“ i hate most people. there are times when i look at them and i see nothing worth liking. ” frm syanna...
MISC MOVIE SENTENCE STARTERS / ACCEPTING
𝙷𝙸𝚂 𝙰𝙽𝚂𝚆𝙴𝚁𝙴𝙳 𝚂𝙽𝙾𝚁𝚃 𝙸𝚂 𝙲𝙾𝙽𝚃𝙴𝙼𝙿𝚃𝚄𝙾𝚄𝚂, and the childish indignity of it makes Regis feel momentarily out of his own body. He is not accustomed to such divisive instinct, nor such closeness of quarters with his own emerging meanness. The bond rises up in his chest when she speaks, hurt and raw, not jealous but deranged with loss. Fiercely bitter over an exchanged pain. Some of these emotions are his, and some are not. With every hour, it becomes only marginally easier to separate them in his mind. Still, it is unpleasant mental work.
“I am sure your profession affords you little opportunity to meet exemplary specimens of humanity.” There is a tightness to his voice that exhausts him. Regis is not of a naturally vicious temperament. The continuous application of ill-will grates on him, stretches him, until he feels every year of his five centuries of life—but there is a delirious part of him, too, that is energized by her nearness. A part which wants to crowd her, to put his nose to her neck and inhale, a part that believes that he would find there traces of his bondmate’s scent. Even if it is only a little. Even if it is hardly anything at all, the smallest breath, it will be more than he has had in months. The scent will not be there, of course, though he might find the faded marks of Dettlaff’s teeth, if such was the madness of their affection. Apparently, it was.
The thought fills him with revulsion, or a dark and potent thrill.
This, again, exhausts him. Were he to succumb to such impolite impulses, he has no doubt that she would see in him the shadow of the vampire who tormented her, who she has tormented in return. The endless reciprocity of bad love is not unearned. Regis can acknowledge that.
His stiff exhale, slowly loosening, is not a physiological function, merely a social gesture so long-practiced that it is now nearly engrained. A sigh, though he has no need for breathing.
“Though it seems circumstance has provided no better for you in your life,” it’s a concession, but a necessary one. Regis does not think her a liar. Not in this, at least. She is so young, but a woman in the prime of her life. Certainly no one’s child, no one’s ward—but for his, under their current circumstances. It’s not a state of affairs that either of them appreciate, Regis is sure of that. But, of all, there is no practical way for her to escape him, and he is the only person capable of truly protecting her against the Beast they both share.
Dettlaff will be able to feel that Regis is with her. He is certain of it. Were he anyone else, Dettlaff would surely have come to them already—to whatever end. The revulsion in Regis roils again at the thought, even as it stings him sharply, but the truth is very plain: his is the only presence in all the world that could keep Dettlaff away.
The Alfa rolls to a silent stop on the wide street astride the Piazza Della Signoria and Regis kills the engine. As planned, their borrowed vehicle fits neatly into the short line of luxury cars belonging to the wealthy occupants of the buildings all around the square, waiting to be ferried to an underground lot across the city by the hired valet. Modest, but just ostentatious enough not to arouse suspicion. One of the apartments above the piazza has been prescribed for their use by her sister’s network of security. The keys are in his pocket, but Regis sits unmoving in the dark of the silent car a little longer.
His voice is soft, “I know what he is, Syanna. The way that he loves. ”
He would like to tell her that he is sorry for whatever might have transpired between them, but can imagine already the contempt that she would feel for such a useless gesture. His apologies are no good to her, a meaningless expression of ego at best, even if genuine in feeling. They are neither of them responsible for the actions of those they have loved. Instead, Regis seeks out her eyes before he speaks again. It is not difficult. Her gaze is unflinchingly direct. “It is not my intention nor my desire to make you feel unsafe.”
The statement sinks into the close quiet of the car, and, having made it, Regis turns and opens his door, climbing out into the street with a feigned stretch of his long legs. Feigned, but pleasant all the same. Of course, Regis might have flown them in a mere handful of minutes—but conventional travel allows their whereabouts to remain more obscure. The night is warm and lit with gold, quiet but for the sounds of late-night diners on the Condotta in the distance. Noise echoes through the narrow streets, amplified in the vastness of the square, spooled around the David there and the water of the fountain always folding at his feet. For a moment, Regis pauses to inhale the smell of that water, and the streets still damp with a summer rain. Overtop it is the smell of humans late at night, of their blood spiked with wine. The young valets race one another to reach the passenger door first, having glimpsed her through the windscreen, and when Syanna’s head rises up above the roof of the car, Regis is struck for a moment by the way her posture fits to their surroundings as though innately familiar with such preformed dignity. The dark ghost of a little duchess, following in the sharp clip of her heeled boots.
It is with a strangely real regret that he comes around the car, turning his back to the faint, warm evening haze of the piazza. The valet takes the Alfa away smoothly, and they are alone again. Regis watches her with his glossy black eyes, “I am afraid we cannot linger on the street. We must go up. Your sister was very particular about the quality of your lodgings. Everything has been provided. If you wish, I will make us something to eat.”
He thinks he sees her brow quirk as she turns towards the building. I’m not sure our tastes are likely to align, he supposes she is saying, and, despite all and despite himself, Regis chuckles and follows her off the square.
