White Roses, Black Doves

A hunger through time-7

The morning of Cornelius’s formal call was heavy with the scent of damp earth and coming rain. When the footman announced him, the drawing room seemed to shrink, as if the very air were deferring to his presence. He did not enter like the other men—with nervous adjustments of their cravats or hesitant greetings—but with the quiet, devastating confidence of a man who owned the very ground he walked upon.

"Miss Alice," he said, his voice a low vibration that seemed to settle directly against my skin. He bowed, but his eyes never left mine, burning with a focused, singular intensity that made the rest of the room fade into insignificance.

"Mr. Thorne," I replied, my voice steady, though my heart was a frantic bird against my ribs.

When he suggested a stroll to the greenhouse, I accepted without a second thought. I did not notice the way Lucy’s eyes tracked us from the parlor door, her expression a mix of warning and suppressed rage. I saw only the straight line of his shoulders and the way he held his hand out for me, offering an anchor in a world that felt increasingly chaotic.

Inside the greenhouse, the glass walls trapped the humid, tropical heat, and the air was thick with the perfume of blooming jasmine. Cornelius walked beside me, his pace slow, his presence demanding. He was commanding, his authority wrapping around me like a velvet cloak. With him, I didn't feel the need to perform or navigate the tedious social cues required of the other lords; he listened to me with an unnerving, absolute focus.

"You speak of these flowers as if they were people, Alice," he noted, pausing by a stand of orchids. "With such passion, such... unreserved attention."

I laughed, turning to him. "Is that so wrong?"

"It is fascinating," he murmured, his gaze darkening as he stepped closer, invading my personal space just enough to make my breath hitch. "I find myself envious of the flora. They have your undivided focus, and that is a luxury I have found myself coveting more than is perhaps wise."

His tone was teasing, yet there was a sharp, jagged edge to it—a flicker of jealousy so potent it stopped me in my tracks. "Surely a man as successful as you, Mr. Thorne, has little need to be jealous of flowers."

"Success is a matter of business," he said, his voice dropping to a dangerous, intimate register. "But what I want... that is a matter of soul. I find I have little patience for anything—or anyone—that demands the attention I intend to claim for myself."

He reached out, his gloved fingers brushing a stray lock of hair from my cheek. The contact was electric, possessive, and entirely thrilling. I felt safe in his shadow, blinded by the authority he projected, entirely unaware that the path he was paving for me was one I would never be able to leave.

"You have a way of making one feel... uniquely important," I whispered, unable to look away.

"You are unique," he said, his jaw tightening. "And you will be mine, my dear. That is not a request; it is a destiny I am currently in the process of ensuring." He leaned down to my height and he placed a lingering, searing kiss on my cheek and I gasped, the green house becoming hotter.

“I apologize, that was sudden but I couldn’t help myself Alice,” he said lowly and his face didn’t move from the mere centimeters it was from mine. His breathe

Ghosting over my cheek where his kiss still imprinted.

“It’s alright, it was secretly wanted” I confessed to him.

“And what else is wanted” he stepped closer his chest to mine, his hand snaking its way to my waist, holding me tightly to him as my hands flew to his chest gripping his lapels. “Is this wanted?” He asked. My brain could not form words all I could do want shake my head.

He leaned down and gripped the back of my thighs, placing me on a table in the greenhouse as he settled his body between my knees, lifting my dress over my knees so that his hands could graze my stocking covered thighs

“And what of this, is this wanted?” He growled in my neck.

“Yes,” I breathed.

“If anyone saw you in this position, you would be incomparable. You would be ruined.” He said as his finger traced the neckline of my silk dress.

“Ruin me” I said as his hand hitched higher up my thigh.

“You do not know of what you ask of me. I could ruin you. I would ruin you if I didn’t think so highly of you, love. There is but only one problem in that plan. I wish to make you mine, completely. Tell me you will not give yourself away before I can claim you.” He kissed my neck, a shudder running through me.

“Tell me you will wait for me and me alone” he demands once more as his kiss became hungrier.

“Tell me you are mine, my love. You have awoken a ravenous demon in me and I can not image any other man in this position with you” he said as he gripped her face in his hands and stole a hungry kiss from her mouth, tongues dancing together and his body pressing into mine, grinding into me deliciously, I lost all thought.

“Tell me,” he said as he came up for air “that you are mine,” he growled.

“ I’m yours” I breathed as he devoured me. He stepped back, a sigh of relief leaving his chest and he adjusted his suit and his lower self back to presentable.

“Come, I’ve kept you long enough. God help me if I have to stare at you a moment longer flushed with the desire you have for me, a gentleman is a title I will no longer be able to claim” he held his hand out as I took it and adjusted myself.

I did not know then that this was the last time we would be alone for nearly a year. Business, sudden and pressing, would pull him to the Continent for the coming months, leaving me in the hollow quiet of my father's house. As we walked back toward the main estate, I felt a strange, lingering chill, despite the heat of the greenhouse. I looked up at him, seeking that commanding warmth, and he gave it to me—a thin, triumphant smile that didn't reach his eyes. He brought my gloved hand to his mouth and placed a kiss on my fingers, further sealing my attachment to him.

I did not see the wolf; I saw the savior. And as he bowed his farewell at the gate, I did not know that the next time I would see him—at my eighteenth birthday party in 1835—the man who would walk through those doors would have already claimed my life before I even knew I was lost.