Neliem, page 20
Panic sears through me. It’s too soon and too fast. And I don’t really know him. I clench the sheet over me while he dims the light so that I can barely make out the outline of his face.
“Oriana, it’s easier in the dark.”
My heart stops beating.
Sensing my shock, he waits, not moving. I squeeze my eyes shut and feel his pulse as if my own. Slow and steady. So peaceful and true.
And I know that he’s no panther prepared to pounce.
He is the sea, his waves beckoning me closer.
My scalp prickles with tension, drops of perspiration welling up behind my ears. Slowly, I hear him remove his necklace. The heavy chain clinks. Then he wiggles off his shirt, his belt. The tension mounts and I’m not sure what to do.
I could scream. I could run. The door isn’t bolted, and there are no bars on these windows. With a soft thump, his pants hit the floor, his svelte body slipping under the covers.
Pressing a corner of the sheet against my chest, my voice quivers, “Could you make it darker?’
Shuffling. The bed creaks as the flame flickers smaller until shadows engulf every corner of the room. In the stillness, I let out a breath and inadvertently wiggle my cold toes, accidentally touching his.
A spark spreads. All I have on is a thin bed shirt that’s hiked up to my waist. Trying to control the tremble raking through my body, I move to lower my shirt when he unexpectedly kisses me so very gently before rolling on top of me.
My belly rubs against his strong chest, tiny curly hairs tickle me as my breath catches. I try to think of some excuse, anything to divert his attention. But all I hear is the rumble of waves, the scent of the sea wafting, drenching me.
His fingers cradle my head, and the panic subsides enough for me unclench my jaw. He smells divine, like maybe he just bathed with seaweed and salted bathwater that was freshly gathered.
My pulse relaxes.
He washed up. For me. When the outline of his face moves closer, a blush spreads down my chest. In answer, he sighs, that soft sweet breath finding my face. Easing down, he adjusts himself carefully, drawing himself down deeper into me. Surprisingly, he’s not too heavy, and I adjust to his size when the mattress dips below his elbows.
“Tell me if I’m hurting you,” he murmurs against my ear.
I barely manage to nod, terrified if I try to speak the quiver in my voice will give me away. He kisses me again, this time with his tongue as his fingers glide up my shirt, sending a wave of unexpected tingles.
“Could we just get this over with?” I squeeze my eyes tighter, my mother’s and aunts’ words of caution clanging like a rusty bell in my head. Blood, pain, and then a horrifically long labor nine months later, when every bone in my body will feel like its tearing apart. Then more blood, more pain. Possibly death.
I envision the corpses of young mothers who didn’t survive. How they waited until nightfall to collect them in a rickety wagon for a speedy burial. How I crept outside to witness families mourn their lost daughter, sister, wife, as yet another lifeless body was tossed in a shallow grave and buried under the haunting moon.
The light flickers back on as Ezra gasps, “God, Oriana, you’re as white as a phantom.”
I blink, sucking in a breath. “I’m fine. Continue.”
“I’m fine, continue?” Incredulously, he snickers. Then, his voice drops. “Seriously, I’m not a rapist.”
He rolls off me, his chin tilting in a way I’m starting to understand might mean more than one thing. “Did your mother prepare you for any of this?”
“Childbirth?”
“No, intimacy … pleasure …” Now he’s being ridiculous.
I sit up, indignantly clinging the sheet against me. “Of course not.”
His face softens, and for a moment, I see Za-Za. My Za-Za.
With the tip of his finger he massages my hand, his face softening. “What do you know?”
I close my eyes seeing my aunt flailing her hands wildly, talking about losing her virginity and how she wished for a speedy death. “That it hurts, there will be some blood … that good girls hate it. And that all men love it.”
“Well, that’s not true.”
I raise an eyebrow. “None of it?”
He laughs. “I like it. And I would like, I mean love it, with you.”
“You’ve done it before?” The hurt as thick as a pinecone chokes down my throat, needles prickling into my chest.
“Yes.” He doesn’t bother to look away and feign shame.
“A lot?” I feel sick.
“Some.” He reaches over and trails a kiss on my shoulder. Sparks shoot up and down my flesh. “Do you like that?”
“Yes?”
“And this?” He spreads his fingers down my back, resting on my backside. His fingers pulsate like wings, and it reminds me of my eagle soaring in the clouds.
My eyelids flitter, my body finally relaxing. He dims down the light and gets on top of me again. We fumble in the sheets, lips and hands and want. Then he tugs off his undergarment, and I feel as if someone lit a candle in me.
“I love you, Oriana.” He kisses my temple over and over until I lift my gaze toward him.
I don’t know him, part of my mind whispers. Don’t trust him. But my feet, for the first time, are not fighting the urge to escape. And I sense something lifting inside of me. Something so familiar that the final burst of tension leaves my body.
“Yes.” And my smile releases.
“You sure?” As always, Ezra’s asking. But I feel too lightheaded to answer. This is not my body, but someone else’s. My hand is not the one pulling him closer.
He presses all his weight down, and it stings. He pulses closer, and it feels as if I’m being ripped apart. I gasp, the pain spreading like wildfire. My lungs heave, sweat drenching my scalp as a wave of heat consumes me.
“Stop.”
He pulls back immediately. “What’s wrong?” His breathing’s erratic, his hair wild as my mind reconnects with my body.
“It hurt.” My hands shake as I reach for the light. He’s hovering over me, shirtless, only the sheet draping below his waist which is pitched up.
And he’s all muscle and tightness. Not an ounce of fat.
“I’m sorry, I barely touched you …” The look of complete bewilderment spreads as he runs his fingers through his hair, “The first few times it will be uncomfortable …”
“First few times?” I gasp.
“It takes time; by the end of the week you’ll like it.”
But I’m positive that I will never grow accustomed to being ripped apart.
“It really hurt, Za-Za …” My face is already drenched as I clutch his chest, releasing a sob. “And now you’ll hate me and send me back to Madera … and you won’t love me anymore.”
And saying that, I realize that’s my worst fear. Going back to Madera, a prison sentence full of sadness and sorrow. My own living hell without Za-Za.
Gently, Ezra soothes my hair, whispering, “That’s impossible. Who’s filling your head with all this nonsense?”
“Your cousins.”
His body tenses. “Really.”
I can’t meet his eyes. I’m a failure at the one thing he really likes.
“I’ll be a bad wife, Za-Za …”
His head shakes against my neck, his breathy voice intense, “You’re a wonderful wife. And I love you very much and never would I send you back there. Ever.”
“You’re just saying that.” I close my eyes, thinking of Tristan, wishing for the first time that I’d never met him. How could there be two brothers more different and yet so alike? Both mystify me for completely different reasons.
“I’m saying it because it’s true.” Turning so that our eyes meet, he looks down at me all clear skies and promise. I reach out and press my finger against his lips, for a moment believing. “Do you have any idea what you mean to me?”
“A little.”
“I would give you anything to make you happy.” He leans in and brushes a kiss on my forehead, before releasing a wave of kisses down my face. “Absolutely anything.”
When he looks at me, the world seems soft and pure, not dark and menacing. There is no Untouchable and Outcast. No need for Neliem. There is only us, in this bed. His warm hand protecting me.
“I’m starting to remember when I met you, on the island.” My lips break into a shy smile. “It was splendid.”
“And you loved me …” he says this as if he still can’t believe it’s true. I hug him tighter and nod my answer into his chest. Suddenly, a very selfish through crosses my mind.
“Za-Za, do you really mean it? You would give me anything to make me happy?”
His eyes glisten, a single tear escaping. “Anything.”
I sit up, determined. “I would like a gun.”
His body goes rigid. “No …”
“A small one.”
“Never …” He offers no compromise. “No guns, knives, or daggers … understood?”
“But you said I could have anything …”
“Practical,” he scolds.
“A gun is practical.” For some unexplainable reason, I think of the carriage door bursting open. “I could protect you.”
I must look a sight, sitting in the middle of the bed with my wild hair and rumpled bedclothes riding up my body.
A slight smile plays on his lips. I sulk a little, puffing out my lower lip like a baby. This does the trick—he scoops down and kisses me, the kiss taking on a different intensity. More urgent, less soft. Our hearts hammer in unison, our pulse matching the heat engulfing our bodies. Before it’s too late to turn back, I gingerly fall out of his grip and wonder how I can convince him that a gun is really what I want.
“Fine; I’ll make one.”
He stops, then laughs, pinching the space between his eyes. “You’ll make one? Out of what?” Wood?”
I’m amusing him, which means there’s still some hope. “Yes, if I have to. I saw some elms I can carve one out of. So there. I will get my gun.”
“What will you use for bullets? Do intend to shoot with it, or is it simply for purely aesthetic value?”
He’s smirking at me.
“Marbles.”
He yelps, then catching himself, presses his lips together. Playfully, he grabs and holds my wrists down, pressing his weight in a way that doesn’t seem threatening in the least.
I don’t even wiggle. “Better be careful with those smart remarks when I have my gun and marbles, Ezra.”
“Oh, I’m trembling …” Then without warning, he hikes up my bed shirt even higher.
My heart stops.
“What are you doing?” I try to push his hand away.
“Something that you will really, really like.” He nibbles on my ear.
I blink. “But …”
He scoots down, only looking up mischievously for a second. “Trust me, it won’t hurt at all.”
“Then why is it that you look like a naughty little boy about to show me his snake?”
“Oriana, we’ll save the snake for later.” He grins, before ordering, “Now dim the light. You’re up for a very special treat.”
I don’t have to be told twice. The light dims just as the giggling commences.
During breakfast the next morning, I have the hardest time keeping a straight face. I’m downright giggly, and I don’t even count the knives or trouble myself to examine which one’s sharpest.
But still, Neliem counts for me. Like the phantom he is, he hovers over my shoulder, pointing the obvious. There are four exits in the room if you include the wide window. True, it only leads to the side alleyway and has a fence that one would have to gain momentum in order to scale. Fences don’t bother me, but the dogs that are kept alarmingly underfed do.
Neliem hisses at me.
Watch and learn. Your enemy waits at the gate planning your demise.
And no matter how hard I try, I can’t help but notice. The maid who favors her right side and the butler who attends to the elderly uncles seem to regard me with unbridled contempt. He has a deep scar that didn’t heal properly on an otherwise handsome face. A face that reminds me of someone. He only converses with certain house staff, almost as if a private club. The newer household don’t seem privy to his telling looks and offhand remarks.
“Yes, Master Otis, the weather has a certain chill, does it not?”
He doesn’t fool me. What he means to say is that he would sooner stab the old man with the butterknife than have to suffer another one of his requests for hotter water for his tea.
I watch. I listen. Neliem breathes on my neck. There’s no doubt that my enemy is indeed at the gate, seeking my demise. But mostly they avoid me at all costs, averting their gaze as if I didn’t even exist. Their hatred is like bubbling poison, leaking from their pores as if I have no right to be in this fine home, eating this exquisite food, favored by Ezra.
And it has absolutely no effect on me. For the first time in my life, I feel calm. In control.
I don’t need Neliem, I sing to myself. I chant the words over and over, “Neliem be gone.”
Then it happens.
A maid arrives with the smuggest expression. In her hands, she holds a silver platter, which appears empty. As she passes, she drops a medal on my plate. It clangs noisily. “She forgot this when she was dressing.”
Her venom seeps rich with hatred. And for a moment, I’m transported back to Madera, once again running for my life. Under the table my fist clenches, my gaze coolly sizing up how big an enemy she is, all but ignoring whatever it was that she tossed in my plate.
Ezra’s voice hitches, “What is the meaning of this?”
He lifts his chin and cups the object in his palm as if it was soiled.
Calmly, I study the maid. I know her from the hallway, Soiree, the one who threw herself at Tristan. The one he rejected.
I smile.
Speechless, Ezra opens his palm, and I see what it is.
The star of my people.
A muscle in Ezra’s jaw flexes, but my eyes are glued to the star. Something about it seems off.
It’s a perfect shiny silver, and I quickly realize why it looks odd. It has five points instead of the customary six. This star belongs to the goddess of peace, the one with the bird who can transform into a rose. Having been forced to study their asinine traditions, I know it’s to protect one’s home from invasions, not cause harm, which is precisely what it’s done.
A cruel trick to expose my heritage and not only disgrace me, but harm Ezra.
Without skipping a beat, I ask, “Does not this mean the goddess seeks tranquility instead of strife?”
A wave of relief seems to wash over the room. The uncles clear their throats and Aunt Cora lets out a long breath, fanning herself nervously.
“No,” the confused girl exclaims. “It’s the one of her people. They worship it …”
Realization dawns on her that she’s the one who’s been tricked. She’s been given the wrong star to accuse me with.
I look up, my question still unanswered. “Is it yours, Soiree?”
The girl gasps, “How can that be mine?”
I whisper, “You had it …”
“It was in your room, on your dresser …” She looks for support from the other servants in the room, then gazes attentively past Aunt Cora, toward the female cousins a moment too long.
Ezra speaks softly, “You found it?”
I know he’s exercising every ounce of self-control while giving nothing away. Instinctively, I nudge closer.
Soiree stammers, “In her room, I mean rooms …” Her arms shake, her face turning an unbecoming shade of crimson. “It’s hers, I know it …”
“Which room, Soiree?” I ask as innocently as possible.
This catches her off guard.
I explain, “My rooms were changed shortly after I arrived. I’m no longer on the East Wing.”
Ezra, his back as straight as a board, confirms this with a nod. I know he wants to say more, to defend me. I feel his pulse quicken with every moment of this charade. But like a pent-up bull, he cautiously holds back.
Soiree stammers, her lips trembling, the vein in her forehead throbbing. “She’s trying to trick me … It had six points, not five. Six, I counted them twice.”
I ask again, “But which room, Soiree?”
She’s stumped. All she can manage is to rub her hands together. Cassia lifts an eyebrow as if to prod her. “The second one, in the West Wing.” She looks around the room, her voice steady, “I found it just now in the West Wing room, amongst her things … in her valise.”
One uncle arches an eyebrow. “I thought you said you saw it on her dresser?”
This observation makes Soiree flush deeper, the tips of her ears an alarming purple. Desperate, she looks for support, but Cassia adverts her gaze, whispering to an aunt, “Are we going shopping soon?”
Caught in yet another lie, Soiree stutters, “Yes, on her dresser, that’s what I meant to say.”
Landis offers pointedly, “You said amongst her things … What business did you have searching a guest’s belongings?” He winces, turning toward Tanya, who remains dumbfounded, her eyes especially large this morning.
“Maybe it’s mine,” Tanya lisps, blinking too fast. “I love tranquility.”
Everyone laughs, breaking the tension, and one by one the relatives resume eating.
I swallow down the rock lodged in my throat. These people are so stupid they can’t get the star right. What’s more, it doesn’t belong to me; even though I am Outcast, I’ve never been able to afford any type of jewelry.
The relatives chatter amongst themselves, arguing politely over the specifics over which god has which type of symbol. There seems to be a consensus that Dina, the god of fertility, also favors the star. Across the table, Landis shoots me a sympathetic look, which I ignore. I don’t need help, and even if I did, I would sooner suffer fifty lashes before begging him.
