Page 54 of The Silent Princess

“You scared me,” she signs fast, bouncing slightly on her feet.

“Did I really?” I sign back, but my gloves get in the way, so I remove them roughly, dropping them on the edge of her desk as her eyes roam over the veins of my hands. My balaclava, only revealing my eyes, is still on, making my pupils the sole traitors of her effect on me. “Tell me, Ella, do you often get visitors at night?” I taunt.

She shakes her head with a small, mischievous smile. “I knew it was you,” she signs. “You have a way of…moving.” I let out an appreciative hum of approval, knowing that she is so perceptive it makes me wonder what else she likes about my ways of moving, as she puts it. Her brown eyes meet mine again, and I cannot resist the flush on her bare face anymore, so I step closer until the tips of our noses brush, my hand meeting her cheek with the softness of a giant touching a butterfly, trying not to break it.

Our breathing gets louder and louder, both of us inhaling each other in despite the hood, despite not even kissing. We alternate, living in sync, our faces searching for the other, to smell, to recognize, to inhale, imprinting the other’s scent into our systems. Her hands grow bolder, clasping my forearms, and I watch her, waiting a second for her nod to let mine rest on her waist.

God, this woman.

If she let me, I would steal her away right now and never let anyone take her from me. I would protect and provide, I would fight battles and win wars, I would kneel and let her be the only one to ever see me break open.

“Ella,” I murmur against the fabric, a repressed grunt. Brows drowned together meets me, and I relish in the frustration battling on her face. Voices a floor below interrupt our spell, and I rest a finger on her lips, not wanting anyone to disturb us. My heart stops functioning as she drops a featherweight kiss on the side of my index. My resolve to take her away with me is holding on by a thin thread, and I’m going to need her to fight her case if she wants to stay here even one more night.

Exhaling, I tear myself from her and sign, “Give me one good reason why I should not take you back to my home and keep you there forever.”

“Why?” she says silently as I let my finger brush her soft bottom lip.

“Because this,” I sign, waving between her and me, “seems like something that should not be ignored. Don’t you think?”

“What do you mean by this…?” She signs, unsure.

If only you knew, Ella, that I would crawl bare-chested over scorching coals if it could earn me your trust.

“Us as a couple. Us as in whatever plans we have in the future will have to involve the other because this, Ella, is something I refuse to live without from now on.”

“Tristan,” she mouths. I want to bruise her lips with mine, but I have kept the hood on because, somehow, Ella seems to open up more to me with the false sense of me being a stranger. Everyone has a way to communicate. We have ours.

“I know it is too soon to say words we could not take back. I’m not…I’m not asking that from you. There’s no rush; I’m just stating facts here.”

“I…I want to believe in us too, but…there are so many things you still don’t know about me.”

“How would you feel about, um,” I look away for a second. Could this make her hate me? “About knowing that I have done my fair share of research? Would it…scare you?” She hisses in a breath as I put a strand of hair behind her ear, trailing down the side of her throat. “Would you like to hear it?” She nods, and I can almost see the shivers coursing over her shoulders, my gaze fixating on her collarbone as I try not to look at her body, draped in this barely existing fabric, so thin it could be torn away in one fistful of desire.

“You used to have a happy life, and then you lost your mother at the age of eight. Your father remarried, and you moved in with your new family by the age of ten. The company your parents had succeeded in creating was flourishing, but your father’s health started declining, so he sold it, making your family even richer than before. But of course, you never truly saw that kind of money again since your stepmother stole it to make her own brand profitable and pay her debts, debts which are, to this day, still as deep as a pit. You love reading, and you love nothing more than the idea of going back to your studies, which I would be honored help you with. You’re a hard worker, taking care of your father and not afraid to put in the hours, even at night, taking a bus in the darkest hours, braving danger even…even if it kills me. You are kind in an honest way, which is why I believe you refuse my help. Because you…you like me, Ella, you feel this too, and you are not sure if I would deem your interest authentic if you accepted my help, which I could argue against, but also respect. And I would add, from personal observation, that you are shy and discreet, but still able to speak your mind when you feel safe, which I take as a gift and proof of trust on your part. And as for this room, it is a credit to your character: tidy, organized, making the best of its assets even if it is not grand or luxurious. You have managed to turn it into a place that looks exactly like you.” She represses a smile, and I wonder, would she laugh right now if she could? And why do I feel like I would do anything to hear that sound?

“That is the top of the iceberg, Tristan. The rest isn’t as pretty.”

“Then tell me everything. Every single thing about you. All of it.”

“Just all of it? Right. That should be easy.” She chuckles silently, her shoulders moving in little jumps.

“We could start with this.” I point at a blanket and cushion under her bed, almost unnoticeable. I remove my jacket, laying it on the back of her chair. It’s a hundred degrees in here despite the cold outside. Or perhaps that's the Ella effect on me everywhere I go.

“No, please. It’s nothing.” I crouch down, noticing the fabric torn, evidence that she was lying right there surely minutes ago.

“Please don’t tell me you have been sleeping on the ground.” I am appalled enough that she is living in this tiny bedroom, but sleeping on the floor would be the last straw.

“It’s just…” She sits on the edge of her bed, and I kneel carefully before her, waiting to see not only her signs, but her expressions. Even kneeling, I am still face-to-face with my silent princess, and there is something entirely right about her watching me do so, so she can see for herself that we are, despite the external futilities, equals.

“Ever since Mom died, I’ve been…hiding under furniture, sometimes when I want to cry with no one to find out, no one to judge me. It used to be her desk in her office back home but…now, well, it’s here. It’s like a little bubble where time stops, and I can let go and cry.” I blink hard, picturing a small eight-year-old Ella losing her mom, and my heart aches for her. Ella could have had it all, yet it was taken from her, and still she remained kind, willing to help others, refusing bitterness and cynicism like I did. I have much to learn from her.

“Tell me about her,” I sign, wanting to show her I can listen and understand that she does not have to face life on her own. And perhaps, perhaps she could do the same with me.

“She was like Christmas morning, always smiling and full of energy. She would lock herself in her office for a few hours in the morning, then spend the whole rest of the day with me, baking, painting, writing. She did not want to stop working back then, since they had created their company before I was even born, so she made it work. It was inspiring to see her dedication, but also how much she wanted to show me how happy she was, thriving by working from home while staying close to me when I wasn’t at school. Dad would work most of the day, but they would always make time for me. Every week, she would make something special for dinner, unusual recipes or beverages, and the three of us would try it all together, laughing and playing board games. She was kind and never complained, I mean never. I didn’t know how successful she was until years later, because she would never speak of it or buy expensive things. They gave me a normal childhood, with love and time, and that was the best thing she could have ever given me. And well, I think the one thing she couldn’t stand were bicycles. She hated them.” She signs with a chuckles, lighting up. Somehow, I feel like now is a good time to remove the hood, so I slip it off and hold it in my hand. She looks at me with the weight of a wife greeting her husband after a long day. I let the fantasy unfold in my head then blink hard. My temple hurting like a nail has been hammered in it this very second.

“What was that?” she signs.

“Nothing.” I mutter.