32. The Tree of Life
Chapter thirty-two
The Tree of Life
Eoghan
I grabbed my wife and ran her up the stairs to our bedroom, and slammed the door shut. I gently laid her on the bed, before going back to make sure the door was locked. Who knew what my father would do with his temper flared like this?.
He’d take his rage out on someone, and since I had not let him do so with me, he might turn his sights on Kira.
Christ, what had I done? Why had I brought her here?
I knew it would be bad, but I didn't think it would be knife-through-my-hand bad. I slammed my fist on the wood, feeling it give against my knuckles.
He could have hurt my wife, and I would have stood, too frozen to do anything about it. I slammed my fist again, punching the door as I should have punched my father, but did not.
Without a word, I went back to Kira, coming to my knees between hers, and laying my cheek on her lap. She didn’t push me away. Instead, she wrapped her arms around my head, leaning down to plant kisses near my upturned ear, as she ran her fingernails along my scalp.
We stayed there for long minutes, even when we heard the sound of footsteps outside the door. I could always tell Aoibheann’s, because they were as soft as a feather. My father, on the other hand, walked like he was on stilts, and his guards? Well, their heavy, clodding boots always rumbled through the halls at night, as my father had mysterious meetings in his rooms. Meetings I was never privy to.
When the house went quiet, the danger passed, her voice caressed me from above. “Tell me about the sketch of the tree.”
I looked up at her, then followed her gaze. She was staring at a sketch of a Celtic tree with deep roots that stood on the dresser, tucked into the frame of the mirror.
“My mother was obsessed with the Tree of Life,” I said, my eyes blurry with everything that had happened this week. From the high of my wedding, to the abject low of this dinner, I was exhausted.
“It doesn’t look like it belongs as a sketch,” she said idly, her fingers twisting into my hair.
“What do you mean?” I asked, my finger making circles as it traveled up her bare thigh, lazily caressing her skin.
“It should be a sculpture,” she said, her fingers tracing my cheekbone. “Gold, and wire, I think.”
“My mum said the Tree of Life was a symbol of love, connecting roots and wings, the heaven, earth, and hell,” I idly said, feeling the tension from the dinner draining from my body. I was numb.
“I agree with her.”
I faintly felt the caress of a rose-scented hand - a ghost hand. A memory of my mother, as she told me of this image.
“We should make one,” Kira said, her voice pensive and far away. Like a disembodied, angelic call from the heavens that didn’t belong with the likes of me. “Make it a backdrop for our wedding photos.”
I lifted my head quickly, looking at her in question.
“We didn’t get wedding photos, and I’m not saying we do the wedding again,” she looked quite sheepish. “But I would like pictures of us. Me, in my dress, you in your suit, with our rings. Something I could display on my desk at the gallery, to show that I’m… I’m…”
She was still uncomfortable referring to herself as Mrs. Green. I didn’t blame her.
I had rushed this whole thing into fruition, and now I felt like the world was conspiring to pull her from my grasp.
I mentally cataloged what we’d need - miles of gold wire, gold dust, and welding and soldering tools which I knew the property had. I had a vision in my head of what this thing would be, and it tickled me to believe that maybe she had the same thought too.
We should get on it right away…
“Tomorrow, though.” Her voice interrupted my sudden need to go out and find the items to make a piece of art with her, and not just for her. “We need to sleep, Eoghan.”
The wisdom of her words were not lost on me, but I didn’t want to sleep. I wanted to create something beautiful with her. Something to intertwine us, as we both put our names onto something beautiful.
“Tomorrow,” I promised.
“Come to bed.”
She pulled me up onto the sheets, and we lay there, facing one another, holding our hands between us.
“You can tell me anything, you know,” she said, her voice a small whisper.
“You know the same goes for you.”
My wife had secrets. Whatever instinct had made her pull my hand from the table was indicative of a life that wasn’t congruous with just a lapsed artist, and now a curator. There was something more going on.
But I would be patient, as she was. If she could handle the despair caused by my father, then I could give her time to trust me.
I leaned up to kiss her, and she met me halfway.
“I love you,” I whispered against her mouth. “Thank you for saving my hand.”
Her eyes fluttered open. I let my fingers graze down her throat, to the roundness of her full breasts. Her slight inhale helped them meet my hand, and I gasped as they rolled into my palm.
“It would be a shame,” I said in a slight growl, as my eyes followed the movement of my hand to her stomach, “If I could no longer touch you like this.”
She gasped, as my hand reached to the hem of her skirt, pulling it up her round thigh until I could lightly trace her warmth through silk underwear.
“Soaked, my love,” I whispered against her skin. “Let me block out the world and live inside you.”
She moaned, her thighs clenching together in protest, even as I felt the heat from her core meeting my hand. Her hips moved, begging for friction that I was more than eager to serve.
She had saved my hand, and for that, I wanted to give her my undying gratitude, even as I saw the shadow of secrets behind her deep, dark eyes.