Red

Chapter Four

Chapter Four

Over the next six months, I had cycled through eight owners. All but two of them died. The two that didn't ended up going to jail.

I was never caught, but the fifth time I came back to the auction house, Cheyenne started to call me Veuve Noire.

Black Widow.

I always smiled when she said it, but I never told her why I did it. I wanted to come back to her. I wanted to feel her skin, soft against mine. I wanted to press my hand against her chest and feel her heart beat along with mine. But most of all, I wanted to love her.

She was the first person in the world to look past the red hair, and look past the deadly calm in my eyes.

What she found was surprising, even for me.

She found pain, loathing, hatred. But most of all, she found desire. Even though I had never kissed someone willingly before her, I had known I was a lesbian. It was something I just grew up knowing, it was just instinctual for me.

But I had never felt attracted to someone in the way I was to her. I had met some beautiful women, but I never felt that lust for them like I did for her. She made my heart pound, she made me lose control. But I liked it.

For the first time in my life, I liked being out if control.

She guided me, with her words and soft caresses, away from the pain I had led my life on. She was teaching me how to heal.

Her honeyed voice lulled me to sleep night after night, and I enjoyed laying in her arms, actions reflecting my thoughts.

There was only one drawback.

I couldn't make love to her.

Well, I could, but not without getting in trouble.

#

We almost had, one night. It was in the dead of night, and the guard had fallen asleep in his office at the end of the hall.

"You look so beautiful, baby. The moon reflects so well on your skin." My cheeks burned bright at this, not one for words.

She gazed at me, a fire deep in her eyes. "Me faire l'amour, mon amour."

I understood enough French to know what she said, and I kissed her gently. She however, was having none of that. She straddled me, grinding our hips together in a way that had my eyes rolling back into my head. Kissing me roughly, she ran her hands along my sides, giving me chills. I laid back and then flipped our positions, me now on top of her. Her shirt began to ride up, and I kissed the thin sliver of skin I had thought about so long ago.

"Putain ça fait du bien," She staged whispered, making me pause.

"Sweetheart, I need you to be quiet. Okay?" She nodded, impatience clear on her face.

"Je suis désolé, mon amour. Vous faites juste me sens si bien." Not understanding her second language, I kept kissing her.

She kept mewling and moaning under me, growing louder and louder with each passing second. With my worry mounting, I just stopped. She sat up, eyes full of alarm.

"Mon amour? What's wrong? Did I do something?" The amount of fear screaming at me from her eyes was too much to bear, and I shook my head and handed her her shirt. I had to lie.

"No, baby. It's me, okay? I'm just not in the mood anymore, sweetie, that's all." She paused for a second, and smiled, accepting my lie, and trusting me completely.

Why the fuck did she do that?

She soon went to sleep, curling up next to me, her curls big around her face. I stared at that cherub face all night, not able to sleep, guilt ridden.

For the next couple of days I couldn't handle her touching me, feeling disgusted with myself. On the third day, though, she broke down crying in front of me.

"Qu'est-ce que je fais, mon amour? Am I not good enough? Do I disgust you?" Realizing the stupidity of my actions, I encased her in my arms.

"No, love! You're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen!"

"Then what is it? Why won't you touch me?" She gazed at me, eyes tear laden and red, and I sighed. I couldn't lie to her anymore.

"Sweetie, you did do something." She started to cry again, mumbling words this time. I tried to calm her down, to know avail.

"Je suis tellement dégoûtant-"

"Please stop crying-"

"-comment pourrais-je espérer que vous me-aimez-"

"-let me explain-"

"-Je ne suis pas assez bon-"

"-love I need you to stop crying-"

"-si seulement j'avais appuyé sur la lame un peu plus difficile-"

"-baby you're worrying me-"

"-il avait raison, je suis poubelle-"

By this point, her eyes were clouded over and she couldn't stop shaking. She was wheezing now, and seemingly out of her body. It was like she was having a panic attack of epic proportions.

She kept repeating something over and over, and to this day I still haven't been able to figure what it meant.

"S'il vous plaît ne me laisse pas, je serai mieux, je le promets. Vous êtes tout ce que j'ai maintenant."

It was strange, to hear something said so hauntingly, so brokenly in her usually light voice. I rubbed her back, and watched as she calmed down.

I realized that I had triggered something, so I tried to choose my words carefully.

"Baby, all I meant was that you kept getting louder and louder, and I didn't want you to get in trouble." She meekly nodded, still reeling from what had happened. She muttered something to me, and I only barely caught it.

"Ma plus grande crainte est de ne pas assez bon."

"What?" She snorted, shook her head.

"I love you."