Temptation [A Young Writer's Prize Submission]

The Boy with Multicoloured Eyes

Chapter Twenty Eight

You have heard that it was said 'an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth'. But I say to you, do not resist the one who is evil.

Matthew 5: 38-39

I wasn't sure how long I sat there, time seeming to slow around me as I contemplated all the possibilities of my mother's life. I was only dimly aware that the fog was slowly lifting around me - not that it made much of an impact on the temperature.

I didn't move, no matter how cold I was getting. I didn't want to move; I wasn't entirely sure that I could, until: "Hi."

I scrambled to my feet, an excuse ready at my lips. I expected to see a gardener or grave digger, but the boy standing a few headstones behind me was neither.

It wouldn't be fair to call him the most attractive boy I'd ever seen, because I knew as I stared up at him, willing my jaw not to drop, that he was the most attractive boy I ever would see in my entire life. He knew it, the way he was smiling at me.

Butterflies burst in my stomach as I found his eyes, staring into mine. They were such a mixture of colours I found it almost impossible to call one. Brown, blue and green all combined to tantalise whoever should be lucky enough to see them. Those were eyes that could stare into your soul, and I stood paralysed as he did just that.

A wayward strand of hair fell across his face, highlighting the brightness of those gorgeous eyes. I longed to cross the distance between us to push it out of the way - as much as I wanted to go over there and kiss him until one of us died from exhaustion. That was strange, because I hadn't been attracted to anyone but Cain - and this boy looked very little like him.

His lips were full, slightly pinker than the rest of his skin, which was tanned as though he'd spent a lot of time in the sun. His shoulder-length hair was straight, with a centre parting and a bouncy flick at the end. I wanted to run my hands through it; to touch his face, neck and body. His broad shoulders, slim waist and hips were emphasised by a tight black t-shirt that moulded tightly to his upper torso, hanging only slightly looser over his stomach. Black - no - very dark navy jeans clung lightly to his hips. As he stepped out from the headstones, I saw he wore black Timberland boots.

"Aren't you cold?" I asked, once my vocal chords finally reattached themselves to my brain. His arms were bare from mid-bicep down, showing excellent muscle tone.

He stared at me for a moment, as if questioning my audacity to ask such a question when I was the one shivering.

"You'd think I would be," he smirked. His smile caught my attention; pearly white teeth, all even, with slightly pointed incisors. His lips curved perfectly around them, looking soft and gentle. My betraying mind wondered again what it might feel like to be kissed by those lips.

And that voice! Oh, that voice - a voice that could make angels fall from heaven.

I struggled to gather my thoughts. "What are you doing here?" I asked, conversationally.

He shrugged, moving to lean against the gravestone next to Melissa's, folding his arms. "I could ask you the same question," he grinned wider, "but your intent is pretty clear."

I couldn't work out what he meant - all effective brain function had evaporated at the sight of his smile. At my confused expression, he nodded to the side, and I followed his gaze to the gravestone at my side.

"Was she a relative of yours?"

I shook my head. "No. She's not my relative," I replied, my fingers wistfully stroking the cold stone.