Eleanor insisted it was why they couldn’t seem to get along.
Two red women under one roof creates fireworks.
Moira had managed to keep her lips sealed in that moment, only telling herself that it was truly because her mother’s brand of evil didn’t mix well with Moira’s inability to be tamed.
Now, she holds her breath when she hears someone enter the room Sol had left her in hours ago. There are no clocks to support the thought, but the fire had died and Moira’s hope of being comfortably kept died with it.
“Ten cuidado,” Sol says from behind her.
She recognizes the quiet vibration of it; the way it comes from his chest, even when he whispers.
She squeezes her eyes shut, holding her breath for the moment of impact.
Would he kick her awake first? Or would he just shoot her?
Stab her?
It would be her first experience with either.
Tie her up and whip her?
She’d been whipped too many times to count. By now, those scars faded well into her skin, her mother smart enough to know when to stop because a man of worth wouldn’t want a mangled bride.
But she could still feel the ghosts of the torment; hear the shrill sound of her cries.
Arms gather her and still, she keeps her eyes shut. They move through the house, up a set of stairs, before the sound of a door opening has her peeking through partially opened lids.
A bedroom.
With a massive and lavish bed in the center. Another fire is going in here and when Moira is set on the bed, she hears Sol again.
“Leave us,” he tells the man who’d carried her up the steps.
Once the door is closed, she feels his weight dip in the mattress with a slight squeak.
He sits in silence for a moment, not moving, not speaking. When he pulls the blanket up and over her, she sighs into the plush pillow.
“No te lastimaré, girasol.”
He whispers words that he understands she can’t appreciate, but they soothe in ways he wouldn’t understand, either.
Moira had a nanny from the day she was born until the first day she bled. The last one, Emily, had hair the color of coffee grounds and, though Moira still struggles to remember the details of her face, she could always see her smile.
Emily stayed in the family home, her bedroom not far from Moira’s own quarters. She taught the young girl to speak, to soften her Scottish brogue the way Emily did her own, and to read.
Moira had no idea at the time just how invaluable these teachings would be.
But nature, as with all things, takes due course. And as Moira grew, she began to notice things. Like her mother’s questioning glares and her father’s constant presence when Emily was near. The way Emily grew quiet around him, fumbling with items in her hands or stopping altogether.
There were nights young Moira had been awoken by what sounded like a woman crying, and had even witnessed a shadow crossing past her bedroom door.
Moira, being a child, believed these were ghosts, haunting her over her lack of belief in the Catholic faith. So, she would pray to Mother Mary and tuck her head under her pillow until sleep came.
On the eve of her twelfth birthday, Moira heard a scream that roused her from her sleep.
She could still feel the cold tiles under her toes as she walked toward her bedroom door. And there, just outside, she saw the ghost again.
It was dragging something behind it, something large and long, and when she gasped, the form stopped and looked in her direction.
Moira ran back to bed, praying into exhaustion that the ghost would take pity on her and the lovely Emily.
The next morning, blood stained her gown and sheets and inner thighs.
And Emily was gone.
She never prayed again, nor did she see or hear the ghosts from that day forward.
So, when Moira wakes, hearing the creak of a floorboard near the door of the bedroom, she is taken back to a time when she would tuck her head under the pillow and whisper prayers until she fell asleep once more.
Now, she sits up and dares it to look her in the face.
Sol standing at the door has her gaze softening; she’s unable to help it at the sight of his relaxed pose. His hair is damp and he’s wearing a fresh white T-shirt that makes him appear younger than his black clothing had the night prior.
The intensity of his gaze makes her blink and she wonders what he’s thinking. It serves to remind her that he is not as innocent as he looks in this moment.
Does he truly wish her harm?
Would she always question if he did?
He is silent as he steps into the room, his limp less pronounced today, eyes perusing the walls like he’s hasn’t paid the bedroom much attention before this moment. She does the same, eyeing the baroque wallpaper with its gold, maroon, and teal stripes. The floral chair in the corner looks like it was chosen by a woman, for a woman. Blue flowers embroidered in cranberry fabric with gold trimming.
It all matches to exquisite perfection.
A man known as death could not have gone to such trouble.
“It is beautiful, si?” he asks, stopping just at the foot of the bed. “Of all the rooms, this is the one I like most.”
“Even more than your own?” She sits up straight as she looks at him.
What is this about? What does he want?
“This is my own,” he tells her, his eyes stopping their perusal and landing on her.
His words cause her to sit back against the pillows, her brow furrowing with confusion. “Why—”
“It is the only room with a comfortable bed,” he explains, and she blinks at the way he pronounces the word comfortable, as if every syllable deserves its due utterance.
The Scottish tongue wouldn’t bother going through the trouble.
But this Spanish man, with his soft syllables and stone eyes, makes love to every word he says.
“You are kind,” she declares.
She can see the moment her words are digested, his fingers curling into a fist before meeting the top of the bed frame, soft enough not to be heard.
“I am not.” And now his face looks like it’s made from stone as well. “Today, you will earn your place here.”
“What does that mean?”
“I promised you hell, girasol,” he tells her, before walking out of the room.
Sol knows playing with a girl that looks like fire is akin to frolicking with the element itself.
He shouldn’t have brought her to his bedroom but something about seeing her sleeping on the floor left him unable to seek his own comfort. And so, he’d asked one of his men to bring her there—too afraid to touch her himself—to lay her on his bed, and to leave them alone together.
And there, in the shadows and lights flickering from the fireplace, he’d foolishly promised he wouldn’t hurt her.
In the span of a few hours, she’d challenged him, argued with him, and insulted the life he offered her.
No other people breathing had managed to accomplish the same.
He squeezes his eyes shut just as he exits his room, wishing he could just kill the bitch and get it over with. Because if she had any notion of the kind of man he is, she’d run as far as her feet could carry her. But by then, it would be too late. Sol would have to kill her.
He should take her somewhere and drop her off, leaving her with the ability to have a full life, her slate clean.
But she’s already seen too much.
And the more time she spends with him, in a home where no one would ever think to look for him, the more dangerous this game becomes.