The Dark Prince (The Dark Light Series)

by S. L. Jennings

  “Gabs! Dorian! What brings you two here?” Morgan exclaims as we approach. Sitting in the sleek stylist’s chair at her station sits a middle aged woman who I see has requested a severe, trendy cut with blunt, straight bangs. Her eyes are glued on Dorian, her mouth forming an ‘O’ in admiration.

  “Just hanging out. How’s everything going?” I try my hardest to seem passive but I am anxiously scanning the large room for any sign of the Light. Dorian squeezes my hand gently, noticing my distraction. He still appears impassive though the tiny furrow of his brow tells me that he is deep in concentration.

  “Oooh, mija, I know you better come over here and speak to me!” I hear from behind us. We turn around to see Carlos, a hand on his narrow hip, smiling at me brightly.

  “Carlos!” I beam. We cross the room to greet him but when I try to advance further to give him a hug, Dorian stops me before I can take another step.

  “Mr. Skotos, good to see you,” he says with a nod. Dorian returns the gesture politely before returning to the task of scanning the room with cold, trained eyes. When he isn’t looking, Carlos mouths gestures between us with enthusiasm, mouthing, “You’re together?” I blush scarlet and nod gracefully, receiving a sassy snap and a head swing from Carlos in response.

  Jackson joins us, looking statuesque in platform heeled boots to accompany the all-black attire that is the salon’s dress code. His platinum blonde hair is radiant and makes him look devilishly angelic. Omg, is he Light? He is certainly attractive enough. I stealthily give Dorian a sideways glance, only to see a subtle head shake in response. Of course not. Dorian would know.

  Jackson gives me a brilliant smile, showcasing his gleaming white, perfect teeth. He has got to be the prettiest man I’ve ever seen aside from Dorian. “I just want to come over and say hi, babe,” he purrs. “X is back at my station; stop by. I know he’d love to see you.”

  I see Jackson whisper something to Carlos and look at me. Carlos nods excitedly, causing Jackson to flash me a wink. He grabs a pair of shears from Carlos’s station before waving at both Dorian and I and returning to his task.

  “So, anyway,” Carlos says hands still propped on his hips. “My birthday is this Friday and we’re having a little party down at that new club Aria. I really want you to come. Both of you,” he smiles.

  I look up at Dorian hopefully, and am pleasantly surprised when he nods his approval. “Carlos, we’d love to,” I say. I would have gone without him, but having Dorian by my side doesn’t hurt.

  “Great! Bring whoever you want; the more the merrier. And be ready to party because you know how we do!” he cackles.

  Dorian hurriedly ushers me to his back office, giving me only a few seconds to stop and greet Xavier as Jackson cuts his chocolate brown hair into a stylish yet conservative style.

  “So anything?” I ask once we are alone.

  Dorian shakes his head and purses his lips in frustration. Other than Morgan, Carlos, Jackson, and Xavier, I didn’t recognize any of the other stylists or clientele. And most of them were too obviously enraptured with Dorian’s beauty to seem put off or defensive.

  “But are you sure about Jackson? I mean, look at him. That can’t be natural.”

  “No, Gabriella. He’s human.”

  I tap my foot, trying to remember the faces of each client. “Oooh! Maybe the lady with the miniature dog. Aren’t the Light supposed to be animal lovers or something?”

  Dorian shakes his head once again, walking to the desk to rifle through a pamphlet of papers. “No.”

  “Or what about-”

  “Dammit, Gabriella! I don’t fucking know who it is!” Dorian shouts before I can complete my thought. He glares at me through cold, wrathful eyes, obviously infuriated by my line of questioning. “Just shut up so I can think for a second. Shit.”

  I do as I’m told and am compliantly silent, disgusted both with myself for obliging to his demands without resistance, and with him for treating me like a misbehaved delinquent. I would never take this from anybody else. Not even Jared. So why am I backing down now? Why am I letting Dorian disrespect and belittle me without even so much as an eye roll? What is happening to me? Has Dorian finally sexed me into stupefied submission?

  The walk back to Cashmere is painfully quiet and tense, only making me more aware of my dejected spirit coupled with Dorian’s intense rage. Hard to believe that less than an hour ago, Dorian had me bent over my desk, showing me just how deep his love goes. Now there is only disdain and aggravation etched in his face.

  “I think you should go,” I say to him a few storefronts down from Cashmere.

  Dorian exhales his irritation in a sharp huff and looks away, shaking his head in disbelief of my pettiness. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’ll stay until the end of your shift.”

  “No. You should go,” I insist. “We’ll talk later.”

  Dorian slightly softens his rigid expression, hoping to coax me into seeing things his way. “I need to be here with you. I need to protect you.”

  “Protect me from what?” I snap angrily. “Because all I see is you chasing a ghost and treating me like shit because you feel inadequate. How can you help me when you can’t even help yourself? Hell, your own dad wants you dead. Maybe you’re the one who needs protection. Go home, Dorian. I don’t want or need you here.”

  I turn on my heel and march to the boutique and don’t stop until I’m nestled safely inside the solace of my office. I flop into the swivel chair and let my ragged shoulders fall in defeat. I’m angry, frustrated, and hurt, yet I have no one to blame but myself. Only Dorian can wound me like this, stripping me bare of my strength and rebellion, because I’ve let him penetrate the parts of me that I’ve kept safeguarded for so long. Only he can push me to that place that causes me to speak so cruelly out of hurt and anger, revealing just how extremely immature I truly am.

  What the hell is wrong with me? What have I just done?

  Dorian confided in me and I didn’t hesitate to use his deepest secrets as ammunition. He’ll never forgive me; I’ll never forgive myself. He must think I am just some petty, selfish, reckless child, and he wouldn’t be far off. He will see me for what I truly am, not the person I have wanted to be since the day I met him. Someone that is worthy of his affections. Even without the link that ties our lives together, his disapproval kills me.

  I come home later that evening, half expecting to find Dorian waiting in my room but come up disappointed. Part of me is relieved; I’m not ready to face him or admit the power he has over me. Yet the honest part of me is suffering inside, feeling weak and depleted. I still want him, even though he has demeaned me, and I hate myself for feeling that way. I need him to feel safe, to feel whole. But why would he come here after what I’ve said to him? I pretty much told him that he’s failed me, making me just another person in his life that sees him as a disappointment.

  Once again, my big mouth has hurt someone that I love. And even if Dorian hurt me first, there’s no excuse for what I’ve said. I am no better than his father. No, actually I’m worse. I knew how to hurt Dorian, I knew what triggers took him to his dark place, and I did it anyway.

  Chapter Twelve

  The next few days pass excruciatingly slow, a little piece of me dying with each day without Dorian. I know I should call him but my pride- well, what’s left of it- along with sheer humiliation, won’t let me. If he wanted to see me, he’d be here. The looming truth that Dorian has finally seen me for what I really am and would rather do without the headache is unbearable. But I can’t fault him; he deserves so much more than me. Regardless of what he is, regardless of his past, he is perfect in every way.

  After a tortuous sleep that I eventually aided with an entire bottle of red wine, I awaken Thursday morning feeling confused and anguished. My head is pounding and my body feels like it’s been dipped in cement. Dorian still hasn’t called nor texted and my mind is beginning to sprout painful musings of him running to Aurora’s waiting arms and warm bed.

  M
aybe this is it. Maybe Dorian has had enough of me and my childish ways. He didn’t deserve that considering he’s devoted his life to protecting me. Yet, because I was feeling irrational and scorned, I had to have the last word. I had to make him feel as demoralized as he made me feel. Right or wrong, I took it too far, and I am dreadfully afraid that I’ve pushed him away for good.

  Luckily it’s my day off, so I slowly nurse my hangover, watching bad TV and eating junk in bed. I’m in a dark place; I can feel myself slowly ticking towards self-destruction. Even with the faint remains of my alcohol-induced headache, all I want to do is drink until I can’t feel anymore. It’s only noon but I head to the kitchen to pour myself a shot of tequila and grab a cold beer to chase it.

  With Morgan at work, the apartment seems cold and desolate, yet I feel like I’m suffocating, the feelings of loneliness and remorse tightly gripping my chest. I have to get out of here; the longer I stay, the more I’ll have to feel. I down my shot, letting the hot, burning liquid scorch my aching chest. Then I pick up the phone. There’s only one person who could begin to ease my discontentment.

  “Hey Jared, what’s up, buddy?” I say after he picks up after two rings.

  “Gabs! Didn’t expect to hear from you! I’m glad you called,” he says cheerfully.

  Jared. Always a breath of fresh air. His sincerity instantly begins to soothe my troubled soul. “I wanted to see if you were busy today. It’s my day off, and I was hoping we could hang.” Translation: I was hoping you could help me forget what a massive screw up I am.

  “Really?” he replies incredulously. “You want to spend your day off with me? Not Dorian?”

  Crap. Of course he’d bring him up, causing the tightness in my chest to return with a vengeance. I take a deep breath, trying to level my shaky voice despite the large lump in my throat. “No. I want to spend it with you,” I say, hoping he can’t detect any sign of suffering.

  “Ok,” he says cautiously. He knows there’s more to it than what I’m giving away. “Where do you wanna meet up?”

  “Um, actually, would you mind coming to pick me up? I’ve already been drinking.”

  A long beat passes before Jared speaks again. “You ok?” He knows me better than anyone else and I can’t hide from him. Yet, he also knows when not to press the issue with a barrage of judgments and questions.

  “I will be. See you in half an hour?”

  After downing my beer, I rummage through my closet in search of something to wear. I don’t even feel like getting dressed at this point but I couldn’t subject Jared to the embarrassment of having to be seen with me in pajama pants and a t-shirt. I decide on jeans, a charcoal grey tank and black flip flops. It’s not much better than my PJs but at least I’ve taken the time to comb my unruly hair. Before Jared arrives, I take another shot of tequila to ward off the threat of melancholy that keeps trying to creep its way to the surface. He’s punctual as always, and I instantly notice the worry etched in his face when I open the front door.

  “Don’t,” is all I say shaking my head. I don’t want his concern; I don’t deserve it. I grab my purse, and we head for his car in tense silence.

  “Where to?” Jared asks once we are on the road, headed towards Academy Boulevard.

  “Just drive. I’ll tell you when I see it,” I respond.

  I see Jared’s CD booklet, housing his music collection. I flip through until I find what I’m looking for before ejecting The Script, singing a heartfelt melody. I can’t hear this, not now when I am trying so hard to hold it together. I pop in Eminem, knowing that only he could relate to my afflicted state of mind.

  I instruct Jared to pull into the first tattoo parlor we see. He looks over at me with hesitation and question in his eyes.

  “My treat,” I say opening the passenger side door. Lord knows I can afford it since I started working at Cashmere. Thanks to Dorian, my salary as a store manager rivals that of a CEO of a major corporation.

  Dorian. Just thinking about him causes me to gasp in agonized desperation. I can literally feel my heart splintering, sharp little shards poking me in the chest.

  “Gabs, I just hope you know what you’re doing,” Jared says, opening the door to the shop for me. Always a perfect gentleman. Even though I am far from a prim and proper lady.

  “I do too,” I smile weakly.

  Jared and I flip through dozens of giant photo albums in search of body art. He has a few random pieces already and has taken me up on my offer for some new ink. He’s chosen to get a tribute piece to mark Tammy’s miraculous recovery. I honestly have no idea what I want which is no surprise.

  “So things are kinda rocky with Dorian?” Jared casually asks about thirty minutes into our search.

  “You could say that,” I sigh. “We got into a fight. Well, he said something that upset me and I let him have it. I really went too far. Now I’m afraid he’ll never speak to me again.”

  Jared nods, knowing the routine all too well. I don’t let myself just hurt; I get angry. And when I’m angry, I see red, unable to control whatever venom falls from my tongue. Then the damage is done. And rather than trying to mend the broken relationship, I simply punish myself for my misstep, too ashamed to face my mistakes and the real issues festering within me. Unfortunately, the people that I love the most are usually in the line of fire. If it weren’t for my family and the few friends I actually do have refusing to give up on me, I would have pushed them away years ago rather than reveal just how insecure and broken I really am.

  “You really do love him,” Jared remarks.

  I take a deep breath, feeling a swell of emotion rise in my chest. “Yes. So much.”

  “Then it will be ok. He’ll forgive you. You’re worth it, Gabs,” he smiles warmly.

  I struggle to return his sentiment then return my attention back to the book. A grouping of eight photos grabs my attention and I nearly drop the album.

  “What’s wrong, Gabs?” Jared asks, gauging my startled reaction. “You look like you just saw a ghost.”

  I shake my head, unable to verbalize my shock and horror. Just then, the tattooed receptionist walks by and I wave her down.

  “Excuse me, who received these tattoos?”

  The young lady, who looks more like a 50s pin-up girl with her jet black hair and red lips, takes a closer look at the collection I’m pointing to with a shaky finger. “Uh, I think it was a group of some Emo kids a while ago. I remember because they were really odd, kinda freaked me out. Since then, not too many people have asked for them. Is this what you want?”

  “No, thank you,” I respond. “Just wondering.”

  Once she returns to her station, I pull out my phone and take a picture of the page. I take a long look at each word, fashioned in what I assume is ancient Greek. I touch each one, feeling somewhat drawn to them, connected to the exotic scrawl. Under each photo of foreign characters etched on pale skin is the phonetic translation.

  Algea

  Apatē

  Thanatos

  Mīsos

  Oinos

  Polemos

  Órexis

  Skotos

  “That looks like Aurora’s last name. And isn’t Skotos Dorian’s last name?” Jared asks casually while orchestrating a text message on his cell phone. Luckily, he’s been so wrapped up in his task that he still hasn’t caught on to my anxiety. I nod and quickly flip to the next page to avoid further questions. I couldn’t explain it even if I tried.

  Once Jared and I are each in an artist’s chair, I mentally prepare myself for my first tattoo, a lotus blossom accented with feminine filigree extending from the nape of my neck, down my spine and ending at the middle of my back. It’s a beautiful piece and though I’ve opted to do without the vibrant pinks and greens in the photo, it still evokes feelings of serenity and peace, exactly what I so desperately want to channel. Reluctantly, I remove my shirt and unsnap my bra, then carefully shield my breasts as I turn to sit backwards on the reclining chair.

  “Pr
etty big piece for a first timer,” the bearded artist warns before touching my unmarked skin with the buzzing needle of the tattoo gun. “This’ll hurt.”

  I turn my head a fraction to look him in his eyes, demonstrating my absolute certainty. “Good.”

  Hours later, we emerge from the shop bandaged, sore and starving. We stop at a drive thru to grab some fast food before heading back to Paralia to eat. I am anxious to get home, hopeful that Dorian is finally ready to make amends but am once again disappointed when I discover my empty bedroom. The stinging on my back pales in comparison to the radiating ache in my chest. Being without him is unbearable. The only inkling of hope I have to hold onto is the fact that I’m still alive. He still loves me.

  Morgan surfaces from her bedroom wearing a spicy red minidress and heels, her long weave fashioned into a bun atop of her head.

  “Hey, I got you some food, but looks like you’ve got plans,” I remark from the carpeted living room floor where we’ve decided to eat our chicken strips and fries.

  “Yeah, I’ve got a date. Don’t wait up,” she winks, grabbing her clutch purse and heading out.

  “I can stay,” Jared says once we are alone.

  “No. I’ll be fine.” He’s been texting all day, surely with Aurora, and has already given me so much of his time. There’s no telling what plans he had to bail on to come rescue me from myself.

  After repeatedly assuring him that I won’t go off the deep end and drink myself stupid, Jared leaves to meet up with Aurora. I’m alone once again with my overwhelming guilt and remorse. I head to the cabinet to pour myself a drink and down three shots without blinking, desperately trying to squelch the rising urge to cry. Then I carefully bathe before climbing into bed and praying for the crippling pain that reaches to the depths of my core to subside.