Kian still wears the same three piece suit which he wore during our dinner when he finds his way to my bedroom. Upon his arrival, part of me is positively thrilled that he has managed to conduct this entire escapade unscathed, and raised no suspicion of the entire façade. All the while, a second, domineering part of me is completely petrified, wondering if he has been watched by Eason, followed by another. Perhaps my face displays such - the curve of my lips which I had hoped to be a soft smile, resembling more of a twisted and pained grimace. My eyes, which I had thought to glimmer like sun struck oceans, swimming with relief, instead washed stormy dark with unparalleled worry.
His eyes dare not stray from my face as he approaches and that momentary smile soon falls, his expression quick to mirror mine as he sits himself tentatively on the edge of my bed, one leg lifted to rest on my mattress as the other sweeps along the floor, an action triggered from pulsating anxiety prickling his nerves. A restless hand rakes through the mass of gelled hair along his scalp, his eyes fluttering closed for a moment as he inwardly sighs in relief at its long overdue disruption. "I've made you mad, huh?" His hollowed tone holds a sense of finality, despite his words being poised as a question, as though he is already fairly convinced that to be the case.
"What – no," I assure him, shuffling forward with choppy movements, soon close enough as to take the hand he has braced on my bed in mine, fiddling with his long fingers, skimming over the newly forming callouses along his palm from his daily visits, before lacing my fingers between the waiting spaces of his. "I am not mad."
"Then why the long face?" He probes with dissonant, artificial humour. I regard him with a slanted brow of question.
"This is one of your old-world sayings?" He nods, his face melting with a simper, but moves to say nothing. Patiently, he waits for the explanation behind my worrisome expression which is yet to relax, still contorted in a perturbed manner. In implicit encouragement, he lightly squeezes my hand and gently coaxes me towards him - as easy task, considering my willing obligation. He shuffles to accommodate my frame, letting my curled body rest in the space between his muscular legs, the blade of my shoulder rested on his sturdy, sculpted chest that hides beneath the white dress shirt. My head slots perfectly beneath his chin, though I let my head turn slightly, just enough so that I see his shoulder in my peripheral. "I fear you're reckless." I admit.
His sigh whispers against the skin of my face, and he begins nosing my hairline, his free hand smoothing the length of my cedar hair, directing it gently to spill over my shoulder. With a soft kiss to my forehead, he speaks; "I always have been." Once more, I resort to fidgeting with his hand, tracing languid patterns along his sun-marked skin with my left hand, not daring to let our interlocked fingers break.
"This, this evening, was far more reckless than I could ever have imagined, even of you." He says nothing, and as a silence stretches, I take it upon myself to shatter such. "I was blindsided, and my reaction was entirely genuine, and readable too." The hand that still caresses my hair transitions to rest on the soft curve if my shoulder, laying a light pressure as it moves along to the hollow above my clavicle. "Eason knows."
With those two simple words, I feel his posture stiffen, his hands tense, and even hear as the breath is snatched forcefully from his lungs. Such blip only occurs for a heartbeat before he recovers, but it seems to stretch far longer than that, his muted response lasting for the length of eternity. He shifts his legs again, wrapping them around where I sit, capturing me in his embrace. The gesture lifts my lips in a small, sorrowful smile.
"We are lucky that your disguise was a convincing one. He raised no suspicion of your true identity." As I pause, my chest constricts in an odd kind of agony, similar to the violent clench of my heart I felt in those days where I thought I had lost Kian. A familiar burn presses against the back of my eyes, accompanied by the acerbic sting that settles along my throat, plugged with what I am sure is bile, making breathing a laborious task. "I fear he is a vindictive man." My voice trembles with a croak as I fight for its stability, but I rely on all my strength to let these next words pass my lips. "So, we must stop this now."
I feel his clasp on me tighten, in every way he possibly can. His hand pains mine as it squeezes, his legs force me further into his chest, his nose buries deep into my hair, his pursed lips easy to decipher against my hairline. He doesn't speak, and perhaps that silence is the most painful thing of all, the burn lessening in my eyes as they are cooled by tears that pool along my lower lash line, threatening to fall with even the slightest of movements. I turn my head further, into the protection of his chest as I close my lids and will them to depart. They do, simply transferring to the fabric of his shirt, spilled tears that harbour my emotions bleeding through each fibre, mocking me as they dry - disappearing, though the weight in my heart does not.
The tormenting tightness of my chest, I know it to be the same feeling as before. Only, this time, I am not losing him; I am forcing him to go. With that realisation, I unlink our hands and press my palm against his chest, holding a brutal, unwanted space between us. "You have to leave." I insist, my eyes downcast.
"Allora,"
I shake my head in interruption. "Please, do not try to change my mind. It will be too easily done." That is perhaps the one thing I am absolutely certain of. If he so much as utters a single word, all authority will collapse, all logic and reason evaporating. Simply, because I am abominably selfish. I would have him risk himself one thousand times over just to see him. I do not care much for his safety if it means that he can hold me like this, to have his lips against mine. So now, in this transient moment where logic reigns over the wistful longing of my heart, I must have him leave.
It takes every will of my mind to urge my muscles to move, further increasing the space between us. It is almost sadistic, how so much of me wishes for his hold to tighten, in a silent demand for my presence. How I hope that even against my explicit wishes, he will somehow read my internal desires. He does not hold me though. He lets me go.
"Alright." He nods, and with that thoughtful jerk of movement, it calls on my heart to shatter, shards lodging into the cavity of my chest with ruthless force, slicing scars against my skin with their jagged edges, without leaving even a single physical mark. "Alright." He repeats, with newfound certainty.
He stands silently, and I mirror such, my head hanging in defeat. He makes no attempt to move much further, as if waiting permission for his departure. "I want to thank you, for this time we have spent together. They are memories I will cherish, sincerely." I risk a look upwards, meeting the scorned slabs of amber that already rest upon me. They almost seem cold, battling back every wave of emotion that threatens to surface and instead leaving him entirely blank, hollowed and inanimate.
"I need my books, Allora." He says numbly, and I hunch at the impact of his words, the finality of his tone. Even though it be by my request, it does not dull the pain. In slow, unbearable movements, I pull the books from beneath my mattress and hand them to him, ensuring our skin does not touch. "Thank you."
"No," I mutter, "thank you." He nods curtly, then spins on his heels, leaving me alone to stand in the brutal realisation that the single only thing that laid claim on my happiness has gone completely.
"They were fond of you," my father states, lifting my attention to him. "Sir and Lady Winslow. They made mention of such following your dismissal."
"I am glad," I return, taking a sip of my wine. It is been two days since our dinner, or more importantly, since I saw Kian. I assume my father speaks of this now, over mealtime, because it is the first that I have left my room at all. My mother, as she does with every meal now, focuses on her food as if waiting for it to move, prodding it occasionally with her fork. "They seem pleasant." I add to which he nods in agreement.
"And Eason? What did you converse of when he escorted you to your room?" He asks.
I let my eyes sweep over his nonchalant posture, a frown homing itself on my lips. "Respectfully, I would at least like to retain an ounce of privacy." I tell him through a clenched jaw. He wafts his hand in a dismissive manner, not once taking his eyes from his food.
"If you do not wish to digress, I will not force you." The lightness of his tone is a foreign one, measured with a hint of cheeriness, further endowed by the lift of his brows and the satisfied curl of his lips. My, I so loathe him. For this, for the change in my mother which he has raised no concern off. For his arrogance, his self-righteous bastard smile.
"No, forcing me would be entirely our of character, would it not?" I quip with stark sarcasm, not baring much thought to possible repercussions. His gleeful expression falls, returning to its natural state of fury, while my face burns with just as much. "Please excuse me." I say, pushing away from the table and leaving my untouched meal and red stained wine glass in my absence.
I seem to reach my room far quicker that usual, residing to the safety of my bed and the comfort of my duvet. Sitting in silence, it is easy for my mind to wonder, but no matter what, my thoughts always seem to torment me. Whether I was right to let Kian go in such a way, whether it was my paranoia or logic that led me to make such a decision. Whether it aches him the same way it does me.
It's foolish really, how influential his company is. It has been something of six weeks, and I'm entirely infatuated. Obsessed, attracted to this man I have know for such a short time. Yet, that time is not insignificant. He has cared for me, taught me, introduced me to this miasma of positivity, misted occasionally by romance, desire, intimacy. Is it foolish of me to feel such a way to a man that can so easily show me that? Foolish of me to feel this way about a man who has not hidden his promiscuous history with many a wanton woman. Foolish of me to assume that to him, I am something different.
A knock sounds on my door, piquing my attention to something other that the tormenting thoughts that swirl in the prison of my mind. "Come in." I call, and to my upmost surprise, it is my mother that shows herself as she passes the threshold of my bedroom.
She makes no motion to regard me, with words or even a simple gesture, so I do not speak either. In the stillness that settles, I can do nothing but study her. There is no denying, she is truly beautiful - preserved youth from cosmetics, easily noticed by her airbrushed skin and flawless complexion. Impeccable health transparent in the olive hue that glows about her and the warm wheat blonde hair coiffured to her head like a golden halo, kissed personally by the sun. Slender figure, wrapped in the dress that rests unmoving on the curves of her shoulders, tightened narrow at the waist before flowing outwards, pleated lengths that cuts abruptly her shins. My mother gifted me only her eyes; an iridescent type of blue, deep navy yet bright and alluring. There was once a time I had thought they suited her more than me.
Now though, I see the difference. Perhaps not of current, but mine have know the twinkle of life; thrill, excitement, complete and unadulterated happiness. Her's never sport that same sparkle. They are always so dull, so empty. Windows to the soul which cannot be found. She watches as I inspect her, viewing me with the same scrutiny.
"Mother." I eventually speak, trying my tone to be patient and forthcoming, though it displays as neither. "I was not expecting your presence."
"I was not expecting to grace you with such, in complete honesty." I purse my lips at her, watching as she perched on the end of my bed. "Though I woke today with a busy mind."
I frown. "I don't understand."
She shakes her head, then, for a moment, I see her lips curl in a similar way to mine, a small frown of confusion. "I cannot say I do either. Some days, I wake with the vague memories of dreams. Many of them feature you." She tells me plainly and I tilt my head as I watch her fumble with her fingers in her lap. "They are hazy - incomplete - but I woke today, recalling something so clear, I am positive that it is real."
"And," I trail, unsure as to where this is leading.
"You are to be married." She states, and I cannot help but roll my eyes.
"We have spoke of nothing else for the past six weeks." I point out, bringing her attention to me with a scowl at my poor attitude.
She lets two fingers rub against her temple, as if the pressure will allow her to focus. "Yes. But we spoke of it before that. When you were a girl." My brows furrow. "You do not want to marry Eason." She states. Still, I shake my head slowly. "I do not think I wanted you to either."
"Mother, what?" I manage to force out. She rises to her feet, a twisted expression of confusion on her face.
"I think you were to always marry Eason. Just like I think I was to always marry your father." She looks at me with curious eyes. "I feel something when I look at you, which I cannot identify."
"Mother, I do not understand a word of what you mean." I finally admit with clear exasperation. She hums, as though amused.
"Your attitude is repugnant. Goodnight Allora. Hopefully an even sleep will make you slightly more tolerable tomorrow." With that insult lashed, she leaves. I stare at the door for a moment after. I'm beginning to think she is more insane than I care to admit.
With a defeated groan, I fall back dramatically on to my bed, my head caving into the waiting pillow, a soft thud on impact as the feathers within crater to accommodate me. Only, I do not anticipate it to feel so solid. Shocked, I lift myself, placing my hand down on the pillow, greeted once more by a hard object.
I take the pillow in my hands, prepared to fluff it with misdirected vehemence, and perhaps complain to Zaveri if the problem persists, but I am quick to realise it is not the pillow that is the problem. It is the hard-back book that lay beneath it – The Great Gatsby. Undoubtably, a possession of Kian's. My heart palpitates in synchrony with the realisation.
I take my hand to it, lifting it to my lap gingerly, and make note of the way a page seems to be torn, poking a corner from the bottom. It concerns me – Kian takes better care of these books than he does himself – and so I open to inspect, the loose page slipping from the book. On it, two sentences are written.
You think you can get rid of me that easily?
You're worth every risk princess.
My hands curl around the page, much like how a smile curls at my lips and I realise then, it does not matter if I let Kian go. Not if he holds on to me.
Sometimes I wonder if I've made Allora too stupid. Then I remember there wouldn't be a plot line if she actually have an ounce of intelligence.