It’s not about believing me. Not about whether or not I’m a liar.
I have to turn away from him to hide my disappointment.
“So will you help me?” I ask, impressed that my voice stays even.
I cross the carpet to the window, where I look out at the wall that’s kept me imprisoned for so long. Beautiful and covered with ivy. Such a lie, that beauty. He was out there when I first saw him. Now he’s behind me, standing in my room, weighing my future with those secretive dark eyes and strong hands.
The world around me changes, but my situation doesn’t change. I’m trapped here.
Whatever he says next can change that. I wait for his words without taking in a breath, without letting one out, even though I don’t let myself hope. Can’t let myself hope.
It isn’t a word that comes to me.
It’s a hand, knuckles brushing the back at my neck.
My gasp sounds so loud in the dark room. In the darker night.
“You have to stay away from my uncle,” he says.
“Was that the man I saw today?”
“He got the job here first. As the head gardener. He’s been planning this for a long time. At least, a long time for someone like him. He won’t let you jeopardize it.”
I turn around to face him, forcing a smile like I don’t care. “Will he kill me?”
Niko’s expression is severe. “I won’t let him touch you.”
His hand falls by his side, not reaching for me anymore. Not touching me the way he had a second ago, all because I turned around. “But you’ll touch me.”
“No,” he says, but it isn’t convincing.
“You want to,” I whisper, even though I can’t be sure. My experience with boys is almost nonexistent. There have been no frat parties or dates at the movies. And my only experience with men is in meetings like with Sergio De Fiore. Men who terrify me.
It’s almost a relief that Niko isn’t like boys or like men. He’s still something else, even standing one foot away from me. An alien in my room with eyes so deep I could fall into them. With hands so scarred and sun-darkened they stand out in stark relief when he touches a hand to my arm, my skin milk-pale.
Every nerve ending in my body is attuned to that square inch of skin where his fingers touch me. Lightly, lightly. On the outside of my upper arm. And falling, tracing the line down to my wrist.
“I want you to,” I say, a little stronger. This much I’m sure about.
“It isn’t right,” he mutters, almost to himself. “You’re trapped here. And you need me to get you out.”
He’s worried about the power imbalance. The relief of it makes me light headed. That someone is worried about taking advantage of me, in a lifetime of being dismissed and ignored.
It’s enough to make me step forward, to press my lips against his.
Clumsy. Clueless.
And the second I do, I realize that I don’t know how to kiss. That I’ve never done it before. What do I do with my lips? My hands? And God, I wouldn’t even know where to start with my tongue.
My face flames hot, and I’m about to step back in absolute humiliation.
Then his hands come up to grasp my jaw, my neck. His lips press hard against mine. Then I don’t have to wonder what to do with my lips; he’s licking them, opening them, biting them so that I can only open in surrender. I don’t have to wonder what to do with my hands; they’re braced against him, grasping at the hard plane of muscle that is his chest as I try to keep my balance.
And my tongue. He swipes against it with his, a shock of intimacy that makes me whimper.
“Fuck,” he whispers against my lips, almost tender.
My first kiss. “Can we… can we do it again?”
He lets out an uneven laugh. “Anything you want. Anything.”
Then he’s pressed me against the window, the same window that I’ve looked out of every day of my life, the illusion that I’m free, the proof that I’m not.
One of his hands presses into my hair, tugging back enough that my face tilts up to his. His mouth invades mine, plunders it. It’s dirty, the way he kisses me. With a rhythm that my body recognizes instinctively, his tongue thrusting in and out, the same way his hips roll against mine.
His body leans against me, touching everywhere. And inside, there’s heat so intense it’s tangible. It flicks against my skin from the inside. It licks down between my legs, making me ache.
The more he kisses me, the more I yearn. The more it hurts.
“We shouldn’t do this,” he breathes.
And he’s right, but not for the reasons he thinks. Not because I’m trapped here, but because this is the kind of hope I can’t endure. Having a taste of freedom in a lifetime of captivity.
“Say you’ll help me,” I whisper.
“And what?” he asks, his eyes darkening. “Leave you on the side of the road. You don’t know what you’re asking. My uncle… he’s not a good man.”
“Then why do you work with him?”
A shrug, a taut movement that reveals the muscles of his chest. “He’s the only family I have left. We lost our land. And then sort of wandered apart, doing odd jobs. And eventually, illegal jobs.”
“Your land?”
“My grandfather was a farmer.”
It’s impossible to miss the pride in his voice. “Why aren’t you a farmer?”
“That’s what the diamonds are for,” he says. There’s both shame and hope in his low voice. “All I need is a little earth. A little patch of dirt. Enough to start with, and then I can grow from there.”
I take one of his hands in mine, marveling at how many small cuts are here. His hands are clean now, but usually they’re streaked with dirt. He wants to work so badly it seems to vibrate from him. He wants to touch the earth. Wants to make things grow.
Is it possible to do that with stolen diamonds? Can something honest come from something so blood-streaked? He doesn’t even look sure.
“Leave your uncle,” I whisper. And he would leave me, too. There’s no incentive for him to save me without the diamonds. “Don’t do this job with him. Leave and let him do it by himself. Find your patch of dirt by yourself.”
“And what about you?”
“I’ll figure out another way to leave.”
His expression turns strained. “Not if my uncle thinks you’re a threat.”
His hand looks so large in between mine. Like he’s a giant. Some kind of mythical creature, made of stone. Born of the earth. I lift his forefinger and press a kiss, the callouses rough against my lips.
And then I move to his middle finger. He makes a sound, deep in his throat.
His index finger. His pinky, which is as large as my forefinger.
When I reach the end I press a kiss to his thumb.
He runs his thumb along the seam of my lips. Impossibly strong. Incredibly gentle. This is how he would be with a seedling, freshly sprouted from the earth, its flesh still pale green, its petals satin.
When he kisses me again, it feels like a physical touch. More like the heat of sunshine. The saturation of rain. The rush of wind that comes before a storm.
At the beginning I am passive, letting him bombard me with sensation.
And then I surge back into him, taking back my space, finding even more. There isn’t any space at all between us, no air to breathe. I claw at him, climb him. I peel away his clothes in frantic, impatient gestures until he finally pulls back to pull off his shirt. There is dark hair on his chest, and I run my hands through it, leaving pale scratch marks in my wake.