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 and breeze over calm water.
"My Angel." Rhett's voice, soft and chasmic, trembles the musical strings through 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 as he glides his tongue in to find hers.
Her hands rise to his chest, lingering over the quick, steady pulse beneath his skin—before she traces the warmth of him upward, along the curve of his neck, 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 the crook of his shoulder. Her arm slides under his, clutching at him, fingers digging into his skin as a muffled sob escapes her.
"It's alright, Angel." He presses a kiss to the crown of her head. "I'm here. Always."
"I'm going to wear you out," she whispers, her heart chipping away at her.
"Never," he whispers back.
She lifts her head just enough to meet his eyes—gentle, unguarded,
glistening with unshed tears.
"You're hurting because of me." Her lips tremble,
tears floating down her cheeks, his pained gaze mirrorring the ache in her own soul.
"I'm not," he says softly, offering her a faint, comforting smile.
"Is your watch over?" she murmurs.
"Yes." His fingers brush a few strands of hair from her face.
Neva tilts her head toward the children.
They are tucked snug under the covers, their soft breaths steady, serene in dreams.
Rhett, faithful to his nightly watch, keeps to his routine, and until he returns to her for rest, she—like always—sings or reads her children to sleep, drifting off beside them.
Even through the haze of sleep, she remembers being lifted from the bed—and lowered onto the mattress she had already spread across the wooden floor.
It must be close to three in the morning.
As she leans her head against the comfort of his bare chest,
he tugs the quilt upward, cocooning them both in the trapped heat of their bodies.
"You can have me if you want," she breathes, her fingertips grazing his skin, tracing the strange,
uneven rhythm beneath her touch.
Her heart shrivels,
guilty that the same vision that has haunted her all week has once more—intruded upon their rousing passion of closeness.
Her mind frays, gradually unravelling, shreds of her senses slipping through her fingers as fear grows, gnawing at her relentlessly.
Sometimes, fleeting numbness sickens her, and she fails to feel her own heart—wondering how she ever lived before the beats faltered.
Yet she reminds herself; she's divinely blessed and protected.
This unrest cannot compare to the utter darkness—
the years under Ishmael's shadow,
the smothering nights upon the endless sea of red,
the isolation that swallowed her when Grandpa whisked her away from Miraeth and left her—in the fragile care of May and Niall Smith, two strangers receiving her in the fragile guise of family.
A recent dream divulged to her, Aunt May and Uncle Niall had fooled her.
The accident that had stolen her parents and her memories never happened.
For she was an infant when the vile rules of Miraeth consumed her parents—martyred in the name of religious persecution.
The nightmare of the ''accident'' was born of the lies they fed her, woven in hopes of burying her longing for the gentle life she had shared with Grandpa—and for the boy with stars shimmering in his eyes.
Neva blinks as Rhett's arms tighten around her, grounding her in the moment.
"You were lost again," Rhett murmurs, a shadow streaking across his eyes.
"I'm sorry," Neva sighs, her eyes fluttering closed.
His thumb traces the curve of her cheekbone, a hush attempt to comfort her. "What can I do to make you feel better?"
"Nothing," she whispers, distracted.
The unsettling memories make her fall away, pulling her deeper and deeper—until she's drowning in a violent current of hollowness.
"Angel." Rhett exhales a heavy sigh, thick with weariness.
Neva frowns, a sharp ache pressing down her chest at the strain in his voice. He must be exhausted.
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.
Sometimes she wonders if he'd be better off without a wife who fills him with nothing but somberness.
She winces quietly as her guts twist, a deep,
coiling pain winding tight around the core of her soul—
the thought that her own rot is withering him.
"I wonder... when he's going to come get the twins," she murmurs.
"What?" His brows slash down.
"Ishmael," she swallows, her throat tight. "I told him he can come get Naya and Isaiah."
"When?"
"Hm?"
He sighs again, shoving himself up from the bed, the mattress creaking beneath his weight. "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 rubs a hand across his face, frustration roughening him.
"Why didn't you tell me sooner?"
She tilts her head faintly, confusion flickering. "I didn't?"
Rhett swallows hard, grim eyes softening just enough to reveal the worry beneath. "Did he hurt you?"
Neva gives a small shake of her head. "No... But he asked me to forgive him."
She slowly rises, bracing herself on an elbow. "He said the messenger told him we're meant to guide the believers."
Rhett's face scrunches into an irate scowl. "What more did he say?"
Neva tucks a stray curl behind her ear, the dark waves flowing loosely, wild with sleep.
"He also said," she pauses, keeping the words from ashening her mouth,
"that the messenger entrusted him to warn some believers—before the royal guards destroyed their village."
His gaze fixes on her, unreadable, shadowed. Then drifts downward, darkening as it catches the faint constellation of lovemarks blooming across her skin.
He draws in a shaky breath,
and reaches to tug the falling sleeve of her white nightgown back over her shoulder.
"Get some sleep," he murmurs, as he draws the quilt up around her, wrapping her against the frosted chill of December.
"I'll be back in a moment." He offers her a ghost of a smile, brushing his palm across her cheek before rising from the bed.
Neva watches as Rhett slips 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.