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“You heard, we must move closer.”
His fingers brush mine between the cloaks that barely touch.
“Guillaume, bring the headrests!”
The assistant moves quickly, taking the metal pedestals nearby.
“I do not like this.”
“If you do not know what expression to assume—”
Guillaume approaches, positioning the pedestals with precision behind us, adjusting the iron pins so they support the nape without appearing in the lens.
“Forgive me, Messieurs,” he says, “it is only a small support. Rest your heads, let the metal hold you.”
We obey, slightly rigid, letting the iron take the weight. The boy moves away.
“As I was saying... if you do not know what expression to assume...” Dorian resumes, his body slightly inclined toward me.
Monsieur Viande turns the brass knobs, sliding the bellows and focusing the lens.
“You should—”
“Eyes fixed on the lens. Choose a point inside the lens and do not leave it. Remember: if your eyes wander, the soul of the photograph will vanish.”
I clench my jaw. “Stop distracting me.”
The photographer inserts the wooden frame, the sharp sound echoes lightly between the gazebo and the shrubs.
Dorian hooks a finger into mine beneath the cloaks while his gaze remains fixed on the lens. I squeeze his finger, my nail pressing into his skin without mercy. A low rumble rises from his chest, a deep sound, contained but palpable, vibrating through my arm.
Pervert.
“We are ready,” Monsieur Viande resumes.
“Backs straight. Chin slightly high, Lord, just so... an air of noble detachment, if you please.”
The photographer’s finger catches the lens cap and lifts it with a theatrical gesture.
“Statues, gentlemen! Do not breathe. Now!”
I stiffen, and I feel Dorian do the same. Our fingers, hooked beneath the cloaks, tighten.
Neither of us wants to let go.
“Un... deux... trois... quatre... cinq....” Monsieur Viande chants, the count echoing between the gazebo and the hedges.
“Make the same expression you made when you were beneath me, Viscount.”
My heart leaps, my cheeks catch fire. My blood runs fast, hot and cold at once. I squeeze another of his fingers.
I must tear his damn tongue out.
“Dix!” the photographer commands, and in that instant, a column of light explodes before us, blinding, violent, tearing through the freezing air of the garden.
My chest vibrates from the shock, the heat of the magnesium burns distant but seems to engulf everything. The flash vanishes. The air remains heavy with white powder, stinging on the skin.
Still stiff, I feel Dorian’s hand brush mine beneath the cloaks. Slowly, without pulling his gaze from the now-dead lens, his hand slides mine along his thighs. My breath hitches.
