What can she do but give in? Every muscle begs for release; every aching bone wants to melt away, into the warmth of Moira’s embrace and the plushness of the cushions underneath her. Cold and frustration are but a distant memory now. Warmth floods each nerve. She sighs into the curtain of Moira’s black hair, full of the scent of jasmine and tea, and her eyelashes flutter in a slow, slow close.
This is not the love she knows. And it is not the love she had. Bexley is a magnet for all things pretty-biting, all things wild and wonderful—she is not the type for cuddling, or crying, except perhaps in rage, and certainly not the type to want something soft. She attracts terror. Flames. The breaking of bones. Not this—so calm, so quiet, so utterly peaceful, almost to the point of being boring. Not this. And yet here she is, somehow, by the grace of the gods or perhaps of their enemies. It’s so good it scares her.
Things can only go down from here, can’t they?
She steels her breath. Grinds her teeth. With all the composure she can muster, she bites down the urge to ruin the moment. It feels like a ticking time bomb or a slap in the face of God that she might have a good day, just for once, but she cannot quite bring herself to hatred, not here. Just enjoy it while it lasts. Just let yourself be alive. Moira’s heartbeat is loud against the shell of her ear, and her breathing ruffles Bexley’s curls ever so slightly, like the barest suggestion of waves on a calm shore.
Will you stay with me? the emissary asks, and Bexley says yes. Without a heartbeat of hesitation. Without even a thought. She knows that even if she did have some semblance of self control, even if she did want to say no or need to go back home, she wouldn’t. Nothing waits for her out there. Nothing could persuade her to move from the places she is pressed against Moira. “Of course,” she answers softly. Each braid falls like autumn leaves against her shoulder, one by one by one. “I’ve missed you more, darling.”
The word feels strange on her tongue—too soft, too sweet—but she says it. Somehow. Anyway. She shifts deeper against Moira’s side and farther into the covers, and by the next beat of her heart Bexley is already asleep, drifting thankfully into an endless back. She does not even quite care if it ever lets her out again.
This is not the love she knows. And it is not the love she had. Bexley is a magnet for all things pretty-biting, all things wild and wonderful—she is not the type for cuddling, or crying, except perhaps in rage, and certainly not the type to want something soft. She attracts terror. Flames. The breaking of bones. Not this—so calm, so quiet, so utterly peaceful, almost to the point of being boring. Not this. And yet here she is, somehow, by the grace of the gods or perhaps of their enemies. It’s so good it scares her.
Things can only go down from here, can’t they?
She steels her breath. Grinds her teeth. With all the composure she can muster, she bites down the urge to ruin the moment. It feels like a ticking time bomb or a slap in the face of God that she might have a good day, just for once, but she cannot quite bring herself to hatred, not here. Just enjoy it while it lasts. Just let yourself be alive. Moira’s heartbeat is loud against the shell of her ear, and her breathing ruffles Bexley’s curls ever so slightly, like the barest suggestion of waves on a calm shore.
Will you stay with me? the emissary asks, and Bexley says yes. Without a heartbeat of hesitation. Without even a thought. She knows that even if she did have some semblance of self control, even if she did want to say no or need to go back home, she wouldn’t. Nothing waits for her out there. Nothing could persuade her to move from the places she is pressed against Moira. “Of course,” she answers softly. Each braid falls like autumn leaves against her shoulder, one by one by one. “I’ve missed you more, darling.”
The word feels strange on her tongue—too soft, too sweet—but she says it. Somehow. Anyway. She shifts deeper against Moira’s side and farther into the covers, and by the next beat of her heart Bexley is already asleep, drifting thankfully into an endless back. She does not even quite care if it ever lets her out again.
Bexley
and love doubled is madness
and love doubled is madness
