Neliem, page 16
“May I?” And still, Ezra waited for permission.
I could only nod. He crouched by the side of my bed and with the gentlest hands placed one shoe, then the other, on my foot.
A perfect fit.
It was just another small token of his affection.
My heart bleeds.
I blink at Tristan and force my mouth open. “There’s something that I have to tell you, and you’re not going to like it.” My shoulders arch, tightening like wires, bracing for the impact.
He squeezes the bridge of his nose, anticipating what he thinks the worst possible scenario. “Don’t tell me you’re friends with her? The shrew that has stuck her vicious claws in my innocent brother! You know her?”
He explodes, his natural Neliem instinct taking over. And something else, something that pulls at my heart. Streams of tears leak from his eyes, his body crumbling.
The truth hits me. “You love him.”
Gingerly, I place my hand on his shoulder, torn between two very different actions. Embracing him, going as far as to allow him to weep on my shoulder or admitting that, I am that very shrew whom he detests, before inserting my foot up his arse as he begs unsuccessfully for mercy.
As if unable to bear his own weight, he collapses into a seat. “Oriana, my family be hanged, I really need to get you upstairs and bury myself in you. Now.”
His words send a delicious quiver to my gut, one that stirs me even more awake. I exhale slowly, not sure how to respond. I know firsthand the tension he’s experiencing. I’ve felt it every waking hour for the last few days, building since our last encounter and unable to find release.
And in dealing with Tristan, a fellow Neliem, I know that only blatant honesty will work at a time like this. “Tristan, I would rather wrestle with you for an hour and knock some common sense into that thick head of yours.”
Tenderly, I rub at his throbbing temple hoping to alleviate some of the rage that’s certain to erupt when he discovers the truth.
Unexpectedly, Tristan’s mood shifts. Instead of anger, what I get is merriment. He laughs and grabs me. “God woman, how have I ever survived one day without you in my life?”
I let out a yelp as he tosses me in the air and catches me effortlessly. His smoldering eyes burn into mine just as the library doors fling open. I don’t have to turn to see who it is.
I would know that heartbeat anywhere.
Ezra stands before us with a wide grin. “There you are …”
And their voices are identical. The tilt of the head, the glimmer of blue, the delicate flare of their nostrils, down to the tiny dimple at the base of their chins.
Brothers.
I don’t know how it’s possible that I missed this.
Ezra glances behind him, probably making sure there isn’t some lurking relative about. Once sure, he sighs. His shoulders soften, the cease finally leaving his forehead, his eyes full of hope. Which makes it all the worse. He has absolutely no inkling of the monsoon about to erupt.
The air shifts, electrifying. I brace myself, my senses heightened. In the kitchen, there’s a quarrel over some soup. Too much pepper. On the banisters, two Untouchables prance down slowly, speaking in hushed whispers obviously gossiping about me. My skin prickles and the hairs on the back of my neck stand.
When I look up, Ezra’s glare sears through me as if somehow understanding. But Tristan still doesn’t loosen his grip. His touch makes it all the more unbearable.
“Introductions would be in order, but I see that you are well acquainted.” There’s that lightness in Ezra’s tone, that bit of boy mixed with just a hint of mischief. Panther yes, but something else as well. “And you thought, well—” He cuts short his admonition with a wave of his hand and offers, “Wonderful to see you brother.”
Still unaware, Ezra chuckles, pouring himself a drink. There’s something so familiar about that laugh. It tugs at something forgotten buried deep within me. A summer’s day. A bowl of ripe berries and that laugh.
I pinch my eyes closed. The instinctive nature to run pulsates through every muscle, causing my hands to spasm. My anxious feet twitch, and I steady my nerves, attempting to squelch the flame. But it festers like a tornado, with every breath, matching the clock in the hall: Tristan’s grip, the soft curve of Ezra’s mouth, the air heavier, thicker, intoxicating sweet.
When I lift my head, I catch my reflection in Tristan’s eyes. And for the life of me, I cannot open my mouth and tell him the truth. My heartbeat pounds as outside in the hall, a patter of several footsteps approach.
“Brother, I admit it.” Tristan stares lovingly at me, not bothering to hide it. I blush and try to inch away. “You catch me in too good of a mood to brood about anything.”
“So, you like Oriana?”
“Like her? I love her.” His husky voice deepens in a way that makes my knees quiver. Ezra laughs again, having no inkling where this is headed. He wraps his arm around my free shoulder, and I am caught in the middle of two enamored brothers, trapped.
My body humming, I start to hyperventilate. Two weeks ago, two brothers also had me trapped, and the memory flashes before me like rusty nails scrapping against my flesh.
My head burns. My focus blurs.
Ezra speaks first, taking my pulse. “Are you ill?”
Tristan breaks his hold to get me some water, which I quickly accept. Ezra patiently leads me to a sofa, scattering off pillows to make ample room.
Feeling dizzy, I collapse down, the confession slipping before I can stop. “A little over two weeks ago … something happened at my village. I was collecting some apples …”
Tristan’s hot gaze soaks up my every word. But Ezra shows no emotion other than a quick glance to gage Tristan’s reaction, then back at me. He knows part of this story, but Ezra still has no clue. He doesn’t suspect a thing; if he did, perhaps things would’ve been different.
“These boys … two brothers …” My voice cracks. Just like before while watching the boat race, it seems so vivid. Those brutes, cornering me like an animal. Me with only an old dagger and my wits to save my life. Then I recall the way the dagger had seared hot, as if to warn me.
My hand clenches desperate for my dagger.
Tristan breaks the silence first, “What are their names?”
And he sounds like Neliem himself. All darkness and death. He flickers a look to Ezra, who just rubs his eyes.
I rack my brain but come up empty. “I don’t know … they have red hair …”
And one is missing an ear.
Footfalls click louder as cluster of elderly ladies approach the threshold, idling before entering. But my attention’s elsewhere. There are four weapons on the table, a letter opener, two marble paperweights and a pen with a sharp enough of a point to inflict permanent damage.
My fists squeeze, then release. Ezra nudges just a fraction, his breath warm against my neck. “Oriana, those boys will never harm you again. Do you believe me?” His voice is a whisper, soft, alluring. And something else. Deadly serious.
I shake my head in response. He still doesn’t understand what those boys tried to do to me. But my tongue’s too dry to try to explain. Without warning, Ezra gets up to greet his elderly aunts, their frail steps slowing as they approach the library.
Tristan stirs. “Listen to me, Oriana. I will hunt them down and hurt them; after I’m done, they will be lucky if they can crawl. Ever.”
I look up feeling naked. He knows and yet it hasn’t hampered his feelings. He protected me in the city, and now, now his gaze comforts me in a way words could never.
My voice quivers, “You would do that?”
“Yes. For you Oriana, I would. And much more.” Tenderly, he moves a stray curl, tugging it around his finger with so much care that what’s left of my heart breaks.
Because I know what’s coming. Like a flame, the tension in his body bursts just as Ezra says, “I’m so glad to hear you love my bride. It makes our new life complete.”
And I’m eternally grateful for whichever saint caused Ezra’s elderly aunt to stumble, his hands quick to steady her steps. Because of this act of mercy, he’s saved from the look of horror as all the blood drains from Tristan’s face.
Tristan gasps, his grip turning to ice when he finally lets go. Then, just as quickly, his fists clench, a look of defiance emulating. A mixture of dark stormy clouds and disbelief.
Ezra busies himself with his elderly aunts’ preoccupation over the fickle weather when there’s a monsoon building in their very midst.
“Will it dare rain again? I for one cannot bear another spring shower …”
The other plump Aunt fans herself compulsively. “It’s so hot … will there be enough fans in all the rooms?”
“Of course, I’ve had new ones delivered especially.” Dutifully, he addresses the other aunt who has a chill, “I will see that there are ample blankets.”
I lower my head and wait an eternity for Tristan to speak.
Finally, one word escapes his lips, “No.”
When I dare lift my gaze, he resembles a small boy who has lost his mother and still waits for her. It breaks my heart all over again. It’s the same look when he was watching the boat race with me. Soft and sweet. Without thinking, I reach for him, but he moves away deliberately.
“I tried to tell you a dozen times.”
His jaw clenches, his voice a venomous hiss, “Don’t say anything.” His neck strains, the cords like thick ropes and for a moment I fear he might strike out. His fists clutch, release, clutch. Repeating over and over compulsively.
I would do almost anything for Tristan not to suffer. Not like this, not now. The worry of his family discovering this transgression is only secondary. Needing relief, I turn to Ezra, none the wiser, and shiver. When they know, it’ll be over. And the thought pains me.
Finally, Tristan speaks. It comes out as a grunt, both raw and forced. “It isn’t a joke.”
He stares right through to my soul, and asks again, this time so clear that I would have to be stupid to miss the innuendo. “Is it?”
I shake my head sadly. “No, Tristan. I’m so sorry.”
Words fail me because there are no words for what has happened. I sneak a peek but he’s as rigid as a statue, the pained expression glued to his face. He whispers to himself, “Madera, the girl …” and immediately swallows it down. “He never said … never insinuated that you … that …”
Tristan shakes his head, the truth penetrating his heart. “Ironic, isn’t it?” He smirks, and the façade is back. The one he hides so well behind.
Ezra turns from his conversation to check on me. I smile and realize I have the same defense mechanism; I, too, hide behind a mask of my own making and have for years to survive. It’s the same face I wore when I arrived home bleeding from falling after running for my life to hide the obvious from my mother.
“The girl that I’ve spent the better part of my life convincing my brother not to marry turns out to be you …” his voice trails off. “I have to leave.” Tristan gets up and walks away without explaining to anyone what just happened.
A moment later, the front door slams shut with a sharp jolt, knocking the little bell off the hinge. It rolls noisily on the slick marble for what feels an eternity.
I close my eyes and count. When I open them, Ezra stands before me, a strange expression on his face. The clinking of footsteps and the clock’s menacing tick are the only distinguishable sounds in the universe.
“What’s wrong?”
There are no words left. I try to slip past him and follow the group to the dining room, but his body blocks mine.
Those kind eyes narrow in that familiar way, and it’s as if Tristan’s still in the room. Brothers. For a moment, I think I will faint.
So, I answer the only way I know how. “I don’t think your brother likes me very much.”
Ezra studies me with a quizzical look just when the maid announces lunch is being served. But instead of moving, he pauses just long enough to let me know that he suspects something. He’s suspicious, and rightly so. Forgetting himself, he almost reaches for my hand, then stops himself, waiting for my cue. I remember a moment too late that I don’t like being touched and that he’s being respectful.
“You don’t always have to ask.” I grab his hand harder than I mean to only to find that he matches my grip, just as tight. This dispels any question that might linger. My secret is safe.
When he delicately raises my hand to his lips, I meet his gaze, pretending that all is well in the world like the liar I am.
Enduring the meal is like crawling through an unending pit in hell on my stomach as razorblades slash my gut. Part of you, the part not bleeding to death, knows that this pain will eventually subside. The other part has stopped caring.
I glance longingly at the steak knife at my side, the only means of escape. I count which veins will bleed out fastest and most painlessly and which ones that will cause me more suffering, prolonging the agony.
I opt for slow and torturous.
The food seems tasteless, but I force every mouthful and every swallow, counting each bite as a tally. Another survival mechanism; eating means surviving and having the strength to run another day. Ezra, at my side, is especially quiet, his gaze never far from me.
When he sees me stabbing my potato into small pieces, he whispers, “We can leave now.”
He glances toward the door, giving me an out. A way to escape and cower down to these people that would like nothing more than to see me run with my tail between my legs.
From across the massive table, Cassia smirks.
I straighten my back. “It’s fine. I wasn’t feeling well before.”
Henric eyes me coolly, murmuring to an uncle beside him, and something in me snaps.
“I think perhaps I need some special tea.” Without skipping a beat, I continue, “Dear cousin Henric promised to take me to a teashop he especially loves to frequent.”
The right side of the table grows deadly silent. His grandmother, Aunt Leraias, is the first to break the suffocating silence with a raise of her teacup. “Since when do you like tea, Henric?”
Henric wipes his mouth, for the second time in his life, at a loss for words. “It’s nothing, grandmama. Right now, I assure you that I have absolutely no taste for tea.”
Her smile tightens, her gaze dissecting me as if I were a flea. “A passing fancy then.”
Under the table, Ezra tugs at my sleeve and hisses, “I told you to drop it.”
I swallow a dry crumb of biscuit and choke. “I’m sorry.”
But I don’t mean it, and he’s smart enough to know it.
“We’ll discuss it later.” He gives me that look again, somewhere between a storm and a rainbow.
The bell in the kitchen finally clangs, signaling the end of the meal and the commencement of yet another tedious activity. The ladies are obsessed with card games. Wasting the better part of the day engaged in such stupidity will never cease to amaze me.
My spirits don’t lift when a plump maid announces that dessert will be served in the parlor salon. I can’t get up fast enough, the urge to race down the marble foyer toward freedom bursting out of my lungs.
Instead, with Ezra glued to my side, we retire to the salon for hot drinks and tiny colorful cookies for dessert. I find myself seated in a small wicker chair at the center of the great room. Everyone surrounds me from all sides, the exits blocked. And the only accessible window is closed shut with a heavy latch that would take me the better part of an hour to pry.
I’m only too well acquainted with this suffocating feeling: trapped like the wild animal I truly am. Too late, I realize this is what Ezra was trying to rescue me from, The Inquisition. I’m assumed guilty, which is strangely fitting, considering that I am.
Oddly enough, relief washes through me. I have no desire now to escape. I deserve this and so much more. Anyway, my people are only too familiar with inquisitions, having survived them only to face even more grueling hardships. I’ve taken great pains to acquaint myself with the items of pain and suffering that were once used to subdue my ancestors. And since there is no obvious equipment of torture anywhere to be seen in this fine elaborate house, for the most part, I’m safe.
For now.
Aunt Cora, who Ezra loves dearly, begins the scrutiny. The teacup rattles like a chime in her hand telling me at once that she’s nervous, but not enough to be polite and back down. “Darling, tell us something about yourself. We all want to know more about the woman soon to be married to our darling Ezra.”
Something in me stirs. I actually wish to tell this old woman, this Untouchable, the truth. If only to see the expression on her face before she faints dead away.
Only too aware, Ezra’s elbow gazes the back of my arm just so. Not forcefully, but with it a firm reprimand: behave.
I nod a bit in false submission, hoping this shows whatever it is that they wish to see.
“There’s not much to say …” I remember Ezra’s caution not to mention the words Untouchable or Outcast, a dead giveaway of my nationality, even though everyone in this room knows my perceived origin. Still, Ezra insists that I don’t need to announce it or rub salt in this wound. “I was born in Odessa and raised in Madera. I lived with my mother who is a dress designer.”
“Oh, that dress you have is lovely; did she make it?”
I shake my head politely, saving the smile for later. Ezra slides his hand around mine, no doubt to show support.
“Not much in Madera … absolutely nothing to do,” One of the male cousins slyly comments, and Ezra flinches ever so slightly. I catch the look they exchange. He’s asked them to go easy on me.
Unfortunately, they have absolutely no intention of honoring such a request.
