Page 46 of Through the Wicked Wood

“Don’t do that,” he says, still a little breathless. I refuse to meet his eyes, but I know he’s watching me. “Whatever this is, whatever is going on. You can tell me. But don’t apologize for it.” He inches himself closer but hesitates, pulling his hand back into his lap. “If it was something I did—”

“No.” I stop him, whipping my head up. Pushing my hair back over my shoulders and out of my eyes, I lean forward. “This has nothing to do with you. Or with…us.” I’m not sure why the word catches on my tongue. Why does it leave a bitter taste there like berries that aren’t ready to be picked?

Us.

I never thought there would be an us with anyone again, and saying it aloud rattles me to my core. “I will tell you,” I say, reaching out for his hand. He takes it and scoots closer, though the way he reclines his body slightly away doesn’t go unnoticed, making my heart sink in more ways than one. “I just can’t tell you yet,” I whisper. Because everything will change between us when I do. There’s that word again.

Us.

Gripping my hand, he brings it to his lips, brushing a soft kiss along the back of it. “Whatever it is that’s going on inside your mind,” he says, “whatever darkness inflicts you there, it will never be dark enough to scare me away,” he pauses, delicately placing my hand back onto the bed. “Nothing will.” Inclining his head, I part my mouth but he cuts me off, turning to leave. “I’ll let you rest,” he says. “We have an early morning.”

With every step toward the door, my heart sinks further and further. I curse the demons in my head, but aren’t I the one who keeps them there? As he reaches for the door, my heartache turns to panic so I sit up and jump from the bed.

“Stay!” I shout, just as his hand grasps the doorknob. Pulling his hand back, the muscles flex as he balls his fingers into a fist, then straightens them again. My heart races, and for a moment I’ve convinced myself he’ll say no. And he has every reason to.

There is nothing easy about the person that I am. There is nothing light. I am not a happy maiden whose days are blissfully spent sitting idly by, even if some deep part of me longs to be just that. I am the monster who keeps the maidens up at night. Who lurks in the shadows with demons in her head and blood on her hands. If I were Sorin, I too would hesitate. Would turn and never look back.

Just when I’m beginning to regret my words, Sorin spins around. His dark eyes scan my face. Searching, longing. He steals my breath with his stare alone, and I know, at this moment, nothing will ever be the same.

* * *

I’m not sure how long I’ve been awake, but I don’t dare move. The warmth of Sorin’s body and tangle of limbs as we slept intertwined with each other…a comfort and contentment I thought I’d never feel. Shouldn’t feel. The butterflies in my stomach quickly sour as my mind drifts. Even while Sorin’s deep breaths strum against my back, the need to hide from the joy I’ve allowed myself to feel, even briefly, is all consuming.

Sun peeks through the bottom of the heavy curtains casting slivers of distorted light across the room, and with it, a memory. So sudden and jarring. So fast and raw and real, I couldn’t stop it if I tried.

Our small room in Valebridge comes into view. Marble walls. A large four post bed, and of course, her. The picture is painted in my mind as clear as the day I lived it.

“Tell me again,” I begged my mother. My braided pigtails hung below my shoulders. My favorite blue and ivory nightgown had begun to fray at the ends, but I refused to wear anything else.

She laughed as the sunset filtered through the drapes that hung over the carved windows, shining onto her radiant onyx hair, sending a mix of shadow and light dancing up the marble ceiling of our room. Her hair was silky and black as a crow, spilling over one shoulder in loose waves. “Once more,” she said. “Then, you must sleep, susi.”

I was five-years-old and she was the only world I knew, so one more chance to hear her voice, I eagerly took it. Curling up into my bed, she sat at the end, rubbing my legs idly as she began her story again.

“Once upon a time, there was an Enchantress—”

“Was it you, mama?” I asked through a yawn as my head sank further into my large pillow. She smiled and leaned forward, brushing a kiss to my forehead.

“Shhh, Elora. Listen,” she whispered against my skin.

I nodded my head as I rubbed the sleep from my eyes, but it was no use. I was too tired to fight what was to come.

“Once upon a time, there was an Enchantress, who loved a little girl very much...”

As always, the memory stops short. The end ripped away, leaving me feeling cheated by my own mind. The soft drop of a tear lands upon my pillow. Blinking the rest away, I peel my eyes from the sun drifting under the curtains, suddenly desperate for rain.

Isn’t it funny…the memories we keep, sealed away inside of us like tombs? Protected and guarded only to be cracked open by the most mundane instances. The smell of tobacco or the hum of a childhood melody. Sun filtering under the curtains. Memories linked to those we love and those we’ve lost. Grief rears its head as swiftly as water destroys. Slow and quiet, then all at once, insurmountable.

Sorin rustles behind me, his muscled arm wrapping around my middle, pulling me deeper into his chest. Wiping my eyes, I roll to face him. Sleep still lines his eyes, his hair a mess of brown waves, the scruff along his jaw dark and more pronounced. He smiles and despite the war inside myself, I force a smile back.

“Good morning, love,” he whispers against my hair. Reaching down, he finds my lips, his kiss feather light. Sweet as honey, smooth as silk. When he pulls away and heads to the bathing chamber, I miss the heat of his body instantly. The rhythm of his heart.

So, it’s now, with the light filtering through the curtains, and sleep lining Sorin’s eyes and the brush of his lips and the memory of my mother that I decide what I must do. Today, I will trust Sorin wholly, and today, I will tell him my secrets.

* * *

Gathering back at Mahaffey’s for breakfast before our journey, Sam, Jarek, and Galen sit at the same booth from last night when Sorin and I arrive. Sam’s body is slumped over onto the table, a jumble of black curls that takes up most of the space. Jarek and Galen sip coffee in contented silence as I slide into a chair across from them.

“Morning!” Jarek’s voice booms through the pub. This early there aren’t many patrons, the sun beams through the door that remains propped open, illuminating remnants of dust and last night's debauchery on the tabletops. I turn to my right expecting to find Sorin but realize he’s wandered to the bar.

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