#ft. elliot x leonor

[monarhrh]

@thenxghtwemxt | Leonor & Elliot at the Underground Map Gallery

Leonor descended the narrow staircase, her footsteps muffled by the plush carpet that had seen better days. The Underground Map Gallery was a sanctuary of history and exploration, a realm where the past whispered through aged parchment and inked cartography. Candlelight flickered against the stone walls, casting eerie shadows that danced across the ancient maps. As the Ambassador of Spain, Leonor had been intimately involved in the delicate dance of diplomacy and intrigue that surrounded the recent turmoil within the Spanish court. The tragic murder of Blanca Bonaparte, Queen of Spain, had sent shockwaves through both the Ortiz and Bonaparte factions. Leonor found herself caught in the midst of it all, playing her part in mitigating the fallout, navigating the treacherous waters with her usual blend of grace and diplomacy.

But tonight, her thoughts were drawn not to the political intricacies but to Elliott himself. They had shared a complicated history—moments of camaraderie and connection interspersed with sharp words and unspoken tensions. Their relationship was a tapestry of love and hate, woven with threads of mutual respect and lingering animosity. She spotted him near a particularly detailed map of the Amazon basin, illuminated by the soft glow of a nearby candle.  "Elliott," Leonor's voice cut through the quiet of the gallery, carrying a mixture of concern and curiosity. She approached cautiously, aware of the delicate balance between them—friends in private, adversaries in court, and something deeper that neither dared to acknowledge openly. "Lamento mucho tu perdida." She didn't know what else she could say or do.

[monarhrh]

Without thinking twice, the Marchioness took a deliberate step closer to Elliott, her posture confident, eyes glinting with determination. "If you're so certain of your convictions, Elliott," she began, her voice a measured blend of challenge and intrigue, "then prove it. Actions, after all, speak far louder than words ever could. And trust me, I've heard more than my fair share of words." She held his gaze steadily, waiting for his response, her demeanor poised yet undeniably assertive.

Leonor met Elliott's probing gaze with an arch of her brow, her expression a mix of bemusement and subtle defiance.  No one, had asked her about Javier, the monster who she was married to for five years. He was a brut of a man, it was a political marriage to secure an alliance with the Ortiz. That marriage alone was torture... yet he wouldn't know. No one knew what happened before closed doors and no one had seen her at court for a long long time. Yet Elliot really struck a cord and she was indeed hurting. "Do you truly believe I would stoop to such methods? Your accusations cut deeper than you realize. If you seek to provoke, you've succeeded. But know this: I am not the enemy you imagine me to be. Your paranoia does you no credit."

"My lord," she replied, her voice carrying a hint of mock surprise, "you always did have a knack for turning a phrase. But you must forgive me if I don't find your commentary on Northern Spain's refined tastes particularly enlightening. After all, the Bonapartes themselves have long been known for their... unconventional appetites." she began, her voice carrying a hint of mischief, "if you must know, your brother Maceon has a knack for surprising appearances, much like Lazarus rising from the dead. His resurrection certainly stirred the court." Her tone was light yet tinged with a touch of warmth, acknowledging their shared history and the complex dynamics between the Bonapartes and the Ortiz family. "But as for amusement," she continued, her voice dropping slightly, "you've always held a unique place in that regard." With that, she took a subtle step back, a move that spoke volumes in the dance of their conversation.

"I suspect I'm the only man who can handle it." A boast of a puffed up peacock with a crown on his head. Elliott sings his own praises with little shame. He's born witness to those who tried, her deceased husband chief among them, and Elliott knows without fail where he stacks up. Even if Leonor herself would rather drink a glass of vinegar than cop to as much.

This silken, sweet to-and-fro could be just that. Flirtatious banter made to amuse, with challenging words that barely scratch the surface. But would it be Leonor and Elliott without stepping beyond the invisible boundary? Asking the questions that no one dare, without exposing themselves? He can only hang back, simultaneously amused and intrigued. Then, like a chess piece, he advances his attack of witticism. "And what did you do to earn it? Besides slip some Madagascar poison in your man's drink, or support the rule of low-brow wannabe's?" He says, in that tone that fails to be emotionless. A bark of outrage, a whisper of respect. He may not applaud Leono's choices, but he'd be foolish not to see the brilliance in it.

At her rejection, Elliott manages a laugh. One can't blame a man for trying. But she does one further, taking the plunged knife and turning it just right. "I did not know that eating men's youth and spirit is considered refined taste in Northern Spain. Oh, what a mess our country is now." He falters back with a sarcastic roll of the tongue. "And who at court has managed to amuse you?" His blue eyes give something away, looking back at her dark brown eyes. Something said in such a look; no one amuses me like you do.

[monarhrh]

Leonor’s thoughts swirled like a tempest as she stood with Elliott, their hands clasped together. The weight of his words hung in the air, echoing in her mind: "But I would rather fight with you than be caught in bliss with anyone else." Those words resonated deeply within her, stirring emotions she had long kept buried under layers of duty and diplomacy. Her gaze drifted to Elliott’s face, tracing the lines of his features. He was a Bonaparte, a prince of a house that had stood in opposition to her own family’s allies, the Ortiz. Spain, a land of rich history and culture, was also a land of division and conflict. It was a nation that had shaped both of them, instilling in them a fierce loyalty and a desire to see it prosper. Yet, it was also the very thing that had kept them apart, forcing them into roles that pitted them against each other. Leonor’s lips curved into a wry smile, a glint of mischief in her eyes. "You know," she began, her voice tinged with a playful edge, "I actually enjoy our fights. There's something exhilarating about the way you keep me on edge."

She met Elliott’s gaze, her expression a blend of mischief and sincerity. "A delicate heart? Hardly," she replied with a playful smirk. "You know I’m far from the damsel waiting in a tower. I thrive in the chaos, and I’ll always choose the battlefield over a life of passivity." Leonor’s eyes sparkled with determination. "And as for that promise?" She held his gaze, unwavering. "I promise we’ll find each other, no matter the distance or the obstacles. Our paths may twist and turn, but I refuse to believe they won’t intersect again."

The raven haired woman savored the kiss, allowing it to unfold at its own pace. There was a sense of harmony in the moment, each note resonating in a way that felt deeply familiar. She melted against him, her fingers weaving into his hair as she deepened the connection. The world around them faded, the weight of their responsibilities and the chaos of their lives temporarily forgotten. As Elliott traced his thumb along the curve of her jaw, Leonor’s heart raced, echoing the unspoken words that hung in the air between them. She pulled him closer, instinctively seeking that connection, as if their souls were intertwining in a dance of their own. Each heartbeat resonated with the promise of something deeper, something worth fighting for.

"Like many things that stand between us." Beyond his charm, there is Spain to consider. A nation that, for all its faults, kept them diametrically opposed. Contrasting perspectives on the way forward for their homeland, leaving them caught in this halfway house of love and uncertainty. "But I would rather fight with you than be caught in bliss with anyone else." Leonor and Elliott were not made for ordinary loves, or simply lovely marriages. It's that recognition that always leaves a nagging voice in the back of his head; did she have it with her ex-husband? Or was he, like many others, a cog in a political plot?

"My restlessness only guarantees risk. If you were a more delicate heart, I'd worry you'd await me in some tower by the sea." But he knew Leonor; tough as nails, resilient as anything. She would sooner be the opposing Queen on a chessboard than ever be a pawn, laying in wait for Elliott to pursue his crown and come back to her. "You cannot get rid of me that easily." He exhales, lips ghosted just above hers. A sharp inhale to take her in; the perfume on her person, the warm charge of her skin against his. "I plan to live, boldly and brightly. Now," he lifts her chin. "Promise me - we find each other at the end of the line."

There is no hesitation in her kiss, but no urgency either. In here, they are blessed with the gift of time, and Elliott kisses her like the opening note of a concerto. Slow and purposeful, building with heady passion. He pulls her closer, tracing his thumb along the slack of her jaw. Finally, he is home.

[monarhrh]

"Your charm has always been your double-edged sword. Once a weapon, now a gift." The Marchioness felt the Spanish Prince's forehead against hers and heard his heartfelt words, a bittersweet ache settled in her chest. They were like star-crossed lovers, caught in the throes of fate's intricate dance. Their love, undeniable and passionate, seemed intertwined with challenges and uncertainties that mirrored the tumultuous world around them. She couldn't deny the magnetic pull that had drawn them together time and again, despite the obstacles that seemed insurmountable at times. Leonor often found herself reflecting on the inexplicable magnetism that had bound her to Elliott through the tumultuous chapters of their lives. It was as though their souls had been intertwined from the moment they first met, fate weaving their paths together.

Their connection defied logic and reason. Across continents and amidst the chaos of their respective worlds, they had found each other time and again. Obstacles seemed insurmountable—duty, family expectations, the demands of their separate lives—but the pull between them was undeniable. It was a force that transcended distance and time, drawing them back into each other's orbits whenever they dared to drift apart. "Stubborn, indeed," she murmured softly, her voice a blend of affection and amusement. "We've always been a pair of relentless souls, haven't we?" She reached up, her fingers lightly tracing the lines of his face, committing every detail to memory as if it were the first time she had touched him. 

"Amor"" she began softly, her voice carrying a depth of emotion that spoke volumes of her feelings for him. "I understand. We don't need to have everything planned out perfectly. Life has taught us that plans can change in an instant." her hand gently caressing his cheek. "But there's one thing I ask of you, more than anything else." Her gaze held his, unwavering in its intensity. "I need you to stay alive. For me, for you, for us," she whispered, her voice trembling with the weight of her request. "Our futures are intertwined, it's always been you and I, from this moment on, I won't accept anything less.'" Leonor leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to his lips, a silent affirmation of her love.

Past and present blur together with every recountance, with every tentative glance. And at the heart of it... Love. Isn't that what it always was? The unspoken truth that they end up roaming back to. Elliott offers a low, endeared laugh. "You simply can't stand my charm, because you are so enamored by it." The irony isn't lost on him. The very same words, used to maim and hurt, now professed in sweet kindness. It's the duality of Leonor; the most hateful words could also spur the most tender. Elliott knows it a pendulum, swinging back-and-forth, and just this once. Maybe only this once, it is at a standstill. The world, its agendas - everything is foregone, until it is only them.

"I believe you." He says, after a beat. In all their flirtations and gestures, never once did Leonor ask anything of him. The bon vivant, third-born child with nothing but money and privilege. Everything at his disposal, yet Elliott wasn't ready. More a boy than a man, back then. And still, she cherished him. Even when he was untested, unchallenged, rueful young man. Elliott takes that final, damning step. Forehead pressing against Leonor, as he stares down at her long eyelashes. His hands moving towards the slope of her shoulders, offering a resilient squeeze.

"What are we, if not stubborn fuckers?" He says, void of poetry, instead filled with obstinate crassness. He's tackled everything in life with fervor thus far; his exile, the Bonaparte crown. Why not this? "I do not have it in me to plan for a future yet." Elliott admits woefully. "I do not know if I even have one." The upstart, Bonaparte hot seat was a dangerous one, evidenced by his late sister. "But if I could make my choice freely, without fear or uncertainty... I choose you." Shrugging softly, he smiles somberly. "It's always been you."

[monarhrh]

The weight of his recollections settled between them like an unspoken truth, the complexities of their relationship laid bare once more. "I remember everything too," she replied softly, her voice carrying a mix of reverence and introspection. They had danced together at royal celebrations, their steps synchronized to the rhythm of music echoing off marble walls. Leonor remembered the way Elliott's hand felt strong yet gentle in hers, guiding her through the intricate patterns of courtly dances. Their laughter mingled with the strains of violins and the soft murmur of guests, creating a world where time seemed to stand still. In the quiet moments between dances, they would steal away to walk through the royal gardens. Leonor cherished these stolen moments of solitude with Elliott, where the weight of their titles and responsibilities faded into the background. Her gaze met his, holding a depth of understanding that transcended their turbulent history. "The moments we soared and the times we stumbled—they're all part of who we are." There were lingering touches too, fleeting yet electric, exchanged in the shadowed alcoves of palace corridors or beneath the canopy of ancient trees. Leonor would catch herself stealing glances at Elliott across crowded rooms, her heart quickening at the sight of his familiar smile or the intensity in his gaze.

Leonor's laughter danced softly in the candlelit room, a delicate melody that echoed Elliott's rueful admission. Her eyes, alight with fondness and understanding, met his somber gaze with a hint of playful defiance. "And vex me, you certainly would," she replied with a gentle smile, her voice tinged with affectionate amusement. "Not a day would pass without your stubborn charm testing my patience, just as I'm sure I would test yours." The warmth in her tone softened the acknowledgment of their shared propensity to challenge each other. Her heart fluttered when he spoke afterwards.

"I cherish you, mi corazón," she whispered, her heart heavy with the weight of their unspoken truths. "Freely, without expectation or demand." The Spaniard's heart swelled with conflicting emotions as Elliott's words hung in the air, heavy with the weight of their shared history and uncertain future. She felt his lips touch on her calloused knuckles, a gesture that spoke volumes of tenderness and regret. His vulnerability touched her deeply, yet she couldn't ignore the fierce determination that burned within her. "And yet, Elli," she began, her voice soft yet resolute, "shouldn't we challenge what the fates have written for us?" Her eyes, filled with a mixture of love and defiance. "I refuse to believe that our paths are predetermined by misaligned histories or the expectations of others." she confessed, closing the gap between them.

"I remember everything." He echoes with unflinching certainty. The rose-colored haze of their early years can scarcely be forgotten. Elliott remembers it all - the cutting commentary, the rhythm of the music as they danced, and the splitting sensation in his chest when Leonor picked differently. "The good and the bad, the splendid and the damning." Licking his lips, he offers that rare thing; forgiveness, wrapped in somber cheekiness. "I do not regret it." Even in his most tempestuous hatred of Leonor, he cannot recount a moment of regret.

"And you would vex me!" Elliott tacks on, with a rueful mirth in his somber eyes. "Not a day would go by without you maddening me. Nor I, with you." The idyllic fantasy of a life together isn't all blushing cheeks and gentle touches. Leonor and Elliott were built with too much raw edge and combative spirit for such a placid life. Somehow, the grounded reality of it - the sleepy morning, the torrential evenings. It all fit. Alas, he drops his eyes, uncertainty clouding his eyes.

"It would barely take a fortnight to sever that tether, Leo." Elliott reminds her, kindness even in his opposition. His hand wrapping around hers, lifting her calloused knuckles near his lips. "You and I... We only work in haciendas in Puerto Rico, or candle-lit map rooms in Brazil. We are impossible back home, where so much of our histories and interest misalign." A shattering confession, spoken with vulnerable ache. Sighing, he makes no move to walk away. Even with the gloom and doom of their ending. "It is alright, mi amor." Elliott assures tenderly, kissing the back of her hand. "I cherish you freely; without expectation or demand."

[monarhrh]

Leonor felt a pang in her chest as Elliott spoke, his words weaving a story of shared dreams and unspoken desires. She met his gaze with a mixture of longing and apprehension, the candlelight casting shadows that danced across her face. His mention of Puerto Rico stirred memories she had tucked away, memories of a future that had once seemed so tangible, so full of promise. "You remember," she murmured softly, her voice tinged with both nostalgia and a hint of genuine happiness.

"I've always envisioned us there too," she continued, her words carrying a quiet intensity. "You, hosting your rum tastings and gatherings—a place where your charisma and passion for life could shine." A fond smile graced her lips as she spoke of his envisioned role. "And me," she added, her voice dropping to a whisper tinged with vulnerability, "by your side, keeping you company, debating the latest news while drinking coffee in the mornings, horseback riding through la hacienda, even dancing under the rain."

She reached up to gently touch his hand where it rested against her cheek, a silent gesture of comfort and reassurance. "Perhaps we've both been adrift, seeking that anchor," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. "I've thought of you often, in my eyes you have always been the son of Spain, not seeing you, or hearing your voice - Maybe..." She paused, searching for the right words. "Maybe it's not too late to find that tether again." For the first time Leonor did not dare to meet his gaze.

"No, no... You are right about that. We were many things; perfunctory and boring was never one of them." High praise for a once-spoiled Prince, chasing tails and good times. Or a scheming Marchioness for whom loyalty and power accounted for more than affection. In the candlelit hue of the room, there is a somber twinkle in his eye. Satisfaction, perhaps, that she would amuse him. Leaning back against the dresser, Elliott listens keenly. Uninterrupting, as he lets the image and feeling roll over him. He could see Leonor there, too, in a linen dress of an assortment of colors. Dancing in the streets, hair undone and eyes full of stars. Catching her hesitation at the end, Elliott offers that rare thing. A small, resolute smile of the feelings they dare not speak of. "I remember." He mentions quietly. "You spoke of Puerto Rico before - of glorious gardens, energetic streets, and a simpler life than what we had. I could see you there." And in their flirtations, Elliott would speak of his place in her fantasy. A ner-do-well Prince living in a decadent, but subdued, home by her stead. Of the businesses he would run; cigars and rum. Of the parties he would hold, grand yet tasteful. Of a life together.

How far away it feels now.

"I always saw us there, too." He admits, in the whispered quiet of their confessional. Shifting the weight of his foot, he cannot help but draw a blank. He's been everywhere; the bustle of Hong Kong, the frost of Norway, and the expedient streets of Egypt - "Home." Elliott admits, before he can stop himself. "I've been adrift for years now." Without thinking, Elliott places a wistful thumb against her cheek. Listless as he feels the soft slope of Leonor's jaw. "I wish to be tethered to a life, a country, a person again." And he could only think of one life, in one country, with one person to do that with.

[monarhrh]

Her demeanor remained poised and unruffled, her words dripping with both charm and cattiness. "Elli you always did have a way with words," she purred, her voice laden with honeyed allure. "Though I must admit, your attempts at flattery are as transparent as your ulterior motives. La verdadera pregunta que te debes hacer es, can you handle it?"

As Leonor engaged in her banter with Elliott, her thoughts danced with memories of their past encounters. Despite considering him the bane of her existence, there had always been a certain allure about him, a magnetic pull that she couldn't quite shake. She recalled their lingering exchanges at the Spanish court, the subtle jabs and veiled compliments exchanged like blows in a verbal duel. It was a challenge she relished, a game of wits and charm that kept her on her toes and fueled her desire for more. Even now, as they traded barbs and flirtatious remarks, Leonor found herself drawn to the tension that crackled between them. It was a dangerous game they played, one that left her heart racing and her senses heightened with anticipation. But beneath the surface, there was a deeper undercurrent of rivalry and resentment, a constant reminder of the power struggle that defined their relationship. And yet, despite it all, Leonor couldn't deny the thrill of the chase, the intoxicating allure of a man who dared to challenge her at every turn.

"I do pride myself on being a master of the game." She leaned in closer, her breath warm against his ear as she whispered with a teasing lilt, "But you know what they say about teasing, don't you? It's only effective if the target is worthy." With a playful flick of her hair, she pulled back, her gaze locking with his as she held his stare with unwavering confidence. "As for my place," she continued, her tone laced with subtle challenge. "I'll have you know that I've worked hard to earn it, every step of the way." Leonor's words carried a subtle edge, a reminder that she was not one to be underestimated or trifled with. She had fought tooth and nail to carve out her own path in a world dominated by men, and she wasn't about to let anyone diminish her accomplishments.

The Marchioness lips curled into a sly smile at Elliot's words, his insinuations only adding fuel to the fire of their verbal sparring. "Oh, you do know how to tempt a woman," she replied, her tone dripping with playful sarcasm. "As much as I'd love to entertain you at supper, I fear my tastes have grown far too refined for your palate and in quite honesty, you might bore me or worse be the death of me."

He clicks his tongue, crystalline eyes laced with something heavy and maliciously intended. "Are we?" A simple query back at Leonor. A speckle of doubt to her belief that they were more complicated than mere animals. "We fight to survive. We strive to keep our stomachs full, our bodies warm." Elliott licks his lips, casting his eyes down to her pert lips. "And we're always looking to satisfy something carnal within ourselves." A truth learned since puberty, forged in the years in exile, and solidified by the litany of secrets Elliott now holds in his back pocket. "Where it counts... Aren't we all wild animals?" It would explain this thing between them; dangerous and looming as it is.

"No one plays the game quite like you do." Elliott remembers with an almost fond expression. Did he loathe her ability to outsmart him? Did he envy her tenacity to keeping her place, whilst he dangles in the abyss of exile? In the privacy of his inner thoughts, he may admit to missing her. "Deadly beauty... Or, simply the most effective of teases." He mulls, a backhanded insult said with a smirk. Or perhaps that is only with him, and the lips he had not tasted.

Instinctively, he puffs his chest. Scoffing with a ire-building grin, to roll away her insinuation. "Captivated? If I had a death wish, perhaps. As it stands, I like my head and appendages firmly attached." He brings it back to size. A reminder of whom her title came from, and what she did to take it. Indeed, she is a woman of his dreams. But a nightmare, as well. And some things, he is not willing to roll the dice on. "Why don't you invite me to supper and find out?" He obfuscates, with a wave of his hand. "Or have your tastes waned now that you, and your beloved Ortiz's, are accustomed to eating plain swill?"

[monarhrh]

Leonor stood in the flickering candlelight, her gaze meeting Elliott's with a mixture of familiarity and caution. His words echoed in the quiet of the underground map room, resonating with their shared history and unspoken tensions. "Elliott," she began softly, her voice carrying a weight of understanding. "You know well enough that 'boring, perfunctory words' have never been my style." Her tone held a hint of playful defiance, a subtle acknowledgment of their habitual banter. "But I won't indulge in empty platitudes either, not with you." She spoke, walking closer to where he stood looking at the world map. If what he needed from her was entertainment, she could at least grant him that.

Her eyes lingered on his, searching for the depths beneath his challenging demeanor. "If I could go anywhere," she mused, her voice taking on a thoughtful cadence, "Puerto Rico, I would find myself amidst the vibrant streets of San Juan, alive with the rhythms of Spanish colonial life. The city would be bustling with merchants from across the Atlantic, exchanging goods and stories under the watchful eye of El Morro." Her gaze drifted, as if envisioning the scene before her. "I would visit La Fortaleza," she continued, speaking of the majestic governor's mansion overlooking the bay. "Perhaps sit in its gardens, amidst the fragrant flowers and the shade of centuries-old trees, contemplating how life would be...."

Her voice softened with a sense of reverence for the countries history. "I would venture into the heart of the countryside," she added, imagining the rustic charm of sugar plantations and haciendas where life unfolded at a slower pace. "To witness the lives of those whose labor sustains this land, learn how to cultivate coffee, sugar cane even learn how to make rum-" She bit her lower lip; a part of her felt like she might be boring him with her rambling. Yet, her response carried a touch of wistfulness, hinting at desires and dreams beyond the political turmoil that enveloped them both. "And you, Elliott," she asked gently, her gaze steady, "where would you find yourself, if not here among these maps and memories?"

He feels her before he sees her. Attunely aware even in his state; rebellious, combative, and warm with nips of liquor. Gone are the first few days of ceremonial drunkenness, replaced instead with the energy to conquer. That's how he finds himself in the underground map room. Or so he says, as he glances about the historic maps with hollow interest. "Leonor." He answers back, a levelled quietness. Their fights are that of blazing glory. But that is not the only tune they play. And this? The quiet, soft hum of deep understanding? It is a powerhouse, just as well. "Don't." He says with a sigh. "Don't bore me with boring, perfunctory words like that. I've had my fill from arse-kissers and sycophants." He rolls his eyes, visibly irate. For better or worse, Leonor's company is the singular one void of artifice.

"Say something real." Elliott asks, a quiet plea in the privacy of the underground. Meeting her dark eyes, glancing at the swell of her lips. There is a plea in there somewhere. "Entertain me." He adds. "It shall mean more to me than sharing in tedious sorrow." Flickering his eyes down to the map in hand, fingers circling around their home. He taps at the rim of the map in thought. "Where would you go if you could go anywhere?"

[monarhrh]

Leonor turned her gaze from the animals to meet Elliott's eyes, a slow, knowing smile spreading across her lips. "Ah, Bonaparte" she began, her voice a smooth blend of amusement and mild reproach, "you always did have a way with words, even when they’re laced with barbs." She took a step closer to him, her posture as regal as ever, her dark eyes gleaming with a mixture of intrigue and challenge. "Predator or prey, you ask? It’s an interesting dichotomy, but one that I believe oversimplifies the complexities of our existence. We are, after all, far more than mere animals."

She paused, letting her gaze sweep over the menagerie before returning to Elliott. "You see, I prefer to think of myself as adaptable. The world is full of unpredictable turns, and those who survive are the ones who can navigate both the role of the predator and the prey when circumstances demand it." Her smile widened, a hint of mischief dancing in her eyes. "But if you insist on calling me a black widow, I shall take it as a compliment. After all, she is a creature of elegance and deadly beauty. Much like myself, don’t you think?" The Ambassador wouldn't acknowledge her late husband passing, she needed to forget in able to survive.

Leonor's tone softened, becoming almost playful. "And as for being a 'gorgeous' femme fatale, well, flattery will get you everywhere, Prince Elliott. But do be careful. Such compliments might lead one to believe you’re still captivated by this Marchioness." She leaned in slightly, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "But tell me, what role do you see yourself playing in this menagerie of ours? Predator, prey, or perhaps something far more interesting?" With that, she straightened, her demeanor once again poised and sophisticated, but the glint in her eyes remained—a challenge and an invitation all at once.

@monarhrh | Leonor and Elliott, Late May at The Solomon's Menagerie

"Are you debating whether you are predator or prey?" The innocuous question comes with velveteen ease. Hands resting comfortably behind him, as Elliott steps through the tiled walkway into the leafy-covered menagerie. As safe a place as any to approach the most maddening of Marchioness'... Though one must never underestimate the power of Leonor's temper, when he chooses to light it up. "It is a question worth asking in a place like this. Leopards. Elephants. Deer..." Elliott lists out, eyeing the open space of wandering creatures. "But I shall answer the question for you, Leo." A nickname reserved for closest friends, employed with a familiarity their kinship has been void of.

"You are a predator. A black widow." And because Elliott cannot help himself, he offers a crude smirk. Blue eyes darting from the width of her dark brown eyes, to the lushness of her lips. "A fatale female of the finest order." He drips on, equal parts insult and backhanded compliment. "And a gorgeous one at that. The life of a widow suits you."