Two hours after midnight, Sir Ambrose Maurlias was in a wakeful frenzied state. Normally graceful in looks and mannerisms, the renowned musketeer was a different picture in the midnight hours. By the light of a candle on his desk whose very wick seemed to weep waxen tears, he sat with a turbulent heart. The flame, which softened everything else around itself, could not quell the intensity of his contemplative, sharp blue eyes. As he sat and gazed into space, the small bulb of light seemed desperate to throw a comforting glow over him as it danced to the breeze from the open window—to no avail. Ambrose was simply too far.

Ravenloft. All that he had seen in this strange land of what seemed like contradictions and insults to his moral welfare rolled like boulders through his mind. Ravenloft. The name was imposing and reminded him of the arching vaults and dark mystery of the gothic churches he had seen in his beloved France.

France. Beside the word “Ravenloft”, “France” seemed even more graceful and fragile—especially now. The distance! God, the distance-! No, he wouldn’t think of it. Not now. Not now, Ambrose. We must not lose our head.

He shook his head, his normally pristine blonde hair tumbling around him in disarray. His hands felt cool as he rested his tired head on his trembling, but cool palms. From the corner of his eye, he noticed the glint of a golden lock from his own head. Disarrayed, disheveled…what was this?! In a flash, he was on his feet and had his hair in his hands, savagely gathering all of it into its usual sleek bundle at the nape of his neck.

A cool hand stopped him. He turned around furiously, his eyes becoming an alarming yellow color. Zita. Her sun-bronzed throat suddenly caught his eye. It would be beautiful, he thought, if that bronze could be edged with crimson. A savage beauty- Wait. What was he talking about?

“You don’t look well,” Zita’s voice was deep, raspy and seductive.

“I…uhh…I was just…I couldn’t,” he stammered, surprising even himself.

“Couldn’t sleep?” Zita asked, a small knowing smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.

“No,” Ambrose felt a shiver go through him as her throat caught the light once again. What was wrong with him?

Zita reached out to him, her hands slender and feminine even though it seemed contradictory to- To what? Something was escaping his mind, despite the hours he had just spent in contemplation. Zita was looking at him with sly brown eyes peeking from beneath long lashes.

Ambrose felt the floor nearly give way beneath him. The air in the room was stifling. She was absolutely mesmerizing. The realization made him faint.

Suddenly, her scent was overpowering his senses. Her skin was so close he could see it glistening. The wolf inside him was raging to the rhythm of his excited heart. Her hair, soft and brown, tickled his nose and neck. She was clinging to him, her head resting on his shoulder. Why?

Wrong! Ambrose’s head screamed in dull sort of way. Ambrose became painfully aware that he was not himself. Sharp desire and guilt came in waves over his entire being. It was all so strangely familiar, and yet so unfamiliar at the same time.

Her next words were breathed into his ear, shooting pain into his already strained brain.

“Why? Is it so wrong? Is it wrong if you want it this much?”

Her knowing sent another shiver through his body. She looked up at him confirming his thoughts. The faint smile was now clearly visible on her moist, youthful lips. A kiss lingered there, taking its time to tease and torture him further. He wanted to bite them.

She leaned her head on his chest, her voice becoming even lower and more breathy, “Ambrose…is it so wrong?”

Ambrose’s raised his arms weakly, unaware of what he was doing. Before he knew it, her frame, surprising him once again with its femininity was engulfed in his arms. The question haunted him. He wanted to know the answer.

Her breasts pushed against him. And he snapped.

Hungrily, he sought her tender mouth. Cupping her small face into his hands, he kissed her lips and neck ravenously, heat filling his entire body and heightening every one of his senses. His hands searched the folds of her dress for the feel of her soft skin.

Ambrose…

The cloth tore in his fingers.

You cannot fight yourself.

It was wrong…it was so wrong and it was delicious.

Is it wrong to be honest?

Ambrose’s eyes flew open. A cold sweat had broken over him and had soaked the sheets despite the warm sun whose rays were filtering in through his window. The candle on the table had gone out, too weak to compete with the heat of the night’s passions.

He tried to get up quickly, but stumbled. His head felt as though it had been split in two and haphazardly glued back together. A moan escaped his lips.

A dream?

No, the smell of her skin was too close to him. It was part of him. Wherever he moved, the scent would follow. That unbearably sweet, seductive scent…

Afraid, he scrambled to get up. He looked around desperately until he saw his reflection on the pane of the glass. Wild blue eyes stared back at him with a hint of satisfaction. Their usual edge was polished in the midst of carnal heat.

This was him. This was who he was. Man and beast. Passion and conscience. No amount of breeding or etiquette was going to change that.

The weight of the realization struck him with brutal force. Breath coming in ragged gasps, he collapsed.

By PrincessNeko