cw // sexual content, mention of dubious consent (does not involve Klaus)
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CHAPTER ELEVEN. THERE MIGHT BE PEACE
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Nearly a month has passed since Antonia was killed.
The event doesn't shock as it did that day. People seem painfully unsympathetic these days.
Throughout these few weeks, Anastasia has been coddling with the killer, fully knowing what he's done. She tells herself they are just allegations, even though they came from his brother. She tells herself it isn't true till she witnesses Klaus's cruelty firsthand.
All to dismiss the fact that she does not care at all.
Instead of meeting in the gardens, Anastasia and Klaus have been meeting in his painting room. They found it offers more secrecy, gives them more space to be comfortable and indulge in each other.
They have done a lot of that, like that one time he was kissing her and her legs wrapped around his body as he lifted her onto the counter, knocking a bowl of paint that they didn't bother cleaning up, and all that coursed through their minds was the press of their bodies against each other.
But there's still something she feels when he creeps up from behind, the hairs on the nape of her neck stand on end and her shoulders tense, she fears him. A fear that she tries to pass for nervousness. It works, most of the time.
She likes what he does when he notices it. Klaus hides his face in the crook her neck and leaves a kiss there. He's not a killer, she thinks, and if he is, he won't kill me.
She hasn't fully given herself to him—not yet. She thinks she will soon. Because for all evil he could be, he's still charming and she likes him, and he's got this way of kissing that just knocks all sense out of her.
She dreams of sex with him. She idealizes how their first time should look like and how it should all play out. She wants it to be slow and daring. She wants it to feel like he's giving a piece if not all of himself to her in that moment. She wants that moment to exist out of time and place, let it just be the two of them and nothing else.
