Page 8 of Stained Protector

“Talk to me,” I say, my voice not above a whisper.

Late winter dreariness disturbs a warm breeze as it groans like hollow ghosts, and February’s sunlight wards off the wind’s cries. The walls emit a chilling air, and I throw a sweater at her after she shows signs of shivering. She wears it with a blush, string uneven, and hair slightly static.

“Weekend plans?” I intone, pressing a conversation from her silence.

“I’m meeting my sister for dinner,” she says and motions aimlessly. “She’s in the area for business.”

She talks, I sketch, and the peace is extraordinarily satisfying. Budding brutality feels like defeat, and it’s a downfall I would sell a soul to keep.

It’s easy to pretend her voice is singing in my ears, mouthing tender kisses down my cheek, and running a playful tongue across my throat. I’d hear a whine or a plea to kiss her back when her lips hover over mine, and then she’d bury her red face into my chest after I deny her.

“It’s been years since her last relationship,” Anya mumbles, grimacing vehemently. “He was bad for her. But she’s finally moving on. This weekend is going to be her blind date.”

“You’re going, too?” The pencil soundlessly chips under my grip, and the gray graphite darkens the harder I dig it onto the paper.

“For her safety,” Anya denies and waves her hand hastily. “She’ll meet with him after our dinner for dessert. But she said her date is bringing someone to make sure he doesn’t drink too much.”

The corner of her lips twitch, a flash of discomfort lingers, then it’s replaced by a huff of defeat.

“Bad feeling about him?” I note, loosening my fingers and watching them shake above the white paper.

“All her ex-boyfriends are unlikeable.” The effort she uses to squeeze out a description as inoffensive as she can is endearing.

“Sisters have similar tastes often, so I would think she picks better ones.”

Anya blushes, shoulders drawing up as she rubs the sleeve of my sweater absently. Her breath hitches, a meek squeak sounding when she stammers incoherently. I’m too drawn to the way my clothes swallow her body, enriching the space for my imagination to fill in.

“I’ve never dated,” she blurts, then seals her lips to a pale line and fights the blushing futilely.

I want to bite her cheek and leave an obvious mark there. Possessive, but I have no shame.

“I was busy with school,” Anya mumbles, and a train of anxious rambles block the hollering wind. “A lot of coursework in college, too. After graduating, I focused on work.”

Setting aside the sketchbook and pencil, I inch closer and sit directly in front of her. Her unfocused gaze is on me, but she doesn’t fully grasp the stealthy proximity.

“Nobody liked me.” She ends up confessing, her face fiery red as if she’s spilled a humiliating secret.

I like you; the voice of a devil strikes fast.

Her withdrawing body curls in smaller, then she looks up in vain to appear unaffected and chokes at our distance.

Desperate and ravenous, her face calls for my hands to cradle her and kiss away the doubts. An open book, she is. I could read, write down details of her thoughts, and use them to study her.

One moment she’s biting on her bottom lip, and the next, I’m pulling it from her teeth and reeling at the plumpness. A peek at her tongue burns another layer of control as I drop my hand, withstanding the imposing invitation to press two fingers on her tongue.

A group of children’s laughter nicks the tension. I glare at the sound, the threads of composure cementing back to form a stronger bond.

“S-sorry,” she yelps and scrambles back, her limbs lurching as she stops at a safe distance.

“I’m sorry,” I say, dropping the pencil apathetically. “That was rude of me.”

The lie halts in the air.

“Be safe this weekend,” I say, leaning an elbow on my raised knee. “I’d hate to not see you on Monday.”

Chapter Three

Anya

---