She tasted just as he remembered. Like sugar in strong black tea. Lavender. The first rays of dawn. Mist that has just burned away from a meadow.
Roman framed her face, his thumbs caressing the blush of her cheeks as his mouth opened to hers. He groaned when her tongue slid along his. She was everything familiar, everything beloved to him, and yet there was a hint of something new and unexpected when her teeth nipped his lower lip. A taunt, a challenge. A side of her that he was desperate to explore and memorize.
An ache spread through him when he felt Iris’s hands grasp his shirt, tugging him closer. He eased them to the tree until her back was aligned with it, their feet lost among a tangle of roots.
Breathe, he commanded himself, and he forced his mouth to break from hers. There was no space between their bodies, and he bent lower, his lips tracing her neck, the hollow of her collarbone.
“Roman,” Iris whispered. Her voice was husky. Strained. Roman realized she couldn’t draw a full breath, not with him pressing her against the tree as if the two of them were on the cusp of becoming immortalized, entwined amongst the branches like a myth.
“Am I hurting you?” he asked, his throat narrow as he eased away.
Iris’s fingernails curled into his back, keeping him close. “No. Do you see that light? Over there, through the brambles?”
Roman glanced behind, rigid with dread. He had let himself forget, just for a moment, where they were. The world they lived in. And just as Iris had said, there was a torch beam, sweeping the neighboring property. He wondered if it was Bruce, but he didn’t want to find out.
Roman’s attention returned to Iris. Half of her face was dappled in darkness, but her eyes gleamed, soft and expectant, as she watched him.
We aren’t safe here, he thought as he took her hand in his. The wildfire that had crackled through his blood dimmed, but he could still feel the heat in his bones. Embers waiting to rekindle.
“Come with me,” he said, and led her away.
 |
In another time, in another world where the gods had never woken, Roman would have walked Iris through the garden, showing her all his favorite places and stoking fond memories. But that world could only exist in a dream, and Roman held her hand, so warm in his cold one, and hurried her from shadow to shadow, back to the faithful lights of the estate.
They made it safely up the trellis and across the roof, slipping into his bedroom. Roman was short of breath, and he didn’t want Iris to notice. He gave himself a moment to recover by closing the window and drawing the curtains. Only then, when the two of them felt tucked into a haven where no god could ever find them, did he watch Iris study his bedroom.
Unsurprisingly, she went to his bookshelves first, her mouth agape. She touched the gilded spines lovingly; it made him want to give them all to her. “Quite the library,” she said, casting him a wry glance. “How many
thesauruses do you have on these shelves?” “Only six.”
“Only?”
“Half were inherited.”
“Ah, I remember now. Some of these books belonged to your grandfather.”
He nodded, his gaze following her as she walked to his wardrobe next.
“So this is where my letters first came to you,” Iris said, opening the carved door.
“Mm. The paper made such a mess on my floor that I had no choice but to read what you wrote.”
“All those sharp-edged words of mine. All those thoughts that felt too difficult to speak aloud.” She paused, studying his clothes hanging within, starched and arranged by color. “I’m surprised you didn’t run from me then.”
Perhaps it was her tone, or the words she didn’t say but which he could still hear, hidden within the cadence of her breaths. Or the way her vulnerability flickered, like she was lowering a piece of steel.
“On the contrary,” he said. “Your words only drew me to you.”
She was quiet for a beat before saying, “I might need to borrow one.” “Borrow what?”
“One of your shirts to sleep in. Although your bed is quite narrow. A one-person bed, by the looks of it.”
Roman took a step toward her. And then another, until he could count the freckles on her nose. “I thought you learned this about me during our Gazette days, Winnow.”
“I learned many things that pertained to you in that office,” Iris said, brow arched. “You’ll have to be more specific.”
He leaned down, his mouth angled close to hers. He watched her draw a deep inhale, her lips parting. But he only murmured, “I do love a good challenge.”
“Name it, then.”
“My bed can fit the two of us.” “If you say so, Kitt.”
Before Roman could reach out and touch her, she slipped past him. But he felt the sleeve of her trench coat brush his arm, leaving a trail of gooseflesh behind. He turned to watch her stride to his bed, where she sat on the edge of the mattress, judging its softness.
“I’ve always wanted to sleep on a cloud,” Iris said. She proceeded to lie down, her hair spilling across his pillow.
“Does it meet with your approval?” he teased.
“It does. And you don’t know this about me yet, but I steal blankets.”
Roman smiled, following her to the bedside. “I do, in fact, know that from experience.”
From the night I became yours.
He thought back to it now. The night before the world fell apart. They had been together but in utter darkness. There had only been their bare skin and their hands, their mouths and their names. Discovering each other slowly on a pallet of blankets.
Roman looked at Iris now, fully clothed in her sweater and skirt, trench coat belted at her waist. Stockings up to her knees. Boots coated in dust. She did not seem real in that moment, and he wondered if he was imagining her, like he had countless times before. Envisioning what she would look like in his bed.
“Join me,” Iris whispered.
Roman eased down to the mattress, feeling it give beneath his weight. Iris turned on her side to fully look at him, one of her legs sliding between his own, her foot hooking around his ankle. He suddenly felt empty of words, as if the heat of her body had melted them all, but the silence was comfortable. He savored it, watching Iris intently.
She began to trace his face with her fingertips. The arch of his brows, the edge of his jaw, the corner of his lips.
“Do I look the same as you remember?” he asked. It was a foolish question; they had only been separated for a span of weeks. Not years. But he wondered if she could sense the changes that had evolved beneath his skin. The cracks and the wounds. He wondered if Iris would embrace those broken pieces or be wary of them.
“Yes.” Iris touched the hollow of his throat, making him shiver. “Do I?”
He returned the caress, following the bridge of her nose, the bow of her lips. The waves of her hair. The dark curl of her eyelashes. And he knew that she had changed too. They weren’t the same people that they had been when they first gave each other their vows. It only made him ache for her more, and his fingers drifted along her body, remembering the curve of her ribs.
“Yes,” he said.
His hand traveled farther, down to her hip, stopping only when his fingers hit something concealed in her coat.
Roman paused. “Is that a book in your pocket?” “See for yourself,” Iris replied.
He did, withdrawing a small green volume from her coat. There was a bird embossed on the cover, but Roman’s attention was snagged by the blue envelope that was folded within the leaves. He recognized it with a wince. Reluctantly, he drew Dacre’s letter from the pages, setting the book on the bed between them.
“What did he say to you?” Roman asked, his voice thick.
Iris sat forward. Their moment shattered, as if Dacre had crept into the room. Following them like a shadow to a place that had once felt safe.
“You can read it,” she said softly.
Roman couldn’t resist, his worry and anger getting the better of him.
As he pored over Dacre’s words, Iris slipped from the bed. She had removed her boots and coat by the time Roman finished, his blood pounding hot in his veins.
“He thinks you are a bird to collect and keep in a cage,” he said, rising from the bed. The paper crinkled in his fist. “A bird that should sing only for him. I hate that he’s trying to draw you in.”
“I confess that he has a way with words.” Iris met Roman’s gaze. Her expression was inscrutable. “And if I didn’t know his true nature, he might have fooled me. But I have an answer for him. I’ve thought about it, most of the day.”
“And what is your answer?”
She crossed the floor to stand before him, toe to toe and eye to eye, plucking Dacre’s letter from his hand with a defiant tilt of her chin.
“He will never have me,” she said.
Roman watched, spellbound, as Iris tore Dacre’s letter into shreds.
She wasted no time, striding into the lavatory. A second later, Roman heard the toilet flush. He imagined Dacre’s ink fading in the water. Disintegrating on its way down to the sewer.
“All right, Kitt,” Iris said when she reemerged. She crossed her arms and leaned on the door frame. “We need to talk.”
“About what?” he asked, surprised by how hoarse he sounded.
“How big this lavatory is!” she exclaimed. “In all my life, I’ve never seen a shower like yours.”
“Would you like to test it as well?” “I would, actually.”
Roman smiled and walked past her into the chamber. The black and white tiles glistened as he opened the glass door and turned the lever. Water cascaded down from the ceiling, enveloping them in a sultry haze.
“There’s soap and shampoo on that shelf there,” he was saying, adjusting the temperature. “I’ll get you a towel—”
Iris’s hand on his arm brought him back around. Roman turned to look at her, mist shining in her hair. Slowly, she reached up to touch his leather braces, slipping them off his shoulders. He didn’t breathe; his heart felt like it was tethered to a string, tugging deep in his chest. Like he was fastened to her every movement, her every word.
Iris began to unbutton his shirt but she paused halfway down, drawing her lower lip between her teeth.
He stiffened, wondering if the flash of his pale skin was making her hesitate. If she kept going, she would eventually see all his sharp angles. The concave curve of his stomach. The prominence of his ribs. The scars that marred his leg. There was never enough food among Dacre’s forces, and hunger had become Roman’s closest companion. His scars? A map that he traced, over and over, in his loneliness and solitude.
Shame welled in his throat. Another emotion he couldn’t describe coaxed a flush across his skin. He was about to take her hand when Iris said, “I just realized something. You already showered tonight, didn’t you?”
Roman let out a huff of air. Relief softened his bones, made him lean closer to her. “I did, but I can still join you, if you want.”
She smiled. There was a gleam in her eyes as her deft fingers continued their path, down the buttons to his waist.
“I’d like that, Kitt.”
|
Five minutes later, Roman’s palms brimmed with shampoo. The air was warm, the shower close to scalding as the water rushed down their bodies in rivulets. But Iris continued to nudge the lever more and more to the left, as if she wanted her water to feel like fire.
Roman, skin splotched as if he were sunburned, would let her do anything, though.
“Close your eyes,” he said.
Iris did, her nose scrunching as water beaded on her face. She gasped when Roman began to wash her hair, kneading the shampoo until it foamed. Again and again, he drew his fingers through her locks, admiring how long and dark they looked when wet. A deep brown with a touch of amber, like wildflower honey.
“This is why you smelled so good at the office,” Iris sighed.
Roman began to rinse the shampoo, pleased when she groaned. “Did I?” “The electricity could be out on the winter solstice, and I would know
the moment you stepped into the Gazette. I hated you for it too.”
He grinned as he drew circles on her back with the bar of soap. The scent of evergreen and meadow grass spread across the eaves of her shoulders. The curve of her spine. “And look where that disdain has brought you.”
“I would have laughed if you had revealed my fate to me then.” “I know,” he said.
Iris was quiet. The water continued to fall, filling the chamber with a mesmerizing drone, when she turned to face him. His gaze dropped, following the line of her body to her legs, where his attention stopped and held.
Roman had noticed when he had eased down her stockings. The bruises and scabs on her knees. And he hadn’t told her, but he had watched her run through the meadow of Hawk Shire from the second-story window. He had seen with his own disbelieving eyes how she had dodged the gunshots. How a motorcar’s headlights had cut through the darkness, carrying her away.
Run, Iris.
He had felt those kilometers like an illness, spreading through him. Blood to bone to organ. The distance that waxed like the moon. The
wondering and the worries as to where she was going and if he would ever see her again.
Roman set down the soap.
He sank to his knees before her, his hands touching those tender marks on her skin. They told him she was strong and brave, but also that she was his. Their souls weren’t mirrors but complements, constellations that burned side by side.
I want you to see me, he had once written to her. I want you to know me.
He pressed his face to her legs. He felt her bruises as if they were his own and he traced them with his lips, tasting the water on her skin. His blood was pounding, hot and fast. A summer thunderstorm in his veins, and yet the moment Iris touched his hair, Roman’s mind stilled.
He looked up at her face, rosy and dark-eyed. “I was so worried,” Iris whispered.
“And what had you worried?”
“That you and I would never have another moment like this again.”
Roman swallowed. He could have said a hundred things, but he realized she was shaking. He realized he was as well.
“You’re trembling,” he said. “Is the water too cold? Do you want me to stop?”
“Gods, no. I was only thinking how strange it is. To think how many people we cross paths with in our lives. How someone like me has found someone like you. And if I had never written that essay and sent it to the Gazette on a whim … would we still be here?”
“Are you getting philosophical on me, Iris?”
“I can’t seem to help it. You bring out the very best and the very worst in me.”
“I certainly bring out the best. But the worst?”
She only held his stare, water dripping from her jaw like tears. But then she caressed his hair again, a soft touch that he felt down to his toes. It wasn’t power or fear or magic that cleaved his heart open but her hand, gentle with adoration.
“And the answer is yes, by the way,” he said, kissing the curve of her knee. “I would have still found you, even if you had never written that
essay.”
|
The hot water went out three minutes later.
Roman grappled with the lever, shutting off the valve as frigid water sluiced over them. Iris gasped, but he didn’t know if it was from the shock of cold or from the way he stood and took her in his arms, carrying her from the shower.
This wasn’t what he had envisioned for the night, but when Iris wrapped her legs around his waist and kissed him, Roman decided that, for the first time in his life, he preferred to live in the moment.
He walked her to the bed and laid her down. His breaths were ragged; water dripped like rain down his back. But the sight of her chased away the lingering cold.
The way Iris gazed up at him, her eyes dark as new moons, drawing him in like the tides. The way she held to him, whispering his name against his throat. How she moved with him, in the light as well as in the darkness. The feel of her skin against his; the sensation of being bare and yet whole. Safe and complete.
She saw him as he saw her. With eyes open, with eyes shut.
As the stars faithfully burned beyond the window, Roman had never been more certain.
He could wake in the deepest region of Dacre’s realm, as far from the moon and sun as divinity could shackle him. He could wake and not know his name, forgetting every word he had ever written. But he would never forget the scent of Iris’s skin, the sound of her voice. The way she had looked at him. The confidence of her hands.
And he thought, There is no magic above or below that will ever steal this from me again.
