They were like two misshapen jigsaw pieces clicking together, layers overlapping and sprawling over one another, his arm going over her shoulder as if it had always been there. Vivi was a favoured plaything -- Belville rarely frequented the whorehouse (he had more than enough to choose from, they arrayed themselves for his perusal, human-things came falling neatly in line when the vampire winked and twitched that compulsion), but he appreciated Madam's women with the keen instinct of a true connoisseur.
But tonight, it was different. Blink and you'll miss it: now there's a wedding ring on her hand, and there's a matching one on his. His thumb kept going to it, picking at the ornament like a bloody scab, spinning the white-gold band and never letting it settle. (Yet it rested in a groove, a worn dent in his skin that bespoke years' worth of bondage and contract. He'd been a kept man for a long time, it seemed.) There was a flicker of something undefinable when his wife re-took her spot by his side; she'd been his little hissing spitfire, the two of them taking the town and its parties by storm. Drunk with lust, what felt like eons ago, marriage had seemed an acceptable compromise to keep such a lovely creature in his bed and amenable to his fawning affection, his obsession.
But obsessions fade, as they all do.
"Met anyone interesting, darling?" the man named Edward Rich asked, bored, head canted to play the act of listening. Years. How many years, now, of her being Vivienne Rich? Their union was better than his first marriage (but those particular memories, if he cares to examine them, are weak and hazy -- what first marriage? her name is on the tip of his tongue but he can't quite recall--), but a pretty ball-and-chain was a ball-and-chain nonetheless.
His eyes settled on the other women and men; they roamed. The man's heart beat full and strong, his pulse heating as she settled in beside him. He squeezed her shoulder; his hand was warm.