Bo Li felt Erik’s gaze.
He was staring at her neck, as if deeply concerned with the black satin ribbon tied around it.
She had tied the black satin ribbon there deliberately.
He was obviously full of a desire to control her, wishing to dictate her attire from head to toe—from hat, shawl, gloves, corset, to petticoat, stockings, and shoes.
The desire to control was also a form of possessiveness.
Now, she had bound upon her neck a piece of black satin that did not belong to him.
That he would feel restless and uneasy was only natural.
Bo Li pretended not to notice his reaction and continued listening to the concert.
Speaking of which, she had yet to see Erik perform with a musical instrument.
She had already witnessed his extraordinary achievements in architecture, and had seen his terrifying prowess in hypnosis and illusion, but his most outstanding gift—his musical talent—she had yet to behold with her own eyes.
Many musicians possessed a pair of beautiful hands.
Bo Li’s thoughts drifted afar at once.
Erik always wore black gloves, seldom removing them.
In her memory, she had only once held his bare hand.
Clearly, they had already shared a kiss, yet they had not properly held hands.
Such a thought made her heart itch faintly.
After the concert ended, just as Bo Li was about to rise and leave, a stammering voice called to her:
“You—you are… Miss Claremont?”
Bo Li turned back and found it was the conductor of the concert.
She turned again toward Erik’s seat—at some point, he had already left.
Bo Li had no choice but to nod to the conductor: “And you are?”
The conductor immediately stepped forward to her, speaking with excitement:
“I had the fortune of seeing your circus performance—magnificent beyond compare!”
He gave an embarrassed laugh: “Only my courage was too small, I would always run out just as I entered… But even if I could only watch three or four minutes, to me, it was already extraordinary!”
Bo Li had not expected her haunted house to have such an ardent admirer. Blinking her eyes, she said “thank you” twice.
The conductor went on:
“I saw in the newspaper the matter between you and Graves. Those around me all support Graves, believing that as a mere woman, you could not possibly have conceived such brilliant ideas for a performance. But I know Graves—he stayed on Broadway for so many years. If he truly had such novel ideas, why did he never bring them forth on Broadway, and only after you achieved success in New Orleans did he suddenly claim them as his own?”
Seeing Bo Li remain silent, the conductor flushed slightly:
“Forgive me, I grew too excited. I never thought you would come to see my performance. I ended up saying so many unbecoming words all at once… I am not usually like this.”
Bo Li smiled softly and said: “It is all right. I am very grateful that you are willing to speak for me.”
The conductor’s face reddened further, the faint blush rising to the tips of his ears.
His name was Charles Beaufort, a young man in his early twenties. His features were proper, his family background well-off, but his temperament was reserved, easily shy.
His family, in order to temper his manliness, had sent him to Europe for study and travel, had even placed him upon the stage to perform, yet he remained timid by nature, not daring to pursue women.
In the end, his family had no recourse left but to hope he might marry a strong-willed woman, for otherwise, with such a vast inheritance, he alone would never be able to hold it secure.
The very first person Charles Beaufort thought of was Bo Li—she was the most forceful, most business-minded woman he had ever seen. Yet he did not dare approach her on his own initiative.
Who would have imagined that today, within his own audience, he would behold Bo Li in person—it was as if he had fallen into a dream.
…Did this not perhaps mean he might one day wed Bo Li?
“Forgive me, I have not introduced myself. My name is Charles Beaufort, you may call me Charlie.” Charles summoned his courage, speaking haltingly: “Miss Claremont, I—I wonder, in future, might I invite you to supper, or perhaps to the theatre?”
Bo Li fluttered her lashes once: “Of course, Charlie.”
Her eyelashes were like two thick little fans, making Charles’s heart pound without cease, his whole face flushed crimson.
He wished to say something more to Bo Li, but from backstage someone called his name. He could only take his leave with regret: “Forgive me, Miss Claremont, I must go. When your circus reopens, I shall most certainly come again to lend you my support!”
Bo Li watched Charles’s retreating figure, calculating inwardly how much weight this bait might carry.
Between man and woman, to skip the formality of the given name and go directly to a familiar nickname was a sign of great intimacy.
Erik could hardly remain unmoved, could he?
She turned and walked toward the theatre’s exit.
From the hall to the main doors, one had to pass through a long corridor.
The audience had already departed, and half of the lamps on either side had been extinguished, leaving the way dim.
Just then, without the slightest warning, a gloved hand shot out, seizing her wrist, and dragged her into a corner.
They stood between statues, wrapped in shadow.
The air of the theatre was close and stifling; at this nearness, Bo Li at last perceived his scent—very faintly fragrant, and yet more than fragrance alone.
There was also the strong, searing heat of male desire.
It made one feel he might be somewhat unsated in his cravings.
Bo Li’s heart gave a heavy throb—she had not expected him to take the bait so easily.
One hand gripped her wrist as he looked down upon her. After a moment, he tore away the black satin at her throat.
The satin sliding free left behind a faint tingling.
Bo Li could not help but shift her neck.
At once, he seized her chin.
A week of hot and cold treatment seemed to have left his mood in great disorder. The smallest of her unthinking gestures could stir up his desire to control.
Bo Li knit her brows: “…What do you intend to do?”
Never before had she shown him such impatience, nor resisted his touch in this way.
Even when he threatened her with a dagger, her expression and movements had been yielding.
In that moment, the answer to all his distance and closeness of late became clear—she regretted it.
She regretted kissing him.
At last she realized how hideous his face was, how loathsome.
No wonder that these past days, whenever her gaze met his, she would swiftly look away.
Every expression of resistance, every minute gesture of rejection, seemed to say: I regret it. I never wished to kiss you. You forced me.
This discovery made his fury surge beyond restraint.
Bo Li, seeing him stand motionless for so long, was just about to intensify her effort—when in the next instant, he suddenly tore off his mask, bent down, and pressed his lips upon hers with force.
Bo Li’s eyes widened.
This was indeed an unexpected delight.
It seemed he had forgotten how to kiss, knowing only to press against her lips, to tangle with her tongue’s tip, to suck at her saliva with heavy insistence.
Bo Li’s tongue ached from his sucking, her breath grew difficult, and she could not help but push at his shoulder with her hand.
He clasped her nape, pulling back just slightly: “Since you did not wish to kiss me, you should have made it clear at the time.”
Her attitude toward him suddenly warmed again:
“…I never did not wish to kiss you. Everything I said that day was true.”
He paused a moment: “Look at me.”
Bo Li obediently turned her gaze upon him.
In the dim light, his expression was calm to the point of strangeness, as though it concealed some fierce, unsated emotion.
As for his appearance—whether because the filter of shadow was too heavy—Bo Li felt he was not ugly at all: his brow ridge was pronounced, his eye sockets deep, his features strongly contoured.
Only, when such features lay upon the flawed half of his face, they appeared skeletal, ghastly, terrifying.
Especially when jealousy twisted his expression—that half of his face would grow still more distorted.
Yet in Bo Li’s eyes, it seemed somewhat endearing.
—Perhaps because of anger, his ears were redder even than before, the tiny blood vessels faintly visible.
Before Bo Li had gazed her fill, he seemed unable to endure it, and raised a hand to cover her eyes.
Something stirred in Bo Li’s heart. She caught hold of that hand.
He did not immediately twist her hand back, as though waiting to see what she intended.
But Bo Li tugged away his black glove.
The light was dim; she could not see the details of his palm.
Yet he was overcome with unease, as if her eyes were sketching the lines of his palm, even the faintly raised veins—
At that very moment, she lowered her head and kissed his bare hand.
In that instant, it was as though a subtle current of electricity coursed through his entire body.
He had never imagined she would kiss his hand.
These were not the hands of one raised in idle luxury.
He had killed before, had dragged corpses, his hands reeking of blood, his palms hardened with rough calluses.
Just then, she tilted her head slightly, looked at him, and parted her lips to take one of his fingers into her mouth.
Erik jerked his hand back at once, his heart pounding with near panic, half his body gone stiff.
Her expression, however, was pure innocence. After a moment’s thought, she leaned forward again and placed a kiss upon his swiftly moving Adam’s apple.
His whole body froze, yet in his mind flashed a thought—would she kiss Charles Beaufort like this?
That Beaufort clearly had feelings for her, ceaselessly speaking useless compliments, even asking her to call him by his nickname, which she had not refused.
She had even agreed to dine with him.
If they were to continue on in normal courtship, would she, too, kiss Charles Beaufort in this way?
Kiss his fingers, even his Adam’s apple?
The image tormented Erik, his chest swelling with pain, murderous intent surging violently.
She seemed to come from a place where conduct was loose, where kissing bore no shame, where physical contact carried no avoidance.
Whoever pursued her, she would not reject outright.
If so, why could he not pursue her?
Erik lowered his head to look at her, his eyes already shadowed by a dark emotion.
Yet he also knew: so long as he pursued her, she would agree.
Because she feared dying by his hand.
Erik had never before experienced such a feeling—though Bo Li stood before him, he had the sense he could not lay hold of her, could not master her.
Perhaps because she carried too many riddles unresolved.
For instance, what was her true name?
From what place had she come?
Why did she understand the language from across the ocean?
And most important of all—why did she know him so well?
The words written in that notebook seemed both to describe him and to describe some other stranger.
In her eyes, who was he?
Erik had a certain foreboding.
If he did not make clear these questions, he might regret it for a lifetime.
So thinking, he bent down, fixed his eyes upon hers, and without warning asked:
“Who are you.”
Bo Li answered swiftly: “Polly Claremont.”
“I ask your true name.”
Bo Li paused for a moment, then answered with calm composure:
“Polly… Bo Li. One day, I shall tell you how those two characters are written.”
She had no intention of concealing anything.
“Where are you from?” he paused, then continued to ask.
“A very, very faraway place…” For once, a trace of sorrow appeared upon her face. “I wish to return, but perhaps in this lifetime I never shall.”
He looked at her and spoke the name of a country.
Bo Li: “More or less.”
He pressed with a few more questions, and she answered each in turn.
She said that the words in the notebook were all written as she guessed along. She feared that, after some time, she might forget certain taboos of his, and in a careless moment be killed by him.
But she did not explain why she was so set on forming a new circus with him.
——That was a purpose-driven action, indeed.
She could have stayed by the manager’s side, offering him counsel and stratagems.
That she would act otherwise was as though she had known his identity from the very beginning, understood that his worth far exceeded that of the manager.
The more Erik asked, the greater his curiosity about her past grew.
She was like a cup of salt water—the more one drank, the thirstier one became.
Every question was answered.
Yet the maddening, unsated feeling did not vanish.
Her past remained a riddle.
Erik looked at her, and at length asked his final question:
“——Would you kiss Charles Beaufort?”
Bo Li had not expected such a question; she paused before replying:
“Do you wish me to kiss him?”
He gave no answer, only looked at her.
As though wishing her to read the reply from his eyes.
She had long since known his thoughts.
Every glance, every gesture, even the heat of his palm—all told her he did not wish her to kiss Charles Beaufort.
But she wanted him to say it aloud, so she asked again:
“Do you wish me to kiss Charles Beaufort?”
Seeing him remain silent, she continued:
“Then let me change the question. Why do you ask my true name? Why do you ask where I come from… What is it you wish to gain from me?”
At that moment, his mind went blank, leaving only one thought.
——She had seen through his ugly desires.
She perhaps already knew how he wished to kiss her, even how he longed to violate her.
He instinctively sought to draw back.
But Bo Li seized his hand—his bare hand—and intertwined her fingers with his.
Palm to palm, finger laced with finger.
It was a strange, unfamiliar sensation.
All the muscles of his body tightened to their utmost at once.
The fabric of his trousers tightened as well.
Bo Li lifted her head to look at him, her eyes clear to the depths, leaving him rather discomposed:
“And what is this?”
“And also—” she tilted her head, “why did you tear away the black satin from my neck… What did that make you think of?”
“As long as you tell me all of your thoughts,” she said, “I shall tell you all of mine.”
Shame crushed his reason completely.
His expression was calm, yet his mind buzzed and roared—she knew everything.
All those filthy, ugly, unspeakable things.
For one instant, the fierce shame transformed into a violent, overwhelming impulse.
She was far too pressing, forcing him to answer questions that could not be voiced.
Then why not enact each of them upon her body?
Fortunately, in the end, reason barely returned.
He twisted her hand back, pulling some distance between them, put on his mask and black gloves, his features blurred in shadow:
“As you will—say it or not.”
Seeing this, Bo Li knew all her earlier efforts had been wasted.
She could not help but feel some vexation—she had grown a little too carried away, and upon seeing his curiosity about her past, had sought to press the advantage.
She could only wave her hand languidly:
“Very well. In any case, I am not much interested in your thoughts either.”
—
Author’s Note:
The synopsis is almost ready, but the synopsis is not the most thrilling part, hehehehe.