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Her laugh is a resonant melody that lightens the pungent air that otherwise reeks of excessive perfume, vodka, and a scintilla of bloodshed.
It is apparently contagious, too—the modest circle of entertained guests share her glee with giggles and coy smiles as well. There are a few male admirers, it seems. Their leers are insolent and conspicuous, and some dare to take her lovely hand and brush it against their filthy lips.
From a separate circle comprised mainly of his loyal and trusty sycophants, Peter feels the plunge of a dagger deep in his stomach. The blood is invisible, but the pain is bitter and carries a trace of burning heartache.
A visitant—a friend? Is his accent colored by a Germanic lilt?—leans in to whisper something in Catherine’s ear, and her eyes twinkle in wicked amusement as she laughs some more, leaning her head fleetingly against his shoulder.
The dagger in Peter’s stomach twists sharply.
He swallows down a leaden weight that seems to have lodged itself in his throat and wonders how it is that that insipid, ginger-haired, wily, burly, flute-busting fucker has not been ignited in uncompromising flames that should very well be eating away at his ragged tunic and pretentiously dated notebook that is most certainly full of dull jests and trite, love-stricken poems.
Surely Peter’s glare is fiery enough.
Why then is that bastard still alive and breathing? Why is Archie not preparing for burial rites and insincere eulogies?
And why, just why, is his wife so charmed, so enamored, by someone who is so… not him?
Peter lets out a slow exhale, his fingers tightening their hold on a soon-to-be shattered glass of vodka.
Ever since the coup—and a certain death that best remain unmentioned and unbothered with—he and Catherine have failed to see eye to eye. And even though it is Aunt Elizabeth who rose up and took the reigns before the empire crumbled under the weight of unstable sentiments and volatile biases and revolutionary ideas, there still seems to be an unspoken war between him and his wife.
It reminds him of her early days as his Empress; oh, how he had wished to strangle her every time she leveled him with that contemptuous look. At that time, her death was a very realistic possibility that he entertained every twenty minutes or so, depending on his mood and her own. He even used to envision various scenarios with Grigor and George that would bring about dear Catherine’s demise, and was so regaled by his own ingenuity at all the unorthodox ideas of murder he had produced.
Those times seem so far away.
Now, a few months and a heartbreak later, he finds that killing her is a bittersweet fantasy that fills him with vindictive glee one second, and confounding emptiness the next.
He prefers not to think about it too much. Not only due to his inability to even conceive of exacting such a ploy, but because red suits her in the shade of strawberry-kissed lips, and not a blood-drenched neck.
Sometimes he wonders if she stills desires to kill him.
He does see it in her eyes—she has such cruel eyes; so honest now that secrecy is no longer mandated—and hears it in the bite of her tone.
But while rapport does not necessarily bind them, an unborn son most certainly does. And if Peter can’t make Catherine love him, he will suffice with knowing that she loves an extension of him. One day, she might expand her heart to include him in it as well.
He is certainly no quitter, and promises not to resign himself to her seemingly unwavering hatred. Hatred, after all, is against her nature. He prides himself on knowing this one fact about his wife that she seemingly does not.
But now, at a party that he is decidedly not enjoying, she is every ounce the wicked vixen she has sworn herself to be. Beguiling, enchanting, flirtatious, and absolutely infuriating.
He quells his dreads and tells himself that it must be an act, for every once in a while, she glances his way, catches his jealous glare, and her lips slightly rise in a self-congratulatory grin.
It is annoying, adorable, and ridiculously arousing.
And he needs to put an end to it at this very moment.
Just as he begins to walk towards Catherine, a hand splays against his chest, startling him. He looks at its source—ah, George—and feels a flicker of impatience.
“You look completely vexed, my darling.” She manages to sound both placating and suggestive in her observation. “How about you and I leave this silly party and enjoy our own festivities?” She smiles up at him, her fingers playing with the frilled collar of his shirt.
He promptly brushes her off, nonchalant of her surprised expression. “Not now, George.” And he leaves her to stare after him incredulously as he marches to his wife.
Catherine looks up at Peter when he joins their circle, her eyebrows rising slightly in surprise before she regains her elegant air of control.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” he nods at the four men who bow their heads deferentially yet retain a mocking glint in their eyes—fuckers. “Ladies,” he nods at the two women who curtsy daintily and slightly awkwardly as they attempt to balance the wig-hats atop their heads. “And… chicken.” He furrows his eyebrows at the fowl that clucks loudly in acknowledgement. At least it is well-mannered.
“Good evening, Emperor Peter—except, you are not emperor anymore, are you?” The German bastard inquires with so much cheek that he should have been considered as a food option for the banquet. Catherine did say she would like a Germanic addition to their cuisine.
Without missing a beat, Peter pipes in with false enthusiasm, “Ah, aren’t you well-versed in foreign affairs, good for you.” And he claps him on the back with enough force that the man teeters forward a step or two. Peter catches a warning glare from Catherine, but chooses to ignore it.
He continues, “Things are admittedly complicated these days. Absolutely nothing is certain.” He gestures with his hands to the individuals in question as he proceeds to exemplify his statement. “Aunt Elizabeth might fall dead tomorrow morning. I might regain my status as Emperor. You might catch syphilis and whither away unloved and a virgin in an obscure ditch.”
His wife, ever delightful and witty, faces him and adds with a large smile and a jovial voice, “And I might decide that I have had enough of you and slit your throat.”
There is a leaden pause. Then, Peter breaks it with a laugh, and everyone follows suit, though they seem much less certain in their amusement.
“Isn’t she positively enchanting, ladies, gents, and chicken? I thank my lucky stars every day for her—or, well, more specifically I thank Archie and his vision from God.”
On her part, Catherine gives the sweetest insincere smile she has to offer.
Her ire and disdain mix so prettily with his malice and resentment. They truly are the perfect couple.
“Dominik was about to recite a poem he has written,” Catherine says, prompting Dominik to go forth with his recital.
“Oh, it’s merely something that I improvised.” Dominik says, mixing arrogance with humility in an obnoxious concoction. “Inspired solely by the radiance of your beauty.” And he has the gall to wink at her.
“A whole poem inspired by my beauty?” she frowns to herself contemplatively, and Peter doesn’t restrain himself from shaking his head at such an amateur mistake on the supposed poet’s part.
“And of course, your wit and intelligence,” Dominik remedies quickly.
Catherine positively beams.
And Peter wants to kill someone. Preferably male, German, and ginger.
Instead, he interrupts the recital before it even begins.
His voice drops, his visage darkens, and he is certainly in no mood to be the entertaining jester any longer.
“Alright, none of that.” He grabs the paper and tears it to shreds. “My wife doesn’t need to hear insipid words coming from a vapid mouth. If you were hoping that your little poem might ease your way into her apartments so that you can fuck her, then I must to tarnish your pathetic attempts before you embarrass yourself.”
Silence looms over their group, with everyone biting their tongue and holding their breath. Dominik might have a slight edge over Peter in terms of brawn, but Peter still towers over him with his height, and his blue eyes scald with the iciest of fires, while Dominik’s brown eyes are hardened by sheer egotistical will.
Peter might be known for his fickle and easily diverted nature, but those characteristics which are definitive of him in court are the ones to vanish most readily when his sense of stability is shaken. His resolve, cold and steely, shines through very clearly in his gaze.
Dominik’s eyes flicker, only fleetingly and imperceptibly to anyone but his contender, and Peter instantly knows that he has the whip hand. And he certainly will not hesitate to lash.
But before he can do much of anything, a hand, soft but steadied by purposefulness, grasps onto his forearm. Peter turns to look into Catherine’s eyes, which glitter with anger and warning. Such tumultuous emotions make her volatile, and his ruthlessness should easily squash her efforts at holding him back, yet for some reason, his gaze softens, and the ice melts if only a fraction.
‘Don’t,’ she seems to plead with him. Her pleas, even unspoken, are like commands fit for an empress.
He does not wish to dismay her, truly he doesn’t; but he must put his foot down lest he make himself a ready target for acts of contempt. Emperor or not, he is still of royal blood, and he remains a candidate to emperorship, should anything happen to Aunt Elizabeth.
So he pulls his arm out of her grasp and squares his shoulders, looking into Dominik’s eyes once more.
“You have already ruined a perfectly good party,” he steadily says, voice lethally soft. “Get out.”
“Peter—!” Catherine exclaims.
He cuts her off, “Catherine, no.” He turns to her, and their eyes lock in a silent challenge. “I have had my word and it is final.”
A scoff leaves Dominik’s mouth as he pockets his notebook. “Never mind this, Cat. I would rather leave than be decapitated for an illusory crime.” He pushes out of the crowd and turns to look at her one last time. “I am just sorry you had to be married to such a pitiless madman.”
And he is gone.
It is only by a stroke of luck that Peter’s temper doesn’t compel him to order the bastard’s instant demise. Or perhaps it is the stricken look on Catherine’s face; how lost and empty she suddenly looks, as if she has been reminded of a fate that can only be escaped by death.
She lets out a heavy breath, suddenly weary and haggard, and levels him with a look that is hitherto unfamiliar to him. He fails to describe it. Though his stomach does drop to his feet at its sight.
With a small shake of the head, she strides out of the hall, dignified even in her anger.
Peter doesn’t waste a second. He is on her trail instantly, and once they are in the dimly lit corridor, he calls to her once, twice, thrice, yet she fails to answer.
His legs are longer, though. And with the burden of a suffocating corset, she is soon out of breath. He catches up to her and grabs hold of her wrist, forcing her to twirl and meet his concerned look with a defiant one.
“Let go of me,” she demands lowly.
He complies, yet persists. “Are you mad on his behalf?”
A short laugh, mocking and grim, leaves her lips. “If you truly cannot work out why I am mad, then you are beyond all help.”
Peter exhales through his nose and falls silent for a second. Then he says, “I could not stand the way he looked at you. Like you were his to bend over and fuck as he pleases.”
She crosses her arms and raises her head to look him straight in the eye. “Because that is only acceptable if you do it to your whores?”
“I no longer have them, you know that.”
“George?” she challenges.
“Even her,” he counters.
For a moment, she is silent. They watch each other’s eyes for a time indistinct, probing, daring, scaling levels upon levels of guarded walls and falling every single time.
“I did not ask you to love me,” Catherine eventually says. Her voice is soft.
He hides a grimace, but she notices it anyway. “You did not have to.”
“I can’t love you back.”
The ground beneath him feels shaky for a second. He gulps, furrowing his eyebrows in consideration, before slowly returning his gaze to her.
Her form is evasive, and she holds herself defensively, as though fearful of being laid bare before him. And she refuses to look at him anymore.
His visage relaxes in a subconscious understanding.
Slowly, he inches forward, touching his hand against her arm, which falls lax at her side at the unexpected gesture, and he trails his fingertips down the soft skin of her forearm until they reach the inside of her wrist. He notice how her breath flutters before she sucks it in. The pounding of her heartbeat is betrayed by her pulse in any case.
He leans in, though she stiffens in surprise and falters, and brushes his cheek against her temple, gauging her reaction. She doesn’t move at all, but her heart rate accelerates. At that, his own slows down.
She does not hate him. Not really. But perhaps she hates herself for not hating him.
His lips brush against her hair, her eye—both her eyes fall closed in a soft flutter for a fleeting second—her cheek, her nose, before finally hovering a mere inch away from her lips.
The tension between them is stifling. The very air feels thick, and an invisible force seems to be pulling them closer to each other.
But she does not close the gap.
She cannot play the victim if she goes for the strike herself.
She expects him to kiss her, however. He sees it in her glazed, defiant eyes and her flushed skin.
He leans in a mere centimeter closer, feeling their breath intermingle. Her eyes close, and her lips part slightly.
And he takes a step backward.
Instantly, she opens her eyes again, looking confused and flustered and rousingly unnerved. It takes all the self-control that he has not to grab her face in both hands and kiss her senseless.
But he does get tired of playing the villain. If she wants him, she will have to admit it.
He has been dealt a humbling hand with his forced descent from emperorship. Surely he can teach himself to be patient.
Catherine is glaring at him.
Peter gives a complacent, calculated smile. “Have a lovely night,” he whispers, “dear wife.”
She doesn’t respond.
He knows he has won.