RENAISSANCE

31. Forbidden confessions

"In the evenings before bedtime, my mother used to stroke my hair, my shoulders, my back, and I would fall asleep like that."

I sighed, nostalgic, but my voice was trembling.

The mercenary still didn't answer me, and I didn't know why.

"I hate your silent side, you know," I said afterwards. "I always hated it."

"I already told you that you didn't have to cling to me," he finally replied.

"I never know what you think, or even what you feel," I said, ignoring his response.

We didn't look at each other, we each observed the view from our side.

"That's just the way I am," he said nonchalantly.

"You really don't give a damn, right?" I said in a louder tone.

He annoyed me.

"I never forced you to talk to me, even less now."

"You really don't understand anything," I spat, turning towards him this time.

He didn't respond for a few seconds which seemed interminable to me.

"We're just too different, Isabella."

He also finally turned towards me, and fixed his black gaze on mine. He probed me deeply, with that damn breeze that made his hair move rhythmically.

"It's you who doesn't want to understand it," he added.

And it hurt me that he said that to me. Yeah, I don'tI don't want him to say that kind of thing to me. I wanted him to continue to tell me beautiful things, to tell me everything I wanted to hear, everything that helped repair my heart.

Once he finished his cigarette, he let out one last wisp of smoke before turning away. I stood still for a moment, watching his figure move inwards, torn by a mixture of reluctance and the desire to follow him.

I knew I wasn't finished with him, that I still had things to say to him.

I then went inside after him, while he was already climbing the stairs that led upstairs.

"Isaac," I called out in the hope that he would stop.

But he did not do so, and did not even deign to turn around. So I began to follow him, my hesitant steps contrasting with his confident gait.

The door to his room opened silently under his hand, revealing a space that reflected his character: sober and orderly, but without personal objects it would seem.

He didn't retort when I crossed the threshold of the room after him, rather he did his ritual as if I wasn't there and began to undress in complete silence. The room was dark, lit only by the moonlight that filtered through its long, dark gray curtains.

Standing in the doorway, I watched him do so, when he turned his head in my direction to look at me. The atmosphere had changed, but I wasn't here for that, I wanted to tell him things and I wanted him to also confide to me things to which I had no answer.

But despite ourselves, the atmosphere had become electric, further accentuated when he walked slowly in my direction.

He had noticed this change, he too, I could see it.

However, I did not step back until he came to my level to tower over me with all his grandeur and all his power. He no longer had any pants on, but his white t-shirt was still on, giving me room to breathe a little.

"You should get out of here," he told me as I craned my neck to look him in the eyes.

It was a warning, and he seemed to be very serious in his words, yet I didn't move a bit, as if paralyzed, or pushed by my strong inner self which wanted me to stay here.