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All things considered, Alina really shouldn’t be here.
But Marie whined and begged and Oh, Linka, you need to have some more fun, you’ll wither and die at this rate, and all Alina could think of was Mal, and you’re way too stiff, Alina, and she folded.
-
The lights in the club are really very disorienting, and Alina would be bothered by them if she didn’t feel so much.
She’s radiant, blooming from the inside out. Body glitter and shot glasses pressed into eager hands. Effervescent.
Giggles when she thinks about Mal, about the way he’d said you’re just so… boring, I guess.
A boring girl wouldn’t be at The Fold, high on life and a few other things she doesn’t care to name, lit up, alive.
Nadia shoves another shot glass into her hands and Alina lets the liquor slide butter-smooth into her, lets herself pretend that this is all there is, that this feeling and this room are her entire world, that she’s some otherworldly creature wholly unconcerned with the outside world.
Then she sees him.
Marie’s dragging Nadia to the centre of the dance floor and they bump the table, spill a bit of vodka onto the floor, and Alina might’ve been annoyed at that if she wasn’t so captivated.
Captivated is the word, she thinks. His eyes are too dark, impossibly dark, and for a moment she feels like a beam of light dragged into a black hole.
He tilts his head, observes her, and even from this distance Alina can see that he’s absolutely beautiful. A little unreal, really. High cheekbones and tall frame. Neat beard and dark hair with just the slightest touches of grey at his temples.
He has an air of confidence, unshakeable, lounges on his chair like it’s a throne. And it might as well be, with the way his companions act. He’s not actively engaging in the conversation, but Alina gets the feeling that the conversation itself is for his amusement. Tall and intimidating men in designer suits, all seemingly hanging on his every breath. She’d find it all endlessly amusing if she wasn’t so mesmerised.
It’s a little funny how there are larger men, taller men in this club, but he somehow manages to take up the whole room.
He signals to someone she can’t see and all she can focus on is his hand, and his long fingers and how would they look wrapped around her throat-
She stops herself then, snaps her gaze away, reminds herself that she’s not here for a random hookup, that there are more important things than this man, that these are not respectable thoughts to be having about a random stranger.
She lasts for about half a minute before she looks back at him, eyes drawn to him like metal to a magnet.
He meets her gaze head-on, and for a second she feels like some sort of specimen under a microscope, because his eyes hold a sort of brutal intelligence to them, like he could pick her apart and put her back together just to figure out what makes her tick.
It’s a testament to how fucked up she must be, the way that pools hot and low in her belly.
And maybe it’s the vodka, maybe it’s the odd sort of confidence she’s found under the club’s strobe lights, maybe it’s simply the way he draws her in that makes her get up from her chair and find her way over to him.
He watches her as she does so, the way a predator might watch its prey, like he’s just waiting for her inevitable fall into whatever trap he’s set.
He looks directly into her eyes as she slides her hand into his, as he places a light kiss onto her knuckles, as he says What is your name?
Alina, she says.
His smile is like a secret when he says, I’m Aleksander.