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Beat your own and others will fear you
2010-02-22 08:16 am (UTC)
Silence answered him.
Moonlight and streetlights streamed through the tall, many-paned windows where the curtains were pushed back, spilling tall diagonal ladders over the thick persian rug and wide plank floors.
A single candle burned by the bed.
Aleksandr reposed in the armchair that sat in the suite part of the bedroom, a fair distance past the foot of the large, immaculately made bed, staring into the cold fireplace.
He hadn't shaved in three days. Beige stubble stained his jaw and neck. The perfect sweep of his flaxen hair was disheveled and lay in tousled disarray, as it would when he lay in bed after a pillow-crushing encounter.
Generally that was because a woman's hands had been gripping it, stroking it, clutching it.
This time the hands had been his own.
His eyes should have been redder considering the lack of sleep, but he hadn't been drinking.
The words were soft, definite, though it seemed as if they came to his ears belatedly and lingered like frost on a windowpane, until he wasn't sure if he had heard them or not.
If they were real or if his mind had created them, because his mind was tired and weak and weathered and eager to torture him.
Aleksandr's lips shook, but somehow he couldn't turn his head.
He closed his eyes instead.
The silence persisted.
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