Our Dark Prince (The Scottish Play)

XIII. When the Rose Whispers To You, Run

4

"Recognize anyone familiar?" Wil asked Robin as she highlighted the Grimm article swiftly. As the sun sat in the sky, ensnared in the throes of passion with the moon, Robin listened to her kettle sing and thought dazedly about Scott; the Southern born-and-bred, hell-raising raised piece of *ss Lafayette told her to get over. Its shimmering blanket kissed Robinʼs face salaciously as she thought of Scott, confusing her with the futile battle between the light and the darkness, Robin blinked twice – temporarily blinded by the sunʼs skin hitting her face.

        "Robin..."

        I canʼt trust myself when Iʼm with you, he had said. Weʼre toxic, you and I.

        What the hell did that mean?

        "Robin!" Wil snapped.

        Robin reached for the stove and turned off the tea, the vanilla aroma of Earl Grey flooding the room, and as she poured a cup for herself, dumping a little bit of whiskey in. It didnʼt taste good or anything, but being buzzed was better than being sober at the moment.

        "The Night Wolf," Robin said lazily. "The monster wolf. Italian. The one that every hunter wants for some cash or whatever gets people off these days."

        "Exactement," Wil hummed playfully. "I think we have our smoking gun. They issued warrants for arrests over an animal attack; to silence witnesses. Itʼs a tell; the Order is looking to start a bloody body count, and they need the Night Wolf to do it."

        Robin frowned and sipped quietly.

        "Why the hell would the Order want...a werewolf, Wil? Theyʼre the supernatural KKK that wants to kill those who are not Christian. A werewolf wonʼt help them, amor."

        "I dunno, love. Iʼm just statinʼ the facts. Any intel we get against these vampires is another step to takinʼ them down. Hence the job, Robs."

        Robinʼs eyes narrowed at the article, her lips pursed. The violence was poetic in a way; an artistʼs
paintbrush coming to life. But unlike art, this violence wasnʼt original.

        It was a bloodbath, exactly like the one sheʼd
seen in Cuba with the same body count, same form of killing, and same collateral damage.

        Robin drank slowly.

        "Thereʼs a funeral in Baton Rouge. Small, localized. Scottʼs burying his son," Wil blurted.

        I canʼt trust myself when Iʼm with you, he echoed. Weʼre toxic, you and I. Thereʼs only one way this ends. And thatʼs bloody.

        It hurt to think. The throbbing, the pounding, the music blaring in the background as her head tensed up. Desperation flowed into her bloodstream, thrusting, whimpering like a desperado and she had to blink back curtains of anxiety, of anger, and angst as her head beat a new tune into her head.

        Another voice, competing against la voz.

When the rose
whispers to you,
Run.

        She hated him.

        She hated that he left her when she was at her most vulnerable; when he was at his most vulnerable.

        And thatʼs why she loved him.

        She hated the way he glided his mouth against hers hotly, the feverish feeling that melted into her bones when he kissed her, the taste of citrus and Japanese whiskey that lingered on his lips. The way they felt, velvety and plush, against her hipbones, her succulent skin. The way the radiant light from his stupid smile matched the fervor of the sweltering Louisianan sun, kissing every nook-and-cranny of her skin. The hunger he stirred that made her pulse, made her whine, made her scream, the way he ignited a darkness in her eyes...