Thousands (Dollar 4)

She was no longer anyone’s prisoner…she was no one’s princess.

The mask gleamed a deep, rich red to match her stunning blue and red dress, wings of the mask hid her cheekbones, flaring up to her hairline in a regal tiara. Red gemstones dangled beneath her eyes like blood tears while midnight feathers adorned the lacy crown.

Her gown swayed as she moved forward, her gaze seeking something, someone…me.

When I’d ordered the dress, I’d rolled my eyes at the name Bruised by Beauty. Yet another gimmick employed by a store to sell their underwhelming product.

How fucking wrong I was.

Pim looked as if she bloomed from a bruise. A pretty flower opened and still standing even after every petal had been damaged by plucking human fingers.

She looked draped in pain and blood; a queen of agony and everything she’d lived through.

I wanted to fucking bow to her. To take her hand in mine and kiss her knuckles with reverence. To pledge my loyalty, fealty, fortune, and heart.

And then she saw me.

And she transformed once again.

Her sin-red lips tilted into a nervous smile. Her green eyes glowed uncertain behind her mask, and her hair stole the candle light, absorbing it, glowing like liquid chocolate twirled and bound with a blue-black ribbon.

I’d never seen someone so beautiful or been so broken by it.

Instead of collapsing in homage, my legs moved toward her.

I couldn’t breathe as I cut through the crowd, moving ever closer, bound within her spell. When we met in the centre of the ballroom, the music switched to a heart twisting waltz and couples began to merge into one, swirling around us as if we’d stepped through time and entered a ball centuries earlier.

I had so much to say to her and no words worthy.

I had so much to feel and no heart capable of such things.

So I did the only thing I could.

I bowed with my arm tucked over my waist. I bowed right to her skirts and waited for the fluttering of her hand upon my head. The moment she touched me, I couldn’t stay apart any longer.

Sweeping my arm around her, I tucked her close. Grunting at the perfect sensation of her slim body encased in miles of satin pressing against mine, I swung her into a waltz.

I didn’t know how to dance.

I’d chosen music over footsteps, but my OCD, for once, served as a gift instead of a flaw. Every movie I’d ever watched and show I’d ever seen, I recalled the rhythm, the flow, and my feet fell effortlessly into beat.

And just like I’d been winded and awed by Pim, I was once again blown away by how my brain quieted better than any joint.

One, two, three.

One, two, three.

The waltz rhythm ran through my veins and ears and blood.

One, two, three.

One, two, three.

A perfect box, our feet moving in unison, every move in threes.

I shuddered at the relief of moving in sync instead of fighting to stay within restrictions. My brain stopped being so chaotic. I sighed as everything made rational, comprehensible sense.

My fingers wrapped tighter around her waist as I threw my all in to the dance and clutched her hard.

The softest moan fell from her lips, her mouth parted, eyes bright as stars. She moved with me, entirely river-smooth and willing to be my marionette. For me to guide her, teach her, take complete control.

I forgot about where we were or why we were here and let myself fall the final way. To finally admit there was no bottom when it came to falling in love. That each time I thought I’d reached the end, another crevice appeared to trip into.

How many times would I tumble for this woman?

And how many times could I say sorry?

Gathering her closer, my body hardened with how delicate she smiled, how beautiful she was, how strong. Rubbing my lips over her ear, I murmured, “I’m sorry for leaving you this afternoon.”

I started with the easier apology, my voice rough and ragged. The music was loud, but my whisper overrode it, delivering straight and true.

She jolted, then the smallest smile appeared. “I want to know why…if you’ll tell me.”

A chocolate curl came loose as I swung her into a spin. Tucking her back into my embrace, I reached up and brushed it behind her ear. My fingers tingled from her heated skin, nudging her mask a little, hinting that the girl I loved was beneath that crown and she’d chosen me despite how I’d acted.

“I’m a foolish, selfish son of a bitch.”

She shook her head, the rhythm of the waltz keeping me centred with its one, two, three.

“You’re many things but never that. I’ve never known someone as unselfish as you are.”

I chuckled darkly and didn’t reply. What argument could I deliver where I didn’t have to prove my faults while begging for forgiveness?