Page 10 of Cardinal House

“Sorry,” she whispers for the millionth time.

My eyes are shut tight so I don’t have to look at her. So I don’t have to see that long inky hair. She wore it down in a braid yesterday, the end swishing against her lower spine. I want to rip it out of her scalp by the roots.

I say nothing in response.

The stickiness of the tape tugs at the little hairs covering my skin, almost ticking my flesh. It bothers me more than it should, the way she is so quiet and so calm and so careful with me. She reminds me a little of Haisley, all of that time I spent with my brother’s love, how careful she was with me, I with her. It was natural, the roles we fell into, I was there to protect her whilst my brother got his shit together enough to go back to her. But she is gentle, all of the women in my family are, Grace is, the way she is with creatures and nature and her sons. You wouldn't think she were capable of the bloody mutilation messes I’ve cleaned up for her.

My mother was never gentle, not by the end. She was cruel and manipulative and violent, and we let her do whatever she wanted to us.

For love.

A hiss escapes me when soft fingers tear off the tape in one quick rip. My eyes flying open and immediately falling onto her.

Her.

Luna.

Ice-chip eyes and alabaster skin. Everything about her is icy and pale, all except for that hair.

Luna is staring at me, her expression blank, as it always is, but it’s as though, despite her blank look, I can feel her anger towards me.

Perhaps anger is too strong of a word, dislike maybe, or irritation.

Maybe she can’t fucking stand me, the way I wish I couldn’t stand her.

“Ouch,” I exaggerate, showing too many teeth with my snarl, but she doesn’t react, she hardly even blinks, those heavy fans of onyx lashes a mere half flutter over her bright eyes.

This time, she doesn’t say sorry. This time, her chest stills, the tips of her fingers like an electric zap where they rest over my heart. Spikey stitches jutting out of the centre of my chest, she brushes over them with a ghost-like touch, but her eyes never leave mine.

It’s as though time slows, not to a complete stop, but enough that every breath feels like I’m inhaling grave dirt, the consecrated earth burning its way down my oesophagus. It tastes like death on the back of my tongue, my future, my brief past, where my heart let me down four times before they could stabilise me enough to dig around inside of my chest cavity for the 9mm piece of metal.

That’s why I can’t stand to look at her.

Can’t stand not to look at her.

Because when I look upon this delicate face, pale pink lips almost the same shade as her skin, her top lip so much plumper than the bottom, it makes her look like she’s wearing a constant pout, her lips pulled into something that almost resembles a moue. Her nose long and straight, pronounced, but still soft on her face between the high arches of her cheekbones. There is not a blemish on her skin. Not a freckle, not a mole, a scar, a birthmark, she is heavenly, untouched, and my insides twist with the way I would like to mess it all up.

See redness bloom in the shape of my fingertips around the pale length of her neck. A bruise dug deep into her clavicle, each little crescent shape mark a bright pale blue from my teeth. I want to see my handprints on her arse, beard burn from my face in the creamy junction of her thighs. Mostly, I want to feel her long fingers tear the band from my loop of hair, thread into the chin-length, black strands, her palm cradling the crown of my head before she twists the inky strands and rips my head back.

“I am always very careful with you.”

That’s what she says, it’s spoken with her usual dulcet tone, quiet and soft, but a little rough, gravelly, like she doesn’t often speak. Doesn’t use her voice. And it’s all I want her to do. With me. Speak. No matter what it is she says, I want to hear it.

“I know,” I sigh, scrubbing a hand down my face. “You are.” Her eyes flick between mine, her face soft and blank, I want to see emotion on it, a smile, a frown, anything. “Thank you,” I tell her, and she looks away, continues checking my wound.

It feels sinful, these quiet moments in the night, stolen together, the room is always dimly lit, the hall beyond bright light like the sun, but I can’t relax all day, waiting for her shift to start. So when dinner is served and cleaned up, and the lights in my room are dimmed, I know it won’t be long.

I find all sorts of excuses to get her in here, more often than just her blood pressure checks and wellness questions. None of the other nurses want to deal with me anyway.

Because of who I am.

What I am.

My last name.

Luna, though, is completely oblivious. Or so it seems. She is never cautious around me in a frightened way, she never looks at me too long, but when she does it’s without any sort of judgement.

It feels good.

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