“Hold still,” she murmured, her voice trembling. She pursed her lips and narrowed her gaze at Mirela. “You shouldn’t have followed me,” she said. “You could’ve been killed.”
Mirela gave a faint, breathless laugh. Her cheek ached, her knuckles burned, and yet she could barely feel the pain. “He touched you,” she said simply.
Claire froze. Mirela saw it in the way her hands faltered, how her eyes flicked up to meet hers. “So, you came to protect me, even when you kicked me out… again?” Claire asked.
Mirela’s eyes darted away from Claire’s before coming back to them. “Of course…”
Claire wrung out the cloth once more and pressed it gently to her cheek. The water stung, but her touch felt so right on her, reverent, almost worshipful. No one had ever touched Mirela in such a way. Candlelight wavered across the walls, pooling around them. Their shadows leaned together, one indistinguishable from the other.
When the damp fabric brushed over her scars, Mirela flinched. “Don’t—“
But Claire didn’t stop. Her movements only softened. “You don’t have to hide from me,” she whispered.
The words settled deep beneath Mirela’s skin. How could she not hide? It was something she had learned to do at such a young age, it came naturally. Ferron had built herentire life upon the foundation of shame. But then Claire looked at her, and Mirela forgot how to speak.
Claire’s gaze followed every line of her face, every imperfection. The burn marks along her neck and shoulder that Ferron had once called unholy—Claire looked at them as though they were… art. There was no revulsion in her eyes, only a spark of awe.
“Mirela,” she said softly, her voice trembling, “you’re beautiful.”
Mirela froze. The word lodged somewhere between disbelief and ache.Beautiful. It felt wrong in her mouth, foreign to her ears.
She stared at Claire, unable to look away. The candlelight framed her face, catching dark strands of her hair. Her lashes cast delicate shadows on her cheeks. Mirela’s fingers twitched with the urge to draw her again, to capture every fleeting detail. Just being here, outside of the cathedral, so close to her… it felt like it was an impossible moment, one she should draw for posterity.
She reached out before she could stop herself and tucked a strand of hair behind Claire’s ear. The gesture was small, almost meaningless, yet it stole the air from her lungs. Her fingers lingered near her skin. And then she saw the flicker in Claire’s eyes, that subtle spark that felt like lightning under her ribs.
“You have long lashes,” Mirela murmured, her voice smaller than she meant it to be. “I need to fix the sketches I gave you.”
Claire smiled faintly, her lips curving in a way that made Mirela’s heart stutter. “Or you could make more and more.”
Her tone was teasing, but her breath hitched halfway through. Mirela felt the shift in the air. She could see the faint sheen of Claire’s lips, the smooth curve of her throat, the rise and fall of her chest.
“Yes,” she whispered, “I could,” her eyes glued to Claire.
Claire was there, laughing that soft, whimsical laugh of hers, looking down at her as if Mirela was the most precious thing she had ever known. As if there were no mirrors in the convent at all, and she didn’t realize that it wasshewho was the most beautiful, most perfect thing that had ever crossed the threshold of the cathedral’s doors.
Mirela could not look away. Not without hurting her, andGodwas her witness, the last thing Mirela wanted was to hurt her like she had moments ago. She wanted that smile to be eternal. She wanted to wake up every morning to it, to see Claire smilingat heras if she were worthy of it.
The silence that followed was suffocating.
Mirela’s hands trembled, caught between desire and fear, wondering whether it was prudent to move anotherstrand of hair from Claire’s face and if she had any right to touch something so perfect.
Before she could decide, warmth spread against her scarred cheek. Claire’s palm rested there.
She was touching the place Mirela herself avoided, the place that made her flinch, but Claire did not pull away, her gentle smile did not falter.
Instead, Claire brushed away the droplets of water gathering along her skin, gentle and unhurried, and only then did Mirela realize she was crying.
Why was she crying?
She had dreamed of this, of having Claire so close, within reach, close enough to feel her breath… So, why did it feel as though she was ruining everything?
Claire was offering her tenderness and Mirela could barely bring herself to breathe beneath it, let alone return it.
Claire leaned forward and pressed her lips to one scar on her cheek. Mirela went utterly still. Then another kiss, this one lower, softer, lingering against the edge of her jaw. Another near her temple.
Her breath caught. She wanted to move, to ask what this was, why it felt like prayer and sin at once, but the heat of Claire’s mouth on her skin silenced her.
When Claire finally pulled back, her eyes were glassy with emotion. Her voice barely broke the silence. “You’re beautiful,” she said again.
