Chapter 8 - The Weight of the Arms
The chair was too big for her.
Or perhaps she had finally grown large enough to fill it.
Elena rested her elbows on the carved lion heads, exactly where Beatrice’s hands had lived for forty years.
She crossed her legs at the ankle, her stiletto heel catching a stray beam of light from the chandelier.
She held up the silver chain, letting it drape lazily over her index finger, the diamonds winking maliciously in the dim room.
Julian stepped to her side, standing slightly behind her right shoulder like a sentinel carved from black marble.
He offered his hand, palm up, fingers curled slightly in an unspoken gesture of absolute submission.
Elena looked down at his palm.
She didn't take it right away.
She let him wait, letting the seconds stretch out until the silence in the room became an unbearable physical weight.
Then, slowly, deliberately, she slid her hand into his.
May you like
Their fingers locked together, a knot of cold metal and warm, sweating skin.
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