A ring of orange fire blazed at the edges of his dark eyes. Instantly, my body responded, my sleepy limbs itching to hold him, my blood running hotter. I shook my head and was rewarded with one of Quoth’s dazzling smiles.
Quoth took my hand and led me upstairs, his raven hair streaming behind him. This was so unlike him, taking charge like this, asking for what he wanted.I think we’ve all been doing some healing over the last couple of months.
As we stepped into the flat, Heathcliff poked his head out of his room. “Where are the two of you going?”
“To my room,” Quoth said.
“My bed’s bigger,” Heathcliff suggested.
Quoth’s fingers closed around his hand. He’d never say anything, but I had a feeling he needed me to himself tonight. “Your bed is covered in the detritus of your life,” I told Heathcliff. “I don’t want to be shagging and end up with the corner of Sherman’s memoirs up my arse.”
“Don’t say that where Morrie can hear,” Heathcliff warned. “He’ll get excited.”
“Too late!” Morrie’s head poked out of the bathroom. “Where do you think you’re going, gorgeous?”
I leaned over and pecked Morrie on the cheek. “To Quoth’s room. And you’re not invited.”
Morrie poked his lip out in a mock pout, then he drew me in for a deep kiss that left my legs weak. “You sure you don’t want to reconsider?”
I gulped. “I’m sure, but maybe tomorrow…”
He wagged a finger at me. “I’ll hold you to that.” The bathroom door slammed shut.
I turned to Heathcliff, my hand cupping his cheek. His stubble scratched against my palm. A deep ache formed in my chest as his eyes bore into mine. I was so lucky to have these guys with me. I got to see inside Heathcliff’s dark soul, beyond the surly socially-inept arsehole. And what I saw in him was all the hidden parts of myself reflected back at me.
Heathcliff looked like he wanted to say something else. Instead, he retreated into his room and slammed the door shut.Great, so I’d have to deal with that later.
Right now, it was all about my raven boy, my tortured, quiet artist with the hair of spun silk. Quoth kept his hand in mine as we ascended the narrow staircase into the attic. I hadn’t been up here since last year. The place was exactly as I remembered it – low ceilings, narrow brass bed, easel set up in front of the tall dormer window looking out over Argleton, every spare corner stacked with paintings and sketches. I stumbled over a pile of art books. Quoth hurried to flick on the lights and lamps so I could see.
I stopped short when a beam of light illuminated the painting on Quoth’s easel.
It was a picture of me. Well, I guessed it was meant to be me. The woman in the image had my features, but she looked less like a hot mess in her flatmate’s borrowed tartan trousers and more like the heroine from a gothic romance book, all sweeping hair and come-to-bed eyes. The soft colors around her face brought out her delicate features. On her shoulder sat a raven, its head turned toward her. In her hands, she held a stack of books. Quoth had started lettering the titles and authors in gold paint –Wuthering Heights, The Complete Works of Sherlock Holmes, Poe – Selected Poems.
“Wow.” I touched the edge of the frame. The oil paints were still wet. “Quoth, it’s…”
“You don’t have to be nice. I know it’s not very good.”
A lump rose in my throat. “Don’t say that. It’s breathtaking.”
“Really?” His voice caught in his throat.
“I just… I can’t believe that’s me… it is me, isn’t it?”
Quoth laughed, the sound like trickling water. “Of course. Although I can’t seem to get you right. I’ve repainted it going on twenty times now. I was thinking of giving it to you for your birthday. But then I wondered that you might hate it, so I wanted you to see it first. You really like it?”
I flicked on the reading light and directed it at the painting so I could see it better. Light and shadow danced over the canvas. It wasn’t just a portrait – Quoth had captured something special, some indefinable element that made my eyes water. There was a strength in my painted face, in the piercing color of my eyes and set of my jaw, but a vulnerability too. It was exactly how I felt these days as I tried to accept what was happening to my vision. The way the raven bent its head toward me, and the landscape framed our faces… Quoth was pouring out his own feelings onto canvas, and the paint bled his hope and his pain and his own journey.
I’ll always watch over you.
Those were the words Quoth said to me, again and again. Last month, when I’d been invited to the Jane Austen Experience, Quoth didn’t feel he was ready to spend a whole weekend around so many people. While Heathcliff and Morrie attended lectures and high tea and Regency dancing with me, Quoth sat outside in the snow, watching through the windows. Always outside, looking in.
And in the end, he was the one who saved my life.No one has ever loved me so unconditionally or demanded so little of me.It made me want to give him more, to give him everything.
Quoth’s hand on my hip grew hot. I whirled around and pulled him close to me, drawing his lips to mine for a deep kiss. I poured all of myself into that kiss, trying to show him how good it felt to see this side of him, to be allowed into his heart. My finger traced the scar along his shoulder, left by Christina Hathaway when she attacked him.
He wrapped his arms around me, drawing me against him. His hand snaked beneath my shirt, pressing hot skin against skin. I lost myself in him, wishing that we could close the gap between us, that the atoms dividing us would disintegrate so we could be part of each other.
We fell to the bed, tearing at each other’s clothes. This was Quoth as I’d never seen him before, desperate and shaking with barely contained tension. He touched his lips to my nipple and I cried out, and the shudder that went through his body made me love him more.
