Maybe, Perhaps, and Hopefully

Dank.

The basement was definitely dank. Smelly, unwelcoming, and a place most would avoid just for olfactory kindness. Metaphorically, it curled the edges of her nose. Yet, not a crease or line betrayed her distaste. Immobile, smooth, pleasant without depth, her face mimicked an advertisement—saying nothing and everything.

She walked each step with precision. Left foot first followed by right directly in the middle of the stair. Pace easy, stride exactly as the one before it. Imperfection could not be allowed to exist. It had to be dissected, analyzed, and catalogued before a suitable solution could be formulated and applied.

She reached the bottom. Her shoes gleamed, not a speck of dust marred their predictable ebony surface, a testament to her raisings as well as Ambrose’s fastidiousness.

Her thighs tensed. Longing made a demon’s bed beneath her impenetrable façade.

Ambrose. Am I ready now?

A mirror hung on the wall. She resisted the urge to pet her hair, making sure every strand lay in place. Why waste energy? Still, she checked her image, seeing herself through Ambrose’s exacting regard. Black, waist-length hair, dark eyes, white skin, and red mouth—a real-life Snow White.

And yet not enough…

Misery peeked. It weighed her eyes a tiny bit. She blinked, dispelling any hint of fragility. Small, elegant hands smoothed down the dress front. Once. Twice. Her fingertips ghosted over the pearl necklace Ambrose had given her seven years before.

After our first kiss.

She rarely let it part from her body, yet, standing here, knowing he was only a few paces away, filled her with a sickening urge to rip the pearls away. Her hand slid away, nails scratching in defiance. She inhaled, forcing the air to sit inside her chest before releasing it.

Will you see me differently? Will I finally be worthy of giving into this?

Her scarlet mouth settled into a stingy smile. She turned away from the ornate, gilded frame. Her steps took her past the mauve, flocked wallpaper corridor. Hundreds of paintings staggered the walls in ordered chaos. Three hundred sixty women and twenty-two men followed her with doe eyes. Her attention didn’t falter from the closed door signifying the border between her world and his.

Many, many times before she had visited the portraits, reading the engravings signifying name, dates of birth and death. She knew them all by heart, had even catalogued their flaws and downfalls with Ambrose. She talked to them, eager to know if loving him had been worth their lives.

Her fixation had nothing to do with guilt. Only envy.

The door opened beneath her palm. Her steps led her to his back. Beautiful hands clasped behind him just so. Chocolate hair cut to his nape but left curling at the top. If he turned to face her she was confident to see a dark suit, maroon tie, charcoal sweater vest, and lily-white dress shirt. His clothing never changed when he came down here. Always the same. Always.

“You didn’t come.”

The words tumbled out. She blanched. Already, she’d given herself away, buried her chances before he’d even said a word. She inhaled, keeping the air inside her as long as possible.

“Hmmm.” He took two steps to the right. His attention riveted solely on the newest jar.

Unpacking wasn’t going to be part of her evening itinerary after all.

“Ambrose. You didn’t come.”

“I know.”

“Why?”

“Why what, Jacqueline?”

Her steps whispered. She kept her walk careful. Unobtrusive. She mirrored his stance a prescribed five feet away from him. Eyes glittered blue from the backlight as they perused Ambrose’s precious treasures. She would like to have labeled him sadistic. It wouldn’t have stuck.

“Why didn’t you come, Ambrose?”

The air shifted. He faced her and whispered, “I didn’t come because it was inconvenient.”

“Who is she?”

He sniffed once. His full lips quirked most becomingly. “I didn’t come because of a ‘she,’ Jacqueline.”

“Oh?” Relief pounded, thudding in her ears with predictable giddy cadence. “Then why didn’t you?”

“Distraction, of course. It isn’t just your day, Jacqueline. I would rather not have spent it in a crowd distracted from watching their children graduate.”

“You could have used a glamour, Ambrose.”

“True.” He moved closer, electric stare paralyzing her in profile. “You don’t care for them though.”

“I would have made an exception today.”

“It’s neither here nor there, Jacqueline. You are home now.”

She concentrated on breathing. Fury made play with her composure. “I have a Masters now.”

“I know.”

“A Masters I earned at your insistence.”

“Yes.”

She loathed the even drawl. Mockery didn’t even come into it.

“Do you know what I have even mastered?”

“Art.”

Pain tangled with her good intentions. It ripped her mouth into a smile. “I asked you to come to my graduation because you never came to the others.”

Ambrose touched the hair lying straight as an honest woman’s words. Too bad it wasn’t her—just her hair. “It’s not important, Jacqueline. Those people do not matter. You shouldn’t put importance in their customs and traditions.”

She moved away from him before losing the crimped image of perfection. Her dull regard settled on Jar 237. “You forget I am one of those people. I am human after all.”

“No. You stopped being one of them when you became mine.”

“Yours?” She wished his declaration could’ve been filled with unhealthy amounts of possession. “Ambrose?”

“Yes?”

“What now?”

“You’re home.”

“Do we go on as before?”

He sliced her concentration with the unfortunate Jane Wilby. She remembered when she painted her four years prior, just before he took her virginity in a rare display of violence. Ambrose stood before her, crystalline gaze hypnotic behind useless lenses. He took the glasses off and tucked them into his suit pocket. “That all depends on you.”

“I see.” She did see. She saw all too well. “I’m leaving.”

“Really? When will you be back?”

“I’m not coming back.”

Ambrose nodded his head once. His petal lips pressed down in what looked like pity. “You will.” He took her hand in his. “And I will wait for you, Jacqueline. As always.”

Deep inhale. Avaricious need to keep the air inside her as long as possible. Slow release.

“I wish it were different, Ambrose.”

“It can be.”

“Maybe one day it will be.” Tears clogged her throat, making it difficult to banish the quaver from her wistful words.

“You know this all depends on you, Jacqueline.” Ambrose kissed her fingertips. “I am what I am. I cannot give you what you desire until you give it to yourself first.”

“Oh, Ambrose. I try. I really do.” Resignation aged her miserably. They had similar conversations every few years and it was never easier. He was right, in his myopic, structured way. Ambrose could never be hers until she loved herself more than him.

I will probably die first. No matter how we might wish it otherwise.

She walked into him. Crimson lips pressed against the perfect neck, wishing she could tear into him and taste something of his desires rather than hers.

“I love you, Ambrose.” She wept it, laving his skin with her tongue. “I can’t live without you. I’m dying out there. Please, please love me back…love me the way I need.”

He allowed her this pitiful boon. Standing rigid in her violent lamentation of caged lust, Ambrose settled his hands on her waist. She knew he couldn’t feel her overwhelming love…not like a human could. Instead, he suffered it. Even though his skin crawled from her excess, Ambrose accepted it because he loved her.

Even if he could never show it the way she wanted. At least not yet.

A creature of love, but not a slave to it, Ambrose fed off humanity’s twisted desires. An acolyte of Anteros, Ambrose was used to punish those who had scorned love in favor of self-love. All it took was a glance and they were his. The more they loved him, the less attainable he became. Eventually, they would die from his neglect. Suicide had taken nearly half of them. The others had simply faded away.

She had painted them all. Each stroke a diatribe for her future.

“Jacqueline, you are the only one who hasn’t died from this and you won’t. You were born for me and I for you. There can never be another for us. One day you will believe it.”

The words beaded like condensation. It cooled her down enough so she could release him. Her fingers grabbed for the noose-like necklace around her throat. “I’m leaving tonight. I don’t know where I’m going. It doesn’t matter where though, does it?”

“It has always mattered to me, Jacqueline. Pettiness does not become you.”

She swallowed her yells. Screaming at him to show a bit of emotion—anything—would accomplish nothing. You can’t make a stone bleed and all. Ambrose was what he was…nothing more and nothing less. Perhaps it was a blessing a specific genetic marker had determined her strong enough to be his consort and mother of his children. Maybe Ambrose’s Nephilim government knew more than she’d been told. Hopefully there was a happy ending out there for her with him.

The maybe, perhaps, and hopefully were all that sustained her in moments like this.

“Ambrose…” Her hand released the pearls only to slide up to the clasp. She undid it. Breath slammed out of her. She felt as if her head was attached only by the thinnest of skins. “Take this.”

“It’s yours, Jacqueline.”

“I know but I want you to have it.” She pressed it into his hand with a promise. “I’ll take it back once I’m able to give you something greater in return.”

“Which is?”

“Your heart.”

Ambrose smiled, something alive and beautiful shining in his eyes for a moment. “I look forward to it, Jacqueline. More than you can ever know.”

She blinked back her tears. Inhale and release. Breathing came easier this time. She smiled and asked, “So who is the latest?”

Ambrose turned his attention back to the wall. “Laura Ownes. Age twenty-six. Born May 5, 1984. Died May 15, 2010.”

“Crimes against love?”

“She caused three men to kill themselves for her. She suffered not a drop of remorse for what she had done or the families she destroyed.”

“How long did it take?”

“Three days.”

“Would you like me to paint her?”

“Yes. I would like that.” Ambrose entwined his fingers with hers. “Thank you, Jacqueline.”

My heart is not going to end up on your wall, Ambrose. No matter how hard I want to…you just won’t let me. No greater proof of love could you ever give me. Maybe one day I’ll be strong enough to love you without wanting to consume you.

“No. Thank you, Ambrose.” She observed the jars with a serene expression.