Lure

By Morgana Le Maal

At her regular hotel.
This weekend.
Is different.

Before reaching the door of her suite, Monique Stravinsky is captivated by an exquisite rose in the lobby. This is no ordinary rose and an innocent touch turns to physical pain.

Assistance comes in the form of Hadrian.

Young, handsome and the Hotel Concierge.

But there is more to Hadrian than meets the eye. A whole lot more.

Despite the awkwardness of their meeting Monique can’t ignore her interest and invites him back to her hotel room after his shift.

The night promises to be one Monique will never forget and leaves her craving for more... Hadrian.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Morgana Le Maal
• Release date: May 6, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370449088

Morgana Le Maal

My name is Morgana Le Maal and when I’m not sitting in lotus position and living in the land of OM, I’m a writer, daydreamer and lover of the little things. Mother of two. Lover of one.

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Thank you to my muse for your endless inspiration, wit and encouragement... not forgetting the rainy days.

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Book  1

The Maellen Chronicles

─

Two extraordinary people, trying to lead ordinary lives

Chapter 1: Closer...

The soft rumble seeps through the walls.

My reflection stares back at me. The glow over the door draws my eyes as golden numbers light then dim in a patient: four, five, six, and the next, and the next.

TING!

Nine; the number brightening more than the others and my body lightens wanting to continue the ascent.

Tired old-world motors inch the doors apart as I pass between them and cool air tickles my nose. My heels sink in the carpet, and I still, my hand tucking into my bag for my key. My eyes zoom up the hall to my door.

Curious... Something seems different from this morning.

Air eases from my chest.

The moment pauses from the outside world.

Tired elevator doors click closed behind me, the dark wood panelled walls hinting at nothing, absorbing the light and sounds of the bustle outside.

A whisper sparks in my mind:

Come closer...

What was that?

Closer...

Closer?

My mind brushes it off, flashes of long evenings with Mother teasing behind my eyes. Pay attention to your senses, she would say. She was like that, with the Old World Stuff.

Sweetness teases my nose, a wisp of perfume where it shouldn’t be. My nostrils flare, my eyes sharpen, and my chest draws again, Perfume?

My head snaps right, my fringe brushing my skin in a springy to and fro as my eyes zero on a table.

A vase.

And a rose sitting in the centre; small and demure; blood red, its hue glowing vivid in the subdued light. Velvet petals splay out, too small to admire from afar but too big for my eyes to ignore.

The scant trace of scent dusts my flesh... and then... nothing, the sweetness evaporating from the air. My chest draws again.

Closer...

My eyes widen.

Closer...

Why closer? My head ticks, my eyes blinking up the hall to my room, and back to the table.

Left; a fire exit.

Right; a door; Do Not Disturb hanging on the handle, and the table standing beside it.

I still, not daring to move.

Longing swells inside me, my chest working the air in deep breasty breaths.

My ears prime...

No sound.

No movement.

No one... except me.

My toes inch closer to the table, high heels planting in the unworn plush pile off the thoroughfare. My eyes lower, hesitant, waiting for something; I’m not sure what, but for something, anything.

Dull light plays tricks with my vision, seeming to dim; or does it brighten? My pupils refuse to focus and my lids widen in vain. Weird. Where are my glasses? My lids flutter again. In my bag, but my hand decides not to grasp them. My eyes crinkle in the corners as I squint away the indecision.

The petals pretend to pulse with colour in the dim of the hall. It must be the light, old incandescent globes threatening to die.

My pupils deepen on the crimson, hypnotising me with the bold rich hue as it darkens towards the centre with faint pink speckles dotted around the edge.

My lids lift. It’s so beautiful, and lonely in that vase.

My eyes latch on the long arcs of needle tip sharpness vanishing into nothing. Those are serious thorns, the ultimate warning to would be defilers.

Closer...

More perfume wisps into my nose. My heart clutches at it, my chest rising for the sweetness. The other elevator rumbles by ticking my heart up a notch.

Where is the flower arrangement from this morning? The big one. They were new. The scent teases my nose. The others didn’t have perfume.

My eyes linger on the thorns, holding the stem snugly in the neck of the vase; the flower sort of waiting; waiting for someone, anyone... for me?

What time is it? Five? My fingers itch with the compulsion to finger my phone. I left work at what, four thirty? Or was it quarter to? Must be about five now.

Silence.

My eyes widen, sort of trying to chase the perfume on behalf of my nose.

My chest rises; long, slow, considered.

Nothing.

My body stills, my lungs working a slow careful rhythm. And it wisps into my nose. My chest rises again drawing long deep draughts greedy for more.

Closer...

What is with that?

Mother’s face flashes behind my eyes; corny old fashioned images of her cooking at the kitchen stove; and resentment knots my tummy. Damn all her crap.

Closer...

My eyes flick up, primed for movement; left, right. My ears prick for sound, any sound that I’m not alone.

Nothing...

My hand draws from my bag and edges to the vase, my fingers meeting at the tips in a loose round O just shy of the thorns. Cool petals kiss my skin as I slip it from the vase, the bloom nestling in the cradle of my fingers.

I still.

My heart patters.

My ears pulse with blood, and the tip of my nose meets it with the faintest kiss of petal on skin; and its cool velvet sparks my senses.

My chest rises, the air sharp...

And my nose comes alive.

Oh... My... G-o-d, and perfume fills my head. My mind giddies as I inhale, my thoughts evaporating as my chest draws in the scent; again and again, lost to compulsion as wisp after delightful wisp flows deep inside my body.

The scent eggs me on, one breath demanding another, and another; my mind heady and light with delight.

Ohhh God, and my heart slows, ebbing on the seductive triumph of Mother Nature. This is no man-made fragrance; no concoction of chemicals tested in a lab. No. This is the triumph of a million years of trial and error by Gaia; Nirvana on a breath.

My emotions eddy, played like a fiddle on ambrosia from the bloom. I want to bathe in it; soak in it; wrap myself up in its velvet petals and melt into bliss.

My nose buries deeper and like a child lost with delight in a lolly shop my chest draws again and again. It’s as if a cotton bud knots in my throat and my eyes glass over behind the cover of my lids. My eyes struggle open and blur as I drown in its rouge.

TING!

My body jars, my hand snaps tight, silent pops pierce my skin, ARRGH, the needles biting my flesh! SHIT, and my hand springs wide the thorns wrenching as my hand flicks; but they stick fast, FUCK.

The elevator SHUNK’s to a halt behind me.

A soft CLUNK and I pivot on my heels shaking my hand as the needles wrench in my flesh refusing to move, Arrgh!

Old door motors hum and the giggle of a girls voice seeps through the tired parting doors. My eyes flash up the hall, My room.

Voices ebb behind me. My left hand grips my wrist, teeth blanching my lip as my savaged hand tenses closed on the thorns. Oh-Christ, a grimace slicing my face.

My legs break stride, heels spiking the carpet as I make for my room,  hushed voices echoing behind me. I try and shut them out but the niggle of a girls voice baits me as long strides and long stinging seconds outpace her. I draw up a breath away from my door, dipping my face and my savaged hand from would-be onlookers.

My left hand scrabbles in my bag for the square edge of my room key:

Phone-

Purse-

Pen-

Door keys to my flat in Sydney.

PAIN- Arrgh, wrenching at my flesh.

My heart pounds my chest as my right hand screams for mercy. My knees weaken; blood draining from my face as I fight it, stiffening my fingers not to move as they beg against pain.

Tissues-

Tampon-

Phone AGAIN-

Pen AGAIN-

Tears blur my vision.

My head sways, "-oh-fuck, on a breath, Jesus-fucking-Christ," the needle tips eating into my flesh.

My throat hitches, a proverbial cotton wad lodged tight as the voices echo up the hall; curt and hushed about the girl trapped at the door by her wretched-bag-of-crap. Don’t turn round. Don’t give them my eyes. F-u-c-k, my fingers begging.

Lipstick-

Compact, and my chest shudders, the needle fine thorns sparking tears behind my lids at the mocking tink of clutter in my bag.

Pen Again-

Nail file-

Phone-AGAIN!

Every-Fucking-Shape-Except-What-I-Fucking-Need!

A sticky heat ebbs in my palm.

I know what it is.

It’s blood!

My head giddies, a sickening swirling rising in my mind as my fingers slick with blood. My teeth blanch harder into my lip desperate to distract me from the pending swoon. Don’t look down. Don’t look at my hand.

Tampon AGAIN-

A-ha, the rectangle room key!  My fingers lock on it and I left-hand scrabble it to the door knob. A soft SHUNK in - twist - I force the door wide; quick strides in - a heavy CLUNK behind me, FAAAAAAARRCK, and I pelt the key at the suit case rack.

My bag thuds to the floor, my body slumping to the mattress as pain slices up my arm. FUCK FUCK FUCK.

My left hand grips my wrist squeezing beyond reason trying to choke off the agony. My eyes sharpen through the watery blur as I force my ravaged fingers to uncurl off the needles.

The rose refuses to move, stuck fast on the thorns deep in my flesh and a frantic car wreck feeling flashes in my chest. Desperate fingers tug it from my palm with the squelch of wet meat, and I pelt it across the room at the case rack. My left hand tightens back around my wrist, insane strength trying to choke the pain.

Crimson streaks glob off my hand onto the cream carpet as my eyes widen, Oh-come-on, and I dash to the bathroom whipping up a hand towel and wrapping it tight around my hand.

Anger ignites in my stomach, Jesus-Fucking-Christ, and I still hoping the seconds will lessen the horror. Panic consumes my chest as I clutch the horror up higher. My legs wander me aimless around the room as searing pain eats into my hand:

Window...

Case rack...

Table...

Case rack again... Fuck this, and my body slumps to the bed, my head plumping back deep in the pillow.

My hand rises, perched atop my arm, the white towel a parody of surrender. Mother made me do this when I was little; to lessen the throbbing when I hurt myself; but she would always end up doing some of her stuff as well. What would she do?

My eyes squint shut on images of Mother by candle light. A blue gas flame glows under a cast iron saucepan, a trademark of her night time in the kitchen on a new moon: eyes closed; wooden spoon; no lights, just red or white candles depending on her mood and whatever whispers were seeping from her lips. She was like that, with the Old World Stuff. It always smelt bad.

I will my body to still as panic and pain make another assault on my senses.

Breathe...

Just breathe, my chest easing up and down in long focused breaths.

The throbbing ebbs... pulses... and fights for attention as blood seeps from my arm to the lower parts of my body.

I force in more long breasty breaths. My eyes widen and dwell on the towel, faint red splotches fighting their way through the hospital clean white. The throbbing weakens, softening into separate little pulsing spots, each signature thorn hole in my hand calling to me for forgiveness, begging me to stop the torment.

My lids clamp shut, a deep vee pinching its way between my brows.

The rouge of the rose flashes behind my eyes... and the whisper sparks inside my head:

Closer...

What is that?

My eyes tick to it laying on the case rack propped up on hellish needle tips,  This has got to be a FUCKING JOKE! Thorns! Out of all proportion to the size of the bloom, Dammit. Flowers grow those things for a reason. To stop them from being FUCKING touched!

Why didn’t I pick up the vase?

This is going to scar.

Jesus Fucking Christ I’ll never smell a rose again.

Stupid. Stupid, Shit, my left arm thwacking the bedspread. SHIT! Fucking fuck-fuck, and my chest shudders as tears take over my eyes. The what if’s, could have’s and maybe’s of a pain-free alter-reality flash through my mind. Fucking elevator.

I toe my heels off, my defeated arm lowering over my eyes and plunging me into darkness.

Blood pulses in my ears.

Damn this, and my healthy hand is scrabbling blindly for the telephone beside the bed, pressing it to my ear and the polished tone of a girls voice: Good evening Ms Stravinsky. How can I help?

Help. Yes! Um, my throat hitching on the saliva that doesn’t want to move, Is it possible to get some bandaids? Please.

Bandaids Ms Stravinsky?

I’d go out myself but... well...

Certainly Ms Stravinsky. We’ll have some bought up shortly. Her breath hints up the line, Is there anything else we can help with?

No. That will be fine. Just some bandaids.

Thank you Ms Stravinsky. They shouldn’t be long...

... And cotton balls if you have them.

Cotton balls Ms Stravinsky?

Yes.

One long second turns into three, Yes Ms Stravinsky, and another second, Do you require a Doctor Ms Stravinsky?

No no. I’m fine. I’ve, just... pricked my fingers, On-the-rose-I-stole-from-your-fucking-hall -on some flowers, that a client gave me.

Yes Ms Stravinsky. Do you require anything else Ms Stravinsky? I can organise a Doctor if you-

-No that’s all, and my breath catches in my throat. Maybe some antiseptic ointment if you have some, a cringe knotting my tummy. Some ointment please.

We are very discrete Ms Stravinsky, if you do require one.

Require one?

A doctor Ms Stravinsky.

No no. Just the bandaids and ointment.

Silent seconds allude to unspoken thoughts on her end of the line, Certainly Ms Stravinsky. Room service will be up shortly.

Thank you, and I thunk the handset down more harshly than I’d like.

How many times did she say my name? Ms Stravinsky. Ms Stravinsky. I stay here enough that it’s not surprising they know my name, but to say it every chance they can; it gets a bit silly after a while.

A sharp pulse fires through my hand, my muscles bracing against it as it wells through my wrist and threatens the rest of my arm. It eddies, wave after wave consuming my attention.

My eye lids tighten. I want to see it. I want to know what happened to my hand but the child inside me takes over not wanting to put an image to the pain. It won’t be as bad as it feels. Yeah, that makes sense.

NOT!

Damn it! Snap out of it Monique, and I’m bolt upright and unwinding the crimson towel from my hand. The throbbing sharpens, Fuck fuck fuck, and I wrap