Page 44 of Silenced

He’s a fifteen.

And, to be honest, I’m probably scoring down because of the whole ‘being taken against my will and not being allowed to leave or wear clothes’ thing.

Whether or not I settled on my husband, I’m no way near a seven, never mind a twelve or a fifteen.

That erection of his… I don’t understand it.

I know better than anyone that dicks don’t lie. Even Viagra can’t fix the unfixable.

I study his features, trying to read into what he’s thinking, but his impassiveness is as frustrating as his inability to speak. Something that has nothing to do with his need for ASL but his inability to communicate. Period.

Hechoosesto be silent.

Jerk.

So instead of succumbing to that pretty face, I try to rationalize his beauty.

The scar that should have spoiled his looks somehow enhances the other perfect parts of him.

He has a wide forehead which leads to stark brows that shield hazel-brown eyes which glitter in the light. They’re usually expressionless if I ask him a question, then, somehow, they’ll shift.

Heat up.

Gleam…

Whenever he looks at me.

Huh.

There’s a word for it, but it scares me—reverence.

Stoppingthattrain of thought, because no one reveres someone like me, I study his nose.

That’s safe, right?

Except,no.

Even that’s attractive, for God’s sake.

It’s strong but thin, and it sits above pert lips which belong to a mouth that’s the opposite of mobile.

Silence categorically defines him. Characterizes him.

His features are as still as he is.

His jaw clenches and releases as he eats, drawing my attention to the stubble on his chin and above his Cupid’s bow.

As for his hair, it’s a rich chocolate brown that’s tousled. Neatly. That’s an oxymoron. How can something be neatly tousled? But it is.

Heis.

He reminds me of that Clyfford Still painting above his bed.

Evocative.

Beautiful.

Inherently untouchable.

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