We enter the manor at what I believe is sundown. The sky is tumulus and conniving, touch and go. The temperature has dropped low enough within the walls that we don't immediately remove our coats. Aidan leaves me to perform tasks around the place, such as lighting the fireplaces and candles to prepare for the darkness that's coming with nightfall, and removing the grill from the garage, which is somewhere I haven't seen before.
I'm brave enough to step into my guest room, needing to change out of these snow-sodden clothes. The mess I made of matches is still on the desk, reminding me of my terror last night. My eyes travel around the room as I change into the pajama's Aidan gave me, watching for any unusual sign of movement.
I'm paranoid, and frightened to think I'll most likely be sleeping here again tonight. I'm not really sure I have the balls to impose on Aidan again, and take up the space in his bed...well, unless he wants me to.
My smile creeps at my imagination, at the hidden desires I hope for. My bag is nestled in a chair between the desk, and the sight of the dirty poster board removes any trace of pleasure. Looking upon that sign, I am able to remember my mission, and how far I've deviated from it.
I've never experienced anything like this. My work is work, and there are no emotional attachments. And it works. It really does.
Because what if Aidan's secrets are dark? Darker than I imagine?
What if there is more than meets the eye here, and I'm fraternizing with someone I shouldn't. My professors, my boss would be ashamed of me, allowing my desire to cloud the chance for a good story. To them, imposition is necessary, and to this day, I've agreed. I've taken any story, no matter how dangerous, no matter how unsettling, which was why Aidan's seemed like a perfect match.
The fact that within days, I've rid myself of my prior judgments and not only promised a broken retelling of his life, with important aspects left out, I've ignored that sign and branded him as a good man.
If journalism has taught me anything, there's only so much good before you uncover bad. The halls of the manor have darkened, but Aidan's quick work has brightened nearly every corner. There are dozens of candles lit.
I wander into the library, discovering that he's already been here. The strong whiff of him, pine and burnt wood, has accumulated in the stuffy space. I breathe it in, sucking in deep inhales, affected greatly by the smell. The blanket I had used the night before has been laid over the seat rest, and my book is on top of it. I grab it, and flip through the pages, trying to find where I left off.
I'm laid out by the fire, immersed in the final pages when Aidan finally appears in the doorway. He's also changed, but hasn't dressed down as much as I have. I'd be embarrassed if this weren't my only choice of clothing. The initial outfit I arrived in is a bit too formal for lounging. Dressed in darker jeans, a black sweater pushed up to his elbows, he blends in with the gloomy walls, looking a part of the house.
"I wouldn't have objected to a pajama party," I say as he shuts the door. I'm not sure why he feels the need to. We're the only people here.
"I could change?" he offers with a small twitch to his mouth.
"No, I like that. I like your sweater."
He leans against the hearth, crossing his arms over his chest. The flickering flames, now tall and alive, gleam against his skin, dancing across his olive skin. "I don't want to worry you," he says after a moment. My smile fades at that, my nerves standing to attention.
"What? What is it?"
"They are anticipating the storm to be passed in two days. Bud called the sheriff, who said that due to the majority of people being in town, they're obligated to clear those streets before making their way up the mountains. We're looking at maybe four more days, maybe a week here, most likely with no power."
A week...I hadn't expected that. We've already been here three days. That means we will pass Christmas definitely, and possibly even New Years in this place. A week surrounded by strange occurrences and creaking pipes. A week in silence, without music, or movies, or distractions. A week with Aidan, with nothing to interfere.
My last thought is the one that sticks and what he thinks will be worry at our seclusion turns out to be acceptance. I smile softly, soaking up the silence between us. The logs tumble slightly, but I don't flinch.
"I'm not as upset as you probably think I'd be," I confess, without hesitation.
"Why?" he asks, regarding me intensely. My shrug serves as an answer. That's all I can muster without sounding ridiculous.
Because you are still a mystery.
Because I'm not ready to leave you yet.
He accepts my lack of a reply, and comes to join me after grabbing a book. I'm aware of how closely he sits, much like yesterday. We take comfort in the silence after the day we've had amongst people, and relax into something that's definitely taking the form of routine. I'm not even sure if I enjoy it, but I like how comfortable he becomes the more immersed he is. He's upright at first, and within a few minutes, he's moved onto his side, elbow angled, his knuckles carved into his cheek.
I'm discreet in my appraisal, but it's constant, and consuming. Long after I've finished the last page to the novel, it's still forked between my fingers, to maintain the façade that I'm attentive to it. Aidan's eyes scour the lines on the pages, moving quick with intrigue. Mine scour the lines of his face, the deep curve under his chin leading to a slender throat, marked by dark hair. The cut of his shirt at this angle reveals deeply set collarbones, a stunning dip between them and his pectorals that rise like hills.
His eyes leap from his study to my face, dark and brooding in this light. I feel the initial jolt of embarrassment at being caught, and yet, I don't move a muscle, unable to tear my eyes away. He stares at me, blinking calmly, even when I set the book down and shift closer to him, wanting a closer look.
He allows my gaze to wander over him, but makes no effort to encourage me further. I'm not discouraged though. I'm in his personal space now, and I have every intention on staying that way. His endless blue eyes tremble when I reach out, and swipe my finger along his skin, pushing away the tumbling strands that fall over his forehead. There's more uncertainty beneath them than I've ever seen in someone before.
My cheeks warm at the intensity of his gaze as my fingers tickle his throat, grazing the skin softly enough to feel the crispy short hairs under his chin transition to silky smooth skin. Transfixed, I watch as he swallows and my finger nudges against the hill in the center of his throat.
His chest nearly stops moving when my caresses reach there. I meet his gaze, unsure as to whether he wants me to go on. He doesn't give me anything, other than silence. Even as my nails drag over the cut line of his sweater, enjoying the feel of the thick fabric dipping into burning skin.
By the time my fingers spread out along the peaks of his chest, his chest is heaving, his jaw strained. The tips of my fingers are tingling, all the air sucking right out of my lungs as I map out the shapes and curves of his body, wanting to know it.
I'm digging into his abdomen, breathless when Aidan's body tenses, and he shifts, making his first real movement since my curiosity peaked. At first, I think he's stopping me and my hand retracts from his shirt. But that's not what he's doing.
He scoots the very short distance to me, and lifts onto his hand. My heart is in my throat when he moves over me, snaking over my body slowly. His eyes steal my coherence, settling on me when he brings us face to face, warmed by the roaring fire.
I'm caged under his body, and his eyes are wandering over my face, taking his own turn admiring me. I welcome it, struck speechless by the rawness in his gaze, the bare vulnerability he lets me see as his icy fingers nudge my cheekbone, tracing the skin to my mouth. He doesn't kiss me, despite my gasping as he coaxes the tip of his thumb over the smooth area.
There are no distractions, no sounds to quell us. We are all alone in this large place, and it's time. I'm sure he feels it too. We're desperate, and intrigued. I want to see him, and break that barrier. I want intimacy, and he's giving it to me.
His eyes travel with the slow descent of his hand as he reaches my heart, his hands wrinkling the silky fabric of his pajama shirt covering my skin. My chest is expanding violently as I try to catch my breath when his fingers drift over the first button to my shirt. Our eyes meet as he undoes it with one hand, and I'm positive I look as terrified as I feel.
He's hardly touched me, and I'm overwhelmed, bludgeoned by my need for more from him.
I don't know what's happening. I don't understand these feelings. I just met this man.
He's unbuttoned three, and it's enough to feel the cold air upon the top of my breast. He moves away from my face, inching down over my body, close enough that I can feel his breath hovering over my jaw. His lips nudge the curve of my throat and my shoulder, and I'm undone, squeezing my eyes closed. It's so quiet my breaths sound like struggled harsh wheezes, echoing off the stacks surrounding us.
My shirt is half-way undone, and his hand pushes down on the silky fabric, his eyes appraising the way my nipple forms into the material. His fingers slacken on the shirt only so he can take the initiative and capture the fleshy peak into his hand entirely. My back arches into his touch when he drags his thumb lightly over my nipple, caressing me over the fabric.
He lowers his head between my breasts, and kisses me gently on the skin he's exposed. His tongue darts out, warm and wet, trailing down further and further, and with my desperate movements, the shirt slips on one side, exposing my nipple. He immediately covers the nub with his mouth, hot and desperate, wasting no time now, and I can't keep quiet.
I'm choking on my gasps, my hands buried in his hair. He drags his hand back over my body, and I'm quick to find it. Wild and needy, I take ahold of him, and kiss the skin of his fingertips gently as he moves back up to my throat.
"Oh, Aidan," I whisper, our fingers lacing together. He lifts his head, admiring my tenderness. He clasps my face, soft and gentle against my cheek. I turn his palm to me, and I freeze.
My mouth parts with an unsteady gasp, not of excitement, but of horror. Aidan's eyes take in my shock with confusion, before drifting to where I'm looking.
His wrist...or more so, the dark, brutal scars extending from one end to the other. My entire body has gone cold, seeing their color, their recentness. My head snaps to the side, despairing when I find the other side looks the same way. With no help for it, my eyes swarm with water, struck by the realization.
It's distressing how quickly Aidan shoots up onto his feet, his face draining to a ghostly white color, realizing he's let his guard down too far. Within mere seconds, he's bounded to the door, and removed himself from my presence. The slam of the door manages to shake the bookcases like an earthquake.
I sit up, blinking, my heart racing madly. I stare at the door, catching my breath, my skin still tingling from his attention. Dread has seeped through my veins at those marks, the marks of a person at the end of their wits.
The sharp slices of a blade, meant to end it all.
The man I've let in is far more tormented than I could have ever possibly imagined, and it's like a stake has punctured my chest. Those blades didn't merely scratch the skin...they sunk, they buried into him. The scars were closed with stitches, I could tell.
Aidan tried to kill himself.
It's that horrifying thought that sends me shooting up onto my shaky legs, and rushes me to the door to find him.
A/N: we've got a lot coming guys. A L O T.