Eliezer’s Ange by Eden Auclair
I
praeterita
[ latin for the past ]
cassiopeia is seventeen
she is a senior in high school
—november—
Cassiopeia sighed blissfullyupon resting her head on her boyfriend’s chest. His arm instinctively wrapped around her waist and he pulled her closer. Her legs were tangled with his and they were sitting up against his bed, flipping through channels on the television until they settled on a Barcelona and Madrid game.
She was now solely focused on the television, snickering as Coutinho scored, resulting in the 1-1 tie changing to 2-1. She held back her laughter as Ansel grumbled beside her. That’s honestly gotta suck for him, she thought smugly.
“I love you, minha querida, but I will have a problem if Madrid does not come back in these last fifteen minutes,” he all but growled out.
“Mmm, o-okay amor,” she muttered distractedly, feeling the tip of his nose graze down the column of her neck. She tried, way too hard, to keep her attention on the screen, but knew it was hopeless. She turned her head slightly and slammed her lips against his in a sweet kiss. They moved fervently against each other, his hands finding their way to her hips and pulling her on top of him. She giggled in the midst of it, completely lost in him.
Until she pulled away in record time with wide eyes at the sound of his parent’s voice.
“Well, we’re off to bed now, but please, don’t let us stop you,” came his mother’s sweet and teasing voice. Cassiopeia felt a blush spread over the apples of her cheeks and turned to hide her face in her boyfriend’s chest. She felt the familiar rumble of his chest as he laughed at her expense, bidding goodnight to his parents and she muttered a shy goodnight to them, refusing to meet any of their gazes before they closed his door and left.
The next ten minutes were spent with Cassiopeia and Ansel staring at the screen and anticipation and nervousness. While she was praying Barcelona would score again, or at least keep the ball in their possession, Ansel was cursing out Madrid in every language he knew for them to score again. He was not sitting through yet another El Clásico game where his girlfriend’s team beat his. But of course, he didn’t care all too much. The way her eyes would light up when her team won was far better than any win Madrid would take home.
“That was, no joke, my favorite way to end our anniversary.” She smiled widely, her eyes gleaming. I love her, he thought as he stared in adoration, I love her so much. Her eyes, he believed, were the greatest gift he could ever be given. Just staring in her gray irises was the greatest gift he could receive. But trying to get her a gift was deemed impossible. He knew she’d appreciate even the simplest of things, but he could never find anything worthy of such beauty she was. So he settled on giving her a diamond-encrusted infinity ring hoping it would embody his love
She picked up the flute of sparkling cider that was sitting on his nightstand, drinking a mouthful before he took it out of her hand. “Here’s to three years of us and many more to come, Cassiopeia Leilani.” He finished the flute. “I love you, meu amorzinho.”
“E eu te amo,Ansel Belizaire.” She whispered against his lips in their mother tongue before their lips fused in a sweet and meaningful kiss.
§
Hours later, they found themselves wide awake amid the early hours of the morning. She was writing, working on a poem, while he was shopping around for a new pair of cleats to replace his worn-out ones.
It was 02:56 in the morning—to be exact—when Ansel rubbed his eyes tiredly, feeling hungry.
“I’m going to search for food, wanna come,” he asked her. She, however, barely acknowledged him with a small hand motion, telling him to go. He chuckled, shaking his head before walking out of his room. He loved how passionate she was about the things she loved, including him. But writing was something else when it came to his girl. She became so consumed, so lostin another world, another life, that the outcome of her work was simply beautiful. But before that, she’d stop at absolutely nothingto make sure it was perfect.
Ansel found himself disappointed to find no ingredients in his kitchen to make spaghetti. Looks like Cass and I are going to the market, he said in his head and made his way back upstairs.
“We’re going to the grocery store.” He said upon entering his bedroom. Cassiopeia’s head shot up from the notebook she was currently writing and she stared at him, baffled.
“What?” She wanted to believe she heard wrong, but the cheeky smile on his face told her otherwise.
“We have a date, meu amor. Right now. To the grocery store.”
“Oh, this has got to be rich,” she muttered, “what could you possibly want at the grocery store, at 3:13 am?”
“Well, if you come with me, you’ll see.” He winked.
And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how they found themselves in a 24-hour grocery market, walking through everyaisle. The store was relatively quiet, only the soft hum of music playing and the murmurs of the two cashiers were heard when passing them.
With only two things in the cart so far, Cassiopeia had figured her boyfriend out perfectly. The cheeky sod was going to make Alfredo Fettuccini.
“It’s almost 4 am and you dragged me out of bed to come to the market for ingredients to make spaghetti.” She yawned as she held his hand, letting him lead the way.
He scoffed. “Oh please, you were fully awake, but yes.” He had all the ingredients and now they were in the last aisle of the market with Ansel deciding which type of pasta he wanted and Cassiopeia wandering halfway down the aisle, looking at the boxed cake mix. Do I want one? Do I not? Which to get? Which not to get, she said in a sing-song voice in her head, running her eyes across the shelves.
And then she heard footsteps. Unintentionally, her head turned in the direction of her boyfriend first, only to find his eyes still fixated on the boxes of pasta. She let out a soft giggle before turning her head in the opposite direction and gasping.
There standing before her was a man, not some boy. And holy shit, was he mouthwatering. Cassiopeia felt something delicious and dangerous stir inside the pit of her stomach. Her eyes were focused solely on him and of course, he noticed her too. Her beauty caused him to drop the box of Devil’s Food cake mix.
“Petit ange.” He inhaled sharply. “Oh, vous êtes si belle.”
Little angel. Oh, you are beautiful.
The man whispered darkly. Her eyes crinkled in confusion and her cheeks faintly blossomed in pink. She was frozen, rooted in her spot as she stared at him, and he stared into her wintry-gray eyes that flared. Fuck me, he praised in his head and stopped himself from doing so out loud. He immediately felt his soul tugging to hers, maybe from the lust burning in his veins or something else entirely, he wasn’t sure. Kindred souls, that’s what we could be, he believed at that moment.
Only dressed in a pair of yoga shorts that accentuated her ass and a longline blood-red bralette that left a strip of her torso bare and cleavage exposed, he had the sudden urge to bend her over and fuck her into oblivion. He could see the start of the valley of her breasts and felt himself harden in his joggers.
He wore a fitted v-neck white shirt, giving Cassiopeia the perfect view of his taut abs. Her eyes rounded as she took in the faint black ink swirling away, etched on his skin—from what she could see, the ink swirled up his stomach to his chest and her eyes lingered a little too long on the ink disappearing in his joggers. He was more than well built and fit; desirable in every essence of the word.
And well, Cassiopeia felt that desire down to her core—evident with the dripping arousal in her panties.
She stared at him like a deer caught in headlights and he saw the innocence her steely eyes held, regarding her as ethereal, an angel from heaven if you will—there may as well have been a halo on her head. The man was immediately enamored by the petite goddess and the diamond ring glinting on her right ring finger did notsettle well with him.
He was instantly infatuated with her; he longed to touch her, feel her lips against his, hear her voice. He didn’t even realize the boy with the shopping cart behind her and he certainly didn’t give a fuck. All he could see was her and he wanted to worship her and bring her the world in his hands. In his eyes, she was the epitome of temptation with her hair in a messy bun held together by two pencils and her maroon square-framed glasses housing her tired, dove gray eyes. God, she looked fuckable.
All he did give a fuck about was making sure she was his because, in all his twenty-fouryears of living, he had never craved something so intensely. He wanted to protect her and cherish her.
The last thing he expected was to see the boy come up beside her with a shopping cart and wrap his arm around her waist. What was once burning lust turned into burning jealousy as the girl turned her head to look at the boy, all her features softening, and her eyes warmingwith pure love.
He wanted her, and Eliezer Badeaux stopped at absolutely nothingto get what he wanted in his hands.
And that is how he found himself rushing home to his family’s mansion the next day, barking orders at his men to keep an eye on her, keep her away from danger; all the while he’d watch the beautiful girl from afar. Love or lust, chaos, and madness, she had his heart and she didn’t know. And he’d keep his distance until he returned from his business abroad. It seemed the wintry gray-eyed beauty was already thawing his heart carved from ice.
Jusqu’à ce que nous nous reverrions, petit ange.
Until we meet again, little angel.