51. Elhyor
51
Elhyor
A ngélique is acting weird, even weirder than she usually does, and I’m not sure what I should think about it.
After that kiss at the wedding, and the one during the game, I thought that maybe she had felt something. Even just a spark, when I’m boiling inside with an untamed inferno, would do.
But instead, she told me twelve hours ago that I needn’t to wait for her on our fucking wedding night and disappeared into Notre Dame’s belly.
I didn’t want us to have sex. Hell, I didn’t want to even have to share a bed. That’s what I keep repeating to myself, so why is it making me so mad that she barely acknowledged our wedding?
Liar.
I know why. I know exactly why, and that’s the same reason I’m lying to myself when I say I don’t want her in my bed.
It’s easier to say I don’t want her close to me, or that I don’t want her at all. It’s easier because, if I acknowledge it, I would have to acknowledge that those kisses fundamentally changed me.
It’s not just the dragon’s instincts that crave contact, that crave for her skin. No, I tasted her lips, and now I want to taste her skin. I want to taste her in the most intimate way. I want to make her moan. I want to own her moans like I want to own her body. Because, even if she doesn’t know it yet, even if she thinks this wedding is nothing but one of convenience, she’s purely and utterly… mine.
I also know that she isn’t ready to hear any of that.
From what I overheard when her father tried to single her out, he still wants something from her, and I believe that’s why her best friend is currently nursing a hangover. Everything points to his brain being fried by tonight, and it’s why my bride is hiding in the archives.
If I had to bet, I’d say that she’s probably trying to find a way to kill me, I think as I make my way down the stairs leading to the archives.
Everything is quiet when I arrive. Nothing can be heard; not even the sound of pages being turned.
As I turn the first row of shelves and walk in the direction of the oldest books at the back of the archives, I hear a sound beside my own steps.
It’s a soft breathing. I follow the sound until I finally find my wife, asleep amongst the stacks.
On each side of the nook where she decided to do her research, there are shelves filled with ancient books about everything—and nothing. Angélique is sitting on the ground, her head propped against one of the shelves. One book is on her lap and a dozen others on each of her sides. She’s sitting cross-legged, and her dark wedding dress has bunched around her hips, leaving her legs bare and giving me an unobstructed view.
I should leave. I shouldn’t even look, but I’m transfixed by the sight, and my earlier thoughts come back to haunt me, making me want to trace the lines made by her scars with my fingers, my lips, and my tongue.
She looks so soft and so young like this, with her shoes discarded next to her.
She also looks serene, and it pains me to realize this is the first time I’ve seen that emotion on her face.
She always looks so guarded, so on edge and so controlled. I know she thinks she is sassy when she answers me, but I’ve seen her open her mouth to say something and stop herself more than once. I’ve seen her interact with her father, even if just a moment, and yes, she is guarded, but she always has a good reason for it.
This—seeing her this way—feels like an intrusion, too intimate, and I know I should leave her here, but I’m greedy. I haven’t been able to look my fill of her since she arrived. First, because of my own stupidity, wanting to avoid her, and second, believing I could live without her.
Now I know, and I have a feeling I still won’t get enough time with my wife.
I should get her up to bed. If she sleeps, there is less of a chance that she could find a means to kill me that would work this time.
I should, but instead, I collect the books that are on her left side and put them a bit further away as I sit right next to her, my head against the shelves like her.
It’s not comfortable. Not at all. And I wonder how she managed to fall asleep just like that. It takes a certain ability to be able to fall asleep in the most uncomfortable positions, and I don’t think I’ll ever get that one.
Slowly, I remove the book that is on her lap and put it on top of the ones I just moved.
Angélique stirs a bit, but she doesn’t wake.
She surprises me, though, because, without the book in hand, she turns a bit on her side and grabs my arm inside of hers, as if I was her very own plushie, and then she settles over my shoulder.
I should have left, yes, but now there is no way in hell I will do it. It’s not much, but the fact that she turned to me unconsciously feels like more than I ever deserved.
It hits me right in the middle of my chest—there is nothing I wouldn’t do for that woman.
And suddenly, I think I understand my father, because my wife might not love me, and I might not be there yet, either, but there’s something inside of me that makes that stupid thing that beats in my chest louder and stronger.
I might not love my wife yet, but I’d pluck the moon from the sky for her if she asked me.
I circle my right arm around her and bring her closer to me.
I’m gonna stay here with her for a little while.
Life can wait until tonight, I think to myself as I deposit the softest kiss on the side of her head.
Her hair has started to grow a bit, and I wonder if she would let it grow long if given the choice.
I’m startled when Angélique jumps from where we were on the ground and points a dagger at me with eyes wide open.
“What are you doing here?” she asks.