Page 5 of Kept 4
He withdraws my phone from his jacket pocket and hands it to me, and I take it from him wordlessly. I will check my messages later when I’m on the train. For now, I have to go before I change my mind; my heart is breaking.
The conductor opens the door and bids me enter as I bend down to pick up my bag.
“Nicholas,” I straighten up and look into his eyes as he stands, hands in his pockets, staring at me, “I guess, well, this is goodbye.”
“Josephine,” he groans.
“No,” I shake my head, willing him not to say another word.
He nods, but then, quicker than I could imagine anyone moving, takes his hands from his pockets and sweeps me into his embrace, his lips crushing mine, claiming them.
I leave my hands by my side. If I wrap them around him, I may never let him go. But that is where my resolve ends because I open my mouth to his and lean into him, moaning as his mouth roams mine, matching his force and intensity as his hands pull me into his hard body, my own melting against his. My heartbeat accelerates at his kiss and my body responds to him as it always does; tightening, tingling, urging me to ignore my brain, to tear off his clothes and submit to him every which way, submit to his bite.
But my brain wins, and I drop my bag, put my hands on his shoulders, and push away.
He releases me, reluctantly, standing still close enough for me to feel his hot breath, smell his intoxicating scent, and I grab my bag again and turn, sprinting onto the train, not looking back. I’m strong, but not that strong. I know I’m a heartbeat away from collapsing into a bawling heap, and I want to be away, far, far away, before I let that grief overtake me. I didn’t realise just how much I have come to love this man until now, when I have to leave him.
Following the conductor blindly, I allow him to lead me to a sumptuous lounge area overflowing with stuffed couches, Persian carpets and priceless artefacts. Everything seems to be decorated in aquamarine and dark brown; a colour combination I wouldn’t have picked, but one which even to my teary vision, screams class and distinction.
Slumping into one of the lounges, my bag at my feet, despite the conductor trying to alleviate me of it several times, I close my eyes and take several big gulps of air.
As the train begins to pull away, my breathing calms down, and I wipe the few tears that had managed to slip through my eyelashes with a desultory hand. I will not give in to them - yet.
My emotions finally under wraps. I open my eyes and notice a bottle of champagne on a small side-table, and an envelope, bearing the unmistakable handwriting of the man I am once again running from; Lord Nicholas Montague.
Sighing, I walk across, pick up the bottle, pop the cork and carry it back to my seat, along with the letter. This train ride is apparently going to take about seven hours; I won’t need a glass.
Taking a swig from the bottle, I place it securely between my knees and open his letter with shaking fingers.
My Josephine,
I waited 500 years for you, only to lose you once again, and my heart is bleeding.
As hard as it is to let you go, I wish you well in your new life.
I am resolved not to contact you, as you wish. I will allow you to live as though you never knew of me, of my kind, of the darkness that surrounds – I want you to know only light.
But if you should ever need me.
Ever, Josephine.
I will be there.
Yours eternally,
Nicholas.
Dropping the note to the floor, I curl up on the couch, my arms wrapped around the champagne bottle, and cry as I have only ever cried twice before; when my parents died.
3
“It can’t be seven hours,” I moan, pulling my face from the empty champagne bottle where my cheek had stuck to it, presumably with tears, after I’d fallen asleep cradling it.
“Yes, Madam, we are in London,” the conductor smiles, offering me a hot cup of tea and dutifully ignoring how I can only imagine I look, make-up smudged, hair a nest, reeking of alcohol.
I sit up, frowning at a sudden headache and feeling of nausea, no doubt from consuming an entire bottle of champagne on an empty stomach and crying myself into a stupor. Taking the teacup from him gratefully, I sip at the sweet concoction and let out a low moan of appreciation.
“Will that be all, Madam?”
