Amber
The place they brought her to was a restaurant that had been named the world's best since 2012. A place with three Michelin Stars and a library of books documenting its success. It was a place where food was inhumanely expensive. But was only allowed existence because a blue moon experience transcended true monetary value.
It was a restaurant that served food for a cult of super-rich connoisseurs that proclaimed themselves capable of judging slivers of explosive taste. Food that was deemed art that was more meaning than retinal beauty. It would be foreign; it would be new; it would be interesting. Or at least it would be for Amber.
Others would proclaim it blasphemous, but Oliver insisted they headed to McDonald's for a shared cheeseburger to curb the bite of hunger. It'd been funny to see them in freshly pressed (slightly casual) suits from the dry cleaner's, squashed shoulder to shoulder and arguing about the existence of fries with ice cream. She'd declared both opinions valid judgement, and then taken a stab of cold ice cream with her fries resulting in a broken expression from her Oliver, and a crow of victory from her Casper.
The meal took off the sting of awkwardness that laced the air and reduced the stench of apprehension that must be wafting from her in waves. While they were amazing actors, hewn and cut straight from the depths of mass media, they could not hide the foreboding anxiety that seemed to tighten in their jaws, more thickly perhaps in Oliver's bouncing feet and Casper's furrowing brow.
Anxiety.
Whatever it was that churned in their minds, they weren't being their usual selves. The sunny grin that seemed to radiate rainbows and sparkles, and the calm, gentle smile that brought her more peace than anything else could in the world was replaced by a façade. It made her so damn fucking confused because that meant that the restaurant visit had an underlying motive.
One that made them and her by association, uneasy as fuck.
"Is everything okay?" she'd mumbled out as they climbed into the car.
She'd packed her words heavy with hints, stressed on syllables that should push them to speak, but they'd remained oblivious to her prying. Purposely daft or perhaps simply just worried about the time. They were going to be late according to Oliver. But Casper declared that they would have plenty of time, a statement which Oliver debunked with a sharp tap to the watch and a roll of his eyes.
"Hm?"
Oliver had turned to her, and a flicker of neon flashed over his head. A sign that their soul bond was detecting a dash of emotional distance. Or perhaps, it was just malfunctioning again, just as it seemed to even with his cock deep within her. And her mood fell, a popped balloon, a sad goldfish in a bubble tank swimming in depressing circles. The virtual signboard that was once a blessed occurrence was now something straight from the pits of hell.
There was distance in Oliver's eyes when he fucked her.
He'd said that she made him harder than ever, talked about how beautiful she was around him, spoken about stars descending the heavens and his eternal worship towards her elegance. While those words were laced with the sexiest of moans from his tortured lips, so loud that it'd sent shivers down her spine, they were usually also coupled with flickering signage over his head that blasted the truth like an apocalyptic airhorn.
Distance grew despite the physical closeness.
Distance was present despite their 'love'.
Distance knelt hideous and condescending beside her bed as she allowed him access to her secrets.
He was furthest from her with his cock in her pussy. And that could only mean that his heart was far away from her grasp, hidden behind lock and key, hidden behind a wall he didn't want to break down for her.
He couldn't seem to tell that she knew because he'd smiled at her pretty and pleased at the end of it all. He'd been oblivious to her struggles, unaware of the coldness that drenched her skin. And then he told her that she was his best, that he loved her more than the world. But the blink of the signage of love had spelt out her own thoughts, painful and clear.
Then why do I see this instead of tattoos etched over your skin? Tattoos of my thoughts and yours mixed between our bodies? Why is your soul screaming at me to come closer even when we're connected and whole?
Why do you not let me in?
For the first time in her life, she'd been thankful that their bond was chipped and broken when he pulled away. Broken enough for her worrying thoughts to disappear from his head and remain gone for weeks. She didn't want to see her failure and his lies. And she tried to ignore it, tried to convince herself that it would fix itself with time.
But if she could see the distance…
Then what did he see on her?
"You two are just…" she struggled to come up with the words and decided on English, "on the edge?"
They exchanged yet another one of their flighting glances, pregnant with meaning and thick with words. Another stark reminder that she didn't know them well enough to read everything from the look of their eyes.
It wasn't anyone's fault that they weren't as close as they should be. It felt so damn fucking strange to say this, but trauma did bring people closer, and her two men were the least problematic and the most distant of the bunch. It made their relationship seem based upon the entire family arrangement rather than a connection between soulmates. It made their relationship feel superficial…Broken.
Disconnected.
"Date things," Casper chuckled softly in English, velvety voice begging her to be soothed as his nose twitched and squeezed. His eyes flickered up to the mirror, catching hers in a momentarily spellbinding gaze that flickered with colour. One that sent a river of lust shivering down her skin and coiling tight in her belly. "And you look beautiful my love. Too beautiful, we're bewitched."
She should be the one bewitched by the sight of her men, handsome beyond comprehension with veins that meandered and snaked over honeyed golden skin. Her soulmates could be reviewed and placed upon a range worthy of the gods. And the two that shared the small enclosed space with her were a part of a category of gold dust and wild masculine heat.
Untouchable sin.
"Shocked?" Oliver offered in adorably accented English, but she wouldn't tell him that less he found it offensive. "You look pretty."
Complements, they were always complimenting her and she knew they meant it.