“What were you like?” Sol inquires, enraptured by the splendor of her pleasure.
She plucks at the bow string, seemingly satisfied at the tightness of its binding. Her answer is absentminded as she continues her examination. “If I picture myself, I was bright and loud. I laughed and played and sang…and my nanny braided my hair beautifully.”
Sol grows quiet, watching her run her fingers over the arrows now, quick little touches that speak more of wistfulness than assessment.
“And what were you like?” she asks, finally looking up at him.
But Sol is staring out of the window, having long forgotten their conversation.
“I was hungry,” he finally utters. “And lonely.”
Moira itches to tell him of her own hunger—the one for human touch that didn’t hurt—and kind company. She wanted so badly to explain that those formative years were blissful but all that followed were so black, she sometimes couldn’t remember them. Couldn’t call upon them to keep her from drowning like some sort of life preserver.
And loneliness…well, that became her only friend.
That, and a bow and a few arrows.
Before she can say any of these things, he glares down with what Moira can only see as contempt. Did he envy her those years of happiness?
“These are the instruments you will use to kill your brother.”
She nods her head, wishing to return to the moment they’d just resided in. Only, she was now its only occupant.
And the moment now resides in that desolate room in her mind.
When he turns to leave the room, it’s with a parting statement. “And today, you will dine alone.”
Sol isn’t much for tobacco these days.
It was an awful habit he put to bed a few years prior. So, when he asks Julio for a pack of his cigarettes, the man hands one over, without a word.
But words aren’t needed when statements can be made with eyes.
“You’re too quiet with too much to say,” Sol mutters as he snatches it from him and removes one, then places it between his lips. He tucks the pack in his back pocket.
Julio lights a match and brings it toward the end of the cigarette as Sol cups it, protecting the flame from the brisk autumn air. “I was not aware I could speak again,” he says.
His accent is deeper than Sol’s and it makes Sol miss Spain. Miss the sun and feeling kissed by it. He is used to a deeper skin tone, to women who wear a little less in the heat, and to pretending he isn’t a piece of shit who should’ve died long ago.
“Not if you’re going to be a smart ass.”
The first pull nearly makes him cough.
The second pull is like hugging an old friend.
Not that Sol has much experience with that. His oldest friend is standing before him.
“What has you stressed, my friend?” Julio asks, but he does not smoke with him. He merely stands watch, his eyes on the darkness that surrounds the house.
True to his word, Sol had Ella send every meal up to his room for Moira to eat alone.
The reminder of their differences today was enough for him to wake up and understand that no matter how badly he wanted her, they could never be.
He is not for her.
Nor is she for him.
“Nothing,” Sol says, exhaling the smoke as if it were his troubles, his head tipped back and his lips toward the sky.
“You don’t want her to die.”
Sol is quiet, not giving in to his statement.
“You want to fuck her,” Julio eggs on, his tone too casual for the topic at hand.
Sol blinks at the stars, spitting on the ground before bringing the cigarette to his lips again, ignoring his old friend.
“She won’t like that.” Julio’s words make Sol’s jaw clench. “Pero no te importa.”
“Te importa demasiado,” Sol fires back. “We’re here. She is in Spain.”
“You say it like she wouldn’t crawl her way here, just to kill the young woman who’s been living in this house for weeks now.” Julio steps forward and leans against the black SUV parked in front of the walkway. “Are you going to tell her?”
Sol flicks the cigarette to the ground and glares at Julio, sizing him up. He’s about to ask him a question he already knows the answer to. Decades of close proximity haven’t dulled his senses when it comes to this man. “Are you?”
Julio’s scoff has Sol lifting his brow, wondering if he’ll have to kill the man in front of him, oldest friend or not.
“It’s as you said. We’re here. She’s in Spain.”
And Sol understands the lack of a denial for what it is.
A means to survive. He did not deny it but would not claim it. It’s a coward’s clever answer and it annoys Sol to no end.
“But if she finds out, I can do nothing for you,” Julio adds.
“Love makes you stupid,” Sol says, shooting him a grin as he reminds himself to keep a gun within arm’s reach at all times.
“As does lust,” he calls after Sol.
The man doesn’t look back.
There are no friends in this life.
18
Moira spent the entire day in this room. This room that is so full of Sol’s scent, she can hardly get him out of her head. Now that she can recognize the earthy fragrance of him, he’s all she can think of. The light from the sun has gone and so she turns on the light in the bedroom. When she looks around, she decides to find out what’s in his closet. All day, she’s stared at it and wondered what she’d find inside.
As the hours passed, she couldn’t bring herself to do it; couldn’t invade his privacy. But the idea of being left to her own devices all day long has her desire to respect his privacy waning.
So, she steps in front of his closet, prepared to find a dead body rotting inside.
And when she pulls the doors open, her breath catches.
There are two rows of clothing.
One is all black. His scent hits her in a fresh wave.
The second holds clothing that looks to be for a woman.
Does a woman live here with him?
Wouldn’t Ella have mentioned it?
“They’re for you.”
The words startle her, and she jumps back, her heart racing.
“Don’t tell me I scared you. The fearless Moira?” He smirks when she glances at him, his arm braced on the doorframe and his hair touching his forehead in a way that makes him look youthful.
He is truly beautiful.
“I’m not without fear,” she tells him, drinking in the sight of him at the door without shame or hesitation.
“Are you finally afraid of me, then?”
Moira shakes her head.
Not him. His desire.
As well as her desire for him. This is no passing fancy. This is earth-tilting and beyond anything she could’ve dreamt up on her own.
Because why would the man who looked like death’s child want anything like this? And still, she cannot bring herself to deny that he could feel it too.
The heart can’t deny what it beats for.
“Why not?” he asks, the remnants of a smile still staining his lips.
“I find myself drawn to you,” she confesses, and it shocks her that she could so easily.
She’s said the words and now, they’re between them. They no longer belong to only her. She’s now named the heat that covers the spaces between them.