entire lineage for saying such things. How dare you, her eyes say. How fucking dare you.

The palm of one hand lifts and covers her mouth. This is important. It keeps whatever was threatening to come out, in. She looks like she might laugh or cry or rage. Maybe all of them. Eventually though, that hand turns and it's the back of it (those delicate knuckles, soft skin) that presses to her lips. Opposite hand finds purchase on the curve of her hip. Eyes roam out over the city. The soft rumble of his voice a faded memory.

"This means nothing." She says as her hand falls away from her mouth and her eyes leave the cityscape to find his face. "Nothing." And everything.


ConstantinePerhaps he deserves some of that recrimination she casts his way.  How dare he.  How dare he assault her like this: come storming into her life like he owns it.  Demand her hand, her body, her submission -- and so insultingly, telling her he wouldn't love her, he wouldn't ward her, he wouldn't even care if she fucked another man or ten.

How dare he do that, and then turn it all on its ear.  How dare he corner her at that wetbar; on his rooftop.  Serve her a meal he doesn't even let her eat before he has her on his lap, tearing at her clothes.  Tear at her clothes only to leave her flayed, naked, truths spilling into the air only to find him not disgusted by her history, not repulsed, but

looking at her like that.  As though he has never seen her before.  As though he has never seen at all, before.

How dare he: after everything she's been through.  Where was he when her child was cut out of her?  Where was he when she was shared by wolves not of her blood?  Where was he when she was shamed before a Sept, marked like errant cattle?  Where was he, this glorious beast, this solar son, this creature that has the audacity, now, to say:

it matters.
she is his concern.
she could be his.


He stares at her as she holds something in.  He thinks for a moment she might shout.  Or cry.  He thinks if she weeps I am lost but he watches anyway,

and she doesn't cry; of course she doesn't.  She's Victoria Anne Wilmington.  Her blood is sterner stuff than that.

She lies to him instead.  His face stills.  Then he's up on his feet, he's surging out of his seat in a storm of motion, closing on her position.  She sidles aside; he doesn't let her; perhaps she flinches when he reaches for her again.

"You're a liar," he says.  She might resist.  She might not.  It doesn't matter; his hands are on her arms, her shoulders, it's a wrestling match in slow motion, it's not a contest at all.  He draws her inexorably closer.  His hands are on her face then.  He holds her still; he holds her face tilted to his, close, and he tells her again, "You're a liar.  Stop running.  You're already mine."


VictoriaHer body is angled toward the city. Prying eyes - should there be any - would quite easily see the pale skin of her chest and stomach that peek out from between the torn and tattered sides of her shirt. It wouldn't be hard to read the shuddering ache that has settled so comfortable in her bones. The woman on his balcony bears an amazing amount of internal fortitude. She can bear his eyes and his touch better than most, but the tenderness of his words threatens to drive her mad.

He's up. Moving. She jerks to the side, he denies her the movement. She flinches as if expecting to be struck (it'd be better than ...) but it's just his hands and they're just gripping her shoulders to steady her rather than break her.

Liar. Liar. Liar. She's tugging away from his grip, he's not letting go. You're already mine. She pauses in her denial of him. Let's his words settle deep into her mind and bones.

"Take me to bed." Is her counter. So simple. So honest, for once. Take me to bed, Konstantijn.