Chapter 12 #3
I want to kiss her, but if I do, if I do, then I have the sudden fear that I will not be able to ever think straight again.
That she will become the center of my attention, her well-being and safety my every obsession, and I am not sure that this is what she deserves.
To have a beast shadowing her, wanting to hold her in a cage made of my arms and mind, tearing her away from her life, wanting to sew back her wounds myself, wanting to hide her in my mansion, far from her family.
My lips find her temple, and I press a kiss there, as gently as I can, right on her skin, so translucent there’s blue pathways pulsing underneath, her long hair begging to be held tightly in my hands.
Had she left now, I would have let her. But she melts at the touch of my lips, a slight hum made of air escaping her mouth.
How will I ever go back to feeling nothing but the excitement of fighting opponents and buying firms?
How will I ever go back to thinking nonstop about work, legacy, and vengeance?
How does one live after tasting the forbidden fruit of affection and being offered an angel to care for?
Does one walk away?
Or…
Does one…trap the angel?
Ella
I have never been kissed in my life. That is to say, by a man.
A real one with a voice that seems to have lived a hundred lives, hands that could decide to hurt or protect, an aura that could lead or destroy.
My parents used to kiss me on the cheek.
My stepsisters would blow me kisses alongside mocking gestures.
And Mara, Mara would make the sound, a tight smack of her red lips, far away from me, after an order, a remark, that little snap of her mouth pressing against itself, as if mocking the irony of softness.
Why did Tristan have to do that? What will I do now that I have tasted care and attention?
How many more nights will I hide under my bed, holding my ribs, hugging myself, soothing the broken parts of me no one wants to love?
Fighting back tears, I boldly rest a hand on his chest and push him away, the motion unnatural, forced, even if I remain gentle. He frowns.
“Please accept my apologies. I didn’t mean to startle you,” he delivers quickly, running a hand through his perfectly disheveled short brown hair.
“You’re too kind,” I sign.
“Is there such a thing as too kind?” he signs back, the dark hallway making me lack air.
“I think this is a mistake,” I sign, shaking my head and looking back at the closed door.
“You said you trusted me. Just give me two minutes. Please.” He bores his eyes into mine as if I am the biggest contract of his career.
“Okay,” I breathe out as he takes my hand again and leads me to a set of stairs at the end of the hallway.
We climb three of them until we pass a large door opening onto a massive room, surely the archives of the library.
There is a young man behind a counter, looking like a student with round spectacles, cherub cheeks, and mid-length hair.
“Tristan Ashford. I called this morning,” Tristan announces. The guy looks up from his sci-fi book and jerks back.
“Right, right, it’s ready, gimme a,” he chews, “minute,” then stands awkwardly, brushing crumbs from his thighs.
“This way, sir.” He opens the Dutch door next to him as Tristan holds my hand tighter.
No one has ever done that before, and it feels like…
like he wants me close to him, to actively be there.
“Like I told you…” the young archivist says, “it’s in perfect condition.
I’m talking state-of-the-art, no dust, no mold, like, epic, you know?
And no one is allowed to borrow it. We even had a museum in England try to get it for an exhibition last year, but Direction said no.
Too precious to travel. We’ve displayed them under a glass case, so…
yeah, you won’t be able to touch them. Alfie, our conservator, said they could just as easily turn into dust ‘cause the storage conditions weren’t that good before they came here.
” We pass by several high shelves, all holding leather-bound books, thick encyclopedias, treasures smelling of old wood.
We keep going through this beautiful maze until we reach an area where shelves surround a large table illuminated by neon light, a glass cover resting over it.
“Right here,” the guy says. “Never been shown to the public. I think it’s one of those rare things you only get to see when you’re working here. Kind of cool…” He trails off, hands in his pockets.
“Thank you,” Tristan says, and I catch him giving something from his pocket to the guy. Is he tipping him so I can see this?
“Wow, thanks, that’s, yeah, thanks,” the archivist repeats, adding air to his cheeks as if the tip is too good to be true. “Take your time. I’ll wait over there, uh…” and disappears in the direction we came from.
“Come here,” Tristan calls, his tone low and rich, making me wish I could be woken by his voice every day.
“What is it?” I let go of his hand to sign. Coming closer to the table, I take in the treasure he brought us to see.
“It’s a collection, Ella. Letters exchanged between a woman named Eleanor and her lover, Thomas. They were written in 1670.”
Am I dreaming? This cannot be real. Tristan did not bring me here, into the archives of this library, to show me a treasure he took the time and effort to find for…
me. I blink hard, twice, but the same room remains around me.
Definitely not a dream. I glance at him, his eyes shining with a spark, a confidence in the way he points at the sepia shade letters, showing interest in something he normally never would, since this is not chess, or historical wars and battles related, or any of the things he seems to truly enjoy.
Yet he seems connected to these people, as if they are part of our story.
I want to stop time and write it down, so that I will always know the exact minute I fell in love with him.
Right now. In this dusty place, with his presence around me feeling like a cloak of safety and love and recognition melted together. He brought me here, because he sees me.
“You okay?” he murmurs with a quick frown, and I have to pick my jaw up and offer a short nod, trying to ignore the drums in my heart playing at full magnitude.
My index finger roams over the glass, above the dozen pieces of paper and ribbons holding stacks of letters, some closed, some open for us to see.
The writing is round and elegant and other times tighter, harder.
Nevertheless, there is an urgency to it, and my heart hears them, the endearments written in ink above each letter.
To my dear Eleanor.
To my Thomas.
“She was his maid,” he states, a hint of pain tugging at his strings, “and he was a noble Englishman. They had to flee the country to be together, turning their back on their lives, all they’ve ever known.
Rules, customs. If you look closely, you’ll see they wrote about it, about fleeing together, about her being beaten by her family and him trying to help her in any way he could.
I thought, given that you’re studying English literature, perhaps you would be sensitive to this, given…
” His jaw clenches, and he signs, “Us.” The word holds its breath in the air.
“Tristan,” I say silently, a tear rolling down my cheek, fireworks detonating in my heart.
He wanted to show me something meaningful.
To me. About our story. About what we could be.
“Thank you, I…I love it. I’m…” Speechless, unable to process the amount of care and research he took into bringing me here.
“Ella, I need you to understand.” His hand finds my arm, both of us too close to ignore the evidence of fate.
“I…can’t,” I sign, trying to convince myself.
“Why?”
“You’re a businessman.” I wave at his suit. “A rich one. And I’m, like her, just a maid.” He shakes his head, as if annoyed by this description of me.
“I’m a man, and you’re a woman.”
“I…I really appreciate you bringing me here, but please. Don’t do that. Don’t act like this doesn’t exist.” Our differences are as big as mountains. It may be okay for us, but what would his family say?
“Look at me.” He catches my chin gently, forcing my gaze back to his. “Right now, right here, I’m just Tristan.”
“But…”
“No but. Tell me you don’t feel something when we are in the same room, and I will back away.
Tell me I am making this up, that I do not make you blush every time I set my eyes on you, that the second we are apart, there is not this particular pain inside us until we see each other again.
Tell me I am the only one who has trapped you inside my mind, and I will go away.
Tell me we have nothing to do with them,” he murmurs, pointing at the letters, pain slipping from his cracked voice, “and I will walk away.” His hands have found a home on the side of my waist as mine hesitantly rise to his chest, laying a claim I have no right to.