Page 38 of On the Mountain

We said our goodbyes, and then I sat there for hours, waiting for Crow.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Crow

I couldn’t stop painting and drawing. I hadn’t done it at all since I’d brought Cyrus home, unable to leave him alone and definitely unwilling to share this part of myself with him. When I was young, Chosen had told me that my “doodling” was a foolish endeavor, a waste of precious time. I needed to be proving myself, bettering myself, standing out from the others in The Enlightened because if The Chosen’s son wasn’t worthy, it would reflect poorly on him. So I’d always done my best to work harder, worship harder, take pain better and more often than anyone else to make him proud. It had never been enough.

I brushed my finger over where I’d drawn the arch of Cyrus’s back, as if it was the same as truly touching him. I craved his skin beneath me all the time, yearned for it in a way that was unhealthy and Chosen would have tried to beat out of me. It was okay to fuck because that’s what men did, but the need I felt for Cyrus would have been a sin because we weren’t supposed to put anyone or anything over our love and devotion to Chosen and God.

I slept with Cyrus.

My guard was always up, of course. Had he moved from beside me, I would have woken. I’d learned to stay alert because sometimes Chosen would perform drills while we slept. Chosen and his handpicked elders would sneak into our rooms, test us. Take us to the Clarity room, which was where they inflicted pain or did a mock drill of outsiders coming to attack our compound so we could show how we would defend our Chosen.

He was first. Always first.

My pulse accelerated, so I concentrated on the curve of Cyrus’s ass, the way I’d drawn his cheeks open for me to take him.

The way he gave himself to me…there was nothing like it.

I worked until it was almost time to start dinner. I’d needed to draw even though it was hard to leave him alone for that long.

After cleaning and putting my supplies away, I locked the room and returned to the house. When I walked inside, I immediately smelled him. The sweet scent that always clung to his skin filled my home, and that made something inside me rumble.

I took off my coat, then went to the couch where Cyrus was curled into a ball, sleeping. His face was flushed slightly, which made his freckles pop against his skin. His hair was messy, sleep rumpled. He looked so content, like he was able to shed while he slept all the hurt and bad things that happened to him. I watched him breathe for a moment, studied each and every freckle that danced across his nose and cheekbones, mapped out a route on his pretty face that only I would know.

My eye caught on the purple mark on his neck, the one I’d put there with my mouth, staking my claim on him. Seeing it made my chest puff out, made me feel like the king of this mountain.

I didn’t know how he could do this, how he could sleep through my coming inside and standing over him this way. I yearned to touch him but didn’t want to disturb him, so I made my way into the kitchen as quietly as possible to prepare dinner.

Though it was better when I started the sauce early and let it simmer all day, I decided to make spaghetti. I put the sauce on first, adding all my favorite spices before chopping fresh garlic from my garden to add.

I was about to start the meatballs, when I heard Cyrus stir on the couch.

“You’re here,” he said softly.

Where else would I be? But then, I’d walked out on him again, hadn’t told him what I was doing, and was gone for over ten hours. “I’m sorry,” I said, wanting to find a way to continue to give him more words because Cyrus deserved them.

He got off the couch and walked over. “You don’t need to be sorry. You told me you had something to do, and you did it.”

I signaled for him to sit on the stool.

“Spaghetti?” he asked.

“Yes. Do you like it?”

“I do. Like I said, I’ll eat just about anything. When you don’t always know where your next meal is coming from, you learn not to be picky.”

Tell him. Give him a piece of yourself.

Without looking at him, I said, “I would be denied food sometimes.”

Cyrus inhaled sharply, likely surprised by what I was giving him. I was too. Blood rushed through me, my ears sounding echoey.

“I was expected to be strong.”

“How does that make you stronger? You need sustenance.”

“Mentally.” When he opened his mouth, I shook my head.