It’s only then that she realizes a tear has escaped; that his finger caught it and fed it to his tongue.
Moira waits.
She waits until the house is black. Until there isn’t a sound in the already quiet home.
It astonishes her how this old house could be so full of men with their large guns, and yet there are no loud noises, no signs of life aside from an occasional sighting of the back of a man in black.
They all only wear black. The only colors permitted, it seems, are on some of the walls. Even Sol has only ever strayed once, a white cotton T-shirt his choice of rebellion.
Moira opens the door to the bathroom, having had a shower that pruned her fingers in an effort to keep from having to experience being awake with Sol while they lie side-by-side.
But when she peers outside, there is a man waiting there. He, thankfully, doesn’t have a large gun in his hands. Just a small one strapped against the side of his leg.
When she gets a closer look, she realizes he’s the one that helped her walk to the house from the shed.
As she steps out into the hall, she internally debates if she should smile. When he does, she offers one.
“¿Estás lista?” He looks at her for a moment, waiting for an answer. And then, as if he remembers that she doesn’t understand him, he shakes his head with another smile. His eyes meet the ceiling and he ponders over the English translation before nodding and uttering one word. “Ready?”
“I suppose,” she answers and walks toward the stairs, her pulse hammering.
What is she walking toward?
A sleeping and harmless beast?
Or a man so desperate to keep track of her, awake and ready to poke at her resolve?
“He…like you,” the man says behind her.
It nearly causes Moira to misstep, wondering what he knows.
But she can’t give herself away. She can’t handle confirmation of what she already had an inkling of.
When she opens the bedroom door, the fire is low and the body in the bed is still.
The room looks the same as it did the day she slept here, alone.
Everything is silent, save for the low crackle from the fireplace and the even breathing of the room’s only other occupant.
Moira footsteps seem cacophonous in this quiet and the man who escorted her closes the door quietly behind her.
She pulls one of the pillows from the bed and lies down in front of the fire. He did not say they’d have to share a bed and Moira is in no mood to incinerate tonight.
17
The sight of this woman on the floor before the fire that’s long died out nearly sours Sol. Nearly, until he catches sight of her relaxed features. This man has seen her face in what he thought to be calm poses, but he was wrong.
Her face, now, with her lips parted and her eyes closed, is the picture of quiet beauty. Of long-forgotten flowers on a dewy morning, free to grow as they will without interference.
And while awake, she does seem impassive, but there is still steel in her lack of expression.
Haunting is such tiring business, Sol thinks to himself as he stares at the sleeping woman before him.
How she manages to haunt both his slumbering dreams and his conscious thoughts is a riddle he’ll never solve.
How many nights had he gone to sleep, dreaming of spilling the blood of every MacQuarrie? And now, with one before him, he dreams of her in a different light.
In dreams filled with desire and longing, gentle touches and rough taking.
And in those dreams, she likes it all, wants it all.
She begs for more.
When Moira stirs, Sol holds his breath.
Those gray eyes of hers, too delightful to behold, meet his with quiet observation.
He lets go of his breath just as she blinks, as though they’ve both broken a spell.
“If you look at me like this, it will anger others,” she whispers.
The dreary morning peers through the windows, watching them wrestle with their affections as gracefully as possible.
“It angers me,” he confesses. He isn’t expecting her smile, so when he sees it, he follows suit.
They are smiling fools and Sol is a man, further cementing his place in Hell.
Moira’s meals with Sol have come to possess a certain knowing silence to them. There are eyes that meet and hands that brush. Words that pass through the scraping of utensils on ornate dishes, and after they’ve finished, she wonders if she’s made it all up in her head.
Until she rests with him at night.
She falls asleep on the floor and always wakes up beside him. Always.
And when she wakes up, it’s to his gaze.
Always.
This morning, Moira wakes in his bed again, sighing into the pillow before her eyes open with surprise.
His hand is on her. It’s under her gown, resting on her bare stomach. She can’t tell—her body facing away from his—if he’s still sleeping. But the sound of his even breathing has her thinking so.
She isn’t so naïve to think anything of substance could come from this interaction. Because the warmer Sol is to her, the colder the other occupants are. His driver hardly looks her way anymore.
Ella’s initial friendliness has turned into a cordiality that makes Moira think there’s something more to her position here; something that makes Moira more of an enemy than ever before.
Sol shifts in his sleep and she knows the moment he wakes.
He snatches his hand away as if it’s caught fire.
“Good morning,” Moira offers, turning over as he sits up—his back to her now.
“Today, we’ll find your brother,” he says.
Not another word is shared before he steps out of the room.
Moira hadn’t been granted a full look at his face; only his side profile as he walked away from her like she’d invited his hand on her skin.
It was the first time a man had touched her in such a way.
She pulls her gown up, staring at the pale expanse of skin. She feels so branded that surprise resides within her when there is nothing there.
Sol walks back into the room just as she’s pulled her gown back down.
“I have something for you,” are the words that greet her.
When she looks at him, he doesn’t return the favor. But the moment her eyes catch on the items in his hands, she stirs.
Her feet meet the floor as her hands reach for the bow and satchel of arrows he holds up.
She thanks him, not knowing until this very moment that she desired a connection with her past life and her current one. That in this moment, she feels more herself than ever before.
In her past, she’d loved archery. Loved it because she was good at it. Some days, it felt as though it was the only thing she’d been good at.
And once arrows pierced flesh, she itched to feel it again. Deep within her dreams, she wanted to stain the walls with splashes of crimsons and hues of reds.
If she were to express the words outright, she’d think herself a monster.
But in the company of Sol, would it truly matter?
“I have never seen you smile so genuinely, girasol.” Sol’s eyes are appraising her when she meets them for a moment.
“I have never been so genuinely happy before.” The words leave her lips with a truth she hadn’t been prepared for. “Every other flash of happiness fades. I can hardly remember what my life was like as a child,” she starts, her fingers running over the black fiberglass that gleams under the morning’s weak sunlight.