Chapter 22 – “Unknown / Nth” - Hozier
VIOLET
“UNKNOWN / NTH” - HOZIER
The bathroom is dimly lit by candles and the glow of her laptop where it plays what I instantly recognize as Season Four of Real Housewives of Beverly Hills. I’ve rewatched it with her so many times it’s now impossible for me to miss the two women fighting back and forth about hexing one another.
Elena’s head is tilted back against the pillow, a washcloth covering her eyes. She didn’t answer my question earlier, and I knew she wouldn’t. She simply stared at me with quiet trepidation until I finally left the bathroom and went to get her things ready.
Now, candlelight flickers against her golden skin, casting a soft glow over the moisture glistening on her chest. She’s still mostly covered by bubbles, but they’ve diminished enough that I can make out the two peaks of her pierced, honey-colored nipples.
My fingers tighten around the fabric of her robe with a sudden itch to sketch her like this. Her body is a masterpiece, meant to be re-created through multitudes of mediums, forever immortalized. She’s the kind of beauty that should be remembered. Studied. Cherished. She’s art.
It’s been years since I’ve allowed myself to draw her, and the way it hits me as I watch her in this light is enough to knock me off my feet.
I must have made a sound, because she’s suddenly sitting up, the cloth falling off her face and into the palm of her hand. Her head whips sideways, eyes meeting mine.
“Hi.” She blinks.
“Sor… Sorry,” I stutter, realizing how fucking weird I must look, being caught staring at her like this. She smiles knowingly, and heat crawls up my neck. “I grabbed your fuzzy robe from your bathroom and warmed it up in the dryer for you.”
“Thank you, Augustus.” She grips the sides of the tub, pulling herself from the water.
I’m dumbfounded, slack-jawed, struck stupid, as she rises. Water sluices off her perfect body in thick rivulets, cascading over her flawless, smooth, golden skin. Thick suds of bubbles slide down her thigh, over the serpent tattoo that wraps around it.
I love that tattoo. I love her thighs. Fuck. I’m hard.
A bead of water rolls between her perky, hard tits, dripping down her stomach like the stars I inked on her sternum years ago. I’m fighting the urge to fall to my knees and crawl to her. Beg to lick every drop off her body, until I’m the only cause of her wetness.
What does it say about me that I’m jealous of the fucking water? I’m disgustingly envious of every drop that runs down her skin, wishing it were my hands instead.
She steps out of the tub, and I’m damn near panting when my eyes get stuck on her pussy, almost as if I can feel it flooding my senses.
Her taste, the way she smells, how it feels when she’s clenching around my fingers and my tongue.
I involuntarily lick my lips at the sight of the ruthless temptation.
“Augustus?” Her sultry voice has my eyes snapping to her face. She flashes me the sly smile that makes my goddamn knees buckle. “My robe?”
“Sorry,” I breathe, holding it open.
She turns around, and I bite my tongue to keep from groaning at the view of her perfect ass as she slides her arms through each of the sleeves, and I let the fabric slip from my hands and onto her shoulders.
I’ve seen her struggle with PMDD for years.
I remember her periods being bad in middle and high school, worse than they seemed to be for other girls.
She battled with the pressure of being judged—told she was faking the severity of her symptoms for attention, or to get out of gym class.
Not just by other students, but by teachers too.
I knew her better, though. I could see how much pain she was in, even back then.
In her early twenties, it got worse. The symptoms started weeks before her period and lasted long after. They were paired with anxiety attacks and mood swings. She’d sometimes go days without leaving her bedroom. She wouldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t focus on her writing.
Her flare-ups would sometimes coincide with her on-again, off-again relationship with my brother, and he loved to use words like crazy and insane and too-fucking-much. He didn’t believe her either, because she couldn’t understand what was wrong with her, because not every month was the same.
But like always, I knew better. I saw what no one else could.
Elena spins, tightening the robe around her body. Her eyes flutter upward, playful and taunting and such a contrast to the haunted vacancy I found in them earlier. “I like it when you stare, by the way. Feel free to continue doing so.”
She smiles as she steps away from me and back into my bedroom before halting.
I know she’s taking in the made-up bed, overflowing with pillows I brought down from her room.
The television turned on and set to the same episode of Real Housewives she was watching in the bath.
A fresh pair of sweatpants and her favorite crewneck sit folded at the edge of my mattress.
The table on the opposite side of the bed from where I sleep has her e-reader, a fresh mug of tea, and her dinner sitting beside it.
“It’s the red lentil soup from Fred’s deli. I had it delivered. I also made you grilled cheese, and that tea is raspberry leaf. I read it helps with symptoms, but I can make you another cup of chamomile if you don’t like it.
She turns around, brows drawn deeply as her lips cluster at the corner of her mouth. “You said you didn’t want me in your room.”
I take a careful step toward her. “Thought tonight could be an exception.”
I want you right beside me.
She seems to hear the words I don’t speak, causing her eyes to soften.
“I don’t want to be anyone’s charity case, Augustus.”
“You are not my fucking charity case.” I take another step toward her. “You are the only person who doesn’t treat me like I am one myself.”
Her breath hitches as I close the distance between us. “What are we doing here, August? What is all this?”
“You’ve always been my undoing,” I whisper, bringing my hand to her cheek. “Sometimes I fear you may be my detriment.” Her eyes fall closed as I make contact with her soft skin. “But right now, Elena, you are my salvation.”
She exhales a shuddering sigh, leaning into my touch before nodding.
I let my hand drop from her face, sliding down her neck and between her breasts until it lands on the knot of her robe. Making quick work of untying it, the fabric falls open, revealing her flawless body to me. She allows me to take it off her shoulders, her skin now mostly dry.
I dress her, and she watches my every movement with rapt attention. We’re both out of breath by the time she’s covered up, and I know there is a part in each of us that wishes I’d strip her bare again, though tonight isn’t the right time for whatever physical steps we’ll inevitably take next.
Because I wasn’t lying when I said I fear she’ll be my detriment, but I also realize now that there is no force strong enough to keep me from her. Our grandest sins, our deepest pain, our tortured souls—they all resulted in the two of us ending up right back here.
We may destroy one another until we’re both ground to dust, but there’s no doubt we’ll be doing so wrapped in each other’s arms.
“Get in bed, Little Vice,” I murmur as her sweater falls over her body.
She listens, pulling back the sheets as she crawls inside, inching toward her end of the mattress. Her end. A dangerous thought for me to be having.
I press play on the television, folding the covers back over as I sit beside her, propping myself against the headboard. She’s beneath the blankets, and I’m on top of them, though I’m not sure what the point of that is when every boundary I’ve attempted to place between us has been obliterated.
She matches my position, pulling the soup into her lap and swirling half her grilled cheese through it before taking a bite. She moans, and my cock immediately jumps.
Adjusting my position to hide it, I clear my throat before asking, “When I grabbed your laptop, I noticed you had a document open. Are you writing again?”
She cuts me a glare, slowing the movement of her chewing. “I told you weeks ago I was writing.”
“I thought you were lying.” I shrug.
“No.” She sets her sandwich down, covering her mouth as she laughs.
“I never stopped writing. I always find my fingers moving in some capacity. It’s just that everything that comes out of me now is depressing…
or very poorly written.” She sighs. “The things that used to come naturally to me don’t anymore.
I’ll never stop being a writer, but…I don’t think I’m an author anymore.
Maybe I was never meant to be one, and my career was a short-lived fluke… I don’t know.”
“You were,” I rasp, fiercely enough that her head snaps in my direction. “You are meant for it, Elena. Your words are important.”
She offers a forced, closed lip smile and a small lift of her shoulder. “I’ll keep trying, then.”
“That’s all you can do.” I shrug. “Are you feeling better?”
Her smile grows. “Yeah. Physically, at least. My stomach and my head feel better, my muscles are less sore, but my brain…that’s still a mess.
” She snorts. “Although, I’m not so sure that’s from the PMDD.
I used to be able to spot it, you know? I could piece apart when I started to feel…
” She chews her lip as if searching for the right word.
“Crazy, I guess. I knew exactly what was coming, and my anxiety was a tell-tale sign of how bad my symptoms would be that month. But the last few years, I have felt crazy all the time.” She laughs snidely.
“I don’t even really track my cycle anymore.
I’ll start my period and think, oh, so that’s why I was exceptionally insane last week. ”
“What about therapy?” I ask.
Her eyes flash to mine, lip curling before she takes another slow bite of her grilled cheese. “Hard pass.”
I roll my eyes, biting back a laugh. “I swear by it, Elena. It’s done wonders for me, truly.”