He gathers the items, inspecting their ends and chambers and crevices.
But he does not answer her, and it exasperates her.
“What are you afraid of?”
It’s then that he glowers at her, taking his time to penetrate her confidence with his angry eyes. “You think that because I want to fuck you, you are safe, little sunflower?”
He makes quick work of putting the gun back together with little clicks, slides, and efficient movements that speak of his confidence with the weapon. They tell of a time when he learned these things and remind her that she does not know him as well as she’d like to.
Moira remains silent, all while her mind screams.
Run.
Her mother used to speak of Moira’s stubborn ways, always saying it would be the death of her.
Maybe Mother was right after all, she thinks as he presses the cold metal into her left breast.
“I could ruin that perfect little heart of yours.”
“Is that not your current mission, Sol?”
Her whisper has his hand shaking and he sets the gun down with a heavy thud on the table. He turns away from her, unable to remain still as his body jerks back toward her, like it can’t help but be near her.
“You say my name as if you know it’s my weakness. I can’t…” He shakes his head before sliding his hands in her hair and pulling her toward him. “I can’t hear it from your lips and not want to taste its source.”
Her gaze latches onto his as he backs her into the table, pushing the items out of the way before laying her down, following with his own body.
He is solid on top of her, his hands unforgiving in their search for some sort of release. Or perhaps some sort of punishment. The two are uncompromisingly similar in this instance.
For giving in gives way to getting lost.
“You search for me, knowing that if you push too hard, I will acquiesce.” He nuzzles her neck, presses a kiss to it, and then bites at her collarbone, ignoring her sharp inhale. “There are consequences to this.”
“Such as?” she asks, breathless.
“You can never leave me,” he warns her.
Eyes locked on each other, he pulls her sleeping gown up her thighs. His fingertips slide along her smooth skin and she refuses to look away, refuses to close her eyes.
Perhaps she knew, before she entered this room, that this would be at the end of the road. She knew that if she found him, she would be his.
Forever.
“Do I scare you?” she asks, her lips trembling.
“Si, amor. ‘I am half agony, half hope.’”
Her head falls to the side, eyeing the books and uncovering a portion of Sol she hadn’t known before.
The romantic bibliophile.
He is a reader and he’s managed to quote one of her favorite stories in what may be one of the most pivotal moments of her existence.
When his hand cups her center, a tear escapes along with a sigh; a silent and tender acquiesce of her own.
She may be lying beneath him, she may never have been touched before, but she feels powerful in this moment, having chosen this man.
This man whose closest friend is death. This man who, for some reason, has managed to show her kindness in spite of his hatred for her family.
His fingers play at her opening and she looks at him again, eyes closing when he wipes her tear away. And then opening when he orders her to look at him.
He presses another kiss to her neck, and she is full of disappointment when he pulls his hands away from her body to brace his weight over her as his lips trail down her stomach.
“What…” Her back arches, wanting for more. More touching, more feeling, more existential confirmation.
He doesn’t speak; not as she lifts her pelvis off the table, not as he hovers his lips over her hip bones before delving his tongue into the dips in her belly. He shifts lower and gives no warning when his breath grazes her inner thighs.
The first touch of his tongue against her core has her hips shooting up again and a groan coming from her body.
Never in her life did Moira think life could ever feel this way.
As if Sol can hear her innermost thinkings, he spends the rest of the dark hours proving her more and more wrong.
19
A sigh escapes her lips as she shifts in her sleep.
Sol has made love to the sun demon. He cannot take it back, nor does he desire to. His desires only include her. But when he reaches for her, running his fingertips over the softness of her inner thighs, he’s reminded of what took place.
A loss of innocence, the remnants of it staining her creamy skin.
“Again?” she asks on another sigh as she opens her eyes and smiles up at him.
“I’m afraid we’ve made a bit of a mess…”
Moira frowns and pulls the sheet up, yanking it back down to cover her as soon as she sees. “Oh,” she starts, frowning.
“It’s okay,” he soothes. Sol doesn’t know what comes next, but he tries to preserve this peaceful union.
Because this will likely be the only time they can call it so.
“I’ll clean myself,” she tells him, and he doesn’t bother to cover himself when he stands.
Moira’s gaze travels over his nakedness. The more her eyes rove, the wider they grow. She stops at his groin and he smirks. But her gaze then continues and he steps away, toward his closet.
He can feel the moment she sees, almost as if she’s touching it.
There’s no use hiding his ugliness. No use pretending the deformity doesn’t exist. So, he shows it to her under the light of the pale morning.
A scar that trails from his mid-thigh to his calf, its mangled rope-like healing a curse. A promise. On very cold days, too painful to forget.
Because the scar covered more than skin. His muscles had been torn apart as well. And he’d very nearly died.
He reaches into his closet and pulls out a pair of sweatpants, determined to cover himself now that she’s seen it.
“Would you care for a change of clothes?” he asks, ignoring the way she still looks at where the puckered skin had healed itself shut, forever damaged.
“Please,” she answers.
Her lack of questions surprises him, but he doesn’t react, reaching for a set of pajamas for her. She stands, covered in the bedsheet, and he imagines her as some sort of Greek goddess.
“Are you familiar with Greek mythology?” he asks her, a smile poised on his lips.
“I am,” she answers, holding her hand out for the items in his.
“You are the image of Persephone.” Sol sets the clothes on the bed and frames her face with his hands. “So sweet, trapped in the place where all things go to die.”
“Then why do I feel so alive?”
He stops himself from peering into her eyes too deeply, from kissing her too passionately, from pushing inside of her until she screams.
Instead, he watches her walk away.
And the moment she leaves the room, his peace goes with her.
He’s sitting on the bed alone when a knock on the open door has him looking up.
“You two seem cozy,” Julio says, “while her brother suffers nearby.”
“Nothing changes.” Sol shrugs. “Everything else goes according to plan.”
“Ay, Solito.” Julio shakes his head and runs his fingers through his long brown hair. “This is not good.”