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I wouldn't recommend biting my skin off, Bash. My epiderm contains a toxin that causes rampant bitchiness and sassery upon ingestion. I plan to market it to battle-rappers as a stimulant.

Gloria Romero

#killergloria #killersebastian

For the same reason that eyes averted at airports for lovers both parting or rejoining, Katerina wished she had looked away, feeling as if she had trespassed on something holy/profane. She had long seen Alfonso groom his son to be her rival, the Adalfieri heir apparent; she had also watched him take out faults or flaws that could not have been his fault on Sebastian (maybe that’s why the man’s soul is black and blue: it has been beaten into that shade). Yet it had always been words that Alfonso had pushed Bash with, though they had been bloody and fist-like in their own right -- now, it was a brutal and cold shove, sending the younger Adalfieri startling down the steps. For all the armor she had donned tonight, Katerina flinched at the sight, at how directly unlike it had been to the love her own father had given her.

Then, she followed.

“-- Bash.” She called his name like a green light stretched out across water for the second time that night. It was Bash now, instead of Sebastian as it had been earlier, the nickname that had been so solidly instituted on her tongue in childhood. When she spoke again, she inserted lightness into her tone, the jovial tone of a starlet, a friend. “Let’s go home, hmm? I’m dreadfully tired, and this place is descending into bedlam. I’ve just called my driver ‘round: we can go together, get something to eat. -- B a s h.” She said his name again, this time with urgency, placing a hand on his arm to get his attention. The air in her voice dropped, reinstated by water meant to gently roll around him. It was a whisper. An invitation -- an appeal.

“-- You can sleep at my place.”