Chapter 8 #2
Claire’s gaze followed every line of her face, every imperfection. The burn marks along her neck and shoulder that Ferron had once called unholy—Claire looked at them as though they were… art. There was no revulsion in her eyes, only a spark of awe.
“Mirela,” she said softly, her voice trembling, “you’re beautiful.”
Mirela froze. The word lodged somewhere between disbelief and ache. Beautiful. It felt wrong in her mouth, foreign to her ears.
She stared at Claire, unable to look away.
The candlelight framed her face, catching dark strands of her hair.
Her lashes cast delicate shadows on her cheeks.
Mirela’s fingers twitched with the urge to draw her again, to capture every fleeting detail.
Just being here, outside of the cathedral, so close to her…
it felt like it was an impossible moment, one she should draw for posterity.
She reached out before she could stop herself and tucked a strand of hair behind Claire’s ear.
The gesture was small, almost meaningless, yet it stole the air from her lungs.
Her fingers lingered near her skin. And then she saw the flicker in Claire’s eyes, that subtle spark that felt like lightning under her ribs.
“You have long lashes,” Mirela murmured, her voice smaller than she meant it to be. “I need to fix the sketches I gave you.”
Claire smiled faintly, her lips curving in a way that made Mirela’s heart stutter. “Or you could make more and more.”
Her tone was teasing, but her breath hitched halfway through. Mirela felt the shift in the air. She could see the faint sheen of Claire’s lips, the smooth curve of her throat, the rise and fall of her chest.
“Yes,” she whispered, “I could,” her eyes glued to Claire.
Claire was there, laughing that soft, whimsical laugh of hers, looking down at her as if Mirela was the most precious thing she had ever known.
As if there were no mirrors in the convent at all, and she didn’t realize that it was she who was the most beautiful, most perfect thing that had ever crossed the threshold of the cathedral’s doors.
Mirela could not look away. Not without hurting her, and God was her witness, the last thing Mirela wanted was to hurt her like she had moments ago. She wanted that smile to be eternal. She wanted to wake up every morning to it, to see Claire smiling at her as if she were worthy of it.
The silence that followed was suffocating.
Mirela’s hands trembled, caught between desire and fear, wondering whether it was prudent to move another strand of hair from Claire’s face and if she had any right to touch something so perfect.
Before she could decide, warmth spread against her scarred cheek. Claire’s palm rested there.
She was touching the place Mirela herself avoided, the place that made her flinch, but Claire did not pull away, her gentle smile did not falter.
Instead, Claire brushed away the droplets of water gathering along her skin, gentle and unhurried, and only then did Mirela realize she was crying.
Why was she crying?
She had dreamed of this, of having Claire so close, within reach, close enough to feel her breath… So, why did it feel as though she was ruining everything?
Claire was offering her tenderness and Mirela could barely bring herself to breathe beneath it, let alone return it.
Claire leaned forward and pressed her lips to one scar on her cheek. Mirela went utterly still. Then another kiss, this one lower, softer, lingering against the edge of her jaw. Another near her temple.
Her breath caught. She wanted to move, to ask what this was, why it felt like prayer and sin at once, but the heat of Claire’s mouth on her skin silenced her.
When Claire finally pulled back, her eyes were glassy with emotion. Her voice barely broke the silence. “You’re beautiful,” she said again.
“You don’t mean that.”
Claire smiled teasingly. “I’m a nun,” she said. “I’m not allowed to lie.”
Something inside Mirela broke open. Her hand slid from Claire’s cheek to her waist, holding her close.
Claire’s breath trembled as she leaned forward, her eyes flicking from Mirela’s mouth to her eyes, and back again.
Mirela didn’t move, scared that she might ruin whatever was about to happen, scared that Claire might truly see something wrong with her and run away.
But instead, Claire leaned closer, her hands now softly gripping the hairs on the base of her head, her breath warm against her face.
She moved closer, close enough for Mirela to see all the details about her face, her eyebrows, the line at her mouth, the shape of her nose, the way her eyelids closed before she moved even closer…
“Do you want to kiss me?”
Mirela had not realized she had been staring at Claire’s mouth until the question pulled her back into herself—entranced by the way her lips curved and parted when she spoke, by their soft, inviting color. Mirela wanted to kiss her so badly it physically hurt. And yet the desire tangled with fear.
Claire deserved grace and confidence. She deserved someone who knew how to touch her, how to kiss her, how to make her feel wanted. Not a woman who trembled at the thought of doing it wrong.
“Mirela?”
“Yes,” she blurted before doubt could swallow the moment. Her hand found the curve of Claire’s waist. “I do. I want to kiss you.”
Claire’s smile widened. “Then what are you waiting for?”
Courage. Permission. Or she was waiting for the right moment? Mirela didn’t know. She only knew she could not wait any longer.
She barely noticed when Claire’s hand slid into her hair, drawing her closer.
“I want to kiss you too,” Claire murmured, moving in over her until their lips touched.