Page 38 of Cardinal House
Her hands find my biceps, long fingers smoothing up my arms, curling over my bare shoulders, she buries her face against my chest, nuzzling over my heart.
“I woke up and couldn’t find you.” Her breath feathers over my skin, goosebumps rippling across my flesh, my nipples pebbling. “I thought you left.”
She trembles against me, nothing but one of my t-shirt’s covering her body. It drapes over her like a tent, slipping off one shoulder, exposing the milky skin wrapped over the slope of her neck.
“I told you,” I exhale slowly, dragging in a deep lungful of her as I dip my nose to the crown of her head, my hands sliding up her back, “I’m never going to leave you, Luna.”
She exhales at that, her entire trembling body slumping against me, allowing me to draw her in closer, mould her body into the curl of mine as I arch over her, scooping her up into my arms bridal style.
Her legs hang limply over the crook of my elbow, crossing at the ankles, heels of her feet bumping against my outer thigh as I turn with her in my arms back to the open door. My feet move us towards the porch, the moonlight casting us in its glow, and I carry her back to where I was sitting, setting her in the wide rocking chair, placing myself on the floor at her feet.
“Were you smoking?” Luna asks me quietly, her voice never much more than a whisper.
A shiver works through her that I feel run down my spinal cord and into my coccyx where her shins press against my spine.
“I was,” I tilt my head back, letting it rest against the cap of her knee.
“It doesn’t smell…” she lifts her eyes from mine, staring off into the distance with a small frown.
“It doesn’t smell what, Luna?” I respond just as quietly.
I’ve been doing this all week, encouraging her, in these small moments where she offers me up something unfinished, like she’s remembering something but isn’t sure, to give me her full thought. And she struggles with it, as though that’s not something she’s ever been able to do before.
I had Thorne send me over everything he could find on her. Parents, home life, schooling, friends. Alarm bells screamed inside my head when I received the final report. It was only a page and a half long, and the home address was wrong. Raine is the better tech guy, but he’s still at Magpie Manor with Arrow doing only the devil knows what, so perhaps he will be able to find out more once he comes home. Until then, I only know what I did already, her name’s Luna Beaumont and she works at the hospital.
“Putrid,” she finishes wrinkling her nose.
A laugh barks out of me at that, my head knocking back into her bony knees, “And what does it smell like?” I ask curiously, watching the scrunch of her face melt away as her eyes once again find mine.
“Nice.”
“Nice?” I smile up at her. “You think weed smells nice?” I raise a brow, my smile curling my mouth.
She looks at me in that way that only Luna can, her expression blank, her eyes wide, but it tells me so many things, “Yes, better than cigars.”
Cigars.
“You smoke many of those in your time, baby girl?” I keep smiling wide, watching as she shudders at the endearment, but it feels false quickly, watching her eyes drop from mine, to her hands in her lap, like that statement means more to her than either her or I know.
“No,” she says blandly. Slowly, her eyes draw back to mine, lifted beneath heavy black lashes, she tucks a strand of inky hair behind her ear, “I don’t think so. I don’t think I know how.”
I lick my lips, reaching into my pocket, I pull the tin of ready-rolled joints out, flipping the lid and removing one. I look back up at her, gesturing with my head for her to come closer. She puts her bare feet onto the floor, my t-shirt slipping off of her slim shoulder further as she rests her hand against the back of my neck, climbing around to move in front of me.
Luna stands over me, the moon at her back, washing her alabaster skin in a silver-grey. It makes her appear ghoulish, a spectre, the moon a halo around her head. She stares down at me, the long expanse of her legs seemingly stretching on for days. The bruises are still deep. Dark purple and splotchy green, red-strawberry spots bleeding beneath the skin, but since the mockery of a second blood transfusion, my blood type fortunately O-Negative, she’s been doing okay. Better.
“Come here, Luna,” she looks down at my lap, eyes dragging up my bare chest, finally settling on my own. “Climb into my lap.”
She doesn’t hesitate, but her movements are slow, her body still achy, her hands, in particular, still tender. Fingers taped on each hand, bound together, immobilised to heal a broken knuckle on each fist.
Guiding her down, my calloused hands rough against the silky expanse of her thighs, she settles over my lap. Tightening herself close, threading her arms beneath my own, curling them around my ribs, fingers knotting in the centre of my spine.
She breathes me in deeply, her breasts brushing my chest through the thin cotton, and that’s when I feel it. Trying hard not to freeze as she squirms even closer, settling, but I know she feels when I lock up. The hot, hot heat of her cunt singes against my lower abs, bare against my skin.
“Luna.”
“I’m sorry,” she whispers, attempting to pull back from me, withdrawing into herself, shrinking and withering and dying.
“Do you not-” I lick my lips, trying not to be nervous around her about these little things she does unconsciously, so far, I haven’t liked any of them because of the meaning behind them. “Do you not feel comfortable wearing knickers?”