Our Dark Prince (The Scottish Play)

LXIX. The Devilʼs Red Lipstick

❦❧♱❦❧

    She wore red.

    Blood red.

    Like liquid oil, the gloss dripped on her lips; molten rubies slicking up the seams of her lips. The brush was a soft texture, sweet, and as she puckered her lips into a blood kiss, the covetous gazes of the Order burning into the back of her one-shouldered evening gown. Like Ophelia, she wore another face – that of some de Medici girl, with her princess curls tucked into an elegant evening bow, thanks to the Hellbenders belladonna potions – as she moved through the crowd. The Order of the Dragon worshipped her with her stares as she fed their illusions, cherished her in their affections, and Robin reveled in the sensation. She would have these sons-of-b*tches eating out of the palm her hands, and she would start, by swiping some of Ruthʼs Château from a beguiled busboy.

    Blood red, it appeared, wouldnʼt be framing just her shoulders.

    Doing a quick scan, Robin sunk her teeth into her target immediately: Prescott OʼMalley, the prodigal son, in her periphery.

    She smiled devilishly.

    F*ck me? I f*ck you, too, c*brón.

    Swaying her hips precociously, Robin took in the fancy, darkly wealth, crowd of the Order and launched herself at Scott.

     "What do we do, Scott? What do we–"

    Three, two, one. Like childʼs play. It was all too easy: Robin gasped theatrically as she held her emptied wine glass, wincing as it hit Scottʼs lapel of his suit jacket.

    "¡M*erda!" Robin cursed, stepping back. "I am so sorry."

    Scott took his jacket off, begrudgingly, glaring daggers into Robinʼs eyes. The angelic girl next to him was lost, confused by Robinʼs genuine nature. Robin sized her up briefly; she was an exquisite treat. She resembled Raphaelʼs The Transfiguration a unique creature calling, singing, pleading. Her face was painted with the delicacy of an authorʼs brush, like Pope Alexander VIʼs mistress once was.

    And like a piece of art no one cared for, Robin had to get rid of her.

    "God, Iʼm such an idiot," Robin murmured, lips trembling, tears slightly pouring out. The angel girl, like clockwork, responded accordingly.

    "It was our fault; we werenʼt looking. Iʼll g-go get something to clean up," she stuttered, ducking her head in retreat.

    Robin smiled with satisfaction, her eyes trailing behind her as she disappeared into the crowds.

    "You manipulative b*tch," Scott growled. Robin pursed her lips together, her smile snakelike.

    "Well, I learn from the best," she countered, stepping forward, a twinkling in her eye. "Though I must say, itʼs more of a b*tch move on your part for sending me down a rabbit hole to find Domingoʼs treasure."

    Robin fondled Scottʼs b*lls, squeezing until the wind was knocked out of him. She would have blood, and she would have blood now.

    "You have thirty seconds to explain to me why LʼArmeʼs military presence has been building up in every part of Latin America except El Dorado, why the Hellbenders are being hunted like fresh game despite the Treaty, and if you donʼt, Iʼll cut your d*ck off," she seethed, squeezing until Scott moaned out in pain.

    "Why lead me into a f*cking death trap? Hmm?"

    "I didnʼt. The Order isnʼt planning any att-acks, agh–"

    She crippled Scott, watching him buckle and bend the knee to her, and as he writhed in her grasp, she tugged his hair back, fingers ghosting over his Adamʼs apple. Her claws kneaded at him with such force, Scottʼs face turned candy-apple red, his body convulsing under her grip.

    "So much blood. So much potential," she sneered. "I could f*cking eat you alive–"

    Gasp.

    "You absolute idiot. RuthTudorisplanningacoup."

    End gasp. In that moment, the affection may have not been there, but they had an understanding, and it terrified the both of them.

    "What coup?" Robin asked, speechless.

    "She plans to level Latin America, and overthrow the Order," Scott breathed, rubbing his neck. "For her children. For revenge."

    Shuddering, Robin turned away from Scott – hollow, listless and lifeless, her bottom lip jutting out as she remained, speechless.

    A ghost in the fray.

    Robin urged Scott to follow her, and so, they walked around the gardens of the racetrack, resenting one another but also reassuring one another.

    The blood red flowed as they walked around the garden. Like the versatility of one beating heart, as Robin moved with Scott, the roses flailed. Furling around the rotten crimson sky like plumes of icy smoke. The romantic tone, the arbitrary discussion of power, it stuck to her. Power was the beating, pulsing, heart of the Orderʼs society – the carmine, crimson blood that flowed through every vein and artery of the perverted Cenci territories intoxicating. Alcoholic, addictive. It was what formed the bosom of this great nation. The Order consumed it, suckled the t*t as if it were the ichor of life, the blood of the b*east; and the roses, the façade emanated that fortitude.

    Take that all away, and thereʼs nothing left.

    Robin paused.

    "Itʼs going to be a bloodbath," Robin told him, breathless. "Sheʼs going to kill everyone, Scott."

    "How? H-how?" he stammered, trying to cling onto his words.

    "Thereʼs no time to explain, Scott, I just...I need you to trust me on this."

    "Are you serious? Trust you? The woman who just threatened to kill and castrate me all at once?"

    Robin pinched her temple.

    "Ruth Tudor is ex-Hellbender, Scott."

    "And so? You are a Hellbender."

    "Scott, she is the reason Pinochet slaughtered his people in Chile."

    His skin burned her fingers like acid on fire, but in that moment, she needed something. A lingering stare, void of all emotion but one: survival. Her fingers clasped his, rigid.

    "Now, tell me everything you know."

    "And what?" Scott asked, panicking.

    A beat.

    "An eye for an eye," Robin whispered, determined.