“A challenge,” she began. “The first to draw blood wins.”

“Contessa, I feel that I should warn—”

“Of your streak?” 

Susanna’s lips curled further than he believed to be possible. His eyes narrowed by a nail’s width, but regained his composure. Marc found their interactions to be equal parts thrilling, disconcerting, and chilling. A combination that was new to him for which he was ill equipped to handle.

“Wins what?” Marc asked as a way to avoid asking how she knew.

“A kiss.”

“You look like you can handle yourself,” the Contessa said.

That this was not a question, but a statement. Susanna turned her back to him, and headed for the games room. From there she selected two foils, and tossed one casually to him. The smooth flight of the blade hinted it was balanced… She’s had a lot of practice with a blade…

Marc preferred something more substantive as a weapon, something that could free a foe of their limbs. He grabbed it from out of the air by the hilt, and naturally adopted a fighting stance. These were beautifully forged, and the design on the hilt was exquisite.

“Oh, I’m sure we can find ways to stimulate your mind and body,” Susanna said.

The emphasis on the word ‘stimulate’ had an immediate effect on Marc. While Émilie had to resort to drugs to get what she wanted, this one managed to do with a single word. He gave his head a shake, and forced himself to remain focused on her black eyes.

The bartender chuckled, and Marc noticed that her eyes were focused on two points at once. This was the second time he observed such a behaviour, but dismissed it as a trick of the eye. The poor lighting in here is playing tricks on me… 

“You look like you can handle yourself,” the Contessa said.

His eyes had drifted to the two bare mounds of flesh on her chest held in by her bustier. As she breathed in and out, he noted the buttons were facing him. 

Royalty never dressed themselves, they had staff to assist them. This gown was designed to be put on and removed by the wearer… or by the nervous hand of a suitor. 

This the dress of a courtesan? Just how exclusive is she to afford such a dress?

“Oh, I’m sure we can find ways to stimulate your mind and body,” Susanna said.

He was tempted to bring up the mention of courtesans. However, they referred to her using the royal rank of Contessa, and that dress was not something to be found in a shop. Venice was a trade city, so that might explain the silk and lace used to make her gown. Still, it fit her perfectly as though hand sewn to fit her every curve. I’ve never met a courtesan who could afford anything of that quality.

His eyes had drifted to the two bare mounds of flesh on her chest held in by her bustier. As she breathed in and out, he noted the buttons were facing him.

Susanna did not appear to mind, those black eyes flowed the top of his head down to the tips of his toes. He was wearing the clothes more appropriate to his position, but had no wish to announce his origins.

“What brings you here this evening?” Susanna asked.

“Curiosity,” Marc answered truthfully to avoid another screw up.

“What are you curious about?”

“The man who goes by Giovanni, said that I’d end up being challenged here.”

“Good evening, Monsieur,” Sussana said.

Marc blinked several times, realising that the music had stopped and this beauty in an exquisite ballroom gown stood before him. After several breaths he caught on that his jaw was hanging loosely. 

He gave his head a shake before snapping his mouth shut before. Marc adopted a smile while his eyes flowed over the Venetian beauty, the curl around his lips was natural, which was a rare sight.

“G-g-good evening,” Marc stuttered. He clenched his jaw as blood flushed through his cheeks. How he flubbed such a simple line certainly did not inspire confidence… unlike her voice…

This one was the dark reflection of Émilie. Her olive skin was consistent and smooth. Those eyes were near as dark as his, and wavy black hair that neatly fell past her shoulders. 

The Contessa was not thin, filling in her bustier beautifully, but the curves of her body were more subtle, alluring and exotic. The fact they were so different ensured Émilie’s curse never materialised…

She had the voice of an angel and Marc could scarcely take his eyes off of her. The bartender never said another word, letting their only guest consume every detail of her… I wonder if she does—“Good evening, Monsieur,” Sussana said.

However, what mattered was the floating stage that separated the study from the parlour. Atop there was an ivory and brass clavichord. Seated at the instrument was a woman in a gown. He had never seen one with such an ornate design or intricate lacing. He imagined that similar fashions would be found at any royal court.

The woman was the source of the siren’s song. It was intoxicating, and reminded himself to remain a proper gentleman. It would have been rude to ruin her grand entrance. In an attempt to look detached, Marc looked over his shoulder at the bartender.

“Who’s that?” Marc asked.

“That’s the Contessa.”

Marc could imagine himself having a great deal of fun getting to know her better.