Chapter 18
Eighteen
Belonging
When the two slipped into the cart waiting for them beneath the waning sun, Oste set his hand atop Dorotèa’s thigh. She looked errantly off into the distant orange glow of the sky, which deserved to be painted so many times over in the brightest shades of vermilion.
“It would have been faster to walk to your place,” Dorotèa murmured. “It’s just two blocks over.”
“It’s tradition.” Oste patted her. “Besides, we’re not going there.”
She tilted her head at him. “We’re not?”
He shook his. “But it’ll still be quick.”
The wedding cart rolled out, not west towards the university grounds but north, straight out the Bourg Gate that was visible from Saint-Sauveur.
It was there that he’d met his fate those months ago, but Oste wasn’t thinking about that while he found himself distracted by his bride’s perplexed innocence.
She glanced around, evidently too stubborn to ask him to reveal what he meant, but not following what the meaning was.
He allowed himself some pride in this. It prickled the sides of his mouth and bid him hold fast to a weak smile, even though the lingering throb of shame and unease broiled under his skin ever since Flassans wandered in and reminded him of everything he was and wasn’t.
He was glad this part had been planned weeks ago, because sitting back and enjoying the ride was exactly what he felt he needed.
He could hardly hold a coherent thought now.
The cart rolled up the hills just north of the Gate but turned due west before they could go towards the H?pital Saint-Jacques.
The northern crags and Bourg-adjacent property prices made the open stretch more sparsely settled compared to the parcels of land outside the Cordeliers Gate, so the sweet little estate they rolled up to but twenty minutes later was easily missed on account of how much it blurred into the rest of the landscape.
The property was still every bit shaped by Provencal ruggedness; the previous owner had undoubtedly done scant work on it, and there hadn’t been enough time to remedy that since it changed hands to Oste Lézin.
The old trees were as gnarled as the dirt road and shrubs leading up to the two-story mas home facing the city to evade the mistral wind.
The rough-hewn stones glowed in shades of yellow and pink, which matched both the dried-up fountain in front and the nearby small barn where four grey Camargue horses grazed on the overgrown grass.
It needed a lot of work, but good things usually did.
Oste wasn’t looking at the property, but at Dorotèa’s expression when everything started to fall into place.
Her creased forehead eventually contorted to tightness in new places when her brows stretched up to match her wide-eyed processing.
Her movements grew sharper, and every detail made her jerk her head around and bounce just a little more in her seat.
“Excuse me?” Dorotèa squeaked when the cart rolled to a halt in front of the mas. “Oste Lézin, did you…?”
He jumped out and came around to the other side where he offered his hand. “I don’t have to pay taxes on it.”
She followed out. “Oh, well, very good, that.”
“Thanks,” Oste told the driver and waved. The sharply dressed man returned the gesture, then coaxed the horses around the fountain to begin their way back.
It left the two alone in front of the house that was perhaps not yet a home. Oste bit his lower lip and looked down at his hands. He opened them, closed them, and then dug his fingernails into his palms. The little bit of magic was already drifting away.
“What is it?” Dorotèa asked.
“It’s custom to carry you into the house,” he admitted quietly. “It’s just… my arm, I haven’t tried to see if I could—”
Dorotèa eyed him blankly for only another second before she snatched up his hand and pulled him towards the door.
He choked out a breath but did not succumb to fleeing from her.
When she placed his body right in front of the door, he reluctantly pulled out the key and opened it.
There was no time to dwell on it; she pulled him right on in again.
“Where’s the bedroom, Oste?” she asked while scanning the lightly furnished hall. Their families had covered the floor with flower petals.
The bedroom. Oste felt flushed again. “I—If you follow the wild roses…”
She did. Dorotèa tracked them like a bloodhound until she sniffed out the master bedroom, which was much better off than the other chambers.
It was full and downright comfortable, courtesy of Jeanne and Eflamm’s gift of carpentry…
and artistry. Across from the large bed draped in dark green blankets hung a sizable portrait of the two of them in front of Saint-Sauveur, hands joined, in the very same attire that had been created for the occasion.
The sky behind them burned vermilion as though Eflamm had scried into this exact moment in the future and framed the marvelous work in the same shade as the parcel sitting on the table underneath, right alongside a water pitcher and fruit.
Dorotèa’s eyes flashed like she recognized it, but Oste knew nothing of the little package being brought along when the furniture gifts were brought inside.
“Do you think he slept at all in order to finish that in time?” Dorotèa asked. She had diverted her gaze again to the painting.
“Probably not,” Oste admitted, then pulled off his shoes and sat unceremoniously on the side of the bed.
Dorotèa, alternatively, flopped onto it like a dying eel. She rolled onto her side and drew circles on his firm thigh with her index finger. “You’re troubled.”
“No, I… It’s a lot to take in.”
“It is.”
“I want to be good enough for you.”
She smiled sadly. “You are. This place is perfect. The day was… well, it was nearly perfect.”
“That’s the rub,” he admitted. “I want this part to be perfect too.”
“Let’s… not go for perfect.” Dorotèa slowed her circles and met his eyes. She propped her head up with her other arm. “Let’s go for comfortable.”
He pressed his lips together. “Comfortable?”
“That’s what Jeanne said. Because I—I’ve been very nervous too. I had a whole plan, which, ah, I think will be more of a partial plan at this point. I know everything we’ve said to each other, and promised, it’s just—I don’t know why this part has had me all tied up even though I want it.”
Oste looked up at the ceiling. “Well, anatomically speaking—”
“Oh, God.”
“—naked bodies are extremely vulnerable. You have no protection, and you’re expected to trust your partner fully. It’s resisting one instinctive behavior in favor of another. You put yourself at another’s mercy in exchange for pleasure—procreation and pleasure.”
“Mmh,” she answered in a low, drawn-out voice. “I see, Docteur Lézin.”
He swallowed. “And emotionally speaking, you’re still vulnerable, because there’s that question of trust. You’re reduced to raw parts. You expose exactly what you are, and invite someone else to like it or not. They might not. They might be disappointed.”
“Well, you’ve brought logic into the bedroom,” Dorotèa sighed. “I married a physician. I ought to have known.”
“Someone different told me to be nothing less than honest for all this,” he continued. “I will be. I do still want this.”
“I will be too.”
“That’s good,” he said on an exhale. “And you can tell me to stop at any point—”
“You can as well,” Dorotèa hummed, then bounced to her feet and sprang away from the bed. She darted to the table and scooped up the parcel.
Oste’s brow shot up. “I know you haven’t had a decent go of this, so count on me to take it easy. I want it to be able to be a good thing for—oh, putain! Fuck!”
Dorotèa shook free the shapely ivory appendage and let the box fall away.
She balanced it between two fingers on each side while she slowly allowed her eyelids to lower with the same intensity she’d conjure before their spars.
Electric heat didn’t just fill him, but struck him as viciously as lightning did the top spire of Saint-Sauveur.
He hobbled to his feet and drifted over to her like a ghost. There was no mistaking what that was, and what she might have intended to do with it.
In only a moment she’d peeled back every layer he possessed and filled the dread he kept there with the haunting notion of being seen, and feeling better for it.
He fell in love with her all over again.
Oste narrowed his eyes. The mistral had come and blown the doors wide open for all he knew; wanting her came like a violent epiphany. He’d had no chance to still his sudden throngs of desire, and he’d not have wanted to.
He took the ivory piece out of her hands and tossed it onto the bed.
Dorotèa gasped, and he caught her bottom lip with his thumb.
He liked that sound. He wanted to hear it again and again.
She shivered, then, when he closed the gap and pressed his warm bulk against her own.
Her body repeated its response when he plunged towards her neck and kissed the flush beneath her necklace.
“Oste…” she choked, arms thrown around his neck. He backed her against the wall and kissed harder. “I have to know…”
He grunted in response.
“Can you feel your beard?” Dorotèa mused. “I’ve wondered this for a while, actually, because I definitely feel it when I—”
“Ridiculous girl,” Oste scoffed, and silenced any further questions when he unworked the fastenings of her dress and kissed the tops of her breasts. Feel this, he thought, and she made a high-pitched noise of shock. Surprise was a delight to witness from a woman so fearless.
“Knave,” Dorotèa hissed just after, then sent kisses from his lips to jaw.