Our Dark Prince (The Scottish Play)

LXXIII. Silk & Satin

14
Lolita
Little Italy
Manhattan, New York
Jail of Broken Dreams
Territory: Volta Grande
July 11th, 2004
Time: 11:30 PM 
_____________________________

Rosé. It wafted through the master bedroom as Lolita stirred, sickly sweet rills of peppermint oil wafting from her slim wrists. The fragrances of the warmth wine and the oil created the most unsettling emotions as she awoke, being seduced by some fever dream. Slipping on a satin nightgown nearby, she watched as smoke billowed from the luxurious Monte Cristo cigars erotically, all on their own, caught in a sweaty tango with the fumes of her oil. She reached for a glass of rosé by her bedside and took sip, the sting of curiosity creating a deliciously s*xual atmosphere.

"Voltaire?" she whispered, hush-hush.

A violin gasped and sighed sensually in the background, and as Lolita craned her head around to try to identify the source of the sound, a box with a little rose-pink bow sat at the foot of the master bed. Picking it up and pulling back the ribbon, caressing the rich black wood, Lolita watched with curiosity as photographs and manila files fell from it. When she searched, the folders were in alphabetic order, organized to perfection, and as Lolita sifted through the box, secrets kissed her fingers like the longing of a lover, itching to be discovered.

The first picture was old-fashioned.

Ornate in its printing as the group all posed happily on their wintry vacation in Athens, Vermont. The snow fell around the prestigious Prince family like wedding lace; dozens of happy executives, business associates, and legal counsel smiling next to a dark-haired woman and man, whose faces were blurred out, smudged with rosy pink lipstick. Stroking her fingers delicately along the polaroids, Lolita happened upon another set of photos. This time, more salacious. A little girl, no older than seven, being photographed nude, blood spilling from her underwear, her battered little body. The façade was gone of this place Lolita happened on in that moment, the monsters resurfaced, and pure terror wracked Lolita. Unadulterated, purely angry and penitent, evil that eviscerated her.

"The past always has a funny way of coming back, it seems. You found me," a soft voice murmured, lilted in a seductive cadence Lolita knew all too well. 

Lolita froze. Lifting her glass of rosé, and wrapping her slick hands around the tapered wine glass, she let the warmth of the apartment suite melt into her fingertips, seep into her skin. Her fingers shook as she swallowed her fear, making the minty scent of the rosé, the lushness of its palate, the risqué sensations consume her, crackling inside her, like fire.

And when she closed her eyes, her voice crackled like fire, too.

"You fed me to the wolves," Lolita whispered. "You betrayed me. You hurt me in the worst possible way you could...and yet. My poems about you, the ones I gave you, they still ring in my mind."

"You canʼt betray someone you had no loyalty for in the first place, Lolita."

She sat next to Lolita in the bed, stroking her knuckles affectionately. Lolita squeezed her eyes shut in pain, hoping to be swallowed in the darkness and never see light. All her life, Lolita lived in comforting illusion, where the details hid their authenticity in favor of pleasantries. It was how she wormed her way into the Prince court. The slightest imperfections she found, like a pin to a balloon, can burst the illusion. And here she was, on the brink of exposing the truths she hoped would stay buried from her lover.

"Where is Voltaire?" Lolita asked, voice trembling.

Robin kissed Lolita and her lips were feathery. Relishing in the heat of her lips against hers, her heart pounding in her chest, pillowy and plush, she sighed. The decadent ripples of heat were as luxurious as the peppermint oil perfumed the room. With the bitterness of her broken heart, Lolita drank in Robinʼs lips and the aches inside her were quiet; moving in sync with the tempo of the seductive melody in the background. Their mouths pressed hotly together, and then, there was air. Ashes-to-ashes, dust-to-dust. Lolita rubbed Robin's jaw, savoring one more soft, sensual kiss.

"He is waiting for us," Robin murmured. "Come."

She stood up, wordless, and Lolita watched the illusion ebb away like the dawn with the coming of light.

"I know how this game ends," Lolita shot back. "Youʼre going to kill me for figuring out the truth."

Robin paused, not facing Lolita.

"Voltaire talks a good game, it appears," she mused, observant. 

"Youʼre not denying it. That youʼre going to kill me."

"No. Iʼm not; it is a reasonable assumption," Robin responded simply.  "But, I didnʼt show you all the deep, darkest parts of me, Lolita, to kill you. Killing you, or anyone in the Order for that matter, wonʼt bring my son back to me. Wonʼt erase the sins of the past."

"Then why I am here?" Lolita challenged, defiant.

Robin pursed her lips, gesturing for her to come to the dining room nearby.

"As a bargaining chip," she said simply. "I need the Book. You want...leverage against me, I am assuming, to elevate your status in Princeʼs eyes. Appears we both have cards to play."

A beat.

"Come," Robin murmured simply. "I've made Italian."