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The woman raps her knuckles on the tinted glass door, knocking on the door twice in succession. “Bladie, are you finished? The script demands that we be there soon.” Her voice leaks into the tiled walls of the bathroom. It’s so soft yet commanding; only the likes of him and Silver Wolf would be able to detect the impatient lilt in her voice. “You know how Elio gets when we’re off-script, even by just a few seconds.”
The man’s fingers looped and tugged at his tie, forming a sorry excuse of a bow at the base of his neck. If anything, it looked more like a knotted rope than a bow. His exasperated grumble reverberates into the bathroom walls.
The noises of complaint do not escape Kafka’s ears. “Sounds like you’re having trouble. Open the door. I’ll help you with your tie.”
Blade stares vacantly at his reflection in the mirror, hands gripping the sink. If it wasn’t for his Mara, he’s usually not one to lose his edge, but this… is a whole other ordeal…
“Bladie, listen-“
Blade slides open the glass door before she could finish her command. He’d rather live through Kafka’s teasing remarks than spend another second trying to decipher that blasted tie.
Kafka’s marginally irritated expression instantly becomes an amused grin.
“Are you happy?” Blade grimaces.
“Impressed.” Kafka’s hands are already at his collar. “How did you manage to get it to look this way?” She chips away at the knot, causing his head to sway to the continuous tugging and pulling.
His hands fall to his side, resigning to letting her work her magic as his gaze falls on her dolled-up appearance. Her usual attire was replaced with a tight black gown that clung to her curves like a second skin, accentuating every enticing contour of her body. The dress had a daring slit on the side that teased at his imagination the more he tried to ignore it. Her hair’s a little neater than normal, ponytail held up by a pink and black velvety ribbon. But it was her lips that captured his attention the most. Even her lipstick had a different, more tantalizing quality to it. The way it made her lips shine under the fluorescent lights drew him in, unknowingly pushing him to lean into her touch.
Blade was no fool, he wasn’t a stranger to the fact that Kafka was pretty - gorgeous, even. Everywhere she went, people’s attention naturally fell on her, as if she owned it. And as much as he wouldn’t want to admit it, her grasp on his attention was just as firm as her grasp on his mara. He’s fallen victim to her mesmerizing looks and seductive temperament… The subtle sway of her hips when she walks, the delicate curve of her lips when she smiles sweetly, the way she’s able to own every part of his mind and body—all betray his innate sense of reason. To say that he hasn’t envisioned Kafka in some of his more shameful fantasies would be a downright lie. He’s still just a man, even when he says he’s anything but.
Kafka gave his bow tie one finishing tug, snapping him back into reality. “Getting distracted?”
She definitely knows.
Blade gives an excusatory cough. He wishes he could clear his mind as fast as he can clear his throat. He touches the pristinely tied bow at his collar and mutters a quiet hum, a sound she knows to be his shy way of saying “thanks”.
“Look at how handsome you are.” She coos. Kafka smooths down his stray hairs, eliciting a subdued flustered look from him. The contrast between his fierce, blood-hungry battlefield persona and moments like this amuses her endlessly.
“Why do we need to go as a couple?” He attempts to shift her focus elsewhere.
“Whatever the script demands, we carry out. As always.”
He knows that, of course he does. That's the nature of being one of Destiny’s Slaves, after all.
“I’m no actor.”
“And neither am I. All you need to do is pretend to be my husband for a night.” Her feather-light touches graze his suit with gentle precision, adjusting and nudging the fabric in all the right places where it's necessary. Each delicate gesture seems to breathe more life into his appearance, adding an exquisite finesse to his attire. “And while you do that, we infiltrate the host's quarters and take their curio.”
“And if it goes wrong?”
“If it goes wrong, you can bust out your sword and do what you normally do.”
He likes the idea of that, no surprise there.
“But only if it goes wrong. Listen Bladie, focus on being my husband for tonight. Call me darling, hold my hand, and hover around me. Just go along with what I tell you, and we should be smooth sailing. Got it, darling?”
Another displeased grunt escapes his mouth. “Yes darling.”
The banquet hall buzzes with a lively crowd, a sea of opulent attire and extravagant jewelry. Amidst the glamor, Kafka stands out like a magnetic force, drawing every eye toward her. As she enters the room with confidence oozing from every step, heads swivel in her direction, captivated by her presence, as always.
She made no attempt to intercept the gazes several of the guests already had on her. “I’ll get us checked in. You remain here and wait for me to return.”
He nodded, his back against the archway. His arms instinctively cross, his natural reaction to finding himself in an uncomfortable situation. Waiters and guests scurry to and from the hall. People chattering, glasses clinking - this was definitely a mission best suited for Kafka’s tastes. Elio clearly accounted for who would be best suited for this evening’s script, but for what reason he was tasked to accompany Kafka, he cannot fathom.
Despite his best efforts to sink into the wall, he's approached by a woman, probably another guest of this party. She walked with a drunken sway, glass in hand. To approach him in public without being Kafka or Silver Wolf, this woman must have a death wish, he reasoned.
The inebriated woman leans against the wall he is leaning against. He scoots away.
“Hey there, handsome, you look lonely.” The woman leaned in, one hand on her drink, the other on the wall to keep her balance.
“I’m waiting for my wife.” He said it tersely, hoping that would end her advances.
“How about I take you somewhere-” She hiccups. “-quiet. For a chat.”
“No. I’m waiting for my wife.” He turns his head away from the lady.
A momentary silence passes.
“So what’s your type?”
Aeons above.
He sneers at her persistence, not that she picked up on the cue anyway.
“My wife,” he says.
“Your type is your wife? Okay, what does your wife look like?” She scoots closer to him, attempting to nudge him with her elbow.
He scoots further away like he was allergic to her. “She looks like my wife.”
The drunk woman put on a childlike pout, putting on a facade to get him to care. He didn’t. “Then tell me what you like about your wife.”
If he could make her go away without drawing his sword, this might be his chance. Blade thought for a moment, going through the list of words he could use without rousing too much unnecessary trouble.
“Unlike you, she’d be able to handle me when I lose patience .” He fixed a piercing glare upon the woman, his eyes filled with annoyance.
The woman stumbles back, spilling a bit of her drink over the expensive carpeted floor. “W-wha?”
From a distance, a recognizable clacking sound came from Kafka's heels. She returns to her irate companion. "Speaking of handling him-" He peels off the wall and goes to her side immediately, as if on cue. “Sorry for interrupting your talk.” She had a sickeningly sweet smile that was equally as ominous as his scowl. There was not a hint of sorry anywhere in her gentle voice. “But I need to be somewhere with my hubby , so if you’ll excuse us.”
The inebriated woman observes the couple as they blend into the crowd, her gaze fixed on how the man was practically taped to the woman's side.
She flounders back onto the wall. Huh. To think that men like that truly exist.
From one uncomfortable situation to the next, Blade keeps finding himself in unfavorable settings with unfavorable people. Now, he was here, trapped on one side of a stuffy dinner table, pretending to touch base with an upper-crust couple from who-knows-which corporation. At least he was next to Kafka now; she knew how to snake her way around conversations for him when it was necessary.
Kafka swirled the wine in her glass, savoring each sip with a measured control, careful not to smudge her red lips. Her eyes gleamed with pleasure as she savored the taste, and a subtle smile graced her lips. "Exquisite," she murmured, her voice had a velvety quality to it that mirrored the sophistication of the wine she held in her hand.
“Well, only the finest for our biggest trade partners to date!” The elder man bellowed from across the table. According to Kafka, he was the man they were tasked with stealing from later tonight. The man wraps his arms around his wife eagerly indulging in the wine.
Elio’s task was for him and Kafka to impersonate a newlywed couple that had recently had a breakthrough in success in this world’s economy. And according to the underlined portion of his notes, it was apparently vital that he and Kafka act like “lovebirds”, whatever that meant.
The man’s wife chimes in, “And to celebrate our successes with such a large conglomerate, I just knew we had to have dinner with you and your husband.” She puts a hand on her cheek. “To think we’ve never met in person! The last thing I expected was to be having dinner with newlyweds!”
Kafka politely laughed. “Well, I did inherit my father’s company at a young age. Thanks to my husband, we were able to make things work and more.” Her elegance was captivating, every movement and gesture exuded grace and confidence. Blade couldn't help but marvel at how effortlessly she seemed to belong in these elite social circles, unlike him. Her presence was so enchanting that he once again found himself entranced, unable to look away.
“You husband’s not much of a talker, is he?” The man gestured his head curiously towards Blade.
Under the table, Kafka's pinky brushed against his hand, an unspoken request for contact. He accepted, and their fingers entwined, her soft, gloved palm melding with the warmth of his larger hand that enveloped hers possessively. With a sultry smile, she looks at him, still addressing the couple, "He's the shy type, but when we're alone, he becomes more talkative."
Which was true, not that he had many strategies to resist Kafka’s prodding.
“Oh how cute. I remember I was like that when I first met my husband, too.” The woman seemed very pleased, noticing that their hands were joined underneath the table.
Kafka massaged circles on the top of his hand, the same way she did to him whenever he returned with new bruises and cuts on his hands and arms. It had become second nature to her, an automatic response whenever she guided him somewhere by his arm or hand. Whether intentional or not, her tender caresses always were able to soothe his pains, an effect he was never quite able to comprehend.
The elder man raised his glass from across the table, the glass catching the radiating light from the chandelier above. “To the joining of two mighty conglomerates!”
“Cheers!” Kafka mirrored his action, glass ascending to meet him.
The others followed suit. The four participants joined their glasses in a symphony of harmonious clinks.
“And one more thing!” The wife motioned for a server to approach her. The server presented a small wrapped box to Kafka and him. “A late gift, to celebrate your marriage.”
“Yes, yes, think of it as a little something to spice things up in the bedroom.” The husband winked at Blade. Not many things unsettled him anymore, but this motion definitely did.
“Oh stop it.” The wife gave her husband a playful slap on the arm.
Kafka squeezed his hand and met his gaze, still smiling. She was smiling, but something about her face told him to “drop that face.” Understanding, he went back to the same old unperturbed look.
She received the small box, no doubt taking note of the box’s weight and meticulously packaged condition. “Oh, you’re so kind.” she grinned.
Kafka navigated the quiet residence hall, her steps measured and unhurried, yet every move exuded a subtle sense of purpose. The ambient light casted a soft glow upon her figure, accentuating her every sway as she moved. Somewhere along the line, he was tasked with holding the “gift”.
Kafka stopped to reapply her lipstick, tracing it across her lips carefully, and ever so slowly. The way she popped her lips together after finishing snapped Blade out of his trance. He gulped, turning his attention away.
Blade scanned the vicinity for obstacles. Nothing there.
“What’s our next course of action?”
“Patience, Bladie, it’s almost like you haven’t read Elio’s script. Don’t tell me one of the most mission-oriented members doesn’t read the script.” She teased.
“Something tells me Elio put more into your script than mine.”
The faint echo of approaching footsteps, accompanied by the rhythmic jangling of keys ring into the corridor.
Kafka's voice, hushed and urgent, whispered, "A guard."
Blade is about to summon his sword when Kafka softly touches his forearm, urging him to stop. She pushes him backward, causing him to collide with the wall. She traps him there, pressing firmly against his figure with hers. He could feel the heat of her body despite the thick fabric of his suit.
“Kafka-”
“Shh.” She whispers. “If you trust what’s on my version of the script, you’ll be quiet for me.” She grabs his shirt collar. “Lean down a bit, will ya?”
His mouth opens when he hesitates, but no words escape. He obliges, bowing down just enough so their eyes meet.
“Mmf!?”
Kafka traps him in a kiss, tilting her head back when he rises in surprise. She pushes further. Her tongue meets with his, sending his head into spirals as she savors the taste of his mouth. She’s so tender with him. She cups her hands on his cheeks to hold his head down at her level; it’s firm, yet so gentle. The way she touches him so softly like he wasn’t some sort of killing machine, a monster. His heart betrays him, pounding shamelessly fast, as if it has a mind of its own, responding to her touch with an urge he struggles to contain. He almost doesn’t notice when the guard walks past them in the hallway.
The guard pauses for less than a second. “Woah! Sorry ‘ bout that. I’ll uh- yeah get going.” He speeds out of the corridor.
The two are fused, still locked together until the guard leaves. Finally, parting ever so breathily, she breaks the kiss, leaving him with an ache of desire for more. His lips tingle in a way that leaves him hungry for more of her touch.
“Your face is red, Bladie.” she chuckles as if a subtle flush hasn't graced her own cheeks.
She brushes her fingers against his lips, smudging the lipstick stain across his embarrassed frown. He shrinks away from her touch, his hands covering his mouth as his eyes avert.
“Come here.” She tugs at his shirt collar, hard enough to loosen his tie.
She positions him just where she wants him, and he complies without hesitation. He leans down, not knowing what she’ll do to him, just that he’d be fine with whatever it may be. When her lips meet his neck, he flinches in surprise. He remains still when she departs from his reddening neck, leaving behind a mark of her presence in the form of a lipstick stain.
Amused, she tips his head down by his chin, her soothing chuckle rousing him further. “In case someone questions us when we leave.”
“Say, Bladie, what is in that giftbox? Elio didn’t mention it.” Kafka plops onto the hotel bed. Another mission well done.
Blade set the box down next to her. He’s already suffered enough having strangers give him knowing looks, staring at the lipstick smudges on his face and neck while Kafka drags him by his arm to their shared hotel room. He’s received enough attention for one day, and not just from Kafka.
He searches around the room for a tissue. Kafka tosses him a handkerchief. He nods, ready to return to his space on the hotel room sofa to clean off the lipstick marks in privacy.
“Oh no you're not. You’re not sleeping on the sofa tonight.”
Blade freezes in his tracks, wary of the implications behind her words. He remains still, back facing her, waiting for her to command him to do something, as she usually does. He hears her approach him from behind. His mind races, unsure of what she has in mind for him, but willing to follow her lead as he always does, like a dog; her dog.
She wraps something around his neck—leather. A quick clack secures the neckpiece, tightening it around his neck. She tugs him back with the band fastened to the neckpiece, dragging him back into the bedroom. A collar, and a leash.
“Listen, Bladie, you’re not going anywhere until we try out the gift the nice couple gave us, okay?”
Something forces a response out of him, he’s not sure whether it’s an effect of her abilities, or whether it was something he just got used to saying.
“Yes, darling.” he utters behind clenched teeth.