15. Astraea #3
Kyros wipes his tunic across his sweat-slick chest and stomach.
The muscles bunch and flex, catching the dwindling sun.
He folds the fabric neatly before wiping his face, and the slight smirk lingers at his lips.
Even though I know it's another deflection, I can’t look away.
I’m stunned into silence by him just being.
He keeps his gaze on me as if demanding that I not look away.
I'm drawn in by everything about him: his body, his words, and most of all his eyes.
The dark window into his soul, where his pain beckons to my own.
The fire inside me seems to swell at the thought of comforting him.
I think if I fought it, I would combust right where I stand. I may already be on fire.
“Your eyes always give you away.” Kyros says, and I blink out of my trance.
“I—what?” I ask, as I nearly have to roll my tongue back into my mouth. A half grin pulls at the corner of his mouth. It’s more Mavros than I have ever seen him look. Although they are twins, they are incredibly different.
“You hyperfixate on what you are thinking about with your eyes.”
“Something I need to work on, clearly.” I say as my cheeks rush with blood.
I look away from him quickly. Sheathing my blades at my ribs, I run the back of my hand across my forehead and begin pulling my hair back into a braid over my shoulder.
I would do anything for a bath right now.
Kyros turns toward the dweller's cottage.
“Regardless, you did good today, Shula. You turned the frustrations you were feeling into your advantage. You have to remember your opponent, though. They will always be looking for your weakness. For you, that’s your eyes. They show everything.”
“And what is yours?” I ask, almost reflexively.
He freezes there, rigid and suddenly uncomfortable with the line of questioning.
He turns his head, looking at me over his shoulder.
His eyes darken as his brows drop lower on his face, but the way his stare dances over my face, lingering on my lips and then sinking back into my eyes…
“I used to think I didn't have one, but now I'm not so sure.”
For the remainder of the time we are out in the woods, I avoid any eye contact at all. To which, I think, Kyros is very aware. His brooding has become very loud in his silence, as the words he didn't say linger in my thoughts and I contemplate what they could mean.
As exhausted as I am, I push my aching limbs to make the short trek without much resistance.
By the time we see the cabin, the sun is low in the sky.
A swirl of white smoke curls through the air and wafts a plethora of scents out toward us.
Just before we reach the edge clearing where the cabin resides, I stumble on uneven ground.
Kyros stops me from falling with a hand wrapped around my wrist; his other presses firmly into the small of my back.
“Sorry, just tired.” I half laugh, half choke as I clear my throat. Pulling out of his hold, I begin back toward the cottage. He reaches out once again, circling my wrist with his hand and tugging lightly at my arm.
“Wait,” his voice is rough as he pleads and pulls me into him.
His hand wraps around my body possessively, his fingers wrapping around my hip.
I should look away, pull away, push him, but I don’t do any of those things.
I am just as he said, hyperfixated on what I want.
His tongue juts out, wetting his bottom lip, and the combined movements makes my throat dry.
Both of his hands are now resting on my hips.
His fingers dig into the bone as he walks me back toward the nearest tree.
“Kyros,” I try to protest, but my voice betrays me as my eyes lock onto his glistening bottom lip.
He lifts me. My arms shoot around his wide shoulders, and my fingers dig into the tight muscles as I brace myself on them for support.
He never did put his tunic back on. My hands on his bare skin feel scorching to the touch, but I keep them planted firmly, and I screech.
His mouth pulls taut into a small smile before he takes another step.
The low branch of the tree he sits me on brings me to eye level with him, and he nestles into the space between my knees.
“Shula,” Kyros says in a mocking tone. His overwhelming eye contact urges me to wrap my legs fully around him, pulling him into my body.
I don’t have to, though. He steps in even closer.
His body heat urges the warmth in my core.
His eyes bounce between each of mine, then down to my lips and back again.
He opens his mouth, the words he wishes to speak nearly ready to tumble out.
I feel the weight of whatever it is he is about to say in his eyes.
I want to look away, but I’m done running.
Maybe he’s right. Maybe sometimes the risk isn't all you think it is, but what you gain really does become everything…
I will face my fears in this life, because what good ever comes from keeping company with one's qualms?