A little whine slips from Neva's lips as a warm, stirring touch grazes her cheek.
A low, breathy chuckle breezes past her ear, wavering strands of curls lacing her temple.
Her body shifts slightly as the quilt slips away—and a familiar, heavy caress sweeps beneath her back, a strong arm curling under her thighs to lift her languid body with feather–light ease. Her lashes flutter, slow and heavy, as the mellow, amber light threads through the veil of her dreams.
Her blurry world clears—first the sculpt of his jaw, then the sweet precision of his lips, the tall, elegant bridge of his nose—
until her gaze finds his eyes, rich and deep like melted chocolate and dusk.
He bears her through a reverie half-woven in serene breaths.
"My Angel." Rhett's voice, soft and chasmic, plucks the musical strings deep in her heart.
He lowers her onto the waiting mattress, the cushion yielding beneath her as the warmth of him unfurls over her like dawn.
"Sorry to wake you up," he murmurs, his breath brushing against her skin as his lips graze her forehead.
They linger—gentle, warm, a sweet promise seeping into her—before drifting down to her cheekbone. Then, with a slow, teasing passion claim her lips, stealing her breath—an euphoric feeling rushing through her.
Her hands rise to his chest, lingering over the quick, steady pulse beneath his skin—before she traces the warmth of him upward, fingers tangling in the soft waves of his hair. A soft sigh strays from her, softer than the rose petals feathering the grass, as his lips wander lower—
his tongue tracing the hollow of her throat, tasting the shimmer of heat upon her skin.
Her eyes remain closed as his fingers move to loosen the strings of her nightgown, the soft whisper of fabric slipping from her skin.
A shiver ripples through her, as the dazed weight of his calm hands mold perfectly to her sensitive curves—
like a droplet of rain falling on an emerald lake gardened with white lotus blooms.
A drop of rain quivers a petal, flushing the blossom scarlet.
Ripples thrill across the water as the heavens splatter the scarlet drizzle—a throbbing surge of terror in the blood–red lake, strewn with a grove of bloated, floating bodies with familiar, unfamiliar faces.
The air thickens, the faint sting of metal blended with decay fouling her senses. Nausea numbs a bolt of fire through her nerves.
Her flesh shrinks into her bones,
and her unmoving body sinks—and sinks—and sinks into the bleak abyss of the burning ocean-lake.
A distant voice drifts from nowhere, calling her name.
Gentle pats brush her cheek—leaves flickering down, tender against her skin.
"Angel—"
Her rippling vision threads to those wide, alarm–streaked eyes.
Warm tears gush down her cheeks.
"Are you alright?" Rhett's voice trembles, worry pulling a crease between his brows.
"I—" she gasps, dread strangling her throat.
"Shh..." he breathes, pulling her to his chest.
She trembles in his arms. Her heart is a warning sign, a war-drum pounding against her chest with threatening force.
She cannot find ease in the soothing motion of his hand upon her back, nor in the warmth of him—vanished beneath the crawling images in the dead of her own mind.
Yet he holds her anyway—unhurried, gentle, careful with his touch.
Close and safe, as always.
Her lips quiver, and as the pulse of his frantic heart reaches for hers, she buries her head in his chest, a muffled sob escaping her.
"Shh... it's alright." He presses a kiss to the crown of her head.
"I'm here. I'm always here."
"I'm... I'm sorry," she cries, her heart chipping away at her.
"What are you sorry for?" he whispers, confusion softening his voice.
Her heart tightens, guilt clawing that the same vision that has haunted her all week has once more—intruded upon their passion of closeness.
Her mind frays, gradually unravelling, shreds of her senses slipping through her fingers as fear grows, gnawing at her relentlessly.
"You can have me," she whispers, the words catching in her throat. "If... If you want."
"I want you," he breathes, "but I want all of you. And right now... you just need me to hold you."
Her fingers clutch the fabric at her chest, tears slipping soundlessly down her face.
He exhales quietly, tugging the quilt upward, cocooning them both in the trapped heat of their bodies.
She nestles closer against his warm chest, his arms tightening around her without a second thought.
He must've finished his nightly watch.
He deligently keeps to his routine, and until he returns to her for rest, she—like always—sings or reads her children to sleep, sometimes drifting off beside them.
This week has weighed heavily on him, yet even as his duty drain him, he still finds it in him to help her—to hold the corners of her world together when hers begin to fray.
But sometimes she wonders, if he'd be better without her, before her own rot withers him completely.
She winces quietly as her guts twist, a deep,
coiling pain winding tight around the core of her soul.
"Should we go somewhere tomorrow?" he says, his fingers gliding softly through her hair.
"We can't... he's coming to get the twins," a murmur slips past her lips.
"What?" he manages, going still against her.
"Ishmael—" she swallows against the raw sting in her throat. "I told him he can come get Naya and Isaiah."
Silence settles between them before he finally speaks. "When?"
"Hm?" she wonders, her voice barely there.
She blinks as he pulls away, the mattress groaning beneath him as he shoves himself up. "When did you meet him?" he asks, looking down at her—his jaw tight, a muscle ticking with restrained anger.
"About a week ago." Her voice drifts out, soft and fragile, a breeze across the dry grass.
He drags a hand down his face, a harsh sigh escaping him, thick with frustration.
"Why didn't you tell me sooner?"
Confusion flickers in her eyes. "I didn't?"
Rhett's grim eyes soften just enough to reveal the worry beneath. "Did he hurt you?"
Neva slowly rises, bracing herself on an elbow. "No... He came asking for forgiveness," she pauses, keeping the words from ashening her mouth.
"He said... the messenger told him we're meant to guide the believers."
"What more did he say?" Rhett asks, his voice low, controlled.
Neva tucks a loose curl behind her ear,
her hair flowing wild from sleep. "He also said—the messenger entrusted him to warn some believers, before the royal guards destroyed their village."
His gaze fixes on her—shadowed, unreadable, before drifting downward, darkening at the sight of the faint constellation of love marks blooming across her skin.
With a gentle touch, he eases the fallen sleeve of her nightgown back into place.
"Get some sleep," he murmurs, drawing the quilt up around her, wrapping her against the frosted chill of December.
"I'll be back in a moment."
Neva watches Rhett rise, and slip into a grey sweatshirt.
And without a glance back at her, he opens the door and disappears into the dark.
The air rushes in at once—chilly, and biting.
She quietly pulls the quilt up to her neck, clutching it close for warmth.
Shifting onto her side, she folds into herself—cold and hollow, as her only comfort strays far away... So far away.