Page 62 of The Secrets of Roan Island

The small gesture stirs something in me, a tiny flicker of hope.

“Have you found anything new?” I incline my head toward the books stacked at the other end of the table, then take hold of the glass carafe and pour each of us a cup of red wine.

It makes me think of blood.

Ruby’s blood.

My mouth salivates.

My fangs press the inside of my bottom lip.

Ruby refuses the glass I offer, and it feels like a refusal of more than just the wine. But her eyes linger on mine, and I don’t miss when her gaze drops to my mouth.

“More of the same,” she says, returning her attention to the food. “Your great-great-grandmother was fond of detailing the mundane things she did day to day.”

“Yes. I recall that from my journey through her accounts.” I smile fondly. Her journals were boring in places, but there was something soothing about the normality of her life. She wasn’t plagued by the struggles and guilt that eats at me every day. It was refreshing to read about her daily affairs. It gave me hope that we Mavarri could be something different than my father.

Ruby smiles back at me, momentarily lowering her guard. Which makes me miss the camaraderie we had before I ruined it all.

I clear my throat. “In your opinion, Why would she detail such things?”

Ruby’s eyes remain on her food as she plucks at her food. Round lips wrap a piece of bread, and it makes me remember the way she looked with my cock in her mouth. What I would give to return to that moment.

She watches me watch her.

The tension in the room builds, then suddenly splinters when her gaze darts back to her plate. “It isn’t uncommon. Most primary sources articulate the day-to-day monotony of life. Those things that seemed important and noteworthy. I’ve found that the treasure for a researcher is rarely in the actual words, but in what we can read between the words, between the lines.”

“That sounds very different from what I’m looking for.”

“Which is what?”

“Evidence. What I can see under the microscope that tells me definitively that there’s a chance.”

She hums an understanding sound as she reaches for her wine. I’m not sure she even remembers that she refused it before.

“And what are you looking for?” I ask.

“The woman behind the words.”

There’s a softness in her voice that makes me want to wrap her in my arms. My frustration that I can’t leads me to speakmore harshly than I should. “Explain.” I immediately regret my tone when her eyes meet mine. “Please.”

“Well…” She stops, then reaches for a journal and the translation glasses. After clearing a place closer to me, she slides the goggles onto her face and flips gingerly through the delicate pages. “Like here.” She lays the book out, marks the page with her finger, and offers me the goggles. As she does, her arm brushes mine. Her breath catches. She scoots her chair back.

“I don’t need them,” I say, quieter than a moment ago.

“Right.” She clears her throat. “Here she talks about your great-great-grandfather’s shoes.”

I watch her point at the passage, but I’m more interested in her finger, her hand, her soft skin as it disappears beneath the sleeve of her burgundy dress, the buttons all the way to her elbow creating puffs of fabric around her arms.

“She goes into great detail about the leather,” Ruby finishes, her voice dropping in a way that hits my gut and travels lower.

I tilt my head and lean in, catching her scent that haunts my restless sleep, a combination of warm earth and blossoming flowers.

“See what I mean?” she asks.

I try to see what she finds so interesting in the passage and can’t. “She just goes on and on about the leather, how she works it, and what she wants to do to it.”

“Right. To make it special.” Ruby shifts in her seat, slightly closer.

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